“Herr Rolfe was a private banker in the truest sense of the word, Mr. Allon. I’m afraid much of what I’m going to tell you is based on conjecture and rumor.”
“I’ve often found that one can learn a great deal about a man by the rumors that swirl around him.”
“When one is dealing with a Swiss banker, especially a private banker like Augustus Rolfe, rumor is sometimes the best one can hope for.” The professor slipped on his glasses and opened the file. “There are very small private banks in Zurich, and there are extremely large ones. The giants like Union Bank of Switzerland and Credit Suisse both have private banking divisions, though they handle only very wealthy customers.”
“How large?”
“Usually, a minimum deposit of approximately five million dollars. It’s been reported that the intelligence agencies of your country utilized the private banking services of Credit Suisse.” The professor glanced at Gabriel over the open file. “But then, I’m sure you know nothing of that.”
Gabriel let the question sail by. “From what I know of Augustus Rolfe, he fell into the first category.”
“That’s right. The Rolfe bank was a small enterprise-Rolfe and a half- dozen employees, if that. If you wanted someone to hide your money or your belongings in Switzerland, Augustus Rolfe was your best friend. He was one of the most discreet and most influential bankers in Zurich. He had very powerful friends. That’s what makes his murder so baffling to me.”
“What else do you know about him?”
“He took over control of the family business from his father in the early thirties-not a good time for the banks of Switzerland. There was the worldwide depression, the German panic, a currency crisis in Austria that was sending shock waves through Zurich. Swiss banks were falling like dominoes. Many private banks were forced to merge with larger competitors to survive. Rolfe managed to hang on by his fingernails.”
Jacobi licked the tip of his finger and turned a page.
“Then Hitler comes to power in Germany and starts making trouble for the Jews. Jewish money and valuables flow into the private banks of Zurich -including Rolfe’s.”
“You know this to be fact?”
“Absolutely. Augustus Rolfe opened more than two hundred numbered accounts for German Jews.”
Jacobi turned over a few pages of the file.
“Here’s where the facts end and the rumors begin. In the late thirties, agents of the Gestapo start coming to Zurich. They’re looking for all the Jewish money that’s been spirited out of Germany and deposited in Swiss banks. It’s rumored that Rolfe cooperated with the Gestapo agents in violation of Swiss banking laws and revealed the existence of Jewish-held numbered accounts at his bank.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Would you like my theory?”
“Sure.”
“Because he knew that the money deposited by a few Jews was nothing compared to the riches that awaited him if he cooperated with Nazi Germany.”
“Is there evidence to suggest that he did?”
“Indeed,” Jacobi said, his eyebrows shooting up over the rims of his spectacles. “It’s a fact that Augustus Rolfe made frequent trips to Nazi Germany throughout the war.”
“Who did he see there?”
“It’s not known, but his travels raised enough eyebrows that Rolfe came under investigation after the war.”
“What came of it?”
“Absolutely nothing. Rolfe melted back into the world of Zurich banking, never to be heard from again-until a week ago, of course, when someone walked into his villa on the Zurichberg and put a bullet in his head.”
Jacobi closed the file and looked at Gabriel.
“Would you care to pick up the story, Mr. Allon?”
WHEN Gabriel was finished, Professor Jacobi spent a long time polishing his spectacles on the fat end of his tie. Then he shoved them back onto his forehead and poured himself another cup of coffee. “It sounds as though you’ve run up against the great conspiracy of silence.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“When you’re dealing with Switzerland, Mr. Allon, it’s best to keep one thing in mind. Switzerland is not a real country. It’s a business, and it’s run like a business. It’s a business that is constantly in a defensive posture. It’s been that way for seven hundred years.”
“What does that have to do with Rolfe’s murder?”
“There are people in Switzerland who stand to lose a great deal if the sins of the past are exposed and the sewers of the Bahnhofstrasse are given the thorough flushing they so desperately need. These people are an invisible government, and are not to be taken lightly, which is why I live here instead of Lausanne. If you choose to pursue this matter, I suggest you watch your back.”
Ten minutes later Gabriel was walking down the stairs with his copy of
THAT image of Gabriel was captured by the man with a long-range digital camera standing in the window of the apartment house on the opposite side of the street. One hour earlier he had also snapped a photograph of Gabriel’s arrival. The pictures were not necessary, just a professional touch. Allon’s entire conversation with Emil Jacobi had been picked up by the pair of sensitive transmitters the man had planted in the professor’s apartment six months earlier. As Allon walked away, the surveillance artist fired off several more photographs. Then he sat down in front of his playback deck and listened to the tapes. After thirty minutes of steady work, he had completed a thorough transcript of the encounter. He spent ten more minutes checking the transcription for accuracy, then he encrypted the report and sent it via secure e-mail to Zurich, along with the photographs of Allon.
Thirty seconds after that, the information appeared on the computer screen of Gerhardt Peterson, who immediately picked up his telephone to request an urgent meeting with Herr Gessler. Gerhardt Peterson did not like Emil Jacobi, and neither did Herr Gessler. Jacobi’s one-man crusade against the financial oligarchy of Switzerland had become tiresome and costly. Both men agreed that it was time to deal with the meddlesome little professor.
The following morning, before leaving his flat for the office, Gerhardt Peterson made a telephone call from the privacy of his study. It lasted no more than two minutes. The fate of Emil Jacobi, the guilty conscience of Switzerland, had been sealed by a financial transaction, the transfer of two hundred thousand dollars into a numbered account in Geneva controlled by Anton Orsati. Gerhardt Peterson found that very fitting indeed.
22
WHEN GABRIEL ARRIVED at Anna Rolfe’s villa the following morning, he
