The Alex Kovacs Series Box Set

by Richard Wake

  "Liechtenstein," is what it said, simply.

  In Liechtenstein -- which wasn't 100 miles from Zurich but still a hump, whether by train or by car -- Count Miroslav Novak lived in exile. A member of the Czech nobility -- not major but not a bit player, either -- the count was, as we liked to say in the refined confines of the banking industry, totally fucking loaded. And, out of some sense of nostalgia, or patriotism, or something, he was interested in storing some of that load within the secure walls of Bohemia Suisse. But he wanted to meet me first, and he wasn't dragging his ass to Zurich for the privilege.

  Marta dropped the diary on my desk and started thumping on the "Liechtenstein" entry with her forefinger.

  "You have to decide now," she said.

  "Okay, okay."

  "Car or train?" she said.

  "Car."

  "So you drive on Wednesday. I'll call and set up the meeting for lunch on Thursday. I'll let the Count pick the place. Do you want one night in the hotel or two?"

  "Two."

  "Which hotel?"

  "There's more than one?"

  "Fine, I'll pick one," she said, standing up, clutching the open diary to her breast as she left the office. She whistled a few notes of an unfamiliar tune. Marta was never happier than when that damn book was in order.

  20

  I didn't know what Tanner looked like, and I didn't know what days he would be working out of his Zurich office -- so staking out the bar at the Baur au Lac seemed a waste of time, assuming he stayed over, and stayed there, and didn't just commute from Bern every once in a while. The only certainty was that there had to be a secretary who assisted him in the Zurich office when he was there, and who ran things when he wasn't. So she would be my target.

  Tanner's Zurich office was in the Altermatt Building, on Barengasse, a healthy goal kick from the edge of the Paradeplatz, a comfortable distance from which to bless or frown upon the latest maneuver of the Paradeplatz twins, Kreditanstalt and Bankverein. No one thought that the national bank did much frowning when it came to those two, but it was at least a possibility.

  My play consisted of two separate maneuvers. The first was reconnaissance, and simple enough. I needed to see the secretary first. The easiest way I could think of was to look at the building directory in the lobby and find Tanner's office. It was on the second floor, 209. Then I looked at the directory and spotted Lindner Investments, which was in 309. And then I went up to Tanner's office and let myself in.

  "Can I help you?" said the woman seated at the desk in the entrance area.

  "Yes, can I speak to Carl Lindner, please?"

  "I'm sorry, you're in the wrong office."

  "This isn't Lindner Investments?" I looked as helpless as I could. This was something I was good at, and the woman smiled a bless-your-pathetic-little-heart smile. She told me to wait right there while she grabbed the building directory. It was in a cabinet behind her desk. As she stood, and then bent down to reach for it, I was doubly rewarded -- mostly obviously by the view of the skirt that climbed the back of her thighs as she reached down for the book, less obviously by the sight of her left hand as she reached. No ring.

  This could not be more perfect: single, late 20's, attractive besides. Homely might have been better, to be honest, but this would work. This would work fine.

  "Here it is," she said, thumbing through the book. "Ah, that's your mistake. You're in 209. Lindner Investments is in 309. Right on top of us."

  "Are they noisy?" I said. I was whispering, one conspirator to another. "Are they fat? Are their footsteps heavy? Are they dancers?"

  She giggled.

  "Thank you so much, Miss ..."

  "Buhl," she said. And then, after a half-beat. "Sophie."

  As I turned to leave, I noticed on the wall behind me a series of vanity photos, undoubtedly of her boss along with various dignitaries who I didn't recognize. But it was easy enough, by process of elimination, to identify Jan Tanner -- he was the only guy in every picture: shaking hands, toasting something-or-other, turning over a shovel full of dirt at a construction groundbreaking. It would be an easy face to remember, mostly because of the ears. They stuck out like the wings on a strutting rooster.

  Mission accomplished. Three days later, when I staked out the building and managed to run into her accidentally on the street, Sophie Buhl accepted my assertion that fate must be bringing us together and agreed to meet me for a drink the following night.

  For my cover, I adopted my previous life as a traveling salesman for a magnesite mine, peddling the stuff that lines blast furnaces for fun a profit. I didn't push her for many details of her work life, but by the second drink, she had volunteered that her boss was in town only three or four days a month and that most of the time, she answered the phone, took messages, and accepted document packages from bankers which she then assessed for future action. The routine stuff was filed away. The semi-important files were sorted and stacked for action the next time Tanner was in town. The urgent material was couriered to Bern.

  By the third drink, which was a glass of wine over dinner, Sophie was telling me that Tanner was "nice enough," but that "whenever he smiled, it looked like it hurt his face." She giggled that same giggle when she said it. She also reached for my hand. Suddenly, we were headed in a direction that I knew was possible from the moment that I gamed out the strategy, but tried not to think about.

  It all came down to one question: Would I?

  One of the advantages of living a life without many serious girlfriends was that there had been relatively few periods of my adulthood when an impromptu fling would be considered cheating. But, well, here I was. Despite the guffaw and my doubts about the long-term with Manon, I was most definitely in a relationship in the here and now. But if it came to that -- if the lovely Sophie were so inclined -- would it be considered cheating if I slept with her, or would it be considered just a part of the job?

  The first time I noodled over it, I actually laughed out loud in the back of a taxi, startling the driver. Just a part of the job? It sounded like an excuse three buddies at a bar would concoct after one of them admitted to something that involved three Martinis and a chance meeting with an old teenage girlfriend on a business trip. But in my case, I really thought it was the truth. If I didn't have the information I needed, and if it was essential to continue the relationship with Sophie to get it, and if she was eager, how could I not? I didn't have to press her, and I wouldn't, but if she was inviting, I could lose everything if I turned her down. She would think it was odd, mostly because it would be odd. There was no way around it if that's where we were headed.

  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.
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br />   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 five. 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 wa
s 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."