"Dr. Frederickson! Dr. Frederickson, please wait!"
It seemed the man with the sign had been waiting for me after all. I stopped and turned as the big man lurched toward me, leaning heavily on his stout cane and half dragging his crippled leg after him. He was decidedly short of breath by the time he reached me, and it took him a good thirty seconds to get his wind back. This accomplished, he pulled himself as erect as his damaged body would allow, then tugged at the tails of his coat and brushed some imaginary lint from his lapels. Despite his comic-opera outfit, there was a distinct, touching air of dignity in the way he presented himself.
"I am Carlo at your service, Dr. Frederickson," he said in English laced with a heavy Italian accent. "I am to be your driver during your stay in Switzerland."
I smiled up at the man with the craggy face with permanently weathered flesh, coal-black eyes, and unkempt, silver-streaked black hair flaring out from beneath his cap. "It's nice to meet you, Carlo, but I told Mr. Neuberger I didn't want a chauffeur. It's nothing personal; I just believe in public transportation. Have a nice day, and tell your boss I said thanks anyway."
I proceeded toward the exit, stopped again, and heaved a little sigh when I heard Carlo's cane thumping behind me on the tile floor. "Dr. Frederickson, please wait!"
Once again I waited for him to catch his breath, hoping he wasn't going to have a heart attack.
"I don't know this Mr. Neuberger, sir," he finally managed to say. "I was sent by my superior at Cornucopia here in Zurich. I have been ordered to make sure you are made as comfortable as possible."
"I understand, Carlo, but I really do not want a chauffeur. Being waited on makes me nervous."
He repeated his curiously dignified gesture of pulling himself up and tugging at the tails of his coat. He turned his head to one side and swallowed hard. When he looked back at me, I was startled to see that his ebony eyes were moist. The air of anxiety about him I had first noticed was now even more pronounced. "What's the matter, Carlo?" I continued. "I told you it was nothing personal. I just don't want to have to wait around for a chauffeur to come when I want to go someplace, and I don't want one hanging around when I don't. Like I said, it makes me nervous."
He planted his cane on the floor in front of him, leaned down as far as he could, whispered, "You don't understand, signor."
"Please stop leaning over like that, will you, Carlo? You're going to throw out your back. What is it I don't understand?"
His response was to lean down even closer to me and whisper, "I'm Italian."
"Really?" I said, suppressing a smile.
He shook his head. "It's so embarrassing."
"Being Italian?" I asked incredulously.
"No. It is my situation. I am Italian-Italian, not Swiss-Italian."
"So what?"
Now he straightened up, but continued to gaze down at me with his soulful black eyes. "The Swiss allow me to work for good wages, which I can use to support my family back in Italy, so I do not mean to sound ungrateful. But I must speak the truth if I am to make you understand why it is so . . . important that you use me. The Swiss are a very rich people. There are jobs for all Swiss who want them, and it is not necessary for any Swiss to do menial jobs like collecting garbage or cleaning streets. For those kinds of jobs they hire foreign workers like myself who cannot find jobs in our own countries. But they are very strict about certain things. For example, they do not allow foreign workers to bring their families with them. More important, they issue only temporary work permits that are good for staying in this country only as long as you are working. If you lose your job or quit, you must leave the country immediately."
"Carlo," I said, starting to feel more than a bit impatient, "are you telling me that you'll lose your job, you'll be forced to leave the country, and your family will starve just because I don't want to use you? Cornucopia must have somebody else for you to drive around. Listen, I'll be happy to call your boss and explain the situation."
"No, signor," he replied quickly, opening his eyes wide. "That would only make matters worse. You see, there isn't anyone else to drive around; there hasn't been for weeks. Cornucopia has been very, very good to me. They originally hired me as a janitor ten years ago. Then I hurt myself, and they saw that it was difficult for me to do the heavy physical labor sometimes required of me. Rather than dismiss me, they gave me this job of chauffeur. This is work I can do, signor; it is the best job I have ever had. But I know they are thinking there really isn't that much need for a chauffeur. I am afraid of being let go. Please, signor, you look like a kind man. If you would let me serve you, and then—if you are satisfied with my service—perhaps say a kind word about me to my boss, I would appreciate it very, very much. I promise not to get in your way, and I will always be close by when you need me."
Carlo might be old and crippled, but he was no slouch when it came to presenting a case. Cornucopia should have hired him as a lawyer. I grunted, pointed to his crooked left leg. "You can, uh, drive all right with that leg?"
"Oh, si, signor. The car has automatic transmission. You will find I am a very good driver."
* * *
He was right. Despite my protestations, he had insisted on using his free hand to push my luggage cart out of the terminal to a special-permit parking lot where a gleaming black Mercedes-Benz was parked off to one side, and from the ease with which he tossed my luggage into the cavernous trunk, I knew he was not a man I would have wanted to annoy when he was younger. Behind the wheel of the Mercedes, he drove along the highway into Zurich, and then through the city's streets, with confidence and skill, and—despite his Keystone Kops uniform—an air of professionalism that made him appear as if he'd been a chauffeur all his life. As if fearing to invade my privacy, he'd rolled up the window separating the front seat from the rear salon, which seemed to me only slightly smaller than a handball court. There was a bar, television, and a selection of about a dozen newspapers and magazines. There was also a thermos of hot coffee. I opted for the coffee, pouring myself a cup of the nutty, chocolate-laced liquid, leaning back in the soft, rich-smelling leather that surrounded me, and enjoying the view out the windows as we made our way to the Hilton.
I told Carlo to wait for me while I checked into the hotel. I was amused to find that Neuberger had booked me into one of three "honeymoon suites," since the Presidential Suite had already been booked when he'd called. If the car's salon had been big enough for a game of handball, the hotel suite was more suitable for jai alai. After an initial twinge of guilt at being the proximate cause of so much wasted money, I reminded myself that my expenses were coming out of Neuberger's very spacious pockets, and not funds meant to feed starving children; if he wanted to spend his money this way while I looked into what might have happened to the funds that had been meant to feed starving children, I wasn't about to complain. I'd already done that.
It was four o'clock, local time. I was tired, of course, but my experience with jet lag told me that I wasn't going to be able to wind down and sleep for hours, and so I might just as well get right to business. I called Hyatt Pomeroy at Cornucopia's branch office in Zurich, announced who I was and why I was there, and asked if I could come over to talk to him. Pomeroy, who spoke with a pronounced Australian accent, didn't sound exactly thrilled at the prospect of having his day capped by me, but he'd been expecting my call, and he didn't object. I jumped into the shower, put on fresh clothes, and went out to find my chauffeur waiting for me at the curb.
* * *
"He totally misrepresented himself," Hyatt Pomeroy announced in his high-pitched, nasal voice virtually the moment I stepped through the door into his office. He sounded like he believed this was new information to me, and that it would explain everything.
Hyatt Pomeroy, the executive in charge of Cornucopia's operations in western Europe, made much the same negative impression on me as Emmet P. Neuberger, despite—or perhaps because of—the fact that he was a polar opposite in both appearance and demeanor
. While Neuberger was obese and obsequious, Pomeroy was rail thin and haughtily austere; Neuberger was warm, if that was the word, to the point of nausea, while this man with the piccolo voice and Australian accent was ice cold. Neuberger, despite his enormous wealth, wore clothes that looked like they had been hastily snatched off some pipe rack at a fire sale while the fire was in progress, while Pomeroy's suit, shirt, Hermes tie, and Gucci shoes were all top-of-the-line. Although he had insisted that I sit in the straight-backed chair placed in front of the desk in his cramped office, he remained standing, like a man ready to make a quick getaway. I could tell he was not overjoyed to see me.
"How so, Mr. Pomeroy?" I asked evenly.
"Let me be frank with you, Dr. Frederickson," he said, shoving both his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. "I resent you being here—or rather, I should say I resent the fact that Mr. Neuberger has seen fit to send a private investigator here to question me. Not only does it betoken a complete lack of trust and confidence on my employer's part, but I consider it insulting. I've been thoroughly interrogated by both Interpol and the Zurich police—a number of times. Every scrap of paper from this office has been confiscated. I can't even authorize the payroll for staff until this bloody business is finished. How could Mr. Neuberger possibly think I had anything to do with this theft?"
"I'm not here to investigate you, Mr. Pomeroy."
That took him by surprise. He stared at me for a few moments, slowly blinked. "What, then?"
"All Mr. Neuberger wants is a comprehensive report bringing him up to date on the investigation. My being here is in no way a reflection on you."
Pomeroy sniffed. "I talk to him on the phone at least once— and usually twice—a day. What's the matter with the reports I give him?"
"You'll have to ask him that question, Pomeroy, because I don't have an answer for you. I've told you what my job is. If you don't want to talk to me, fine. I'll just include that in my report."
Hyatt Pomeroy thought about that for a few moments, then abruptly walked behind his desk and sat down in the swivel chair there. He brushed some imaginary lint off his lapels, then leaned forward and clasped his hands together on his desktop. "The man whom authorities say is actually John Sinclair was known to me as Michael Radigan," he said evenly. "We met four times over a period of six weeks. He sat right there where you're sitting."
"What did he look like?"
"What difference does it make? I'm told he's a master of disguise, and that nobody is certain what he really looks like."
"I'd like to know anyway. It should be in my report."
Pomeroy shrugged. "He was a big man, over six feet and powerfully built, but he came across as rather effeminate."
"How so?"
"I don't know; some of his gestures, the way he talked. I just got the impression he might be homosexual. Some of those big hunk-types are, you know."
"Is that a fact? I'll be damned. Go ahead."
"He had blue eyes, thinning red hair. He claimed to be French-Canadian, and he spoke English with a French accent. He dressed adequately, by which I mean that his clothes were expensive but not necessarily well selected; he didn't have the taste he thought he did." Pomeroy paused, wrinkled his nose. "He actually wore an earring, which absolutely ruined the businesslike appearance he was trying to project. He had a sort of sallow complexion and a persistent smoker's cough. He also wore thick glasses that made his eyes seem very large."
I grunted. "Sounds like quite a costume."
"Yes," Pomeroy agreed. "You could say he was an imposing figure, but the overall impression was negative."
"How did Cornucopia become involved with him?"
"The same way we get involved with all individuals representing private groups. This office received a proposal for a project and an accompanying request for a grant."
"What was the proposal?"
"It involved a genetically altered strain of wheat that would be highly drought-resistant and grow rapidly in a wide variety of climatic conditions. Radigan-Sinclair claimed to represent a group of businessmen in Quebec who were seeking to establish a large laboratory to research, and eventually produce seeds for, this particular strain of wheat. They had already raised a certain amount of money, and they were supposedly looking for a matching grant."
"Like ten million dollars?"
"Oh, heavens no. The amount they were requesting was really not much more than—literally, if you will—seed money for architectural surveys and printing brochures to try to attract more money. If this initial phase was successful, they would have been free to approach us for a larger grant. Actually, the proposal was excellent, and I signed off on it."
"Meaning you authorized the grant?"
"No. I'm not empowered to authorize grants. I merely express approval of an application, if that's the case, and recommend that the grant be awarded. The awarding of grants is executed in New York, as is the actual transfer of funds. Authorization requires the approval of Mr. Neuberger, the chief comptroller, and a member of the board of directors. The authorizing directorship is rotated every month, since it is considered an honor."
"Just what is it you do, Mr. Pomeroy?"
"I thought I had explained that. This office serves as a clearinghouse for applications that originate in western Europe and sections of North America, including Quebec Province. Based on what we find out, we— I —pass judgment on whether or not a grant should be authorized, and this is usually based on the nature of the proposal. We process thousands of applications every year."
"And you investigated this Michael Radigan?"
He stiffened. "Yes, to the degree that we investigate any applicant. It's easy to second-guess this office now, but his credentials, and those of the organization he claimed to represent, seemed impeccable at the time."
"Even though it was all phony."
"Dr. Frederickson, if John Sinclair was not capable of erecting such exquisite inventions, he wouldn't be the master criminal he is, now would he? I did my job, and Interpol tells me that the cover he invented would have survived a much more thorough investigation than the ones we routinely conduct."
"Mr. Neuberger tells me New York never authorized the grant."
"Of course not; they never had the time. And if they had, it would have shown up in bank records."
I was experiencing a growing sense of frustration and a feeling of inadequacy. Another feeling I had, and it was only a feeling, was that Hyatt Pomeroy was withholding something—perhaps something important—but I just didn't have the information or expertise to adequately grill him.
"Will that be ail, Dr. Frederickson?" he continued, responding to my silence.
"Look, Mr. Pomeroy, Sinclair didn't rob you with a gun, he robbed you with a number. This whole damn thing is about numbers. What I know about encryption of data codes and electronic transfers of funds wouldn't wet the bottom of a thimble, but I sure as hell know that Sinclair wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of setting up dummy corporations and inventing a phony identity to get in here, and he wouldn't have wasted six weeks of his time to meet with you on four occasions, if he didn't need something from this office, from you. What did you give John Sinclair that he needed to fleece Cornucopia, Mr. Pomeroy?" I paused when I saw the change of expression on his face, and I felt a tiny surge of exhilaration. And suddenly, I thought I knew the answer. "A number. You gave him a number. You may not be authorized to award grants or transfer funds, but you do assign certain numbers. Is that it, Mr. Pomeroy?"
In only a matter of seconds, Hyatt Pomeroy had gone from looking defensive but self-assured to downright glum. "Mr. Neuberger is well aware of the encryption process used by the organization his grandfather founded and which he now directs, Dr. Frederickson. He also has all the pertinent data, as does Interpol."
"Well, it apparently slipped Mr. Neuberger's mind to give me the information I'm looking for now, and I didn't know enough to ask. But he obviously wants me to have it, or he wouldn't have sent me over her
e to prepare a report. So let me ask you again: What did Sinclair get from you that he needed to pull off the scam?"
Pomeroy heaved a long, heartfelt sigh, then abruptly wrote something down on a slip of paper, which he shoved across the desk toward me. "A file number," he said tersely.
"Ah, now we're getting someplace," I said, glancing at the seven-digit number he had written down before putting the paper into my pocket.
"Not really, Dr. Frederickson," he replied in the same brusque tone. "While it's true that he required a file number, he also required a good deal more that he didn't—couldn't—get from this office. Don't assume that just because I find it humiliating to have to rehash all this bloody business for the hundredth time it means you've wrung from me some earth-shattering discovery. The file number forms the base for the final encryption code, but twelve more numbers—digits—are required to construct the electronic key he needed to get at the money. It's all very complex, and it can only be accomplished with computers operated by people with proper authorization codes. What he did should have been impossible."
"Your boss agrees with you. But the fact remains that Sinclair used the file number you gave him to manufacture his very own encrypted electronic key, upped the ante to ten million dollars, bypassed all the built-in security procedures, transferred the ten million to an account he had created, withdrew the money, and walked away."
Dark Chant In A Crimson Key Page 3
