by David Lender
Rudiger said, “Rather, he ran into us.”
Katie said, “But here we are again, and we were on the verge of bringing you down in exchange for getting ourselves off the hook. But it seems like Holden double-crossed us.”
Ducasse said, “Call it what you want, but I have a deal with Holden, and nothing is going to happen to me, regardless of the little play your people performed on the street in front of my building today. You’ll never get out of Switzerland without being apprehended. Then you’re going back to the United States, and to jail.”
Rudiger sat up straight. This is it. “Now shut up and listen. As Katie said earlier, we want our $30 million back. And like I said on the phone to you yesterday, round it up to $35 million. That’s $3 million for our advisor in Morocco and $2 million for expenses.”
Ducasse said, “I don’t leave that kind of money lying around.”
“Yes you do, and you’re gonna get on the phone and call your banker and tell him to wire it to our bank.” Rudiger pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and pushed it across the coffee table to Ducasse. “These are the wire instructions.” Then he pulled another prepaid cell phone from his pocket and slid it over, too. “Make the call, now.”
Ducasse didn’t move, just glared at Rudiger.
“Okay, let’s just explore this for a minute, shall we? Even if we get caught before we get out of Switzerland, I push this button and the entire story of what you characters have been doing for the last ten years goes to the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal and the Financial Times. Once that story breaks, even your Swiss authorities will have no alternative but to act. But even if they don’t immediately, your business will be destroyed by scandal and your investors will scream for an investigation and for their money back. Eventually you’ll get arrested, prosecuted and convicted.” He turned to Ducasse’s father. “You, old man, will die in jail, disgraced.” He turned back to Ducasse. “And you, Mr. Fancy Pants, will spend the next 25 years in a Swiss jail sleeping in the same bunk with some 250-pound tattooed con who’s gonna make you his bitch. And if you ever get out of the Swiss jail, you’re gonna get extradited back to the U.S. and the same thing’s gonna happen to you in a U.S. jail. Only the U.S. con who makes you his bitch is gonna pass you around to his friends when he needs them to do him a favor.” He picked up his iPhone off the coffee table and held it facing Ducasse, a finger of his other hand poised. He allowed his anger to flow as he narrowed his eyes and said, “Now, am I gonna push this button or are you gonna wire the money?”
Rudiger saw Ducasse swallow hard and look down at the wire instructions on the coffee table.
Ducasse said, “What’s keeping you from sending the email after I wire the money?”
“All we ever wanted from the outset was the money back, plus expenses.”
Ducasse and Rudiger stared at each other.
Ducasse’s father said, “Oh, for God’s sake, wire the money.”
Ducasse reached down, picked up the paper, then grabbed the cell phone and dialed. He gave his banker the wire instructions.
Rudiger let out a sigh as gradually as he could, not wanting Ducasse to notice it.
Then he started thinking about the next step, wondering if the Geneva police really might have a major manhunt in progress. He forced the thought away, focused on the moment. When Ducasse put the phone down, Rudiger said, “Okay. Now we wait for my banker to call me saying the wire transfer’s arrived.”
They waited for an hour. Ducasse’s father had to go to the bathroom twice and Katie escorted him each time, leaving Rudiger and Ducasse staring at each other.
On his father’s second trip to the bathroom, Ducasse said through taut lips, “They’ll catch you. You’re the ones who are going to jail.”
Rudiger looked at the circles of perspiration under the arms of Ducasse’s suit jacket. He laughed in his face and said, “That’s a lot of bravado coming from a little man who’s sweated through his suit. Did you piss in your pants, too?”
Finally, Rudiger’s iPhone rang. He picked up the call, turned and nodded at Katie.
He put his iPhone back in the breast pocket of his suit jacket and when he removed his hand, a gun was in it. He waited for the fear and shock to show in Ducasse’s eyes and then with one motion fired a sedative dart into his chest, then his father’s. Both men slumped in their chairs.
Rudiger said, “That ought to hold them for 12 to 18 hours.” He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his prints from the gun, left it on the coffee table.
Katie and he walked into the bedroom. Rudiger pulled their contact lens cases from his pocket and put them on the bureau beneath the mirror. Katie removed her wig and put in her brown contacts. She helped Rudiger put on his blond wig, then he glued on his mustache and put in his blue contacts. They walked back into the living room of the suite and put on the coveralls and hats. As they left the room, Rudiger hung a DO NOT DISTURB card on the door handle. He said, “That should keep housekeeping away in the morning, so nobody should find them until after checkout time when somebody goes in to clean up.”
When the elevator got downstairs, they stepped out and walked through the service entrance to where the laundry van was waiting. They climbed in back and the van drove them to the airport.
Rudiger exhaled, felt his tension start to bleed off. Almost there.
An hour later Charlie Holden clutched the phone in his office, getting an earful from Attorney General Martin.
“How the hell could they sneak out a second time?”
“The Geneva police picked up a French couple who matched Conklin’s and Dolan’s descriptions right outside Ducasse’s office. We’re sure they were plants to draw off the police, but they can’t prove anything. It took a half hour at the station to figure out they had the wrong people. By then, we figure Conklin and Dolan were long gone. They still can’t find Ducasse and his father.”
“Great, just great,” Martin said.
Holden already had a world-class headache gripping his temples. He decided he wasn’t gonna subject himself to any more of this. He said, “I’ll call you when I know anything more,” and hung up. What a mess.
Ducasse awakened before Father, his mouth tasting sour and his chest burning. He looked through the window to see midmorning sun on the hills of Old Town. What happened?
Then he remembered.
He looked down and saw the dart protruding from his chest. He pulled it out, then tried to stand to check on Father. He fell to the floor. After another five minutes he raised himself to his feet, using the chair to steady himself. He walked to Father, shook his shoulder, and he stirred.
“What happened?” Father said.
“Rudiger shot us with some form of tranquilizer dart.”
“How long have we been out?”
“I’m not sure,” Ducasse said, “but it appears a long time. It’s now morning.”
Father blinked and looked around the room.
“I’m going to phone the police,” Ducasse said.
“That’s not a good idea. Start with this U.S. Attorney in New York, Holden. He can explain everything to our Swiss police.”
Why is Father so obtuse sometimes? “He already has. He set everything up with our police. They were part of the whole plan. Now that it’s gone wrong, wouldn’t you rather deal with our own people than the Americans?”
Father turned to him and said, “Don’t be a fool. You told me yourself the deal was immunity for us in exchange for bringing in the man and the woman. And they obviously escaped.”
Ducasse scowled. “They’ll never get out of Switzerland.”
“My, but you’re certain of yourself for a man who’s been masterfully outwitted and conned out of $35 million.”
“They’ll never see any of that money. How long do you think it will take to trace that wire transfer?”
Father sat up str
aight. “Do you honestly believe they haven’t closed that bank account and shuttled the money to a half dozen other accounts around the world by now?” Now Father laughed in his face. “Haven’t I taught you anything, you neophyte?”
“Oh please, old man,” Ducasse said and looked around for the phone, found one on the bureau.
When he walked to it Father shouted, “Don’t!”
Ducasse ignored him and dialed.
Father just glared at him, then out the window for the ten minutes it took the police to arrive. When they did they treated Father and him more like prisoners than victims, saying little and putting them in the backseat of separate squad cars. They drove straight to the Ducasses’ offices. The place was abuzz with police activity, a half dozen squad cars outside, a group of reporters and camera crews standing in front of the building and a crowd of pedestrians milling around, watching.
“What’s going on?” Ducasse said, raising his voice, mustering as much bravado as he could.
“Inside,” was all that the patrolman said, then ushered Father and him past the throng of reporters that now encircled them shouting questions. “What do you have to say about the Ponzi scheme accusations?” “How much did you take?” “Do you know who the witness is who stepped forward?”
Ducasse pushed through the front door, feeling his heart slamming in his chest, his legs weak. Inside the vestibule, a tall man in a topcoat stood and said, “Philippe Ducasse, I am Captain Wilhelm Dolder of the Geneva police. We are freezing the bank accounts of Banque d’affaires Ducasse, yourself and your father immediately, and commencing an investigation of your books on suspicion of running a Ponzi scheme with your private equity funds. We have a confidential informant who is prepared to testify against you. I am hereby placing you in custody on suspicion of securities fraud.”
Ducasse felt his stomach churning, then ran to the corner and vomited.
Rudiger and Katie had taken a private charter jet to Madrid, where they spent the night. They slept in the next morning and ordered a light breakfast from room service.
After breakfast Rudiger said, “I was gonna suggest we stay here a few days, relax and take in the city, but I miss Styles.”
“Me, too, and even though he’s comfortable with Flora, I’d hate to have him think we’ve abandoned him.”
They changed IDs and planes and flew into Cape Verde. They arrived at the ClubHotel Riu Karamboa around midafternoon. Katie’s heart melted when they returned to their room and were reunited with an excited Styles. “Hello, little man,” she said as he rolled onto his back for her to rub his belly. They ordered a rib eye steak from room service and took turns cutting pieces and feeding it to him. Later they took a run on the beach with Styles, Rudiger carrying the ball launcher and throwing balls ahead for him.
When they got back to the hotel, Rudiger showered while Katie dyed her hair back to her natural color. When she got out of the shower and walked onto the balcony, she smelled the aroma of Earl Grey tea and felt warm inside. Rudiger had a pot on the table.
Styles was curled up next to Rudiger’s chair. She crouched down and stroked his head. “A big meal, a run and now it’s time for a nap, eh?” When she stood up she noticed the business section of the New York Times, a section of the Wall Street Journal and the Lex column of the Financial Times open on the table.
“What’s all this?”
“Our man Ducasse in the news.”
“What?”
“The Swiss police have frozen the bank accounts of Banque d’affaires Ducasse, Ducasse and his father, and stepped in to supervise the operations and investigate the books. A witness tipped them off to a suspected Ponzi scheme Ducasse and his father were running.”
Katie laughed, feeling it all the way down to her stomach. She sat down and said, “I hope he gets my package before they throw him in jail.”
“Package?”
“From the hotel in Geneva I sent him back the My Fair Lady dress he gave me with a note that said, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’ I thought I looked like Mary Poppins in the thing anyhow.” Katie smiled, then felt a burst of anxiety. “Oh no.”
“What’s wrong?”
“So Bemelman went to the police? What’s going to happen to him?”
Rudiger said, “I talked to him about it a few days ago, when I sent him Holden’s final complaint against Ducasse. He told me he’d already decided that if the U.S. Attorney’s Office didn’t pursue a case against Ducasse, that he was going to the Geneva police with the affidavit he signed for us and Holden’s complaint, and tell them everything he knew in order to wreck Ducasse. His lawyer told him that he stood a good chance of getting off with only probation and some community service work. He was ready to retire in another two years anyhow, and even if his bank fired him it wouldn’t be able to take his pension from him.”
Katie sighed, relieved. “Good for him.”
Rudiger said, “And you’ll love this.” He grabbed the business section of the New York Times, open to DealBook, and handed it to Katie. “The Times reporter talked to Holden, who went into some spiel saying he was shocked by the allegations against the Ducasses. He said that if sufficient evidence supported the allegations, and if the Swiss authorities didn’t do anything, the U.S. Attorney’s Office would vigorously pursue the Ducasses’ extradition and prosecution in the U.S. Holden pledged that if the Ducasses were convicted in Switzerland, he’d go after them when they were released from jail.”
Katie laughed again. She said, “Charlie, grandstanding again. I almost feel bad about him being able to crow about a potential bust.”
Over tea Rudiger said, “So what’s next? Where do we go?”
“I remember our talk about going home to the States.”
Rudiger gave her a sad smile. “It was nice to dream about it.”
Katie smiled back. “Yes, it was. When I saw that immunity letter I was sure we could pull it off.” She paused, reached over to squeeze his hand. “Almost.”
“But our old friend Charlie Holden double-crossed us.”
Katie nodded.
“Or tried to . . .” As Rudiger’s voice trailed off, his gaze left hers and drifted out to the horizon.
After a moment Katie squeezed his hand again and said, “What?”
He didn’t respond.
“Rudiger?”
He still didn’t respond.
The wheels were turning. She felt a glow inside, knew there was still hope. When would she learn never to underestimate this man?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2007 Manette Loudon
David Lender is a former investment banker who spent 25 years on Wall Street. After earning his MBA at Northwestern University’s Kellogg School of Management, he went on to work in mergers and acquisitions for Merrill Lynch, Rothschild and Bank of America. His first three novels—Trojan Horse, The Gravy Train and Bull Street—turned him into an e-book sensation. He lives in northern New Jersey with his family and a pitbull named Styles. More background on David and his writing can be found at www.davidlender.net.
