by Geoff Wolak
* * *
Guido Pepi cut the end off a cigar, taking many seconds to light it. He shook the match, reaching across and tossing it into an ashtray on his grand desk before assessing the men ranged in front of him. He eased back into his chair, running a hand through his long silver hair, a glance toward the windows. The moonlight was fighting its way in through the curtains on this warm night in the Tivoli hills, east of Rome. ‘So,’ he said in Italian. ‘K2 has a new owner.’
‘It’s a trick!’ a man complained. ‘Gunter’s will was altered, or destroyed.’
Pepi nodded; a slow, almost unnoticed movement. ‘Of course it was. The original will left his fortune to the Swiss Government, some money to political groups. That was the deal he struck for them to allow his continued existence. This new owner –’
‘Is British!’ another man spat out, disgusted at the idea.
‘The K2 staff will not welcome this man, nor the Swiss people or Government,’ the first man suggested.
‘We will see, as it unfolds. But gentlemen, it is no coincidence that our two biggest problems have just joined forces, not unless you believe in fate.’
A Roman Catholic cardinal stepped in, fully robed and splendid in his regalia.
‘Ah, Cardinal. What news?’ Pepi asked, no one making any effort to stand or greet the newcomer.
‘The inheritance appears genuine.’ Pepi blinked. The cleric added, ‘This man, Beesely, was a very distant relative of Gunter, through his sister –’
‘Ah, yes,’ Pepi let out, tapping the end of his cigar over the ashtray. ‘She went to live in England before the war. It would be easy enough for British Intelligence to alter some old records.’
‘Something else,’ the Cardinal added, his hands clasped as he made his report. ‘This man Beesely was a maverick, not trusted by his own people. There is suggestion that he was a CIA plant.’
Pepi eased up, his concerned look noticed by the gathered men.
‘Something?’ a man delicately enquired.
Without taking his studious gaze off the windows, Pepi responded, ‘Any CIA interest in K2 must be seen as a priority. I have no doubt they would love to get hold of the files, and the list. Even more so than the British.’ He turned back to the Cardinal. ‘Kindly make contact with your people in the CIA. Re-acquaint yourself, without explaining just what our concerns are. Do not … trust them.’
The cleric bowed his head and left, leaving Pepi staring at the windows, a puzzled frown forming.
‘Sir, that bomb is still in place, counting down. They have not spotted it.’
Pepi shrugged. ‘It still suits its original purpose. Let it run.’
3
If Beesely had looked ill before he looked like death now. Inch by inch he lowered his head, his eyes misting over.
Otto continued, ‘If I may explain, it is a difficult situation, a long story. My grandmother was Jewish, a German Jew –’
Beesely lifted his gaze, tapping the photo of his former lover with a finger. ‘Marianne ... was Jewish?’
‘My mother, the woman you met in 1963, was the daughter of a German-Jewish refugee. She adopted the name Schessel. I am, technically, part Jewish.’
‘Which is very odd, considering the position you’re in ... in a Swiss bank,’ Beesely delicately, but firmly, pointed out.
Otto nodded slightly. ‘Yes, it is correct. If this information was known I would not be employed where I am. But I did not apply for any position, I was given the work by Gunter, your brother-in-law. He knew, but hid the fact. He did not wish anyone to know that I was the son of a Jew.’
Beesely rubbed his forehead. ‘Sorry, you were saying something.’
‘My grandmother, she travelled to Switzerland just before the war. During the war she was detained by the Swiss authorities, in a camp near Lugano, being released with the help of her Swiss lover. He disappeared towards the end of the war and she raised my mother in Bern. My grandmother died when my mother was eighteen years old, leaving little money.’ He took a breath. ‘That was when my mother met and married Gunter.’
‘Gunter!’ Beesely exploded. ‘She ... was his wife?’
Johno glanced from face to face, not understanding.
Otto stared back for a moment, before lowering his gaze. ‘He treated her well enough at the beginning, so I have heard, but spent less and less time with her in the short time after they were married.’ Beesely’s eyes widened, clearly stung by those words. Otto continued, ‘He never let on about his past, his time with the Wehrmacht. In 1963 he found out that a distant relative, you Sir Morris, were working for British Intelligence and he wanted to corrupt you, to bribe you perhaps. I do not know all the details. He sent my mother to try and get you to Switzerland for some reason. She … was an attractive woman.’
‘The best,’ Beesely muttered.
Otto offered, ‘Naturally, if you wish to have a DNA test carried out...’
Beesely turned his head to Ricky.
Ricky offered him back a confident smile. ‘I wouldn’t bother, I’ve seen the evidence, did some of my own checking. Herr Otto here showed me around the outfit thoroughly. He knew you’d ask the question.’
Beesely focused on Ricky with a hard stare. ‘Would you bet your life on it?’
‘Without hesitation.’
Beesely nodded his reluctant acceptance.
Johno eased up, reached across and had a peek at the photo. ‘Shit, she’s a babe! Know who she looks reminds me of –’
‘Alexandra Bastedo,’ Beesely informed them without looking up, pronouncing the name carefully. ‘Actress in that 1960s TV show The Champions. People often mistook her for that actress when we went out. Something I may not … have denied as strongly as I should have.’
Jane had a look at the photo. ‘My God, she’s beautiful.’ She put a hand on Beesely’s arm. ‘What happened between you?’
‘She told me everything,’ Beesely informed them, still staring at the photo, a pain growing in his chest. ‘Not about Gunter, just that she was sent to spy on me. I offered her asylum here, in this country, thinking she was working for the East Germans, but she insisted that she had to go back. She said the two weeks here with me was the best … holiday she had ever had.’
‘Hang on ... ?’ Johno’s brain had now caught up. ‘She came over to, you know, Mata Hari … you knocked her up … and Blotto here -’
‘Is, most likely, my biological son.’
Johno took a bite. With a mouthful of sandwich he said, ‘Shit, he’s got a lot more hair than you!’
With Beesely focused on Johno, Jane approached Otto and placed a hand on his arm. ‘That’s great. Where are you staying? You should stay in the guest room here, get to know everyone,’ she rapidly got out.
Otto did not quite know what to say, but smiled back politely.
‘Ricky said it was a long story,’ Beesely firmly interrupted. He motioned for Jane to sit back down.
Otto collected his thoughts. ‘I was raised by Gunter, as his son. I never knew my mother, she died a year after I was born. A man I spoke to one year ago suggested that my … father had killed her in a drunken rage.’
Beesely breathed in hard enough to worry Johno and Jane. ‘He … killed her?’
‘Definitely. I have confirmed it since.’
‘And that’s why you changed his will?’ Beesely asked, now appearing unwell.
Otto suddenly seemed saddened, or disappointed, his expression drifting through many slight changes that Beesely was having a hard time following. He glanced at the faces in the room for several seconds. ‘I changed his will the day I killed him.’ Jane’s enthusiasm for their guest had been swept away. Johno did not quite know what to make of that, and Ricky shifted uneasily in his seat. Otto added, ‘As he lay sick in the bed I poured water into his mouth and held his mouth and nose closed, looking him in the eye. I told him ... this is for Marianne.’
Silence gripped the table.
Johno spoke first, still with half a
mouthful of sandwich. ‘Nazi bastard deserved everything he got.’
‘Quite,’ Beesely agreed.
Otto turned to Jane. ‘Perhaps some food would be nice.’ He spoke with the confidence of a man used to giving orders and managing people. She glanced to Beesely for confirmation and her boss nodded. They waited until she had left before resuming.
‘Some details are, perhaps, not for her ears,’ Otto suggested to Beesely, who agreed with a nod.
‘So how much was the old bastard worth then?’ Johno loudly asked.
Beesely scowled at him, but seemed keen to know that as well.
‘Perhaps if I start at the beginning,’ Otto offered. ‘Gunter was an officer in the Wehrmacht towards the end of the war. Not an SS officer or camp guard, or anything of that nature, he was a coward and avoided the Russian front by working as an undercover agent in Switzerland, spying on Allied embassies, and depositing money and works of art for Nazi party members and high ranking officers into Swiss banks.’
‘So he wasn’t a Nazi then?’ Johno puzzled.
‘Not technically,’ Beesely admitted. ‘But back then any German soldier was called a ‘Nazi’, and Gunter had a Swiss passport as well, so he could have sat out the war instead of volunteering to join up.’
Otto continued, ‘He was from a rich family to start with, inheriting a thirty-five percent share in a Swiss munitions factory when he was just fifteen, bequeathed by his uncle whom he helped each summer. He did not need to work ... or fight. He was already rich towards the end of the war, when his activities depositing money and works of art for Nazi officials flourished. It was not lost on him that many of these officers might not survive the war, so he kept copies of numbered Swiss accounts, branches and details of what was deposited. It is also certain that in 1945, even though he was only twenty, he helped many of his contacts to escape to Switzerland, only to murder them in his safe houses. Their riches fell into his hands.
‘It is fair to say that he cleaned up, as you English have it. He may well have killed upwards of fifty people, taking over their bank accounts. Since he opened the accounts, no one at the banks would question him. And he held a genuine Swiss passport.’
‘How’s this Grunter wanker related to you, Boss?’ Johno queried.
Otto answered the question, ignoring Johno’s deliberate mispronunciation, ‘Gunter’s older sister travelled to England in 1937. The sister, Guette – a Danish name - changed her first name to Gillian and married Sir Morris’s brother, Robert. They were both killed in a car crash in 1965.’
‘Tenuous bleeding link,’ Johno pointed out.
Otto turned to address Johno directly. ‘In the eyes of the law it is still the only link to a living relative.’ Turning back to Beesely he added, ‘Gunter seems to have had a series of mistresses, and possibly some illegitimate children, who were rumoured to have been killed.’
Beesely ran a hand over his bald scalp. ‘All that money in 1945, it must be worth a great deal by now.’
‘I told you,’ Ricky emphasised as he walked around the table to pour another cup of tea. ‘He’s the world’s richest man, and he’s here to give it all to you.’
Beesely studied Otto. ‘Is there more?’
‘A great deal.’
Jane re-appeared with food, fresh tea and coffee. She attended each of them in turn as this ‘board meeting’ seemed to pause. She even diligently gave Otto’s driver tea and biscuits, before making her excuses and leaving the room.
Otto continued, ‘Just after the end of the war, Gunter made several trips into Germany and Austria to recover gold, currency and other valuables. He recovered a great deal of gold and was the keen, how you say, cave explorer man. And he was no fool, not keen to spend his money. He invested wisely, trained himself in the stock markets and currency markets, employed researchers to help him pick growth stocks, and he soon hit upon the idea of industrial espionage - he had the contacts and the skills, and he was not afraid to break the law or kill people.
‘The company that he created, an investment bank, soon started to make a lot of money around the world. As soon as anyone started asking questions they were told that this Swiss trading group was acting on behalf of third parties, not themselves, and Swiss banking laws did the rest. Secrecy was assured. He put spies into many companies, large companies. IBM, Ford, the petrol companies, and these sleeper agents were there for thirty to forty years. He used their intelligence data well, but never became greedy. He was always as discreet as a Swiss banker, as we say. Eventually, he came to own several large banks and handled the investments of a great many happy foreign investors. He grew three distinct businesses: the banks, the investment house and an intelligence gathering and security agency.’
‘What happened to the intelligence agency?’ Johno keenly enquired.
Otto creased one cheek, a sly smile forming.
‘Oh ... shit,’ Beesely let out, his eyes narrowing. Johno straightened, Ricky grinning to himself with his head lowered.
Otto proudly explained, ‘They are all still running, and going from strength to strength. They have been under my direct control for the past six months, under my indirect control with Gunter for the past twenty years. I was formerly head of the banking group, then moved five years ago to help organize the other branches.’
‘Oh ... shit,’ Beesely repeated.
‘Boss?’ Johno asked, now concerned.
Beesely asked, ‘This Swiss espionage company … does it have a name just two characters long?’
Otto smiled. ‘There are not many people outside of Switzerland who know that, and most of them are … well … not sure what it is, or what it does.’
‘Is industrial espionage still its main concern?’ Beesely asked, standing and stretching.
‘It was, but we have branched out in recent years to private security work in Europe, transporting clients and their valuables discreetly, offering security advice and assistance to companies, casinos, some third world governments. As well as keeping Switzerland as the politicians in Switzerland desire to keep it; quiet, discreet, and free of terrorists and criminals.’
‘Unless they can pay,’ Beesely suggested.
‘Paying criminal clients are not treated in the same way as non-paying criminals,’ Otto admitted.
Johno finished his biscuit. ‘So what’s it called?’ he asked no one in particular.
‘K2,’ Otto informed him. ‘An unofficial name I gave it after climbing the mountain, K2.’
Johno perked up, himself a former climber in the Army. ‘You climb at that standard?’
Ricky shot in, ‘Everest in 1991!’
Johno now saw the ‘pinhead Swiss banker type’ in a new light, and with a great deal of respect.
Beesely stepped up to him, Johno raising his head. ‘You remember me mentioning a secret organization in Switzerland, one that the Yanks and the Brits could never find anything about, a group that ties naked people to chairs and then sets fire to them?’
Johno snapped upright, glancing at Otto before turning back to Beesely. ‘Them?’
Beesely raised his eyebrows for emphasis and nodded. ‘Them. Sitting having tea and biscuits in our home.’
‘Shit,’ Johno slowly let out. He glanced over his shoulder at Otto’s driver. ‘Hey, Swiss fuck.’ The man blinked. ‘If you’re gunna kill me, stick a banana up my arse, it’ll give the mortician something to laugh about!’
Ricky chuckled.
‘So,’ Beesely asked his visitor as he finally sat back down. ‘Why bother to involve me at all? You seem to have things under control?’
Otto ran a finger right around the four sides of the envelope in front of him. ‘I grew up thinking my father was a Nazi who murdered dozens of people; men, women and children. Then to discover that my grandmother and mother were Jewish, that my supposed father killed my mother … it was not a good time for me. And then, to discover that my biological father was a real life hero of epic proportions - a decorated Guards officer, hero offic
er of the SAS, twenty years in British Intelligence and still going strong at eighty. And the more research I conducted, the better I felt about myself. Meeting Richard convinced me that contacting you was the right thing to do. After the story of Kosovo I was convinced, convinced that you should head K2, and not me.’
