by PAUL BENNETT
The offices were mainly open-plan with two rooms screened off by smoked glass, one for client meetings, the other the office of Carlo. Which was where I was sitting waiting for the arrival of Ms Oakley, the compliance officer. It was an odd office seemingly furnished by whim. Nothing matched – an antique partners’ desk behind which Carlo would sit, a Scandinavian pine table and chairs for formal meetings, an odd sculpture made of bronze in the representation of a stylized horse grazing, several paintings consisting of wide bands of colour and nothing else – and everything appeared as if purchased without any thought as to what would fit together.
She came in like an extra from Conan the Librarian. Dark-grey trouser suit, low heels, white blouse, dark hair scraped back and held by a lethal-looking grip and a pair of black, heavy-rimmed spectacles. She sat down in Carlo’s seat and gave me a forced smile.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Gordini?’ she said.
No introduction, no handshake, nothing. I got the distinct impression that she regarded me as something lower than an amoeba in the evolutionary chain. ‘You have instructions from my brother Roberto?’ I said.
‘That is correct.’
‘So you are authorized, indeed ordered, to talk to me about the state of the bank’s finances and anything that might relate to Carlo’s absence?’
‘That is correct.’
‘So what have you found out?’
She opened a folder on the desk and consulted it. A stray wisp of hair dropped across her forehead and she flicked it away in annoyance. Her nails were not like I was expecting – didn’t match the rest of the look – they were long and varnished a deep brown. She saw me looking and clenched her fists.
‘It would appear,’ she said, ‘that there are ten million euros in bearer bonds that we can’t locate. They were in the safe when they were last checked a few days ago, but now seem to have gone missing.’
This was bad. A bearer bond is just what it says – it’s like a blank cheque – all you have to do is have the bonds in your possession and they can be cashed at any bank. You don’t have to present any ID. Possession of the bonds – bearing them – is all that counts.
‘None of the bonds has been encashed to date. While they are missing, I’ve put them down to a loan account in your brother’s name – we don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression.’
‘Or, more importantly, the right one,’ I said. ‘What else have you dug up?’
‘I would have thought that was enough.’
‘How long have you been going through the books?’
‘Three days.’
‘And that’s all you’ve got?’
She nodded.
‘So you’ve stopped digging?’
‘I am thorough, Mr Gordini,’ she said, with a lot more condescension than was necessary. ‘I am acknowledged to be the best at my job that there is – and not just within Silvers. I continue to dig.’
‘Maybe I could help,’ I said.
‘You?’ she said, suppressing a smile but unable to hide a look of contempt.
‘I used to run the London operation, you know.’
‘So I heard,’ she said, as if I’d fallen into a trap and proved her point. ‘I think you can leave everything in my capable hands.’
So my reputation had preceded me.
‘Do you read the Cyclops column in the Wall Street Journal?’ I asked innocently.
‘Hot share tips of the week? Of course I read it. Doesn’t everybody?’
‘I write it.’
‘What? You?’ she said, her voice an octave higher.
I smiled at her and nodded. How’s that for your Darwinian theory?
‘But Roberto said….’
‘I imagine he did. The point is that I have some skills that might help you speed up your investigation. I’m used to digging around and sniffing out things.’
She regained her composure.
‘Thank you for the kind offer,’ she said, ‘but I think I can manage without calling on your services.’ She focused on the folder again and took out a silver plastic card. She passed it across the desk to me. ‘That’s to help with your expenses – it’s a debit card on an account I was instructed to set up for you.’
She closed the folder and stood up.
‘Rest assured I will be in contact should I uncover anything else. Thank you, Mr Gordini.’
‘You catch more flies with honey than you do vinegar,’ I said to her back, as she walked to the door.
‘Excuse me?’ she said. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Apparently not,’ I said, walking past her. ‘Don’t worry, Ms Oakley. I’ll find my own way out.’ At the doorway I turned around and added, ‘Nice nails by the way.’
She looked down and then put her hands behind her back.
‘Ciao,’ I said.
10
‘You guys scrub up well,’ Scout said.
‘I could say the same thing about you,’ I replied.
Scout, Bull and I were sitting at a pavement café in the main square in Leidseplein eating steak and frites and watching the world go by. Every big city has a place where locals and tourists mix to eat, drink, to promenade, to see and be seen. Leidseplein was Amsterdam’s version and at eight o’clock it was already busy, bright and colourful from the women’s dresses. From our table we could look across the square to the two casinos, the Lido and the El Dorado, and left and right to the surrounding cafés and bars. Every so often someone would walk by smoking and leave a hint of cannabis in the air – this was Holland after all.
Bull and I, sitting with our backs to the wall – old habits die hard – were wearing dark suits and crisp white shirts and Scout, blonde hair caressing her shoulders, had on a little black dress that would be perfect in the casino later on when the action got started. You had to look at her twice to recognize that this was the same girl as the intruder of the night before.
I poured some red wine, leaned back in my chair and looked at her in a new light. This more feminine version carried an air of vulnerability and at the back of her mind, I guessed, was anxiety over her father’s disappearance.
‘We’ll compare notes later, but first tell us about yourself,’ I said.
‘Mother English, Father Dutch – so I’m bilingual.’ Her fingers ran up and down the glass distractedly as she cast her mind back. ‘My mother died when I was about ten so I was pretty much brought up by my father with a little help from my grandparents. Dad is an ex-cop – inspector in the Amsterdam police. When he retired he set himself up as a private detective – missed the investigations, I suppose. Or maybe it was all he knew how to do. Anyway, I studied law at the university in Den Haag and bored myself silly. After I graduated I joined Dad in what now became the family business. Dad taught me all I know.’
‘Sounds like he did a great job. You’ve turned out a bit sassy, but—’
‘Are you being funny?’
‘Apparently not.’
I sipped my wine and looked at her over the rim of the glass. She was truly beautiful and I found it hard not to stare at her.
‘What sort of business did the agency specialize in?’ Bull asked, filling the silence when I was lost for words.
‘A lot of divorce work. You know, catch the spouse in flagrante delicto. That’s how I learnt to track people. It worked well. If you suspect you might be followed, the last thing you’re expecting is a girl.’
I nodded. It made sense. A great indictment of adulterers.
‘So,’ I said, ‘this was more exciting than the law?’
‘There was other stuff as well. Teenagers going missing, or parents wanting to see what they were up to and whether it involved drugs. A bit of corporate work too – industrial espionage, I guess. Referrals from Dad’s friends in the force – cases that were considered dead, but the victim wanted some resolution. We made a good living.’
I noticed the use of the past tense, but let it slide for the moment.
‘What did your father tell yo
u about the Case of the Missing Carlo?’
‘Not a lot. I was working on another case – errant husband, wife wants a divorce and to take him for all she can. Our paths didn’t cross for the couple of days he’d been working on finding Carlo. There was the usual file, but very little of any worth in it. That was when I started to get really worried.’
‘Why?’
‘There were two things. Firstly, Dad was a stickler for keeping detailed records. It was out of character of him not to leave some record of what he had been doing.’
‘And secondly?’
‘The door of the agency was kicked in.’
‘Nothing like good detective work to turn up the clues.’
‘I’m worried, Johnny. Don’t make fun of me.’
‘I’m sorry, Scout,’ I said, feeling a heel for trying to lighten the mood by making a dumb joke. ‘Once we’re on the trail of Carlo, I’m sure your father will turn up – the disappearances can’t be coincidental, so maybe we’ll find them both in the same place. But where to look? That is the question.’
‘Start with the casino and keep our fingers crossed?’ Bull said.
‘Not much of a plan,’ I said, ‘but it’s all we’ve got.’
‘How did you get on at Silvers?’ Scout asked.
‘Not good. Carlo, it appears, has taken ten million euros in bearer bonds, so now he could be anywhere, living it up. But that wasn’t all. Either their compliance officer wasn’t as good as she says, or Ms Oakley – Ms Straight Lace, more like it – is hiding something, or at least not telling me all she knows. She must have dug up something else that could have been useful in the three days she’s been working on the case.’
‘Why would she hide something that might lead us to Carlo?’ Scout asked.
‘That’s the problem.’ I pondered for a moment and couldn’t think of a good answer. But there was something nagging at my brain. ‘You say you have a contact inside Silvers?’
She nodded.
‘Can you arrange a meeting for me?’
‘No problem. I haven’t learnt a lot today either,’ she said. ‘Carlo hasn’t used any of his credit cards recently – not surprising as he’s up to the limit. I’ve got feelers out at the airport, but no luck so far. I won’t get detailed telephone or mobile bills until tomorrow, so there’s still hope there. My contacts are trying to trace my father’s usage of credit cards and mobile too. Better luck tomorrow, hopefully.’
I leaned back in my chair and stared up the street hoping for inspiration to come. That’s when I saw her. I didn’t recognize her at first. Only the nails were the same – either she’d forgotten earlier to change them to librarian mode, or vanity had got the better of her. Everything else about her was different. Dark hair no longer scraped back but flowing loosely over bare shoulders and the gossamer straps of her midnight-blue dress. Strappy, impractical shoes with high heels. And no glasses. She was walking along the street accompanied by a dark-haired, swarthy man – so swarthy that even two shaves a day won’t remove the permanent black tattoo on his face. I whispered to Scout and Bull and pointed in Ms Oakley’s direction.
‘I can’t believe the transformation,’ I said. ‘You should have seen her this afternoon. The type you wouldn’t look twice at. And now look at her.’
‘She’s OK, I suppose,’ said Scout grudgingly.
‘Can you follow her?’
‘Better than anyone else.’
‘See what you can find out and meet us back at the apartment.’
She grabbed her coat and set off about twenty paces behind the pair. A man at a table in the corner took out his wallet, threw some notes on the table and left. Twenty paces behind Scout. What the hell was going on?
‘See that man?’ I said to Bull. ‘Grey hair, trench coat with collar turned up?’
‘Yep.’
‘Follow him and find up why he’s tracking Scout. Watch over her. See you later.’
Bull set off in pursuit. Now, if someone got up and followed Bull, I was in trouble. I’d run out of people for the caucus race. Still, this was a good sign – something was happening at last. I might not know what it was, but there was a chance that it could lead somewhere.
I sat there for a while, but no one suspicious got up. I fingered the golden chip in my pocket. Time to visit the casino and stake it on a turn of a wheel. I had a feeling our luck was changing.
The casino was on the ground floor of a modern eight-storey block. In the basement there was a theatre-restaurant where diners could watch a risqué cabaret while eating. The casino itself was on the ground floor and above that was a hotel. I was ushered inside the building by a squat man in a dinner jacket who looked more bouncer than concierge and through maroon-velvet brass-studded doors by someone who could have been his clone. I stood for a while inside the door and surveyed the scene. Because old habits die hard, I made a special point of noting the exits.
With my back to the cashiers’ cages there was a highly polished wooden bar at the far end of the room. In the middle were tables for roulette, blackjack, baccarat, poker and, for our American friends, craps. Surrounding these were rows of slot machines. Waitresses circulated with trays of drinks and each of the gambling tables was manned by a stunning woman in a short black skirt, black jacket and waistcoat, white blouse, black bow tie and red high heels. They all seemed to have blonde hair and been chosen from the Croupier Barbie range.
I used my Silvers card to get €500 of red ten-euro chips and went across to the roulette table and watched the action for a while, familiarizing myself with the table and the four other players. In a casino the odds are always stacked in favour of the house. Your best chance of not losing too much was the even-money options on the roulette table – black or red, odd or even and 18 or less (manqué) or more than 18 (passé). I noted the wheel here had two zeros, doubling the odds in favour of the house. The croupier was efficient in her task: spinning the wheel clockwise, rolling the ball anticlockwise, announcing the winning bets and raking the chips to her end of the table. I sat down next to her.
I played red and black for about a quarter of an hour with no great losses or gains, simply transferring chips to the croupier and back again and vice versa. Frankly, it was rather boring. Maybe if I was playing with hundred-euro chips there might have been more of an adrenaline rush – or maybe I’d seen so much in the past and put my life on the line too many times that this was always going to be pretty tame.
I saw black chips and silver chips being wagered by others round the table but there was not a gold chip in sight. The only way to find its worth – and its secret – was to play it. I took it from my pocket and laid it before me while I deliberated what colour to place it on. The croupier saw the gold chip and deftly pulled it toward her and even more deftly palmed it. What was going on? If she was trying to steal my chip, then no matter how deftly she did it, it was still too blatant to get away with it.
There was a pause in the proceedings.
The croupier pushed a button at the side of the table and a light came on.
‘Change of croupier, ladies and gentlemen,’ she announced in a heavy accent which, by its moroseness, was probably Russian or Eastern European – some oppressed nation that hadn’t got used to enjoying itself after many years of Soviet rule. She turned to me and whispered, ‘Follow me, sir.’ Another blonde-haired croupier seamlessly took her place.
She led me back through the doors to the lobby, nodded at the bouncer and pressed the button for the lift. Curiouser and curiouser. We travelled to the third floor and I followed her along the corridor. We entered a room. It had been done out in black and white and kept minimalist. White walls and carpet, black wardrobe, black dresser set up as a bar with a selection of alcoholic and soft drinks, and a huge bed with black satin sheets.
‘Vodka with ice for me,’ she said, looking at me slightly puzzled. ‘Help yourself.’
As I poured her a stiff vodka she took off the jacket. And, as I got the same for myself, she unb
uttoned the waistcoat.
‘Well,’ she said, letting her skirt drop to the floor. ‘What is your pleasure? There’s some outfits in the wardrobe if you’d like something special.’
She took the drink from me and sipped it and then put the glass down while she took off the bow tie and unbuttoned the shirt. When the shirt came off to reveal a black basque, black stockings and suspenders I finally got the picture.
She was in good shape. Slim, but well endowed, helped, admittedly, by the upward and outward thrust of the basque. Her skin was clear and milky white as if intentionally to contrast the black of the bed. I guessed her age as twenty-five or so, although I didn’t know how much toll this kind of work took on a girl.
‘I’d like to talk,’ I said.
She shrugged at me. ‘Whatever,’ she said. ‘It’s all the same price.’
‘And the price is?’ I asked.
‘One golden chip, of course,’ she said, looking puzzled again.
‘And,’ I said, ‘humour me. How much is the golden chip worth?’
‘One thousand euros,’ she said. ‘For that you get a whole hour.’
‘Then let’s talk first and see how much time we’ve got left.’
‘As you wish. I’m here to serve you.’
I went to the wardrobe and found a black silk wrap and handed it to her so I could concentrate better. At €1,000 per hour I didn’t want any distractions.
‘What’s your name?’ I asked.
‘Anna.’
‘OK, Anna,’ I said. ‘I’m looking for my brother, Carlo Gordini.’
‘Oh, Carlo,’ she said with a hint of a smile. ‘Dear sweet Carlo.’
‘Tell me about him, Anna.’
‘He is one of our regulars. We have a few men who work in Amsterdam and come once a week or so – the tourists, we only ever see once. Carlo, he would come every night.’
‘Did you, er…?’
‘No, he only had eyes for Natasha.’
‘Tell me about her,’ I said, sipping the vodka. It was good, Russian and high strength.
She gave a loud laugh which echoed around the almost bare room. Drained her vodka and held out the glass for a refill.
