The Devil's Banker (11 page)

In his office overlooking the Eiffel Tower, Marc Gabriel distanced the phone from his ear. The problem with private bankers, he was thinking, was that they confused their own welfare with that of their clients. His broker wasn’t upset that by liquidating more than four hundred thousand shares of blue chip stock, his largest client was realizing a loss of over ten million dollars. He was scared that his own career might be in the shitter should Marc Gabriel and his company jump ship.

“Peter,” he said, tapping his sterling silver letter opener on the crease of his trousers. “I do not need a lecture on the merits, or lack thereof, of selling in a difficult market. The stock’s not performing, so we’re getting out. It’s that simple.”

“Dumping those shares isn’t getting out. It’s abandoning ship. We’re due!”

“So is Father Christmas, world peace, and the second coming. Really, the decision’s been made. Save your breath.”

Gabriel, forty-five years of age, was chairman and chief executive of Richemond Holdings, S.A., an internationally active investment firm with interests in equities, precious metals, and strategic shareholdings in a number of diverse companies. He did not like to be badgered. Running a hand along the back of his neck, he urged himself to remain calm. As usual, the building’s air-conditioning was not functioning. The office was hot and stale, but despite the heat and the insistent nagging, Gabriel looked unfazed.

“Jesus, Marc, I don’t like to see you get hurt like this,” the man in New York was saying. “I mean, Christ, it’s a bloodbath. Hang in there for another month or so. The stars are getting in alignment.”

“Wire the proceeds to my account at Deutsche Internationale Bank. I’ll expect the funds by the end of business today. Frankfurt time.”

But the banker would not give up. “What is it?” he demanded, unable to hide his desperation. “You know something I don’t? You boys start cleaning house, people are going to ask questions.”

A smile on your face guards the smile in your voice,
Gabriel reminded himself. The last thing he needed was attention. “The group is reconfiguring its portfolio. Nothing more. Nothing less,” he said, in a singsong way, his cheeks aching with the weight of the smile. “The equity markets haven’t been performing as we’ve liked. We’re moving into real estate and commodities in hopes of increasing our returns.”

“Commodities?”

“Yes, yes, I know they’re risky,” began Gabriel, as if asking for permission.

“I wouldn’t say risky, so much as—”

“Get me some information on pork bellies,” Gabriel interrupted him. “Take some time. I’ll be in New York next week, then we’ll talk. Lunch at Le Cirque? Make sure Sirio knows I’m coming.”

Gabriel hung up the phone, his face slack, a mask of hate. He was sick of the meaningless chitchat. If all went well, he would never have to speak to the foolish man again. Gabriel’s problem was that he was too polite. Sometimes he really should forgo his manners, especially when there was so much that needed to be done.

Cardboard moving boxes littered the spacious office and sat bunched in groups near the credenza, the filing cabinets, and the antique Indonesian bookshelf that had displayed his personal vanities. Gabriel slid from one to the next, checking that each was full, sealing it with tape, marking the proper address in two languages. He was a compact man, trim and athletic, with a graceful economy of movement. Even with his sleeves rolled up, his Hermès cravat loosened, he never appeared rushed or in the least bit stressed. Panic was not a word in his vocabulary. Discipline. Self-control. Focus. These were his touchstones.

A cap of wavy dark hair framed a shadowed, angular face. As he worked, he kept a faint smile to his lips, and the smile along with the sparkling brown eyes lent him a wily, seductive air. He looked like a man who knew a few things about life. A man not afraid of the world’s darker corners. A man who could keep a secret.

Standing, Marc Gabriel checked his watch. It was three o’clock, and he still had to call his bankers in Milano, Zurich, and Frankfurt, and order them to liquidate his portfolios. He was selling it all: Fiat, Olivetti, Fininvest, and Benetton. ABB, Julius Baer, Nestlé, and Credit Suisse. Bayer, Daimler, BASF, and Dresdner. There would be more arguments, more pleas to leave the money in the market. Again, Gabriel would explain his decision as a simple reconfiguring of his portfolios. Again, he would arrange meetings he had no intention of making. He would be sure to leave a million or two in each account, while asking that the proceeds of the share sales be wired to a web of numbered accounts in Dublin, Panama City, Vaduz, and Luxembourg.

And then he would sell again.

He would sell like he had never sold before.

Needing to stretch, Gabriel made a short par course of his office, stopping as was his custom by the window. Across the Seine, the Eiffel Tower soared into an unadulterated blue sky. It was a million-dollar view, and he knew that when he was gone he would miss it. A half mile distant, the tower appeared closer, within his very grasp. His eye locked on an elevator climbing the steel latticework and he thought the tower timeless—every bit as modern, as impressive today as when it had been built over a hundred years before to grace the opening of the 1889 International Exhibition of Paris.

This afternoon, however, he was more interested in the goings-on in the street below. Craning his head out the window, he took a long look around. Two buildings farther up, a liveried chauffeur was polishing the Qatari ambassador’s three-hundred-thousand-dollar Porsche GT Turbo, though he was not so engrossed in his work not to notice the long, gamine legs of two women strolling past. A few children chased one another, shouting and screaming, as was every child’s privilege. Monsieur Gallieni, the proprietor of the corner café, paced in front of his establishment smoking and looking to buttonhole an acquaintance to argue about the government’s latest policies. Otherwise the sidewalks were deserted, as they always were in midafternoon.

Gabriel thought of the events of the past days. He knew that when they came, he would not see them.

He returned to his desk.

Yes, Gabriel decided, he would miss the Eiffel Tower. But he would miss nothing else about Paris; not its decadent nightlife or chichi bistros, its ungodly traffic and rancid pollution, its drippy autumns and frigid winters; and certainly not its flamboyant love of self. The rot was everywhere.

Picking up the phone, he punched in a number and began his second round of calls.

“Hello, Jean-Jacques. An order to sell. We’re getting out of Citroën, Saint-Gobain, and L’Oréal. Yes, all of it. Every last share.”

Chapter 12

The Ford Mondeo carrying Adam Chapel and Admiral Owen Glendenning passed through three checkpoints before entering the courtyard of the American Embassy. Concrete caissons spaced five feet apart constituted the first line of defense. Next came the French police, three pairs standing abreast of squad cars parked directly before the embassy gates, all dressed smartly in sky-blue shirts and navy pants, Legionnaire
casquettes
worn correctly, submachine guns strapped across their chests. Last came the Marine security detachment. Posted at the watch house that had once governed the entrance to the Chancery, they were no less vigilant because of the added measures.

“You’d think we’re at war,” said Glendenning as the car slid to a halt and he opened the door. “They’ve got the streets cordoned off for four blocks in every direction. Snipers on the rooftops. We’ve uncovered two plots to blow this place to kingdom come. God knows how many more are being fomented right now.” In an awkward ballet, he lifted his legs one at a time out of the car, thrust his canes out the door, and struggled to his feet, all the while ignoring the chauffeur’s outstretched hands. “Pardon me,” he called over a shoulder. “Do you need help getting out?”

“Thank you, sir, I’m fine,” said Chapel, touched by the man’s consideration. His shoulder was as numb as an iceberg, thanks to the painkillers Dr. Bac had insisted he take prior to signing him out of the hospital. The last traces of shell shock had vanished on the ride over. Glendenning’s words were as bracing as a slap in the face.

“Here’s our problem,” he’d begun without preamble as they’d cleared the hospital grounds. “Taleel never got the money from Royal Joailliers.”

“How’s that?” asked Chapel. “We had him red-handed entering the jewelry store and exiting two minutes later with a satchel that he didn’t have before.”

“Be that as it may, we did not find a trace of a single U.S. dollar bill, let alone enough to constitute the five hundred thousand or more that was supposed to be in that bag he took from Royal. Now, a bomb will destroy a lot of things. But it will not obliterate a few thousand hundred dollar bills. The greenbacks should have been fluttering around the place like confetti on a New Year’s Eve. The only thing Taleel had in that satchel was a mess of Semtex.”

“I don’t see how—”

“As I recall, there was a minute or two when you had to abandon visual contact.”

The Métro, Chapel thought, when Taleel had stopped short on the passenger platform. He stared at Glendenning longer than he should, trying to figure if the man was apportioning blame. His complexion was gray, his eyes hooded behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He looked owlish and unexceptional, and Adam thought he liked it that way, cultivated it, even, and that it was a uniform that required as much care and attention as his naval dress blues. The blandness coated him with a kind of emotional Teflon. He wasn’t a man in the midst of a nasty divorce, a father with one son a recovering alcoholic and another at Harvard Law. He was an instrument of his government. Objective, dispassionate, and ultimately, Chapel imagined, divorced from the personal repercussions of his decisions.

“What about Boubilas?” Chapel asked. “The owner of the jewelry store—did you pull him in?”

“General Gadbois has him at Mortier Caserne.”

“
Gadbois?
Isn’t he with the DGSE? I thought we were working with the Sûreté on this thing?”

“The boys you were with yesterday were with the Action Service, part of the DGSE, not the police. Babtiste headed up their counterterrorism squad. Leclerc’s in on the messier side of the business. Gadbois doesn’t like to advertise their involvement in domestic matters if he doesn’t have to.”

“So I wasn’t in charge?”

“Did you really think you were?” Glendenning frowned, as if he didn’t have time for such childish squabbling. “You were in charge as much as anyone is in this type of affair. Babtiste was there to whistle you down if he thought you were making a wrong move. As for Boubilas, he swears he never got the call. ‘
Hawala?
What’s that?’ he asked. ‘A new dance?’ Claims he’d never seen Taleel before in his life.”

“He’s lying.”

“Of course he is. As far as we know, the transfer from Pakistan was legit. We fell for the three-card monte. We had our eye on Taleel while someone else picked up the dough . . . either in that store or on the Métro. That’s where you come in. You’re going to find who took that money. You see, Mr. Chapel, we didn’t come up totally empty-handed. We did manage to find something. A digital recording made by Taleel and his buddies.”

“A tape?”

“Yes, a tape. It makes for interesting viewing.”

Glendenning hadn’t whispered another word during the rest of the drive. And thirty minutes later, as Chapel passed through the black iron gates and mounted the stairs to the embassy, he shivered with anticipation as once again, he wondered what could be so important to have brought a deputy director of the Central Intelligence Agency across three thousand miles of ocean in the middle of the night.

It was called the “Quiet Room,” and it was located on the embassy’s second floor, deep on an interior corridor as close to the building’s heart as possible. Sheets of lead embedded in the walls locked all sound inside the room. Electronic bafflers provided backup. Twice a day, monitors swept the room for electronic eavesdropping devices. Neither cry nor whisper could escape. France might be America’s oldest ally, but of late, it was to be distrusted like anybody else.

The end of the Cold War had seen the DGSE, France’s espionage service, redirect its efforts toward industrial targets. Its agents traveled the world seeking to purloin trade secrets, hijack intellectual property, and “borrow” proprietary technology. Its “main adversary” was no longer the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, but the United States of America. And no more eloquent testimony could be found than front-page headlines proclaiming the arrest of French spies caught in flagrante attempting to steal trade secrets from Microsoft and Boeing. On this hot, sunny August morning, however, bygones were bygones. Peace, not profit, was once again the utmost priority. With the two countries united by a common foe, all disagreements belonged to the past.

A long, glossy conference table filled the narrow room, pitchers of water, glasses, and bowls of pretzels set out at even intervals. Photo portraits of the sitting U.S. President and the ambassador to France provided the only decoration.

Glendenning lifted his arm toward a squat, barrel-chested man with grizzled hair wearing an ill-fitting blue suit. “Meet Guy Gadbois. Runs things for the DGSE.”

Gadbois grunted a hello, but made no motion to stand or shake hands.

“I believe you know Captain Leclerc,” Glendenning said.

A square of gauze marking the Frenchman’s cheek was all he had to show from the bomb blast. He wore a tailored gray suit, his white shirt open at the collar. His hair was combed neatly and tucked behind his ear. But there was no mistaking the distrustful cast to his eyes. Leclerc looked at everyone as if he were a suspect.

“Yes,” said Chapel. “Glad you’re all right.”

Where had
he
been when Taleel blew himself up? Chapel wondered. Vaguely, he recalled Leclerc following him up the stairs, shadowing him down the hallway. But after that, he wasn’t sure. The events were all of a piece, melted into one another in some psychedelic, nonlinear way by the trauma of the blast. In his mind’s eye, he conjured up Babtiste, Gomez, Keck, and of course, Santini. The only person he hadn’t seen inside the apartment was Leclerc.