by Richard Wake
So how could I not? Rationalizations aside, this was about the Swiss laundering Nazi gold, a practice that could assist Germany's war effort in a way unlike any other. Other than Stalin agreeing to guard Hitler's east-facing backside, there was nothing that could bolster the German war machine like the Swiss agreeing to oil the Nazis' financial gears. This had to be nailed down, and then the Swiss had to be pressured to stop -- on the governmental level, by popular disdain because of press reports, or somehow.
This was about stopping fucking Hitler, I kept telling myself, even as I closed my eyes and re-ran the film of the skirt inching up Sophie's thighs.
A few minutes after she held my hand in the restaurant, all doubts were erased. Just after the waiter cleared away our entrees, I suddenly felt Sophie's foot, sans shoe, probing between my legs. I flinched, startled. She laughed.
"Jumpy?" she said.
"Let's call it pleasantly surprised," I said.
There was no question how this was going to play out. My only hope was that she would tell me she had a roommate, at which point I would tell her I had a cousin staying with me for the week and ask for a rain check. She would buy that as an excuse, and that would buy my prematurely guilty conscience some time. But, no. As we got out of the cab and I leaned over to kiss her goodnight, she grabbed my hand and pulled me over the threshold and up the stairs and inside.
I thought about Manon. To be completely honest, it was for about two seconds.
An hour or so later, I was buttoning my shirt and suddenly having a hard time making conversation, which never happened to me. Sophie had no problem, though. She was a bit drunker than I was, and she talked about maybe getting together the following week, that she might be able to take off all day Wednesday, that her boss had a big two-day meeting in Bern with "some big Nazi" on Wednesday and Thursday. She giggled again when she said "big Nazi." She said the meeting had been on the books for weeks and would never be canceled. I made some excuse about sales appointments in Strasbourg and promised to call her and find another day for our next date after I checked out my diary.
I had been successful. I had gotten the lead on Tanner and the big Nazi and the two-day meeting in Bern that I needed. I was not a shithead. That was the mantra that got me to sleep.
21
I called Manon around lunchtime the next day. I was still bipolar on the subject of my business task of the previous evening, justifying it half the time, crippled by guilt the other half. But I knew that talking to her would wrench me back toward normalcy and that doing it over the phone would be the most effective way to disguise the shame that must have been painted on my face.
She picked up on the first ring. I started telling her a story about a tram accident I had seen on Quaibrucke that morning -- an out-of-control Daimler hit the tram so hard that it tipped it over on its side -- but she was beyond uninterested. She didn't even pretend to be listening.
"Is this a bad time? You sound distracted," I said.
"What does that mean?"
"I don't know. Are you mad about something?"
"No," she said. "Should I be?"
There is no way she could know. I had purposely chosen a restaurant outside of the center of the city and away from the old town where I lived, and where Cafe Fessler was. Those are the only two parts of Zurich that Manon knew, and it isn't as if she had a long roster of local friends who might have spotted me having dinner with Sophie. Now that I thought about it, I had not met any of her friends, other than Liesl. So there was no way unless Manon saw me herself -- and that really was beyond unlikely.
"What's the matter with you?" I said, redirecting her inquiry.
"Nothing. Just tired."
"Do you still have that rug manufacturers thing in Geneva? When is it? Tomorrow? You should just cancel. Fucking rugs."
"I can't cancel," she said. "This is what I do. Smile pretty and admire the carpets and point out the fine French craftsmanship."
"Do you think it makes a difference? Do you really think it sells more rugs."
"I don't know," Manon said. She paused. I could hear her sigh through the receiver. "Not that you can quantify specifically. It's more about public, I don't--"
She stopped again. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know about anything anymore."
I asked her if she wanted to come over to my place that night, and she said no. I asked her if she wanted me to go over to her place, and she said no. I was going to ask if she wanted to meet for a drink after work, but I reconsidered. She really was in a foul mood. A little distance might not be a bad thing. Besides, I needed a decent night's sleep before my trip to Bern.
I walked home the long way, taking a detour on the path around the lake. It was a miserable evening, the wind icy off the water. I came to the MCMIX fountain and looked discretely for a yellow chalk mark. There was none, only a poodle wearing a red sweater, lifting its leg.
22
The trains from Zurich to Bern ran hourly, greasing the wheels of Swiss commerce between the banking center and the national capital. It was an easy trip, the cars populated at whatever time of day mostly by men in dark gray business suits, their faces buried either in newspapers or manila folders stuffed with papers of two sorts: columns of numbers or legal contracts. It was not a place for frivolity, for children laughing and running up the aisle. Most of the train cars were stone silent, other than the clatter of the wheels and the conductor calling for tickets. If you listened carefully, you could hear the man across the aisle calculating the compound interest in his head.
Even as it was the national capital, Bern was a small town compared to Zurich. The walk from the train station was only a few blocks, passing through a mundane shopping district. Then, along the bank of the Aare River, you first come to a park. In it, there was a statue celebrating the postal union, with figures representing the continents handing over letters from one to the next. Such a Swiss thing, celebrating the delivery of the mail. I kept searching for the statue of the man who invented the green eyeshade. Some sculptor was really missing out on the next Swiss masterpiece.
Then came, in quick succession, a government building, the parliament building, and -- God bless Switzerland -- a big square with three banks on it. One of them was the national bank, and it was the closest one to the parliament building, just across a narrow street. It was almost near enough to touch, which was just about perfect. Somewhere inside was undoubtedly where Jan Tanner did his business.
And then, after the government block, came the Bellevue Palace, the hotel of hotels in Bern. In other words, you could ride in on the train and, after a short gambol, be bought and paid for, or buy and pay for someone else, and then rest your head after a full day of nefarious commerce in luxury. It was all so convenient.
I checked in at the front desk and attempted not to faint at the rates -- not that it was my money, but still. A single room with a bath was 20 francs per night. A suite was 40 francs. If you brought your man with you, or your chauffeur -- you know, if you had a man or a chauffeur --- it was 13 francs more, and he would live in a triple with someone else's men or chauffeurs. I wondered if the big Nazi was bringing a man.
It was 3 p.m. on Wednesday. I could only guess, but Tanner and the Nazi were likely having the first of their two days' worth of meetings, after which they would probably meet up here for drinks and dinner if the Nazi were like every other high-level traveling businessman in the capital. If he wasn't, I was screwed, but I tried not to think about that.
The lobby was imposing, expensive looking without being ornate. The floors were creamy marble topped by oriental rugs. The lobby bar had three stools, and the rest of the space was filled by an array of leather chairs, couches and low tables of varying shapes, all beneath a stained glass dome ceiling. The design above was mostly plain gold and blue stained glass panels around the perimeter. What drew your eye at the top of the dome was a set of large spiral designs.
At 3 p.m., three tables of women were having tea. It was too early
for my lurking to begin. I checked in, unpacked, and returned at 5. There was one table of tea drinkers, and one man had grabbed a leather club chair and what appeared to be a wholly satisfying Martini, given the relaxed sigh that he let out after the first sip. Again, I grabbed a chair of my own, my back to a wall. If I didn't sigh after the first sip of my Manhattan, I should have.
The evening trade was as expected, men in suits meeting other men in suits. I was looking for one particular man in a suit, the only one likely to be sporting elephant's ears. It actually made the stakeout pretty easy, even though the space was pretty busy. And while it wasn't possible to tell a typical Nazi without his party card, I still played the "is he/isn't he" game with every sausage-necked suit I spotted, just for fun. The game distracted me just enough that I never saw Peter Ruchti until he was already sitting in the other chair that shared my little table.
"Looking for anyone in particular, Herr Kovacs?" he asked, almost in a sing-song.
"And what brings you here, detective? Did somebody get poisoned by the pate?" It was lame, but the best comeback I had.
"Alex, I don't have the energy to play this game tonight," he said.
"What game?" I said, stalling.
"You have no idea what you have gotten yourself into," he said. And then we were both silent for what seemed a long while, but that was probably only about 15 seconds. I was calculating exactly how much truth I should tell, how much I should acknowledge, and I'm sure some of that showed. Ruchti just looked tired. Finally, he said something.
"Okay, let's pretend that I am a mere homicide detective and you are a humble private banker. Let's go with that for now -- I mean, what the hell? My guess is that you have never been to the Bellevue Palace before. Well, I have. So let me offer up an assessment of the premises.
"Over to our right," he said, pointing openly. "Over there, behind the bar, is La Terrasse restaurant. If you were to go inside, all the way in, you would see the tables with a view overlooking the river. It is quite nice, but I don't think it would be for you."
"Okay, I'll play along. Why would it not be for me?" I said.
"Good, good, I'm glad you're playing. The reason it would not be for you is that on most nights, and this is definitely one of them, La Terrasse is exclusively an eatery for espionage practitioners of the German persuasion, along with their friends from Japan, Italy, and Russia."
I made a face. He smiled back.
"This is quite so," Ruchti said. "It has never been more true. But there are other places to eat in the hotel, and they are patronized by espionage practitioners of different heritages. The French, say. And the British. An American or two has been known to stop in for a bite. And the Chinese. Yes, the Chinese -- they are frequent customers, mostly because it seems they are worried about the Japanese. In the Salon Royal or the Salon du Palais -- yes, they are all more than welcome."
He was pointing now toward his left. The different restaurants weren't 100 feet apart.
"You're kidding, right?" I said. Martin Stern had mentioned some of this to me, but it still sounded bizarre. "What you are describing is some kind of stage play, and a bad one at that."
"But it gets better," Ruchti said. And then, after a sweep of the arm that took in the entire lobby, he said, "After dinner, this is the place where they all might mingle if they so choose. The Germans might be at one table, the British and French at another, the Czechs -- your countrymen -- at another, and the Chinese at another still. There might be a short bit of conversation between the groups, there might not -- you never knew. A newspaperman or two might be leaning up against the bar because this evening quadrille is well-known and respected throughout the journalism profession, a fertile fount of gossip and even the occasional fact, one never attributed to anything but 'sources' in the next day's paper.
"And usually," he said, "often right at this very table, is a representative of Swiss law enforcement, whose job it is to keep track of all of the players from the various nationalities and to be seen keeping track by those players. That is the most important task -- being seen. The Swiss authorities want them to know they are being watched, because the last thing we want is for one of those players to end up lying in a gush of his own blood on Rennweg, with a bullet through his eye. Such things make the government ministers nervous."
"And the bankers," I said.
"Same thing."
With that, his lesson for the day must have been completed. Ruchti stood to leave, groaning the groan of a man 20 years his senior.
"Enjoy yourself," he said. "But it's too early for me. I'll be two blocks over, back toward the station, at Brunckhorst's. I can't afford to drink here all night. You must have a better expense account than the police."
23
I checked my watch -- 5 had become 6, and 6 had become 6:30, and only I knew that Ruchti had left me balls-naked in this crowded lobby bar. Since he made his exit, I had spent half of the time convincing myself that only he knew my secret. The other half of the time, I plotted my escape and wondered if I should go get my suitcase or just leave it behind when I fled.
I didn't feel ready to play the game. I didn't feel ready to accept it as a game. I understood the adrenaline jolt might be similar to executing a goal-saving slide tackle -- I had felt it before, so I got that -- but a game? No. And with rules and courtesies and bows and polite little laughs out of a bad English drawing room comedy? Fuck no.
Still, as I eyed up dinner groups as they left the bar -- some to La Terrasse, some to the Salon du Palais -- I made mental notes and came to harsh, reflexive judgments. It was only natural. Although, it was probably a bit overboard when I watched two 70-year-old ladies shuffling themselves into La Terrasse and muttered to myself, "Goddamn Nazi bitches." I mean, they were probably just two local grandmothers having a night out.
I had ordered a third Manhattan and theatrically looked at my watch and mumbled something to the waiter about, "Meetings always running late," as if I needed an excuse for ordering a third drink. But the truth was, I was getting a little worried about my plan. What if the Nazi wasn't staying here? What if Tanner took the guy to his house for a home-cooked meal? I really didn't have a Plan B, other than maybe to sit outside the entrance to the national bank in the morning and see if big ears walked into the building with a companion. Then again, seeing as how I had no idea what the Nazi's name was, and given that my memory for faces was, frankly, shit, I'm not exactly sure what that would accomplish. Then again, I wasn't exactly sure what sitting in this bar was accomplishing, either -- until, that is, the table next to mine came empty, and two men sat down, one of them with a pair of ears that could block out the sun.
I was sitting at a 45-degree angle from the table, with my back mostly facing it, so I didn't have to worry about making eye contact or anything. My biggest concern was appearing to lean over too far in an attempt to overhear what they were saying. Because the truth was, I couldn't hear anything. Or didn't I mention the lobby piano that was currently being played by a gentleman in white tie and tails? It was hardly intrusive but precisely loud enough to camouflage whatever you were saying from a table about 5 feet away. Which, I guess, was at least part of the point.
Part of me wanted to walk over to the piano and give the guy a couple of francs with a request to take a break. But I decided to just stay put. I was nervous -- about Ruchti, about being a little bit drunk, about being so close to their table -- and the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself. I figured the thing to do was sit, and maybe catch a snatch of the conversation if I got lucky. If I had to, I could possibly ask the waiter what the Nazi's name was after they had left, pretending I recognized him from somewhere, maybe an old school chum from Wiesbaden or some such thing. We were probably about the same age.
I did need at least to make an attempt at memorizing his face. So I did manage, at one point, to lean over and tie my shoe and take a peek. As it turned out, memorizing it would be easy, because the big Nazi looked very much like my old nei
ghbor from Vienna -- that is, if Rudolf Kreizburg was about 10 years younger, and sported some kind of mole on his neck that was about an inch in diameter and must have been a bitch to shave around every morning. They were quite the freak show, mole and big ears. If I were properly introduced to them, I don't know what I would have stared at first.
So I sat there, sipping the Manhattan, waiting them out. They ordered a second drink, and I ordered a fourth, along with my bill. They were going to have to eat soon. And, as it turned out, the piano player did take a break just as they were drinking up. I did get to hear a little bit.
"...it's a couple of hours," Tanner said,
"My driver or yours?" the big Nazi said.
"Mine. But maybe it would make sense for yours to follow in your car. That way, you'll be starting that much closer to home."
"We'll be done then?"
"Yes, I'm pretty sure," Tanner said. "I just want you to see how it works. You can inspect the procedures and suggest any changes you think necessary, although I'm confident you will be satisfied. If we need to speak further about anything, there is an office we can use there. Then you can be on your way."
Then they swallowed their last swallows and stood up. The Nazi motioned toward the waiter, mimicking signing his signature with his index finger on the palm of his hand. The waiter rushed over with the bill and a breathless "Herr Steiner," and Herr Mole Steiner signed the bill, and he and Big Ears Tanner made their way to La Terrasse. Of course. Goddamn Nazi bitches.
