The Geneva Option (19 page)

Yael put her wallet back in her purse, the sinking feeling growing stronger. So much for her charm. She had to get into the Institute. There was a plan B: to go into the UN building as a tourist on a guided visit and head off on her own and either break or talk her way through, but that was much more risky. The building was blanketed with CCTV cameras and security guards were everywhere. Either way, there was clearly no point staying here.

Yael stood up to go and picked up her passport. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Jovanovic. It has been a pleasure to meet you,” she said politely, offering Jasna her hand.

“Sit down, please,” said Jasna, her voice tinged with amusement. She picked up her cigarette, drew on it, exhaled slowly, and regarded Yael thoughtfully as the smoke swirled around her. “There is one other option,” she said.

“What?” asked Yael warily.

Jasna leaned back and gave Yael a piercing but not unfriendly look. She opened the drawer in her desk and took out a bottle of clear liquid and two small glasses and poured a generous measure into each.

Jasna handed one to Yael as she sat back down, and the two women clinked glasses. “It's
slivovitz
. Home-distilled. Don't tell the Swiss customs authorities.
Ziveli
,” said Jasna, looking Yael in the eye as she knocked the drink back in one gulp.

“Ziveli
,” said Yael, doing the same. Anyone who did not make and hold eye contact while making a toast was regarded with deep suspicion in the Balkans. The alcohol coursed through her, the plums first caressing her palate, then delivering a sharp, fruity kick. “Thank you. That was excellent,” she said appreciatively, as she put her empty glass down.

Jasna nodded knowingly. “Like your pronunciation. Especially for someone who has never been to Belgrade. Now, Claudia, why don't you tell me who you really are and what you want with KZX and the United Nations.”

Nineteen

J
oe-Don squirmed on the deep padded-leather armchair, trying, without success, to get comfortable. He was wearing his only suit, which he hated: a navy double-breasted one from the 1990s. Its shoulders kept riding up around his neck. His necktie was too tight, or perhaps the collar of his shirt was too small. His trousers were cutting into his waist. The dark-blond wig and mustache were starting to itch, and the padding around his stomach was becoming heavy and uncomfortable. The heavy, old-fashioned tortoiseshell frame of his eyeglasses was pressing on the bridge of his nose.

But Joe-Don's outfit was not the only cause of his irritation: he had been waiting in the overheated reception room of Banque Bernard et Fils' managing director for more than twenty-five minutes. He was usually ushered straight to his deposit box. But today the receptionist in the lobby had checked his name against a list and asked him to go upstairs to see “Monsieur Director.”

This was not good news, he knew. He could feel a thin rivulet of sweat running down his back and knew that if he took his jacket off there would be two large damp patches on his shirt under his armpits. He looked around and tried to control his annoyance. The room embodied the understated good taste on which BBF prided itself. The walls were lined with dark, polished wooden panels on the lower half, topped with silk crimson wallpaper. A small, original Picasso drawing was tastefully illuminated under a narrow, brass lamp. The room smelled faintly of cigars, coffee, and another aroma, something papery and fresh. At first Joe-Don could not place it. Then he realized it was the smell of money itself.

Monsieur Director's assistant, a tall young man in his twenties with dark-blond hair, even remembered how he took his coffee: black with sugar. He also brought him a tray of newspapers and magazines to read while he waited. Joe-Don flicked through that week's edition of the
Economist
, which carried a lengthy report on the turmoil at the UN. Fareed Hussein's position was looking increasingly shaky, it opined, especially if the UN's own police force did not come up with a proper report on the death of Olivia de Souza. And there were still many questions to be asked about the role of the “mysterious Ms. Azoulay,” her relationship with Hussein, and the whereabouts of Jean-Pierre Hakizimani, the Rwandan warlord for whom she had apparently brokered a deal. Many questions indeed, thought Joe, smiling to himself.

Joe-Don and Miguel had quickly dragged the two unconscious security guards into suite 3017 and tied their hands and legs with duct tape. Yael had removed the SIM cards from their mobile telephones, flushed the cell phones down the toilet, and ripped out the cords from the room's telephones. The two men began to stir until Joe-Don gave them a longer burst from the gas spray. That put them under again for another twenty minutes. Joe-Don, Miguel, and Yael had taken the service elevator down to the kitchen, where their departure through the hotel's back entrance—with Miguel's jacket draped over Yael's head—had caused little interest. Stars and VIPs were often ushered through to avoid paparazzi gathering at the front of the hotel.

From there they walked briskly to a parking lot on 44th Street where Joe-Don had left a newly purchased twelve-year-old Ford Focus. They drove through the night, staying away from interstate highways, to Vermont and the Canadian border. They crossed over on a narrow, rarely patrolled dirt road at dawn. They left the car in a parking lot in Montreal, from where they had flown to Paris.

Joe-Don put the magazine down and looked at his watch again: 4:30 p.m. There was still no sign of the manager, although Monsieur Bernard himself had confirmed their appointment for 4:00 p.m. Perhaps there was a legitimate reason for the delay, Joe-Don told himself. He had chosen BBF, after all, for its legendary discretion. Despite the rigorous new international laws controlling the flow of capital and finance, it was understood in numerous capitals, not least Berne, that the world's decision makers still needed a bank that would take deposits, cash or transfer, without too many—in fact, without any—questions being asked. Joe-Don had selected BBF, which was two hundred years old and one of the less well-known, family-run firms, for that role, which it had accepted gladly and fulfilled with enthusiasm. A small but steady percentage of CIA operational cash, written off as “miscellaneous expenses” over twenty years and never enough to draw the attention of the bean-counters at Langley, now added up to a substantial sum for Mr. Wilson Smith.

Joe-Don stood up, walked over to the window, and watched a motorcyclist weave in and out of the early rush-hour traffic, a sleek procession of Mercedeses and BMWs. The sky was heavy and overcast, and a light rain spattered the window. Unlike many of the more famous Swiss banks, BBF was not headquartered downtown on the quayside of Lake Geneva, or in an imposing steel and glass building in the shopping and business quarter at Geneva's historic heart. Instead BBF conducted its business from an anonymous apartment house on the Rue de Montbrillant, a busy and unremarkable thoroughfare in the north of the city. BBF was so discreet that it did not even have a nameplate on its door, which doubtless breached Geneva's municipal codes on numerous counts. BBF used only three of the five floors, and the other two, Joe-Don knew, were rented to companies that did not exist, to prevent any curious neighbors noting its clients.

BBF's down-market neighbors included a cheap—by Geneva standards—Chinese restaurant, a bicycle repair shop, and a gas station. But the street was a short walk from the Palais des Nations, the former League of Nations building that now housed the UN's European headquarters. Rue de Montbrillant also ended at the headquarters of the UN High Commissioner for Refugees, whose entrance was easily visible from the BBF window. Joe-Don was idly watching the comings and goings when a face grabbed his attention. He looked familiar. Was it him? Yes, it was—Brad DeWayne, a political adviser, temporarily reassigned from the State Department to Erin Rembaugh, the head of the UN's Department of Political Affairs. Joe-Don would recognize DeWayne's shiny, bald head, large ears, and purposeful lope anywhere. What was he doing in Geneva?

The door opened and Joe-Don looked up expectantly as Henri Bernard walked in. In his late sixties, Bernard's tall figure was dressed in a perfectly cut gray suit, white shirt, and striped red tie. His silver hair and pink skin were freshly barbered and smelled of No. 74 Victorian Lime Cologne, which he had couriered every week from St. James's in London. Bernard was the embodiment of elegant prosperity.

“Monsieur Smith, my sincere apologies for the delay,” the banker said, as he opened the door to his office.

Joe-Don said nothing, picked up his messenger bag, and followed Bernard into his room, where a much larger Picasso was mounted on the wall behind his desk. Bernard's desk was empty apart from a humidor and a penholder. He reached into a drawer and took out a slim leather folder. “You have everything you need. Some more coffee perhaps?”

Joe-Don shook his head. “You are late. I have been sitting in your reception room for thirty-five minutes. I am not here for a social call. I need €100,000 in cash from my account. Now. Not more coffee.”

Bernard looked at Joe-Don with a pained expression on his face. It was hard to tell which offended him more: Joe-Don's dated suit and rumpled necktie or his brusqueness. The banker opened the folder, drew out a sheet of paper, and slowly drew in air between his polished and whitened teeth. “We have a slight problem,” he said, his face radiating regret that anyone, or anything, could ever cause inconvenience to a client of BBF.

Joe-Don said nothing, allowing Bernard's discomfort to build until he felt obliged to elaborate. The banker pursed his lips and slowly exhaled. “As you know, Monsieur . . . Smith,” he said, his voice openly doubtful, “since 9/11 we have been obliged to adhere to extremely strict new rules on international transfers and to thoroughly check the provenance of new deposits, especially those in cash. Your deposits,” he continued, briefly glancing down, “of €452,761 and twenty-six cents have all been in cash. We need to know how you came into possession of these funds.”

Joe-Don spoke calmly. “Technically you are obliged to do that, yes, but we both know that in reality you are not. And you don't. Which is why so many governments and other agencies make such use of your services, and why Bank Bernard et Fils' pretax profits last year were more than six hundred million Swiss francs.”

Bernard's mask of amiability evaporated and his smile vanished. “I have no idea where you get that absurd, and, I might say, highly offensive allegation from. We are a registered financial institution and subject to international and Swiss banking regulations.”

Joe-Don looked at the banker with disdain. “I get that idea from the four-page secret protocol, a copy of which is in my possession, that you signed with the US Department of Justice, the European Commission, and Fareed Hussein's office, guaranteeing Bank Bernard et Fils' immunity in perpetuity against any legal, civil, or criminal measures by any UN member state, citizen, or instrument of any such state, for any transaction or financial arrangement entered into by the bank or any one of its subsidiaries or personnel.”

Bernard sat back in his chair, an ironic smile playing on his face. “If—
if
—such a document existed, it would still not help with your case. The board has decided it is unable to release your requested funds, indeed any of your funds deposited here, until you can prove to our satisfaction that these monies were legitimately earned, and indeed have been declared to the US tax authorities. Is that a problem, Monsieur . . . Smith?”

Joe-Don thought quickly. The monies themselves were not an issue. He was confident that the sleek banker was about to crumple like a cheese soufflé. But these sudden “difficulties” with his account showed that his moves had been anticipated. Which doubtless explained the delay. And which also meant that Bank Bernard had doubtless alerted the authorities to his presence. Time to speed things up.

“For me, no. But for you, yes.” Joe-Don reached into his bag and handed Bernard a ten-by-twelve color photograph.

The banker flushed, blinked rapidly, but soon recovered his composure. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Rough trade, I think our British friends call it. The photograph shows you having dinner in the bank's private dining room with Vadim Todorov.”

Bernard shook his head. “I would expect something more sophisticated from you, Monsieur Smith or whatever your name is. Our bank is well known for its philanthropic activities. We sponsor a youth charity to help the young homeless. We provide them with accommodation, work, and the chance of a new life. I took an interest in Vadim's case.”

“A great interest. As this photograph shows.”

Bernard sat back. “So? My private life is my own affair. I suggest you leave this office now, before I call the security department, ” he said, reaching for his telephone.

Joe-Don put his hand over Bernard's. “I note your advice, Mr. Bernard. But before you do that perhaps you should take a look at these,” he said, handing him two more photographs.

The banker stared at the pictures and turned white.

“Vadim Todorov was fifteen years old. He was a runaway from an orphanage in Varna, Bulgaria. He lived in the train station and turned tricks to get money for glue or drugs. He had no friends or contacts here. He trusted you absolutely. You showed him a world he had no idea existed. And here he is, dead on a slab,” said Joe-Don, his voice cold and hard. “He died of a drug overdose. Cocaine. The postmortem showed he had also suffered severe internal injuries.”

Bernard began to shake. “You cannot connect this to me.”

Joe-Don looked at him with disgust. “Your DNA was found inside him. Your friend the minister of the interior had the pathologist's report filed away and the police investigation stopped.”

He reached over to the humidor and selected a cigar. He tapped it on the table, took out a pocketknife, and sliced the end off before lighting it with a battered Zippo.

“Prove it,” said Bernard, his defiance rapidly evaporating.

Joe-Don puffed on the cigar until the tip glowed red, reached into his jacket pocket, and handed Bernard several folded sheets of paper. “Vadim Todorov's autopsy results and the police report on his death. There are copies on my computer and numerous others. An e-mail containing these documents, and BBF's four-page immunity memo, will be sent to Reuters, the Associated Press, and Bloomberg in thirty minutes if you don't do as I ask. And don't get any smart-ass ideas. I personally need to enter a code to stop the e-mails being sent,” he said, blowing a cloud of fragrant smoke over the banker.

Joe-Don shook his head regretfully as Bernard frantically scanned the papers. “Bank Bernard et Fils. A Geneva institution. Two hundred years of history, discretion, and tradition down the drain, just because you like slapping teenage boys around. And consider the bank's clients. They
really
won't appreciate the publicity.”

He examined the end of the cigar with interest. “This is very good. Cuban?”

Bernard put the sheets down, his eyes blazing with hatred. “What do you want?”

“I told you. My money. And for you to make a telephone call.”

“To whom?”

“To the minister of the interior. You will tell him to stand down the police officers in your reception area, the helicopter circling overhead, and the snipers on the roofs nearby. You will tell him that there has been a misunderstanding, that Monsieur Smith is carrying out an important and highly confidential mission for the United Nations that has been cleared by the Security Council at the highest level, that the standard protocols apply, and that you had been notified of this through the usual channels, but regretfully failed to inform the Swiss government. The fault is entirely yours. And FYI, be aware that if anything should happen to me or any of my close associates—
ever
—the police and autopsy reports and the bank's immunity memo will be released to the news agencies.”