The formalities were swift and simple. An elderly man, with the grave servility of a wine waiter, appeared with two sheaves of documents which he placed on the desk, then withdrew. The young banker arranged the six copies in a neat row in front of him; then sat back and smiled.
‘I think, for the benefit of our two new clients here, that I should explain something about our Swiss banking system. There are altogether more than 260 private banks in Switzerland. Most people — businessmen working for big companies, and even foreign governments — prefer to deal with the better known names like Le Crédit Suisse. But some people are happier to take advantage of the rather more specialized, personal services which we smaller banks are able to offer. The main service, of course, is secrecy. Complete and absolute secrecy. We ask no questions, and we give no answers.’ He paused and ran his finger along the edge of the desk.
‘However, we do impose conditions. These conditions vary from bank to bank — though only slightly.’ He gave a quick glance at Pol. ‘At this point I feel I should mention what is called “Swiss Negative Interest”. I do so, because it is a practice often misunderstood by those unfamiliar with our methods. On an initial deposit of not less than $50,000, we levy an interest of seven and a half per cent.’
Ryderbeit let out a hiss. ‘There’s no misunderstanding so far as I’m concerned, mister. That’s not banking — it’s not even usury. It’s bare-faced robbery!’
The banker held up his hand. ‘Please. I have not finished. Here, at the Volkskantonale Bank, the minimum deposit accepted is $50,000. If it should fall below that sum — by even a few francs — the account is temporarily frozen, until further funds are received; and during that period an interest rate of nineteen per cent is levied.’
Ryderbeit was scowling fiercely at him, but said nothing. The banker went on.
‘We have a further, more stringent condition. If the client’s deposit drops below $25,000, his account is closed.’
‘And if he pays in a couple of billion next day,’ said Ryderbeit, ‘is it opened again?’
‘I regret, no.’
‘Holy Moses!’ Ryderbeit turned to Pol, his eye glaring dangerously. ‘I’d rather keep my loot in a piggy bank!’ His eye swivelled back on to the banker. ‘What are we getting out of this crummy little place, anyway?’
‘You are getting privacy,’ the banker replied quietly. His face cleared, and he leaned forward with his arms on the desk. ‘Now, for the details. It is usual for an individual account holder to be given a seven-figure number. Theoretically the client has only to produce this number, accompanied by his signature, which must correspond to that held by the bank, and he will be permitted to draw what funds he desires.
‘However, in the recent climate of international crime — as well as with these meddlesome foreign government investigators — we have felt obliged to introduce a couple of simple extra precautions. We now require two Polaroid photographs in colour of each client — full face and profile — and —’ he gave a small gesture of apology — ‘a set of fingerprints.’
‘And what guarantee do we have that these photos and prints aren’t passed — unofficially, of course — to some foreign Intelligence agency?’ Ryderbeit growled.
‘You have no guarantee,’ the banker said smoothly. ‘But you have my word that it would be against the most basic ethics of our banking system.’ He paused, and began to gather up the six documents from the desk; stood up and handed them across to Pol, together with a gold pen.
Pol glanced through them with an air of bored familiarity, scribbled his signature six times, then handed the pile to Packer. There were two copies on vellum, closely covered in copperplate typescript, in French, German, and English; and four duplicate sheets on onion-skin paper.
Packer studied them with a mixture of awe and suspicion. The English text was correct, and unusually lucid for such a document. The sum of £500,000 was typed both in figures and in words, next to its exact equivalent in more than two and a half million Swiss francs, down to the last centime, as calculated against the IMF index at noon the day before. At the foot of the page, above Pol’s signature, were seven figures.
The document represented the formal opening of a joint numbered account, in his and Pol’s names, which could be drawn on only with the production of both their signatures. The penultimate paragraph stipulated that in the event of the decease of Monsieur Pol, the account would be frozen in perpetuity. Packer noted that no such provision had been made in his case.
He turned to Pol and pointed out the omission. The Frenchman replied, with his mischievous chuckle: ‘Mon cher Packer, you are surely not anticipating an accident, are you? Or a serious illness, perhaps?’ His eyes glittered.
Packer glanced uneasily at the banker, who sat impressively behind the desk, his face a mask of indifference. Packer hesitated, unwilling to provoke an argument at such a delicate moment.
Pol was patting his belly, with a half nod towards the banker. ‘I am sure we do not wish to take up any more of our friend’s valuable time.’ He reached out and handed Packer the gold pen. Packer declined it.
‘Eh, alors?’ Pol was frowning, but his eyes were still bright. ‘Are you not satisfied with the arrangements, my friend?’
‘Not satisfied at all.’ Packer waited for Pol’s response, but when none came, he went on: ‘Charles, it’s the old story — heads you win, tails I lose. I do all the
