The Account

by Roderick Mann

  Now this.

  When di Marco walked in, Eberhardt rose to greet him. He was a small man with a long mournful face and wispy white hair. Eberhardt had often thought he looked more like an undertaker than a banker.

  ‘You know why I am here, Paul …’ Di Marco took a chair on the other side of the desk.

  ‘A friendly talk, I trust.’ Eberhardt forced a smile.

  ‘Paul, I am due to retire soon. I have been with the bank a long time – almost as long as you. I have served it well –’

  ‘You have served it brilliantly.’

  ‘I cannot leave without a clear conscience.’

  Eberhardt mustered another bleak smile. ‘Georges, we have been through this so often …’

  ‘And I have always given in to your wishes.’

  ‘Come now, Georges.’ Confronted by the frail little man, Eberhardt felt some of his confidence returning. ‘It’s not a question of giving in. We are friends; partners. I respect your position. You know that. But we’re talking about something that happened years ago. It’s dead; forgotten. What you are suggesting would ruin the bank.’

  ‘We would survive.’

  ‘Survive?’ Eberhardt said heavily. ‘Georges, I have not come this far merely to survive.’ He picked up his gold pen from the desk and toyed with it. ‘Next year I will chair the International Bankers’ Conference in Vienna. I have a reputation to protect.’ He leaned forward. ‘Dine with me tonight. We will go to the Lion d’Or. Talk it over. Like old times …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Paul.’ The little man looked at his hands. ‘I have made my decision. I am going to talk to the authorities.’

  Eberhardt tried to ignore the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. A frisson of anxiety made the side of his mouth twitch.

  ‘Georges, please, what kind of talk is that among friends?’ He paused. ‘What you need is a break. Take a few weeks off. Somewhere warm.’ He tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. ‘Friends of mine have a house in Puerto Vallarta. I could call them. You’d like Mexico.’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ di Marco said. ‘What I’m looking for is peace of mind.’

  ‘But what you’re suggesting would make everything worse. It would destroy the bank’s reputation …’

  ‘It would enable me to sleep,’ di Marco said quietly. He looked straight at Eberhardt. ‘You made a decision forty years ago to say nothing to the Government when enquiries began. I begged you then to speak up. You refused. Out of loyalty I have kept quiet all this time.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ Eberhardt said. ‘Even so –’

  ‘We are partners,’ the old man said. ‘I have some say.’

  ‘My dear Georges,’ Eberhardt leaned forward, ‘of course you do. But you must think of the consequences.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘When I started this bank there were 150 private banks in Switzerland. How many are there today? Twenty. Look at the clients we have – Robert Brand, Marie de Boissy, Francine Rochas, Max Schröder. World-famous names. We have survived because we are a fine bank, widely respected. Much of that respect was earned by your good work. You are a great banker, Georges. How can you think of throwing it all away now?’

  ‘I won’t change my mind, Paul.’ Di Marco got to his feet and began to walk towards the door.

  ‘I ask you again to consider the consequences,’ Eberhardt tried as a last shot. ‘Our reputations –’

  ‘Our consciences would be clear,’ di Marco said. He opened the door and went out.

  Watching him go, Eberhardt knew he had lost. He had hoped to prolong the meeting, to reason with di Marco, make him see how foolish it would be to throw away the work of a lifetime. But the old man had already made up his mind. Like the good Catholic he was, he was going to confess his sins – but not to a priest. In doing so he would ruin the reputation Eberhardt had built up over fifty years. He rose wearily and crossed to the window, staring again at the street below. Raindrops were bouncing off the roofs of the cars parked on either side. He stood there for a long time.

  Eventually, Eberhardt buzzed his secretary.

  ‘I’m leaving in a moment, Marte. Have the garage bring round my car.’

  ‘Immediately, Monsieur Eberhardt.’

  He sat down in his chair again. He had been through this all before with André Leber, one of his account officers who, through diligence and hard work, had graduated to the bank’s executive committee before retiring. Leber had been after money, of course. And Eberhardt had been unwise enough to pay him. Ten thousand francs a month for five years. Just thinking about it upset him. It would have gone on and on had he not finally mustered enough courage to end it.

  Now he would have to do the same thing with Georges di Marco. Crossing the room he opened his private safe and removed a black address book. Tucked inside was a slip of paper with a name on it. Eberhardt looked at it for a moment before putting it in his jacket pocket and closing the safe.

  He would call the man from home, he decided. He prayed he was still available.

  Chapter 3

  At the same time that Paul Eberhardt was heading for home, Robert Brand’s Gulfstream IV was landing in the rain at Paris’s Charles de Gaulle Airport.

  Staring out of the window at the glistening runway Brand had begun to feel better. That morning, getting out of bed in Geneva, an attack of dizziness had made him sway on his feet. Alarmed, he had waited until noon and called his doctor in New York.

  ‘Look,’ Rex Kiernan said, ‘it’s probably nothing serious. Maybe you got up too quickly. How’s your hearing?’

  ‘Fine. Why?’

  ‘Could be an inner ear problem. Want me to recommend someone over there?’

  ‘I haven’t the time. Anyway, I’ll be home soon.’

  ‘You should slow down,’ Kiernan said. ‘I keep telling you that. What is it – a year since your attack? All that trauma? Takes time. At our age the body heals more slowly …’

  In Robert Brand’s opinion he had slowed down since his heart attack. At that time Kiernan had advised complete rest.

  ‘This is your life we’re talking about,’ he said. ‘You’re sixty-three years old. You’ve been through a terrible experience. Why don’t you use that damn great yacht of yours and take a long cruise, do nothing for a few months?’

  Brand had agreed that he would. But the month-long cruise of the Mediterranean with a couple of business friends had only served to increase his sense of loss.

  Trapped in a sterile and unhappy relationship for many years, Robert Brand, a handsome, energetic man, had almost abandoned hope of ever enjoying a romantic and emotional relationship with a woman. Instead he had allowed himself a succession of brief affairs, most of them unsatisfactory. Then one evening, in the bar of the Athenaeum Hotel in London, he had been introduced to Jane Summerwood.

  The attraction had been immediate. She had left with friends that evening, but he had managed to track her down. And, in the ensuing weeks, they had fallen in love.

  Within three months he had made up his mind. He would ask his wife for a divorce – regardless of the consequences – and marry Jane, a decision hastened by the discovery that she was pregnant. He could still remember her face, flushed with happiness, when he took her down Bond Street to buy the engagement ring.

  He had told only one person of his plan, his friend Bobby Koenig. Koenig had encouraged him. ‘Go for it,’ he said. ‘You have one life. Don’t waste it.’

  A month later Jane was found dead in a London park. The police, with no clues, had put it down to another senseless random murder.

  And within weeks Brand, almost immobilized with grief, suffered a heart attack. At first he was forced to rest, but then, ignoring Rex Kiernan’s warnings, he had plunged back into work. And, until that morning in Geneva, felt reasonably fit.

  According to the latest Fortune magazine, he was now the sixth richest man in America. A workaholic, he spent most of his time on the top floor of the thirty-storey black glass building on Madison Avenue where
the Brand Corporation was based. There, he put in a fourteen-hour day, overseeing a business empire with interests in oil, shipping, hotels, food processing and drugs.

  ‘The Man Who Has Everything’, Business Week dubbed him in a piece that was laudatory but glaringly short of facts, for Brand never gave interviews and provided no biography for inquisitive journalists. Even the accompanying photograph was an old one.

  Brand knew that success usually came either through an accident of birth or the sheer power of will. But in his case it was both. At twenty-two, with $50 million inherited from his father, he had tasted the heady fruits of power and found them to his liking.

  Calculating risks to the nth degree he flew in and out of the world’s capitals making deals and increasing his fortune. He took gambles that even the biggest banks balked at. With the Pacific Rim booming, he waited until Indonesia’s currency became convertible and then invested heavily, knowing the country was rich in natural resources. Within two years his investment had tripled. He then moved into the Finnish market, which was underpriced, and doubled his money within a year. Then, anticipating the dollar’s fall, he invested heavily in other currencies.

  Since Jane’s death, however, he found himself deriving less and less satisfaction from the mere making of money. He wanted someone, or something, to change his life, to set him on a new course.

  Speeding down the neon-lit autoroute into Paris he lay back against the chill leather of the limousine and closed his eyes. He realized he had never felt so lonely in his life.

  Georges di Marco awoke suddenly. He glanced at the clock by his bedside. It was 2.30 a.m. He had been asleep less than two hours. Touching his forehead he realized it was damp with perspiration. The dream. It was always the same. Ghosts from the past, jeering, pointing fingers. And money, stacks of it, scattering in the wind as he tried to count it. He sat up, switching on the bedside light. I’m an old man, he thought; I should be sleeping soundly. My conscience should be clear. Instead I awake in dread.

  For a moment, as a spasm of nausea assailed him, he feared he might be sick, and reached for a handkerchief. What’s the matter with me? he thought, on the edge of panic. Why is this happening? He took a drink of water from the glass on his bedside table.

  I must tell someone, he decided. That man with the Federal Banking Commission – Albert-Jean Cristiani – I will call him. Take him to dinner. Ask his advice. Produce the diary, perhaps. He will know what I should do. He will realize I am an honourable man.

  He bunched the pillows beneath his head. Switching off the light he closed his eyes, hoping for sleep.

  Chapter 4

  Julia Lang had thought herself prepared for the encounter, for the time when she would have to face him again, but now that the moment had arrived, now that he was standing there in the lobby of London’s Burlington Hotel talking to one of the guests, she was swept by a feeling of such revulsion that for a moment she feared she might be physically sick.

  It had been-sixteen years since their last meeting and seeing him again it seemed to her that he had not changed at all. The same aristocratic stance, hands behind his back; the same black hair brushed straight back; the same rimless spectacles. And the same dark grey suiting with a light blue tie.

  Her face set, she walked towards him.

  He turned, pivoting on one foot. ‘Miss Lang. Good morning.’ It was as if nothing had ever happened; he might have been greeting her after an absence of a day instead of all those years.

  He turned to the elderly American by his side. ‘Mr Elliott, this is Julia Lang, Publicity Director for the hotel.’

  The American looked approvingly at Julia’s shoulder-length blonde hair and deep-set grey eyes. In a lobby full of pale-faced people in heavy winter coats she stood out sharply in her forest-green velvet jacket and black skirt.

  He smiled warmly. ‘Glad to know you, Miss Lang. I was just telling Mr Moscato here how impressed we are with the Burlington.’

  ‘Will you be staying in London long?’

  ‘Just a week. Mrs Elliott wants to see a couple of shows. I want to get some shirts made. Turnbull and Asser – I like their shirts.’

  Julia smiled politely. ‘If there’s anything I can do while you’re here …’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Lang. We’re being looked after very well.’

  Julia excused herself and walked back towards the executive offices. She realized with a pang of dismay that just being near Guido Moscato had made her feel soiled. She had not expected that. Well, she would have to come to terms with his presence. It was that or quit; those were her only choices. But she loved her job. And if she walked out with two years left of her contract, her chances of working for another London hotel were slim.

  In her office at the end of the corridor, Emma Carswell, her secretary, was waiting with a sheaf of letters to sign. Seeing Julia’s expression, she frowned.

  ‘You’re looking glum.’

  ‘I just ran into Moscato,’ Julia said.

  Emma groaned. ‘He’s finally here, then.’

  ‘Arrived yesterday.’

  ‘Did he say anything?’

  Julia shook her head. ‘There was someone with him.’

  ‘You’re sure he recognized you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Emma nibbled on her lower lip. ‘Of all people for the Sultan to hire.’

  ‘He must think Moscato is a good choice,’ Julia said.

  ‘How did he ever hear of him?’

  ‘Everyone knows the Palace on Lake Como.’

  Emma put the letters on her desk. ‘I still think you should have told the Sultan what happened …’

  ‘Emma, the Sultan runs this hotel as a business. People’s personal lives don’t come into it.’

  She moved round to the other side of her desk and sat down in the swivel chair.

  ‘Are you going home to change for the party?’ Emma asked.

  ‘I brought a dress with me.’

  She had been looking forward to the cocktail party that evening, planned months earlier to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the Burlington’s reopening after its £40-million face-lift. All the hotel’s guests had been invited, together with people from London’s social and political circles. Julia had even bought herself a black cocktail dress from Louis Féraud, an extravagance she excused by convincing herself it would be useful for other occasions. But with Moscato’s arrival at the hotel much of her earlier enthusiasm had waned.

  Emma paused before returning to her own office. ‘Maybe it won’t be so bad,’ she said, her face rather implying the opposite.

  Julia mustered a faint smile and reached for her pen.

  By 7.30 p.m. the Terrace Room was crowded. Guido Moscato stood just inside the wide mirrored doors greeting guests.

  Inside the huge room, bars had been set up at either end. In the centre a buffet table was laden with delicacies prepared by the Burlington’s chef, Gustave Plesset. In a far corner a willowy young man was playing forties melodies on the piano. Blue-jacketed waiters moved among the guests offering canapés and drinks. The buzz of conversation was very loud.

  ‘Don’t just stand there. Mingle.’

  Julia turned. Bryan Penrose, the hotel’s Director of Sales and Marketing, was standing beside her. She smiled. She and Penrose were friends.

  ‘You’re looking spectacular,’ he said. ‘New dress?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I never want to see you in anything else,’ he said.

  He winked at Julia and moved away. Left alone, Julia scanned the room for familiar faces. Someone waved to her from the bar by the window. She recognized Bobby Koenig, an American screenwriter and frequent visitor to the hotel. He was standing talking to an impressive-looking man with grey hair. Julia moved towards him, nodding to people she knew.

  ‘Julia.’ Koenig grasped her hand warmly. ‘You know this gentleman, of course. He’s paying a fortune for the privilege of staying here. Julia Lang … Robert Brand.’

  She was fa
intly surprised to see Brand there. Although he was not registered under his own name and had requested no publicity, word had soon filtered down through the hotel grapevine that the secretive American billionaire had checked into the Empire Suite.

  ‘Julia is Publicity Director for the hotel,’ Koenig said. ‘And one of the most eligible women in London.’ He retrieved his champagne glass. ‘She’s single, she speaks fluent Italian and she once got a love letter from Marcello Mastroianni.’ He turned to Julia. ‘Am I right?’

  ‘You’re impossible,’ Julia laughed. ‘Revealing all my secrets. Anyway, it was Alain Delon.’

  ‘Close enough,’ Koenig said. ‘Both actors.’

  During this banter Brand had not taken his eyes from her. She felt vaguely disturbed by the intensity of his gaze. His eyes, she decided, were the darkest she had ever seen. He was an impressive figure in his beautifully cut dark suit. Impressive and handsome.

  ‘Bobby tells me you have a new manager,’ Brand said.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What happened to the last one?’

  ‘He died. He was the one who brought me here. Andrew Lattimer. A lovely man.’

  ‘Where were you before?’

  ‘The Ambassador Royal.’

  Was he really interested, Julia wondered, or just making a polite conversation.

  ‘Miss Lang …’

  She turned. Freddy, one of the barmen, was holding out a glass of champagne.

  She shook her head. ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Oh go on,’ Koenig said. ‘It’s good stuff. Must be costing the hotel a fortune. Mind you, with what Robert’s paying for his suite they can afford it.’

  It occurred to Julia that Brand probably had no idea what the suite cost. Such petty details were no doubt handled by his staff. She could not imagine him standing by the cashier’s window filling out traveller’s cheques.

  Julia took the glass and put it down at the edge of the bar.

  ‘You may not know it,’ Koenig said, ‘but Robert owns two of the best hotels in New York – the Raleigh and the Carlton House. He’s always trying to recruit new talent for them. So watch yourself.’