True (2004)

by Cordy, Michael

  THECORSICAN SMILED IN HIS SLEEP. SINCE THE 1970S, ANTOINE Chabrol had exploited France's colonial links to buy into the poppyfields and marijuana plantations of Indochina, the Middle East and North Africa. Now in his sixties, he controlled the production of almost half the heroin supplied to Europe and America.

  Over the years, numerous distributors had tried unsuccessfully to muscle in on his market, and he took great pleasure in squeezing out the latest upstart: the Trapani family. The Sicilians had demanded a partnership deal because their pet scientists had developed a process that would make his product safer and more consistent in quality. But safety wasn't his or his Corsican brethren's concern so they had cut off the Sicilians' supply. Now he had heard that Marco Trapani was briefing his scientists to create a cheaper synthetic heroin. In time Chabrol would control that, too. He grinned in his sleep as he pictured Marco Trapani wearing a Corsican Smile -- his throat cut from ear to ear.

  One thing Chabrol no longer controlled was his prostate, and the insistent pressure on his bladder pierced his dreams. He rolled out of bed and padded across the cool terracotta tiles to the bathroom. He remembered the two putains who had serviced him earlier. He had asked his contact in Marigot to supply him with two underage girls prepared to do anything, and both had exceeded his most depraved imaginings.

  He stepped into a puddle and frowned. He had told the girls not to use the shower. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the luminous dial on his gold Rolex: 3:11. Not bothering to switch on the bathroom light, he shuffled past the bath to the lavatory and groaned. That was the problem with Viagra: it got you up but it kept you up for hours. Concentrating hard, he relaxed and emptied his bladder. As happened often now, when he thought he had finished he felt a pressing need to carry on. After the third false stop, a sound snapped him fully awake. The bathroom door had closed behind him.

  The lock clicked and he swivelled round. When he saw the towering black figure in the gloom his first instinct was to call out, but before he could open his mouth something cold and metallic pressed against his lips. Then a huge hand gripped his right shoulder and turned him back to the lavatory. The gun barrel moved to his neck. When he looked down his erection had gone and the sporadic flow had become an unstoppable stream.

  'Apres que vous ayyez finit, Monsieur' someone whispered in his ear.

  AS MAX KAPPELSTOOD IN THE GLOOM, PRESSING THE SILENCER OF his Glock against Chabrol's tanned, flabby flesh, he felt nothing. No excitement, no disgust, no fear and certainly no pity. He was simply doing a job for his father and the family business. It was no different from any other job he had done in the past. When Chabrol had finished, Max passed him a towel to cover his nakedness. 'Lower the seat and sit down.'

  The Corsican's tanned face was pale. 'Who are you? What do you want?'

  Max watched him with detached interest. Even the toughest men find it difficult to control their fear in the early hours, particularly when an armed stranger surprises them buck-naked while taking a piss. He sighed and sat on the side of the bath. 'You've been making life difficult for one of our clients.'

  'Who?'

  'Marco Trapani.'

  Recognition flickered in the Corsican's eyes. 'I know you. You're with Kappel Privatbank.' He recovered some of his composure. 'You came to my offices in Ajaccio.'

  Max nodded. 'To negotiate an agreement on behalf of our client. I pleaded with you to be reasonable. Do you remember your parting words?'

  A malevolent grin flashed across Chabrol's features. 'Trapani's going to be a dead client soon so why don't you fuck off back to Zurich?'

  'You have an excellent memory, Monsieur.' Max reached into one of the waterproof pouches on his rubber belt. He retrieved a glass vial of snow-white powder and a PowerDermic vaccine gun. 'But when you threaten the life or livelihood of one of our clients you threaten the Kappels.' He inserted the vial into the base of the gun with the deft precision of a marksman.

  Sweat sheened Chabrol's forehead. 'What's that?'

  'Your passport to oblivion.'

  'Surely we can come to an agreement,' Chabrol said. 'You're a banker.'

  'It's too late. You should feel honoured, Monsieur. If you were going to have a simple accident we might have used Stein and his ex-Stasi agents. They're very good -- the East Germans trained their secret police well. However, when we use one of our proprietary prisons we prefer to keep it in the family.'

  Max tapped the glass vial and the white powder flurried like snow. 'This is a genetic poison developed by my brother at our Comvec laboratory. It's a gene-therapy viral vector that targets andaccelerates any inherited mutation in your DNA, bringing forward your natural death. This version focuses on the heart.

  Since we know you're a user, Monsieur, we've blended it with grade-A cocaine to make your heart attack more credible.' Holding the Glock in his left hand and the primed vaccine gun in his right, he moved closer. 'It's a good way to die. One of the best.'

  Chabrol, white as the powder, stared first at the vaccine gun and then atMax's impassive face. When he realized he would find no mercy there, his eyes darted to the window above the lavatory. 'Don't shout for help,' Max said calmly, and levelled-the Glock at Chabrol's groin. 'But--'

  'Shh. Everyone should die like this.' He placed the vaccine gun near Chabrol's shoulder. 'Don't be afraid. I'll stay with you till the end.'

  Looking directly into Chabrol's terrified eyes, Max activated the gun. There was a barely audible ssh and the vial emptied. Otherwise was no sign that the white powder was exploding into the Corsican's bloodstream.

  For a second nothing happened. Then Chabrol's body went rigid and he began to tremble. The drug paralysed him, then stopped his heart. Max held him, supporting his bulk.

  In Chabrol's eyes he saw the man's confusion, hatred, fear laid bare. Not much affected Max any more, but it still touched him to watch someone die. It was as though their final spark jumped across his emotional void and fleetingly ignited the vestigial embers of his own humanity. The instant Chabrol's pupils dilated, Max released a deep sigh.

  After he had laid Chabrol's body on the floor he left the cottage. On the beach he glanced at the global positioning system strapped to his wrist and confirmed the whereabouts of the yacht. Then he put on his fins and mask, and disappeared into the Caribbean, cutting through the water with slow, powerful strokes.

  It took fifteen minutes to return to the yacht. He pulled himself up the ladder and rolled on to the deck, stripped off his wetsuit and stood naked in the warm night breeze. He stretched his muscles, taut after the swim, and checked his watch. He had been gone fifty-seven minutes. He opened the fridge in the galley, drank a small bottle of Evian and studied himself in the mirror. He remembered his first kill, staring afterwards at his reflection, searching for some change in his face. He hadn't found one then and he couldn't see one now. For an instant, though, a different pair of blue eyes stared out of the mirror. His mother's. He blinked and the image vanished.

  He descended to the main cabin. Delphine lay asleep in bed, her face framed by ash-blonde hair, the sheet revealing more of her naked form than it concealed. He was still pumped with adrenaline, and the sight aroused him. He pulled up the sheet and slipped in beside her. She stirred and reached for him. 'Been up, Max?'

  'Just to get a drink.'

  Her hand brushed his groin and she opened her eyes. 'You have been up.'

  He smiled. 'Must be the warm night air.'

  'Really?' She was stroking him now. 'Nothing to do with me?'

  'Never even crossed my mind. You're far too much of a lady.'

  She straddled him. 'Oh, yeah?'

  He smiled. Delphine was the daughter of Henri Chevalier, the head of one of Geneva's oldest and most respected independent banks. 'I might have misjudged you.'

  As he entered her, she gasped. 'I love you, Max.'

  The pleasure pulsed through him, but he frowned.

  'I love you, Max,' she said again.

  He rolled her on to her back an
d responded to the rhythm of her body. Her declaration elicited only regret. Why, when it was going so well, did they always have to fall in love with him?

  FOUR DAYS LATER: 9 AUGUST

  TODAY SHOULD HAVE BEEN A PROUD CELEBRATION BUT AS HELMUT Kappel stared through the tinted, soundproofed windows of his study and watched his guests on the lawn he felt only impotent rage.

  Schloss Kappel was an austere stone mansion set in twenty acres of grounds south of Zurich. A large marquee stood between the crenellated towers and a band played on a floating island in the lake. Etched against the blue sky, white banners proclaimed: Kappel Privatbank -- 200 Jahre Jubildum.

  He had invited every major client, the legitimate who brought respectability, and the criminal who brought profit -- although in his experience the only real distinction between them lay in how long each had possessed their wealth. A few were famous. His third wife, Eva, was talking to the fashion designer Odin. The flamboyant Norwegian's distinctive strawberry-blond hair hung down to his shoulders and he wore the trademark furs and leathers that had made his Viking style so popular. Helmut had once thought his wife decorative, but she no longer pleased him. She hadn't borne him an heir -- both his first and second wives had managed that.

  Behind them a minor member of the Monegasque royal family was deep in conversation with a Swiss investor. Don Marco Trapani, one of Kappel Privatbank's long-standing clients, was speaking with Joachim, Helmut's younger son, and a large man he didn't recognize. He remembered then that Trapani had wanted to introduce his cousin, a scientist, to the bank. Helmut looked at the man's ill-fitting suit and frowned. By the lake, his elder son, Max, was holding court. He looked tanned and confident after his productive Caribbean vacation, Delphine Chevalier at his side. They made a pleasing couple.

  Helmut shifted focus to his reflection in the window and brushed back his white hair till every strand was in place. He never tired of admiring himself: he looked good for a sixty-five-year-old. He was over six feet tall and lean, with an erect Prussian bearing. He wore a dark suit, a pale blue shirt, which matched his eyes, and a bright silk cravat that covered the purple scar tissue where a tumour had been removed from his throat. The disease had reminded him that time wouldn't wait for him to fulfil his destiny. Despite the doctors' advice, though, he had made only one concession to the cancer: he occasionally substituted cigars for his beloved handmade cigarettes.

  Today he took another black Sobranie cigarette from the silver box in the top drawer of his desk, placed the gold filter in his mouth and lit it.

  His brother cleared his throat. T told you it was pointless holding such an extravagant celebration. Not only does it draw attention to us, it costs us money we can ill afford.'

  Helmut didn't respond. His brother's caution had its place but Klaus had no sense of occasion. T can't believe that not one of them is coming,' he said. The surgery made it impossible for him to speak in anything louder than a rasping whisper.

  His brother tugged at his beard. 'Hudsucker, Corbasson, Lysenko and Nadolny have all declined the invitation.-'

  'You think they really will close their accounts?'

  Klaus shrugged. 'Apparently we're no longer respectable enough for their aspirations.'

  Helmut ground his teeth.

  Klaus continued, 'They are our biggest clients, Helmut. Not one is worth less than a billion dollars. This won't be like losing the others. If they all leave at the same time and withdraw their funds, it could be critical. Particularly with Comvec draining our resources.'

  Comvec was Kappel Privatbank's wholly owned biotech consultancy, set up by Joachim to service the swell of small genetic-engineering and gene-therapy start-ups seeking technical, regulatory, legal and commercial advice before launching on the market.

  Comvec's potential for reducing the Kappels' dependence on its banking interests was huge, but so far the venture had cost the bank money. 'How critical would it be if all four clients pulled out?'

  'We should survive. Just.'

  Helmut looked up at the past leaders of the Kappel dynasty, whose portraits lined the walls of his study and the hall outside. All were male and sported the family's trademark pale blue eyes and shock of white-blond hair. All had expanded the business during their leadership, leaving it stronger. 'Survival isn't good enough.'

  'But we have to face facts, Helmut. In the last decade the number of independent private banks in Switzerland has fallen by forty per cent. The country's secrecy laws may still be strong, but the new anti-terrorism measures mean that the Federal Banking Commission's regulations are tighter than ever. It's become increasingly perilous for us to launder suspect money, and banks in the Caymans can provide those services cheaper. More and more clients are turning to the bigger banks. Our reserves are at an all-time low and the economy is in recession. If we lose our four biggest clients we'll be forced to liquefy investments at the bottom of the market. We'll be fortunate to survive.'

  Helmut paced the room. 'Do you think I don't know that, Klaus? We made the bastards rich. When they came to us they had nothing. How dare they tell us they need a more respectable bank? They were grateful for our skills when we pushed them up the greasy pole. So what if Warren Hudsucker's become a US senator. I don't care if he's the Queen of England. We made him.'

  'I know,' Klaus said soothingly. 'We could wind up Comvec. You know what Max thinks of Joachim's brainchild, and he's got a point. It's haemorrhaging millions of Swiss francs each year with no realistic prospect of a return for at least five years.'

  Helmut shook his head. 'Now isn't the time to kill Comvec, not when Joachim's just had a breakthrough.' Klaus was loyal and he managed the bank's administrative affairs with meticulous care, but he had no courage or vision. 'As for our errant clients, in the old days I'd have ordered Stein and his men to punish them, but until we find a way to shore up the bank we need their business. Look at the figures, Klaus. Offer them the most favourable rates we can afford. Call it a loyalty bonus. Just make sure they understand it's more attractive to stay than to leave -- at least in the short term.'

  Again he looked up at the portraits lining the wall and wondered what they would have done. Inevitably his eyes settled on the painting opposite his desk of Dieter Kappel, who had saved the family two hundred years ago.

  The four original Kappel brothers had been mercenaries who had taken their name from the Swiss village of Ebnat-Kappel in the German-speaking canton of Graubiinden. In the mid-seventeenth century, after moving south to fight for the warring Italian states, they had settled in Florence where they embarked on a more lucrative career as paid assassins. Specializing in 'natural' kills, using discreet poisons, they passed down their skills to the only people they could trust: their family. As the Kappel family's reputation grew, so did their fees and influence. Their descendants had served popes and kings.

  At the dawn of the nineteenth century, though, a powerful Florentine count had avoided paying for their services by attempting to have them arrested for the assassination he had authorized. The Kappels' poison had made him convulse so violently that his spine broke before he died -- and they had to flee Italy. Dieter Kappel had led the family back to Switzerland when it was becoming the world centre for private banking.

  With the family's accumulated funds, the Kappel Privatbank was established in Zurich in 1804. It found a profitable niche safeguarding the ill-gotten gains of those wary of the scrutiny of conventional banks. The bank paid them low interest rates for this privilege, then lent their money to smaller clients at much higher interest.

  Dieter Kappel ensured the family never forgot its core skills: he believed it was far easier to make a financial killing if you could make a real one. The bank began to invest in clients whose businesses had only one or two key rivals. Then, without the clients'

  knowledge, the Kappels would ensure that the rivals met with unfortunate accidents. Some clients suspected that the Kappels were responsible for their subsequent good fortune, but Dieter Kappel made it policy
never to confirm this, let alone charge for it. The Kappels' reward came from the clients' success: their wealth fed the bank's. And, with time, Kappel Privatbank grew in status and respectability. During the Second World War, when clients sought to protect their wealth in neutral Swit2erland, its growth surged. It also became the bank of choice for leading Mafia families, and extended its influence to the lucrative American market. A cadre of professional employees handled a wide range of day-today services, including private and institutional asset management, financial analysis, securities brokerage, administration of deposits, business consultancy and accounting assistance. It remained small and secretive, controlled by the family.

  But now Kappel Privatbank was in decline for the first time in its history. Helmut knew they couldn't go back to being paid assassins. There was too little money in it. Professionals from the old Eastern Europe and the Russian Mafia killed for next to nothing. Clients no longer demanded finesse, just results.