K2 book 1

by Geoff Wolak

  * * *

  The short distance to the hillside hotel became noteworthy in the number of Range Rovers Beesely spotted parked on corners. A police checkpoint greeted them at the start of the private road leading to the hotel, IDs shown, two more groups of K2 agents checking the vehicle.

  They found the hotel’s car park decidedly cosy and literally bumper-to-bumper with expensive cars, numerous agents with dogs patrolling the narrow spaces between lines of vehicles. All members at this meeting were supposed to arrive within ten minutes of each other and leave in a similar manner, part of a strange ritual that Otto had explained earlier.

  All day Beesely had considered that Otto was nervous. It had taken some thought as to why, and, in a quiet corner away from everyone, he asked, ‘What would this group say and do if they knew about Gunter’s death, and your secret-within-a-secret Jewish group?’

  Otto had taken a long time answering. ‘A recent survey put ten percent of Swiss answering ‘yes’ to being anti-Jewish. That is, of those that answered truthfully.’

  ‘And if people thought that your group was –’

  ‘There would be open warfare, with the Swiss Government on their side. We could not be shut down because we are Jewish, the world’s newspapers would make such a big problem. But they would find a reason to give us problems, the Government.’

  ‘And this … society?’

  ‘They would wish us ... gone.’

  Beesely nodded to himself. ‘And we’d be the ones getting the chair!’ He took a breath. ‘So ... no pressure.’

  The delegates to this secret meeting sat gathered around a large table, the lights turned down low, Beesely and Otto ushered in by non-K2 men wearing sombre black suits with striking white gloves. Beesely stopped and surveyed the scene; old men in smart suits, blackened by the dim lights, the tabletop completely clear. Then he just waited. After almost thirty seconds delegates were starting to glance around at him. As was a nervous Otto.

  He tipped his head towards Otto. ‘We own this hotel?’ Otto nodded. ‘Turn the lights up a bit, then organize some food and drink.’

  ‘That is not customary,’ the nearest man pointed out in a heavily accented Germanic voice.

  ‘If you wish to hold onto custom, gentlemen, then we could continue to treat you as Herr Gunter previously did.’ He waited, deliberately placing his hands in his pockets, a slight insult within Swiss etiquette.

  The delegates glanced at each other for ten seconds. Finally Beesely firmly ordered the lights up, drinks and food. Only then did he walk around to the only available seat, conspicuously not at the head of the table. He touched the seat back and then pushed it in. By standing, his head remained the highest in the room.

  ‘I always thought that it was customary for the Swiss to greet a visitor standing, with a handshake and eye contact. And not to sit with one’s hands below the table?’

  They glanced at each other. He was, after all, correct.

  ‘Gentlemen. You hold onto your … outfit’s traditions, nothing wrong with that and something I understand very well. But I am English, not Swiss, and we are here tonight because of a break in tradition; the loss of Gunter and my arrival here. It has been suggested to me that you were not happy with Gunter. Well, you and the rest of the civilised world.’ He detected a few smiles. ‘If we are to move on, and break with traditional animosity, then now is as good a time to start as any.’

  He ambled slowly around the table, noting faces and searching for any display of emotion he could find. In this group, that was not easy.

  ‘First, gentlemen, I will state clearly that the banking group that I have … inherited, along with K2, is Swiss, through and through. It is part of Switzerland, loyal to Switzerland, and will always act in the best interests of this country. I do not follow Gunter’s philosophy, and I have already begun making some sweeping changes. You, gentlemen, need not fear K2, nor our bank’s activities. I am here to join with you, and to help you any way I can, within the rough guidelines that I have set myself.’

  A face turned upwards. ‘And what are those?’

  Beesely bent towards the man. ‘To make it up as I go along!’ he whispered, causing many frowns and some smirks. He straightened and continued circling the group. ‘In the past you have lost out when our bank has used information gathered by K2. But I am sure, gentlemen, that there have been times when you have come across information that may have been useful to us, and probably to each other, which you did not disclose.’ He could see by their glances that he was correct. ‘I know you have your secret meetings once a month, but I doubt very much that you contact each other daily when you get bits of stock trading intelligence landing on your desks.’

  Drinks were placed onto the table, causing a natural break in proceedings, then the requested food. At first the delegates did little other than sip water, so Beesely helped himself to cake and tea, Otto following his example.

  ‘Gentlemen, I am not saying another word until you relax and take some food and drink,’ Beesely loudly stated. ‘At the very least, if tonight is a complete failure, I will have sampled some more of your excellent local delicacies.’ He munched away ostentatiously.

  Encouraged by Beesely’s example, the assembled delegates started to help themselves to nibbles, pouring tea and coffee, as Beesely had hoped for. All except for the elderly man at the head of the table, who continued to sip his water.

  After a minute, Beesely placed down his cup and continued to pace. ‘So, gentlemen, in a ideal world, what do you desire me to do?’

  All eyes turned to the head of the table. Still sipping his water, the headman motioned to the subordinate on his left to answer.

  ‘We want … we would like … better access to information gathered by your agents.’

  Beesely had been peering out of the window at nothing in particular. Now he turned his head. ‘Why?’ He waited.

  The spokesman’s brow knitted. He glanced back at the elderly leader. ‘So that we may all benefit.’

  ‘Do we all pay towards K2 agents’ training or salaries?’ Beesely asked, still looking out of the window with his hands in his pockets; in Swiss terms, deliberately insulting body language.

  ‘No,’ came the uncertain reply.

  Another man turned his head towards Beesely. ‘Without the approval of the Swiss Government, K2 would not exist or operate.’

  ‘Did you say that to Gunter?’ Beesely asked without turning around.

  Otto hid a smile. No response came back to the question.

  ‘We had no effective working relationship with Gunter,’ the same man admitted a few seconds later.

  ‘So no then, you did not say that to Gunter.’ Beesely turned. ‘Perhaps you think I am weak?’ The spokesman turned toward the group leader. Beesely added, after a long pause, ‘Or perhaps you think that I am someone you can do business with. Negotiate with?’

  ‘Yes,’ the man answered with a forced smile.

  ‘Good, because if you did think I was weak there would have to be a demonstration.’

  That got their attention. Even the old man at the head of the table suddenly registered a pulse and put down his water.

  ‘You see, gentlemen, I have been working very closely with British Intelligence and the CIA for almost forty years. I was a senior manager in British Secret Service for decades; I helped train your P-26 unit a long time ago.’ Many men exchanged surprised looks. ‘Even without K2 I could make my enemies disappear. With my pedigree of contacts, and K2’s resources, just think what I could do.’ He circled the table again.

  The delegates shifted uneasily in their seats.

  ‘I’m surprised none of you have suggested that the Swiss Government would come to your aid.’ They made no response. Beesely halted his pacing. ‘So, to repeat myself, what - in an ideal world - would you gentlemen like me to do?’

  The initial spokesman said, ‘We want … we desire … closer co-operation with your group. You are the only large banking group that is not p
art of this society.’

  Beesely mulled over the word. Society: ancient, secret, steeped in tradition, akin to the Freemasons. It was not an organization, body, company or group. A society.

  ‘Yes.’ He stared out of the window again.

  Their spokesman queried, ‘Yes ... to what?’

  Beesely turned and walked slowly towards the society’s leader. ‘Yes, I will work with you and join this organization.’

  Now their leader actually raised his head an inch, his expression lightening.

  ‘But there are conditions, and I have some suggestions.’ Beesely pulled out the chair that had been originally reserved for him, placing it next to their leader at the head of the table, another cultural insult. He sat. They glanced at each other. ‘I would suggest, gentlemen,’ he began, addressing everyone except their leader, ‘that it would be difficult and impractical for us to send you stock intelligence data on a day-by-day basis. Sometimes, this information needs to be acted upon quickly. There is also the risk that sending out such information to many people may invite accidental disclosure. So I would suggest this: we create a fund, a common pool of money that is under the direct control of our banking group, that is used for all those transactions that are secret, highly profitable and yet risky in their nature. We will pick up the cost of running such a fund, and we will take twenty-five percent less of the profits that may result from that fund’s activities than you would.’

  That woke them up. Even the old man shifted in his seat.

  Beesely helped himself to sparkling mineral water and some nibbles. ‘So, are we done here?’ He stood and faced the leader.

  The old man slowly rose to his feet. ‘You mentioned conditions. This thing is good for us. So, what … conditions?’ His words came slow and heavily accented, his pronunciation difficult to understand.

  ‘That’s easy. I believe that there is no point in being rich and powerful unless you can enjoy what you have. At the next scheduled meeting I will arrange for four of the world’s top chefs to prepare a meal for us. Thereafter, at each meeting, your members will rotate that responsibility and prepare for us the world’s finest food to sample during our discussions. If that is not done to my satisfaction I will not be attending.’

  The old man raised his eyebrows.

  Beesely walked around to Otto, then turned and addressed the group. ‘Draw up some plans, put down some ideas, send them to Otto. I am sure that we can come to a good working arrangement. And some gifts for each other might be nice. At our next meeting I would like some of Switzerland’s finest hand-made trout and salmon flies.’

  Otto hid a grin as long as he could.

  ‘Enjoy that?’ Beesely asked as they drove back.

  Otto shook his head. ‘I could not believe you asked them for this fund. If they agree to this fund, and it is a good size, we will have investment managers of the world asking us for favours.’

  Beesely offered Otto a confident smile. ‘We’ll use it for our means, like a big stick. Put pressure on those who deserve it.’

  ‘Le fox?’ Otto began. ‘You are an entire field of foxes, wearing glasses. In any language!’

  ‘A compliment if ever I heard one.’

  Two wrongs do make a right

  1

  The following morning, the Nigerian International Development Minister walked into a group bank branch in Zurich accompanied by Otto. The bank’s manager and staff recognised Otto immediately, surprised that he now accompanied a client. Otto motioned the Minister towards a cashier at a desk as the branch’s manager approached.

  The manager smiled, bowed his head and greeted Otto with a handshake before glancing at the African Minister, the Minister tall and imposing in his colourful traditional robes. ‘Is everything in order?’ he whispered.

  Otto whispered, ‘The Nigerian Minister, he seems to think he will be cheated if not accompanied by a senior official.’ The manager rolled his eyes, only visible to Otto, Otto whispering, ‘So far today he has asked for girls and cocaine.’

  Again the manager rolled his eyes. ‘The client always comes first,’ rolled off his tongue, a well-practised cliché.

  After checking the Minister’s ID, and receiving his numbered account details, the cashier transferred the balance of $10m directly to UNICEF, money that had been previously appropriated for the Minister and his family to retire on, generously supplied by the taxpayers of Europe. Finally the Minister stood, adjusting his robes.

  ‘Is everything in order, sir?’ the manager asked, smiling warmly.

  ‘With the help of God, all will be well,’ the Minister boomed, towering over the two Swiss.

  The manager hid a frown as best as he could, said goodbye to Otto, then stood for a moment watching his visitors leave.

  In the car Otto turned to the ‘Minister’. ‘It was a good accent.’

  ‘Thanks mate, learnt that from my grandfather,’ came back in a London accent.

  Otto handed over a wad of money. ‘You’ll be driven to Paris. After that stay in touch.’

  ‘No problem, Boss. I’ll get the train back up to London.’

  As they drove through Zurich the real Minister, plus his wife, sister, mother, mother-in-law and brother were starting to decompose, buried six feet under an isolated field just across the French border. The chemicals they had been buried with would accelerate the process and leave no identifiable remains. Their stolen funds would now go where they were intended.

  At first Beesely had just planned to liberate the funds, perhaps have the Nigerians deported or accused of some crime, but when he had discovered that they were in a Cannes hotel, a thousand pounds a night hotel, eating caviar and driving Rolls Royce cars, all with money earmarked for starving Africans, he had lost his temper.

  Along with their stolen $10m he added another $10m of his own.