Christopher Reich - The Devils Banker

Chapter 35

Midnight on the Autobahn.

Sarah Churchill held the accelerator near the floor, her eyes flicking to the speedometer and back to the road. At two hundred kilometers per hour, the world sped past in a silent roar. Road signs appeared, grew large, and vanished in a flash. A perilous infinity lurked beyond the eerie wash of the Mercedess xenon headlights. They had been driving for an hour. Berlin lay behind them. So did Kln and Hannover. They were on a straight shot south. To the Rhine. To Zurich. To the truth of what lay behind Hijira.

We have to tell someone, she said, shaking her head because it was not the first time shed argued the point. Glens waiting for our news. We cant just disappear.

Why not? protested Chapel. Id say its the safest proposition.

Theres simply too much, thats why. All the names, the accounts. Its a treasure trove. What did you call it last night? A golden thread. We cant just sit on it. God knows theres enough to keep Glen and the boys at FTAT busy for a week. Let them work it from their end.

And then? Admiral Glendenning will pass on every tie to a French bank to Gadbois and ask him to look into it.

Why should Gadbois worry you? Sarah looked at Chapel expectantly. You think Gadbois is the leak?

Hey, they let the Ayatollah camp out in their country for a year, didnt they?

She laughed dryly. Dont be childish. You dont know the man.

And you do?

Well enough to know that the last thing hed ever do is jump in bed with an Arab, a radical Muslim to boot. If Gadbois had his way, France would still be in Algeria. Anyway, you dont become chief of a spy agency by having a loose tongue. Calm down, Adam. Youre overreacting.

You didnt have someone waiting to kill you, he said, knowing it sounded melodramatic. Surviving a blast was one thing. Having trained terrorists actively hunt you down was another. He had no experience with this kind of fear. Look, if someone is sharing my appointment book with Hijira, I think we can surmise that theyre sharing a damn sight more than that. How many people knew I was to see Dr. Bac at ten oclock this morning? Answer me that, Sarah. Come on, lets figure it out. Chapel held up his hand and counted on his fingers. First, theres you, me, and Dr. Bac. I think its safe to say were innocent of all charges. Admiral Glendenning knew, and since Leclerc was so keen on my reaching the hospital safe and sound this morning, we can assume that Glendenning told Gadbois and Gadbois passed it along. I mentioned it to Allan Halsey, but hed have to move pretty damn fast to get his operative into place in an hours time.

Is that your rogues gallery, then?

Unless youve got someone else youd like to add.

Sarah shook her head, indicating she did not. Youve got to trust someone, Adam.

But who? Chapel was in a world where lying, deception, and treachery were skills to be honed and used at every possible instance. He knew no criteria by which he could judge any of his rogues gallery. He only had gut instinct to go on.

He reached an open hand toward her. I trust you.

Sarah looked at the hand, then at Chapel. This is madness, she whispered.

But a moment later, she grasped his hand and gave it a gentle, lasting squeeze.

It had started eight hours earlier when, armed with Judge Manfred Wiesels signed warrant, they had been granted unrestricted access to the records of account 222.818B at the Deutsche International Bank, property of Claude Franois, Belgian national, born 1961, no photo attached. Seated inside yet another plush conference room, they had expected another dour official, another dry handshake, and another folder full of account statements they were to sort through themselves. Instead, they received the full cooperation of the executive vice president in charge of private banking, his deputy, the banker who had personally overseen account 222.818B, and an escorted visit to the banks back office, where for six and a half hours they studied a sum total of nearly two hundred pages of account records (saved to microfilm and transferred to CD) dating back nearly twenty years.

The number of wire transfers into and out of the account ran to the thousands, nearly one a week, sometimes more. The funds came from banks and brokerage houses of every stripe, both in Europe and the Americas. A rough sum of the incoming transfers totaled more than eighty million dollars. In turn, the money was wired to an equally diverse array of banks, congregated primarily in the Middle East: Dubai, Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Lebanon, even Israel. The Holy Land Charitable Trust counted as an exception. The charitys account at the Gemeinschaft Bank of Dresden had received more than five million dollars.

While the information pertaining to the incoming funds listed only the banks name and account number, nearly all the outgoing faxes included the beneficiarys name, as well. Sarah had railed about the necessity of warm bodies. Now she had them. Mr. Abdul al-Haq of Jidda, Saudi Arabia. Mr. Hassan Daher of Abu Dhabi. Mr. Ali Mustafa al-Faroukh of Cairo, Egypt. The list went on and on, numbering eighty-seven in all. If all these men counted themselves as members of Hijira, Sarah had been dead wrong about the organization having only six to eight operatives.

The last transfer was completed just hours after the Paris bombing. Two million euros to a brokerage account in the name of Albert Daudin at L. F. Rothschild in Johannesburg, South Africa.

Daudin, the selfsame holder of the account at Bank Montparnasse, born 1961, Belgian national.

It was enough raw data to keep a team of investigators at FTAT and FinCEN busy for a month. Chapel had days, maybe just hours. So he chose to pursue a series of wires that stuck out from the blizzard of financial data like a sore thumb. Namely, five transfers of five hundred thousand dollars each Franois had made over the last half year to a numbered account at the Bank Menz in Zurich. Three things about the transfers piqued his interest. First, it was the only time that money had been wired to a Swiss bank. Second, the regular timing of the payments indicated a contractually specified payoff. Last, there was the amount: five hundred thousand dollars. A sum identical to what Abu Sayeed wired to Royal Joailliers three days before.

There are no coincidences.

But when Chapel inquired if any of the bankers had made the acquaintance of Claude Franois, he came upon his first roadblock. No one currently at the Deutsche International Bank had met or even seen him. A predecessor had opened the account. Tragically, hed been killed in a one-car accident, driving home after a late dinner on the Kurfurstendamm. They were, however, pleased to provide the name of the Bank Menzs chairman, the eponymous Dr. Otto Menz, as well as his private residential number.

Chapel dialed the number in Zurich immediately. Menz answered on the second ring. After the requisite introduction and apology for disturbing his evening, Chapel informed the banker of the American governments pressing interest in a certain account at his bank.

Just give me the number, Menz had answered irritably. Wait on the line. Ill phone my colleague to see if it rings a bell.

Chapel gave him the account number, and a minute later, Menz re- turned. Mr. Chapel? Wed be happy to discuss your concerns about the account.

You would? Chapel was unable to conceal his surprise. It appeared that Festung Schweiz had a chink in its armor.

Yes, but as it is a matter of some delicacy, wed prefer to conduct our conversation in our offices. Do you have any objection to coming to Zurich?

Not at all.

Very good. Shall we say tomorrow morning in our offices? Seven A.M. We like to begin work at a decent hour. Oh, and Mr. Chapel?

Yes?

What took you so long to get back in touch with us?