by Daniel Silva
“Which bank?”
Jihan answered truthfully.
“I assume the man from your country isn’t named Weber,” Dina remarked.
“No.” Jihan hesitated, then said, “His name is Waleed al-Siddiqi.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
Jihan seemed grateful for the change of subject. “I’m the account manager.”
“Sounds important.”
“I can assure you it isn’t. Primarily, I open and close accounts for our clients. I also oversee transactions with other banks and financial institutions.”
“Is it as secretive as everyone says?”
“Austrian banking?”
Dina nodded.
Jihan adopted a stern expression. “Bank Weber takes the privacy of its clients very seriously.”
“That sounds like a slogan from a brochure.”
Jihan smiled. “It is.”
“And what about Mr. al-Siddiqi?” asked Dina. “Does he take the privacy of his clients seriously, too?”
Jihan’s smile evaporated. She drew on her cigarette and glanced nervously around the empty street.
“I need to ask a favor, Ingrid,” she said at last.
“Anything.”
“Please don’t ask me any questions about Mr. al-Siddiqi. In fact, I would prefer it if you never mention his name again.”
Thirty minutes later, in the Attersee safe house, Gabriel and Eli Lavon were seated before a laptop computer, listening as the two women parted in the street outside their opposing apartment buildings. When Dina was safely in her flat, Gabriel slid the toggle bar of the audio player back to the beginning and listened to the entire encounter a second time. Then he listened to it again. He might have replayed it a fourth time had Eli Lavon not reached out and clicked the STOP icon.
“I told you she was the one,” Lavon said.
Gabriel frowned. Then he set the toggle bar to 5:47 p.m. and clicked PLAY.
“Are your characters Jewish?”
“One is.”
“The boy or the girl?”
“The boy.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“Are you Jewish, Ingrid?”
“No, Jihan. I’m not Jewish.”
Gabriel clicked STOP and looked at Lavon.
“You can’t have everything, Gabriel. Besides, this is the important part.”
Lavon slid the toggle bar forward and pressed PLAY again.
“I open and close accounts for our clients. I also oversee transactions with other banks and financial institutions.”
STOP.
“Do you see my point?” asked Lavon.
“I’m not sure you’ve made one.”
“Flirt with her. Make her feel comfortable. And then bring her in for a landing. But whatever you do,” Lavon added, “don’t take too long. I wouldn’t want Mr. al-Siddiqi to find out that Jihan has a new girlfriend who may or may not be Jewish.”
“Do you think he’d mind?”
“He might.”
“So how should we proceed?”
Lavon moved the toggle bar forward and clicked PLAY.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Ingrid. I’m only sorry we didn’t get together sooner.”
“Let’s not let another ten days go by.”
“Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
“I usually work during lunch.”
Lavon clicked STOP.
“I think Ingrid’s been working too hard, don’t you?”
“It might be dangerous to break the rhythm of her writing routine.”
“Sometimes a change can help. Who knows? She might be inspired to write a different novel.”
“What’s the story line?”
“It’s about a girl who decides to betray her boss when she finds out he’s hiding money for the worst man in the world.”
“How does it end?”
“The good guys win.”
“Does the girl get hurt?”
“Send the message, Gabriel.”
Gabriel quickly dispatched an encrypted e-mail to Dina instructing her to make a lunch date with Jihan Nawaz for the following afternoon. Then he reset the toggle and pressed PLAY a final time.
“And what about Mr. al-Siddiqi? Does he take the privacy of his clients seriously, too?”
“I need to ask a favor, Ingrid.”
“Anything.”
“Please don’t ask me any questions about Mr. al-Siddiqi. In fact, I would prefer it if you never mention his name again.”
STOP.
“She knows,” said Lavon. “The only question is, how much?”
“I suspect it’s just enough to get her killed.”
“Hama Rules?”
Gabriel nodded slowly.
“Then I suppose that leaves us with only one option.”
“What’s that, Eli?”
“We’ll have to play by Hama Rules, too.”
The two women had lunch the next day at Ikaan, and the evening after that they had drinks at Bar Vanilli. Gabriel allowed two more days to pass without additional contact, in part because he needed to move a certain asset from Israel to the Attersee, namely, Uzi Navot. Then, on the Thursday of that week, Jihan and Dina had an accidental meeting in the Alter Markt that was not an accident at all. Jihan invited Dina for a coffee, but Dina apologized and said she had to get back to her writing.
“But are you doing anything on Saturday?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“Some friends of mine are having a party.”
“What kind of party?”
“Food, drinks, boat rides on the lake—the usual thing people do on a Saturday afternoon in the summertime.”
“I wouldn’t want to be an imposition.”
“You won’t be. In fact,” Dina added, “I’m quite certain my friends will make you the guest of honor.”
Jihan smiled. “I’m going to need a new dress.”
“And a swimsuit,” said Dina.
“Will you come shopping with me now?”
“Of course.”
“What about your book?”
“There’ll be time for that later.”
37
THE ATTERSEE, AUSTRIA
THEY HAD TWO TRANSPORTATION OPTIONS: Dina’s little motor scooter or Jihan’s fickle Volvo. They chose the fickle Volvo. It rattled out of the Innere Stadt a few minutes after noon, and by half past they had put the last suburbs of Linz behind them and were speeding through the Salzkammergut on the A1. The weather had conspired to create the illusion of gaiety. The sun shone from a cloudless sky, and the air that flowed through their open windows was cool and soft. Jihan wore the white sleeveless dress that Dina had chosen for her and wide movie-starlet sunglasses that concealed the plainness of her features. Her nails were freshly painted; her scent was warm and intoxicating. It filled Dina with guilt. She had given false happiness to a lonely and friendless woman. It was, she thought, the ultimate feminine betrayal.
She had in her handbag a set of driving instructions, which she removed as they turned off the A1, onto the Atterseestrasse. Gabriel had insisted she carry them, and now, with her conscience in rebellion, she clutched them tightly as she guided Jihan toward her destination. They passed through a small resort town, then through a checkerboard of cultivated land. The lake lay to their left, deep blue and rimmed by green mountains. Dina, playing the role of tour guide, pointed out the tiny island, reached by a jetty, where Gustav Klimt had painted his renowned Attersee landscapes.
Beyond the island was a marina where white sailboats sparkled at their moorings, and beyond the marina was a colony of lakefront villas. Dina feigned a moment of confusion over which one belonged to their host. Then, suddenly, she pointed toward an open gate, as though surprised they had reached it so quickly. Jihan swung the car expertly to the left and headed slowly up the drive. Dina was grateful for the heavy scent of the pine and the flowering vines, for it temporarily overwhelmed the accusa
tory aroma of Jihan’s perfume. Several cars were parked haphazardly in the shade of the forecourt. Jihan found an empty space and switched off the engine. Then she reached into the backseat to retrieve the flowers and wine she had brought as gifts. As they climbed out of the car, music swelled from an open window: “Trust in Me” by Etta James.
The front door of the villa was open, too. As Dina and Jihan approached, there appeared a man of late middle age with a head of wispy, flyaway hair. He wore a costly dress shirt of French blue, pale linen trousers, and a large gold wristwatch. He was smiling pleasantly, but his brown eyes were watchful, vigilant. Jihan took a few steps toward him and froze. Then her head turned toward Dina, who appeared oblivious to her apprehension. “I’d like you to meet an old friend of my family,” she was saying. “Jihan Nawaz, this is Feliks Adler.”
Jihan remained motionless, unsure of whether to advance or retreat, as the man she knew as Feliks Adler came slowly down the steps. Still smiling, he relieved her of the flowers and wine. Then he looked at Dina.
“I’m afraid Miss Nawaz and I are already acquainted.” His gaze moved from Dina to Jihan. “But she can’t tell you that because it would violate the customs of Austrian private banking.” He paused long enough to hoist another smile. “Isn’t that correct, Miss Nawaz?”
Jihan remained silent. She was staring at the flowers in Herr Adler’s hand.
“It’s not a coincidence I opened an account at Bank Weber the week before last,” he said after a moment. “Nor is it a coincidence you’re here today. You see, Miss Nawaz, Ingrid and I are more than old friends. We’re colleagues, too.”
Jihan shot Dina a dark look of anger. Then she stared again at the man she knew as Herr Adler. When finally she spoke, her voice was hollow with fear.
“What do you want with me?” she asked.
“We have a serious problem,” he replied. “And we need your help in solving it.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Come inside, Jihan. No one can hurt you here.” He smiled and took her gently by the elbow. “Have a glass of wine. Join the party. Meet the rest of our friends.”
In the great room of the villa a table had been laid with food and drink. It had not been touched, so the impression was of a celebration canceled, or at least delayed. A gentle wind blew in through the open French doors, bringing with it the occasional grumble of a passing motorboat. At the far end of the room was a dormant fireplace where Gabriel sat peering into an open file. He wore a dark business suit with no necktie, and was unrecognizable in a gray wig, contact lenses, and eyeglasses. Uzi Navot sat next to him in similar attire, and next to Navot was Yossi Gavish. He wore chinos and a rumpled blazer and was staring at the ceiling in the manner of a traveler suffering from terminal boredom.
The arrival of Jihan Nawaz stirred only Gabriel into action. He closed his file, placed it on the coffee table before him, and rose slowly to his feet. “Jihan,” he said through a charitable smile. “It was good of you to come.” He advanced on her cautiously, an adult approaching a lost child. “Please forgive the unorthodox nature of our invitation, but it was all done for your protection.”
He said this in German, in his distinct Berlin dialect. It was not lost on Jihan, the Syrian girl from Hamburg now living in Linz.
“Who are you?” she asked after a moment.
“I’d rather not begin this conversation by lying to you,” he said, still smiling, “so I won’t bother giving you a name. I am employed by a government department that deals with issues related to taxation and finance.” He pointed to Navot and Yossi. “These gentlemen are similarly employed by their respective governments. The large, unhappy-looking fellow is from Austria, and the wrinkled chap sitting next to him is from Great Britain.”
“What about them?” Jihan asked with a nod toward Lavon and Dina.
“Ingrid and Herr Adler belong to me.”
“They’re very good.” She glared at Dina through narrowed eyes. “Especially her.”
“I’m sorry we deceived you, Jihan, but we had no other choice. It was all done for your safety.”
“My safety?”
He took a step closer to her. “We wanted to meet you in a way that wouldn’t raise the suspicion of your employer.” He paused, then added, “Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
She seemed to recoil at the mention of his name. Gabriel pretended not to notice.
“I assume you brought your mobile phone with you?” he asked, as though the thought had just occurred to him.
“Of course.”
“Would you give it to Ingrid, please? It is important that we switch off all our mobile devices before we continue this conversation. One never knows who’s listening.”
Jihan extracted her phone from her handbag and surrendered it to Dina, who switched off the power before slipping silently into the next room. Gabriel returned to the coffee table and retrieved his file. He opened it gravely, as though it contained material he’d rather not air in public.
“I’m afraid the bank for which you work has been under investigation for some time,” he said after a moment. “The investigation is international in nature, as you can see by the presence of my counterparts from Austria and the United Kingdom. And it has uncovered substantial evidence to suggest that Bank Weber AG is little more than a criminal enterprise involved in money laundering, fraud, and the illegal concealment of taxable assets and income. Which means that you, Jihan, are in serious trouble.”
“I’m just the account manager.”
“Exactly.” He drew a sheet of paper from the file and held it up for her to see. “Whenever an account is opened at Bank Weber, Jihan, your signature appears on all accompanying documentation. You also handle most of the bank’s wire transfers.” He drew another sheet of paper from the file, though this time his consultation was private. “For example, you recently wired a rather large sum of money to the Trade Winds Bank in the Cayman Islands.”
“How do you know about that transfer?”
“There were two, actually—one for twenty-five million dollars, the other for a paltry twenty million. The accounts where the money was sent are controlled by LXR Investments. A lawyer named Hamid Khaddam opened them on Mr. al-Siddiqi’s instructions. Hamid Khaddam is from London. He was born in Syria.” Gabriel looked up from the file. “Like you, Jihan.”
Her fear was palpable. She managed to lift her chin a little before offering her response.
“I’ve never met Mr. Khaddam.”
“But you’re familiar with his name?”
She nodded slowly.
“And you don’t dispute the fact that you personally wired the money into those accounts.”
“I was only doing what I was told.”
“By Mr. al-Siddiqi?”
She was silent. Gabriel returned the documents to the file folder and the file folder to the coffee table. Yossi was staring at the ceiling again. Navot was gazing out the French doors at a passing boat as though he wished he could be on it.
“I seem to be losing my audience,” Gabriel said, gesturing toward the two unmoving figures. “I can tell that they’d like me to get to the point so we can move on to more important matters.”
“What point is that?” Jihan asked with more calm than Gabriel would have thought possible.
“My friends from Vienna and London aren’t interested in prosecuting a lowly bank clerk. And, quite frankly, neither am I. We want the man who pulls the strings at Bank Weber, the man who works behind a locked door, protected by a pair of armed bodyguards.” He paused, then added, “We want Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Of course you can.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“We all make choices in life,” Gabriel replied. “Unfortunately, you decided to take a job at the dirtiest bank in Austria.”
“I didn’t know it was dirty.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“By telling us everything
you know about Mr. al-Siddiqi. And by giving us a complete list of all of Bank Weber’s clients, the amount of money they’ve placed under management there, and the location of the various financial instruments in which the money is invested.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be a violation of Austrian banking laws.”
Gabriel placed a hand on Navot’s shoulder. “This man works for the Austrian government. And if he says it isn’t a violation of Austrian law, then it isn’t.”
Jihan hesitated. “There’s another reason I can’t help you,” she said finally. “I don’t have complete access to the names of all the account holders.”
“Are you not the account manager?”
“Of course.”
“And is not the job of the account manager to actually manage the accounts?”
“Obviously,” she replied with a frown.
“So what’s the problem?”
“Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
“Then perhaps we should start there, Jihan.” Gabriel placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “With Mr. al-Siddiqi.”
38
THE ATTERSEE, AUSTRIA
THEY SETTLED HER IN A place of honor in the sitting room, with Dina, her false friend, on her left, and Gabriel, the nameless tax authority from Berlin, on her right. Uzi Navot offered her food, which she refused, and tea, which she accepted. He served it to her Arab style, in a small glass, medium sweet. She granted herself a small sip, blew gently on the surface, and placed the glass carefully on the table in front of her. Then she described an afternoon in the autumn of 2010, when she noticed an ad in a trade publication for a job opening in Linz. She was working deep within the Hamburg headquarters of an important German bank at the time and, quietly, was exploring other options. She traveled to Linz the following week and interviewed with Herr Weber. Then she walked down the hall, past a pair of bodyguards, for a separate meeting with Mr. al-Siddiqi. He conducted it entirely in Arabic.
“Did he mention the fact he was from Syria originally?” asked Gabriel.
