Disorderly Elements

by Bob Cook

  Rawls nodded. There was very little to say.

  Chapter Forty

  NAGEL SAT IN HIS OFFICE and ate a pizza which Miss Langer had sent up. As usual, just as much food went onto Nagel’s clothes and carpet as went into his mouth. A large pile of reports sat on Nagel’s desk, but Nagel was not disposed to go through it. Instead, he watched a video of the last World Series. It was so much more entertaining.

  The intercom buzzed and Nagel answered it.

  “Yeah?” he grunted elegantly.

  “Mr Nagel? A couple of photographs have just arrived from Geneva, and we’ve got the Geneva people on the line. Will you take the call?”

  “Yeah, all right. Send the photos up.”

  There was a click on the intercom, and a distant voice came through.

  “Hello, Mr Nagel?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “This is Dwight Davidson in Geneva. We got the photos of Wyman at the Banque Descartes.”

  “Well?”

  “I thought I ought to explain. Apparently, Wyman was expecting them there.”

  “Expecting them? What do you mean?”

  “Our people were rigged up as workmen, and the camera was a phony theodolite. Wyman saw them, and just walked up and said hello.”

  Nagel stared incredulously at the intercom.

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  “No sir, it’s the truth. He just walked up, said he knew who they were and invited them to take a close-up shot.”

  “It’s impossible,” Nagel said. “How the fuck could—?”

  “I don’t know, sir. We were as amazed as you are, and you can guess how the guys felt about it.”

  “You sure it’s Wyman?”

  “Positive, sir. Look at the photographs.”

  “Hold on,” Nagel said. In a voice that could be heard across most of Virginia, he bawled:

  “Miss Langer! Where are those fucking photographs?”

  “Coming sir,” said a voice in the corridor.

  The world-weary Miss Langer trotted into the office and put the photographs on Nagel’s desk. Nagel gave a snort of thanks, and stared at the pictures.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” he exclaimed.

  Both prints clearly displayed Wyman’s grinning cherubic features.

  “You’re right, Davidson,” Nagel said. “It is Wyman.”

  “Good. I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Nagel rang off and examined the prints. How Wyman could have known that the CIA were looking out for him was a mystery to Nagel. Matters were not helped by the look of impudent glee plastered across Wyman’s face in the photographs.

  “What the fuck is that bastard up to?” Nagel muttered.

  He wrote a message on his notepad for Rawls: TO RAWLS 0236C. PLATO JUST WON THE SWEEPSTAKES. WYMAN IN GENEVA ON 30/5. NAGEL.

  He then pushed the intercom button and spoke to Miss Langer.

  “Listen,” he said, “I’ve got a message for Rawls. Send it to the Company offices at US embassies in Bonn, Paris, London, Berne, Rome, Berlin, Copenhagen and Madrid. I don’t know where he is, but if he doesn’t get the message it’s his own fuckin’ fault.”

  He read the message out and switched off the intercom. It occurred to Nagel that if Plato had now been paid, Wyman might well know the identity of the infiltrator in MI6. Either that, or Plato was being paid in advance. If that was the case, it would not be long before the ferret would be rooted out.

  Nagel fervently hoped that Rawls had accomplished his mission in Europe. If he had not, the consequences could involve a major public embarrassment for MI6 at a time when both the British and the Americans least required it.

  He looked once more at the photographs of Wyman. The pictures indicated the genial nincompoop that everyone assumed Wyman to be. It began to dawn upon Nagel that Wyman had been playing on that assumption. But to what end?

  Chapter Forty-one

  IT WAS 11.30 P.M. The best that the Minister’s Club could manage at this late hour was a snack of smoked salmon and a chilled bottle of Meursault 1959.

  “Any word from Wyman?” asked the Minister.

  “None yet,” Owen said.

  “When do you expect to hear from him?”

  “Soon. The minute he gets what he needs from Plato, he’ll return to London. With a bit of luck we’ll have the ferret behind bars without delay.”

  “We’d better,” the Minister said. “I’ve had a great deal of trouble justifying the expense to the PM. If Wyman doesn’t produce, we’re all in trouble.”

  “I know,” Owen said. “Wyman’s a good man. I’m sure he’ll manage it.”

  “Bloody dons,” said the Minister. “I never liked ’em. Too damned clever for everybody’s good. And they expect everyone else to be the same.”

  The Minister had just managed a third in Land Economy at Cambridge. His memories of those who had taught him were not fond ones.

  “Wyman is a typical example,” he continued. “Spends other people’s money as if there’s no tomorrow. Dons are like that. They live too damned well, that’s what it’s all about. They sit in the lap of collegiate luxury like medieval barons, and when you pull them out into the real world they expect to carry on as usual. They’re out of date, Owen, completely out of date.”

  He nibbled vehemently at his smoked salmon.

  “It’s Plato who wants the two million, not Wyman,” Owen said.

  “That’s not the point. It’s typical of Wyman to find contacts who are as extravagant as he is. Typical. Anyone else would have found a nice fat commissar who would settle for a couple of thousand and an easy defection. Not Wyman: he has to find some prima donna with gold fever.”

  Owen nodded sympathetically.

  “It’s unfortunate, I agree.”

  “Unfortunate? It’s bloody outrageous. All I can say is, I’m damned glad we’re not giving Wyman a pension. Who does he think he is, the last of the big-time spenders?”

  “I’m sure the results will justify the cost.”

  “Nothing will justify the cost. Nothing. I keep saying it, but nobody will listen: there’s an economic recession on.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  MARGARET RAMSEY WOKE UP and got out of bed. She gazed sleepily out of the window at a pleasant spring morning. She put on her dressing gown, went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. While the water boiled, she examined the letter-box.

  There were two letters and a post-card. The first letter turned out to be a final demand on her electricity bill. The other letter was a glossy communication which told her that she had been chosen from thousands as the lucky person who could win a fortune in “Hegel’s Lucky Draw Competition”.

  The electricity bill went into a drawer, and “Hegel’s Lucky Draw Competition” was consigned to the dustbin. She then read the postcard. On the front was a picturesque view of the Italian Alps. On the back was a small note printed in block capitals.

  TURIN AIRPORT

  JUNE 2 P.M.

  DEAR MARGARET,

  ALL’S WELL. THE WEATHER HERE IS LOVELY. I THINK

  YOU’D REALLY ENJOY THE SCENERY. SEE YOU SOON.

  LOVE,

  BETTY.

  She smiled and looked at the postmark. The card had been sent on May 30. In that case, she wondered, why had it been dated June 2? It then occurred to her that June 2 was today’s date.

  “Of course!” she exclaimed.

  Wyman meant her to fly out that day to Turin.

  She telephoned British Airways and booked a seat on the 2.30 flight to Turin. The “P.M.” on the postcard indicated that Wyman would be waiting for her that afternoon.

  She looked at her watch and estimated that she had four hours to pack her things.

  “Four hours!” she groaned. “Oh Michael, you are impossible sometimes.”

  She lit a cigarette and made herself a coffee.

  Chapter Forty-three

  RAWLS ARRIVED IN GENEVA on the mornin
g of June 3. Like Wyman, he had little interest in the Swiss or their cities, so he went directly to his destination, the Banque Internationale Descartes.

  He introduced himself to M. Piaget as Thompson Clarke of the US Internal Revenue Service, and he showed him the false identity papers that the Company had provided. Piaget studied them with suspicion.

  “What can I do for you, Mr Clarke?”

  “I am investigating the case of an American citizen who is clearly guilty of tax evasion. He is also known to be involved in other forms of organized crime in the United States, but for various reasons the authorities are concentrating on his tax evasion.”

  “I understand,” Piaget said. “Is this person a client of our bank?”

  “No,” Rawls said. “However, a substantial sum of money illegally held by this man is being kept by one of your account holders. The person concerned isn’t a US national, and our man thinks that by using his account the money will be safe. Nevertheless, your client is in illegal possession of the money.”

  “I see,” Piaget said. “How do you know the money is being held here?”

  “We don’t know who the account holder is, but we do know the number of the account. G2H-17-493: I believe that is one of yours?”

  “Yes. What would you like us to do?”

  “The sum held here isn’t of much interest to us,” Rawls said. “The man we want has a number of such arrangements in other banks here, and some of the accounts are much larger. All we want is the name of the account holder and the address you send correspondence to. We understand this account was opened by an agent of your client, and we’d like that agent’s particulars as well.”

  “In other words,” Piaget said, “you are asking us to lift banking secrecy with regard to this account. That is a very serious request.”

  “I know,” Rawls said.

  “I do not think we can grant your request. You have said yourself that the account holder is not an American citizen. He therefore does not fall under your jurisdiction.”

  “No, but the money does if it was illegally obtained.”

  Piaget looked at Rawls coldly.

  “I happen to know that this account contains no US dollars.”

  “The money was laundered,” Rawls said. “It was converted into another currency in France before being deposited here.”

  “Indeed. That makes your case a little difficult, doesn’t it, Mr Clarke? Let me see…the only right that your organization has to examine this account would be under the 1973 Swiss-American Treaty. I presume you know all about that?”

  Rawls nodded.

  “Now as I recall,” Piaget said, “the treaty stipulates that the account holder must be proven to be involved in organized crime. It must also be shown that the investigators’ evidence is not sufficient to allow prosecution for anything except tax evasion. I believe this is known as the ‘Al Capone Syndrome’.”

  “Right,” said Rawls.

  “I am sure that you can establish all these things,” Piaget said. “I don’t doubt it for one moment. But you must first satisfy the officers of the Swiss National Bank and the Swiss police. Until you do that, I cannot lift the secrecy on this account.”

  “I know that,” Rawls said, “and technically you’re right. But for various reasons we want to avoid all that rigmarole. The person we’re after is very highly placed, and if we began formal proceedings he’d probably hear about it. At the moment, he doesn’t know we’re onto him, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “I’m sure you would,” Piaget smiled. “But I cannot afford to destroy the reputation of this bank merely to help the IRS with their investigations.”

  Rawls breathed out deeply and nodded.

  “Okay, Mr Piaget. It looks like I’m going to have to spell it out. In July ’82, you and most other Swiss banks signed a document called—” he referred to some notes— “‘The Convention on the Need for Caution when Accepting Deposits and on the Use of Banking Secrecy’. Some title, isn’t it? As I say, you’re a signatory to this, aren’t you?”

  “That is so,” Piaget agreed. “What of it?”

  “Article 9 of the Convention stipulates that you, the banks, must not assist with tax evasion, and Article 3 says that, quote, ‘the identity of the beneficial owner should be checked with a care appropriate to the circumstances’, unquote.”

  “I am aware of all this,” Piaget said.

  “Good,” Rawls said. “Then you also know what the penalties are for infringing these articles. If an account beneficiary turned out to be a good old-fashioned crook with a hand in most forms of organized crime, it would probably be claimed that you didn’t check up on him carefully enough. You’d be, quote, ‘guilty of negligence leading to the appropriation of illegal funds’, unquote. You could be up for a fine of ten million francs—that’s what the Convention says, isn’t it?”

  “You have studied the Convention very carefully, Mr Clarke.”

  “It’s my business to,” Rawls lied. “And that isn’t the end of it. If my Government decides that your bank was unwilling to co-operate with the US in stopping tax evasion, your assets in the US might be frozen. You do have assets in the US, don’t you, Mr Piaget?”

  “You know perfectly well we do,” Piaget said frostily.

  “Right,” Rawls said. “So it’s in everybody’s interest for you to give me the information I want. Your bank’s name won’t be mentioned in any criminal proceedings, and no one will ever know about it except us. Your reputation will remain unblemished. How does that sound?”

  “Very neat,” Piaget said. “I will need a few moments to think about this.”

  “Sure.”

  Piaget leaned back in his leather-bound swivel chair and gazed at the ceiling in deep thought. After a few moments he said:

  “Mr Clarke, we might be able to reach a satisfactory agree ment without having to compromise the bank in any way.”

  “Yeah? How would we do that?”

  “You work for the Internal Revenue Service. My client’s agent suspected that this account might be the subject of inquiries by an American government organization, but not yours.”

  Rawls’ eyes widened in surprise.

  “Did he? And which organization did he have in mind?”

  “I am not at liberty to say. But the agent was quite specific. He seemed to think that someone called Rawls might come here. Apparently Mr Rawls works for this organization.”

  “So?”

  “We were instructed to keep a certain sealed document, which we were to give Mr Rawls if he appeared.”

  “Your client expected Rawls to trace his account?”

  “Quite so,” Piaget said. “It really is most extraordinary. However, we are accustomed to receiving extraordinary requests.”

  “I bet you are,” Rawls said.

  “The point is that our client seemed to think that Mr Rawls would be quite satisfied with the document, and that once he had read it, he would cease to investigate the account. Unfortunately, you are not Mr Rawls. You have identified yourself as Mr Clarke. However, if you were prepared to abandon all inquiries into this bank, and the account in question, I might be prepared to let you have the document.”

  “Got it,” Rawls said.

  “I would need your assurances that the matter would be regarded as closed, both by your organization and the other one. Are you in a position to make such an assurance on behalf of the other organization?”

  “I am. They’re also involved in this investigation.”

  “I thought so,” Piaget said. “And what is your decision?”

  “All right,” Rawls said. “I’ll take the document, and the bank won’t be troubled by us again.”

  “Excellent,” Piaget smiled. “If you will excuse me for one moment, I will fetch the document.”

  He left the room. Rawls’ mind whirled with shock. How could anyone have expected him to arrive in Geneva? What the hell was going on?

  Piaget returned, holding a long buff e
nvelope in his bony hand. He gave it to Rawls, who opened it and drew out a typewritten letter. As he read the letter, Rawls went numb with surprise and confusion. Piaget watched him with detached interest.

  “Is the document to your satisfaction?” he asked.

  Rawls shook himself out of his trance, and forced himself to regain his composure.

  “Yes,” he stammered. “It’s—it’s most satisfactory. Thank you. I don’t think there’ll be anything else.”

  “Good,” Piaget said. “I’m so glad. There is one more thing, Mr Clarke. Since the document was destined for a Mr Rawls, perhaps you could see to it that he receives it.”

  “Yes,” Rawls said. “I’ll—make sure he gets it. Thanks.”

  He pocketed the envelope and left M. Piaget’s office, still numb with incredulity.

  Chapter Forty-four

  THE NORTH ITALIAN VILLAGE of Nirasca sits several thousand feet up in the Maritime Alps. Its bleached ochre streets and buildings have changed little in the last five hundred years. Hundreds of such villages are sprinkled across the region’s grey-blue mountains, and Nirasca typifies their simple beauty and resistance to time. Tourists seldom visit the village, preferring to throng the crowded beaches of the Riviera some twenty miles to the south.

  Wyman, however, had no desire to wallow in sweat and sun-tan lotion. He disliked tourists, and enjoyed the spacious serenity of the mountains.

  He had first become acquainted with Nirasca some twenty-five years ago, when looking into the background of a suspected KGB plant in the Italian senate. The man had been a partisan in these mountains during the Second World War, and it was suspected that his contact with Communist resistance movements had led to his subornment by the Soviets.

  Had the Senator stood as a Communist, or even a Socialist, there would have been little that anyone could do. But the man had been a Christian Democrat, and was tipped to be included in the next Government. Wyman had interviewed his friends and relatives in the village, and he established conclusively that the Senator was, in fact, a Communist. The information had been passed on to the Italian authorities, and the Senator was quietly expelled from the Christian Democrat party.