The Account

by Roderick Mann

  ‘It’s not your responsibility. It’s my decision. We are partners now. If I choose to risk my neck that’s my problem.’

  He lit a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. She waved her hand in front of her face to dissipate it. He seemed not to notice.

  ‘When will you do this?’

  ‘As soon as I get the key to the bank door. We’re working on that now. Next Wednesday’s my guess.’

  Julia thought about this. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘you got into this because of me. I’m not going to let you do it alone. I’m going to help.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ he said firmly. ‘You’re having a child. Too risky. Anyway, I’ve got an assistant, a friend of mine. Swiss.’

  ‘What can he do I can’t?’

  ‘It’s a she.’

  Julia’s eyes widened. ‘A woman? Then let me come too.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ Ravenel said.

  Chapter 36

  Late the following afternoon, as Julia worked on her newsletter, Emma buzzed her. ‘There’s a call from Acapulco,’ she announced. ‘Some man. The name sounds like Konopka.’

  ‘Put him through,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Julia.’ On the phone the Polish accent was even more pronounced. ‘How are you, my dear?’

  ‘I’m fine, Voytek. I’ve thought about you often.’

  ‘I’m calling to tell you something interesting,’ the Pole said without preamble. ‘Last night I was invited to dinner by Grace Brand. I was reluctant to go but she told me a French art critic, Pierre Cousins, would be at the dinner and had asked to meet me.’

  ‘How was she?’ Julia asked.

  ‘On her best behaviour. Hardly drinking. I got the impression she was interested in the critic. He’s quite handsome. Anyway, I thought you might be interested in one of the guests who seemed quite at home there, someone you probably know.’

  ‘Bobby Koenig,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Koenig?’ Voytek sounded surprised. ‘Why do you say that? He was Robert’s friend. He would never go there.’

  Julia switched the receiver to her other hand. ‘Who then?’

  ‘Jill Bannister.’

  Julia was so stunned she slumped back in her chair. For a moment her mind simply refused to accept what she had just been told. Then, as reality sank in, she felt a lurching sensation in her stomach. She sat perfectly still, her mind racing. Jill Bannister. Not Bobby Koenig as she had suspected. Jill Bannister. That was Grace Brand’s source; that was how she knew everything Robert was doing. Her informant was his own personal assistant; someone who knew every move he made. Julia felt sick.

  Why? Had Grace Brand bought her? Or was there another reason? Had she herself been in love with Robert and seen Julia as a serious threat? He had been dining with her that night at the Connaught Hotel. At the time Julia had thought nothing of it. Now she felt a surge of anger.

  Of course. That was how Grace Brand knew she was in Acapulco. She had told Robert the date of the conference and he would have written it in his diary. Jill Bannister would have seen it.

  ‘Julia? Are you all right?’ The sculptor’s voice was full of concern.

  ‘I’m sorry, Voytek. It was such a shock.’

  ‘For me, too. They are obviously old friends. They sat beside each other at the table.’

  ‘I can hardly believe it.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ Voytek said. ‘It may not be important, but you should know. This art critic invited Grace to Paris to see the new Matisse exhibition. She leaves in a week. I asked where she was staying. It’s the Plaza-Athénée.’

  ‘Why did she tell you that?’ Now, Julia realized, she was suspicious of everyone.

  ‘I asked her,’ the Pole said simply. ‘She doesn’t know you and I ever met. She felt quite safe.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Watch out for yourself, Julia. This is a dangerous woman. You must take great care.’

  ‘I will, Voytek.’

  Long after the receiver at the other end had been hung up she sat at her desk, perfectly still, holding the phone in her hand.

  Sitting up in bed at Casa Shalimar, Grace Brand was feeling jubilant. Her decision to fly to Paris for the Matisse exhibition had been a marvellous idea. Paul Eberhardt would be there attending some conference. He was even staying at the same hotel, she had discovered.

  Two days before, he had called her about the Julia Lang account, talking about possible consequences. Here was the perfect opportunity to put the fear of God into the old fool. Face to face she was sure he would crumble.

  She was looking forward to spending time in France with her new friend, Pierre Cousins. Her suggestion that after the exhibition they fly to the South of France and take a cruise on The White Dolphin had been well received. This was going to be an interesting trip …

  The duplicity of Jill Bannister had stunned Julia. Even more startling was the depth of her own anger. She felt she understood for the first time the urge people had to strike out at an enemy. My God, she thought, what’s happened to me? I’m filled with rage. I would cheerfully kill that woman.

  Leafing through her file she took out the card with Jill Bannister’s home address that Robert Brand had given her. Then she dialled the office in Grosvenor Square.

  The call was answered on the second ring by a woman. ‘The Brand Corporation.’

  ‘Put me through to Jill Bannister, please.’

  ‘Who is calling?’

  ‘Julia Lang.’

  ‘One minute, please.’

  There was a long wait. Finally the woman came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Lang. Miss Bannister is not available. Can I help in some way?’

  ‘No,’ Julia said. ‘It’s Jill Bannister I want.’

  ‘I told you,’ the woman said. ‘She is not available.’

  ‘You mean she’s not here, in London?’

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘Where is she? In Acapulco?’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot give out that information.’

  ‘Well here’s some information you can give out,’ Julia said. ‘Tell her I have her address in Hyde Park Square and intend coming round one of these nights to have a long talk with her about her friend Grace Brand. Have you got that?’

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ the woman said.

  Julia put down the phone. Now she knows I know, she thought. Maybe that will give her a few sleepless nights.

  Chapter 37

  Standing by his bedroom window Paul Eberhardt looked down at the darkened, tree-lined street below. The rue des Granges. The best address in Geneva. His street. He loved it the same way he loved the town.

  Geneva was his favourite city. The Old Town, the beautiful lake with its fountain – the jet d’eau – spewing water 400 feet into the air, the great Cathedral of St Pierre, the ancient Russian church with its golden domes, the fine restaurants, which equalled those of Paris. Above all he liked its cleanliness. After the squalor of London and New York he was always glad to get back.

  But some of the pleasure he had always taken from the city was now vitiated by recent events. More and more he found himself in a state of acute depression. He knew the reason: Grace Stansfield Brand. It was ironic, he thought. For months he had been haunted by fear that his partner, Georges di Marco, would carry out his threat to go to the authorities, bringing ruin to his bank. That threat was over. Now a new one had come along in the shape of an insane woman. In many ways Grace Brand posed an even greater threat than di Marco. The old man might have been laughed at had he gone with his story to Bern. He was feeble and foolish. Why would his word have been taken against that of one of Geneva’s most eminent bankers?

  Grace Brand was different. She was crazy. If he clashed with her again over the Julia Lang account there was no knowing what she might do. Now she had telephoned to say she would be in Paris while he was at a Bankers’ Conference there and wanted to see him.

  The prospect horrified him. It was ba
d enough to have to cope with her shouted insults on the telephone; to come face to face with her in the same hotel, perhaps to suffer her abuse while some of his colleagues were around, that was unthinkable.

  As he donned his dark blue blazer he came to a decision. If Grace Brand refused to change her mind over the Julia Lang account he would bring the situation to an end. It had gone on quite long enough. In the safe of his office at the bank was the number of the man who could solve the problem for him.

  He debated whether to wait until morning to get it. But suppose the man was away? He had to find out. He would get it that night, he decided.

  Eberhardt rarely returned to the bank at night because it meant deactivating the elaborate alarm system. But now he was motivated by a sense of urgency. Who knew what Grace Brand would do in Paris? With the man’s services lined up he would feel armed against her. The man! He always thought of him as ‘the man’. He did not know his real name. He had never seen him. The 40,000 Swiss francs were placed in a blank envelope and left in a locker at Cointrin Airport. The key was sent to a box number in Geneva. And the job was done.

  Thank God for ‘the man’. Tonight Eberhardt would alert him; tell him to be ready. A week’s notice – he hoped that would be enough.

  For five days Albert-Jean Cristiani had followed every move Eberhardt made. He watched him leave his house each morning and drive to the bank; he saw him return each night around 6 p.m. At 8.30 p.m., having changed from his formal banking attire, he would emerge wearing a dark blazer and grey slacks and drive to the Lion d’Or where he dined alone at a corner table. By 10.30 he was back home.

  Only on Thursdays, when he drove to Madame Valdoni’s, did he break his routine.

  Cristiani was encouraged. He liked people to be predictable in their movements. It made his life easier.

  On the final night of his surveillance he got a shock. Instead of driving to the Lion d’Or as usual, Eberhardt headed back to the bank. He remained there for half an hour while Cristiani, his car parked at one end of the street behind some others, waited impatiently. When the banker finally emerged and drove home, Cristiani was filled with dismay. What had happened? Why had Eberhardt returned to the bank? Suppose this happened on the night Ravenel and Marie planned to break in? The prospect chilled him. He drove quickly back to his apartment and put in a call to London.

  The telephone rang just as Julia was getting into bed. It was Ravenel.

  ‘Change of plan,’ he said. ‘I’m going to need you after all.’

  ‘You are?’ She was delighted. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘You’re going to pose as a journalist and interview Eberhardt.’

  ‘What?’

  Speaking quietly, Ravenel told her about Eberhardt’s return to the bank the night before.

  ‘We can’t risk that happening again,’ he said. ‘So we need you to keep him occupied.’

  Julia sank to the edge of the bed. Was he serious? He wanted her to sit down with this Swiss banker and pretend to be somebody else? The idea petrified her. She tried to calm herself. She had volunteered to help; she could not back out now.

  ‘I’m not sure I can do that,’ she said slowly.

  ‘Of course you can.’ Ravenel’s tone was brisk. ‘Here’s what you do. Tomorrow morning you call Eberhardt and say you’re Hilary Bennett of the Wall Street Journal, based in London. There really is a Hilary Bennett, by the way; he may even recognize the name. Tell him your paper wants to profile him. He’ll be flattered.’

  ‘Suppose he checks up on me?’

  ‘Tell him this is a rush assignment. You can only do it on Wednesday. Suggest dinner with him that night – let him come up with the place. But you pay, right? That’s what he’ll expect. You’re on expenses. Keep him there as long as you can.’

  ‘What if he’s not free for dinner?’

  ‘I’m sure he will be. I’ve had someone tailing him for five nights. He always dines alone.’

  ‘But what if he isn’t?’

  ‘Sound crestfallen. Tell him how much you’d looked forward to meeting him.’

  ‘He may want some identification.’

  ‘I’ll have some cards printed and get them to you tomorrow. Have you got a tape recorder?’

  ‘A Sony.’

  ‘Take that and a notepad with you.’

  Julia’s apprehension increased. ‘You really think I can pull this off?’

  ‘Positive,’ Ravenel said easily. ‘It’s all going to be fine. Call him in the morning. Tell him you’ll catch an afternoon flight Wednesday. When you get in call me. I’ve booked you at the Bristol. I’m at the Richemond. By then you’ll know where you’re dining. If you don’t, leave a message with the concierge of the hotel. As soon as we’re through I’ll call you at the restaurant. Tell him it’s your office. Then get out of there.’

  ‘I’m going to be scared stiff,’ Julia said.

  ‘You won’t. Think of him as an old fool you’re trying to charm,’ Ravenel said. ‘He’ll eat it up.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure,’ Ravenel said drily. He hung up.

  Julia put down the phone and steadied herself. What have I let myself in for? she thought.

  Chapter 38

  By the time Wednesday arrived Julia was nervous and apprehensive. Paul Eberhardt had been gracious enough on the telephone, agreeing to dine with her that night at a restaurant called Olympe, but the thought of actually sitting face to face with the banker petrified her. Surely he would see through her? He would know she knew nothing about banking and finance. She had no chance of passing herself off as Hilary Bennett. The whole thing would be a disaster.

  But she knew Ravenel was counting on her to do her part. She had already booked a flight for that afternoon and sent a memo to Moscato saying she was going on a quick promotional trip.

  Feeling like a condemned woman she looked into her office just before lunch. Emma was in a high state of excitement.

  ‘Want to hear the latest?’

  ‘Gustave Plesset’s quit?’

  ‘Nothing like that. It’s about Bryan Penrose.’

  The Burlington’s Director of Sales and Marketing was now married to Pam Helmore, the hotel’s chief cashier. Julia had been invited to the wedding but that was the week she’d flown to Mexico.

  ‘Well,’ Emma said, ‘last Sunday they drove to the Cotswolds for lunch. Upper Slaughter. There’s a terrific hotel there – the Old Red House. Pam’s sister, Sarah, is the cashier. You met her once.’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘They’d just sat down in the bar for a drink when guess who they saw going into the dining room?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Mr Moscato and Chantal Ricci. Holding hands.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘What did Pam and Bryan do?’

  ‘They finished their drink and left. They didn’t want Mr Moscato to see them. On their way out they took a look at the visitors’ book. The lovebirds were signed in as Mr and Mrs Guido Moscato of Milan, Italy.’

  ‘That wasn’t very discreet.’

  ‘They probably felt safe,’ Emma said. ‘They’d never dream they’d be spotted there.’

  ‘I should have guessed,’ Julia said. ‘It explains everything. I can’t believe I didn’t see it. It’s so obvious now.’

  ‘He must have something,’ Emma said. ‘Though personally I can’t see it.’

  ‘He’s an important hotel manager,’ Julia said. ‘And young Miss Ricci is very ambitious.’

  ‘I suppose that’s it.’ Emma handed her the day’s mail and turned to leave. ‘What time are you off?’

  ‘Three o’clock. I’ve got to pack first.’

  ‘Enjoy yourself in Switzerland,’ Emma said. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  Julia gave her a long look. ‘Don’t hold me to that,’ she said.

  As soon as Julia arrived in Geneva she telephoned Ravenel and told him she was di
ning with Eberhardt that night at Olympe. ‘I made it as late as I could. Nine o’clock.’

  ‘Any problems?’ he asked.

  ‘None. He seemed delighted.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘I’m terrified. I keep thinking he’ll recognize me; realize I’m a phoney.’

  ‘Relax, Julia.’ It was the first time he had called her by her given name, she realized. ‘He can’t recognize you. He’s never seen you. He’ll be much too busy talking about himself and trying to impress you to be suspicious. Put the tape recorder on the table. Ask if he minds. Then keep on plying him with questions.’

  ‘I can’t think of any. My mind’s gone blank.’

  ‘Ask him lots of personal stuff. Get him talking about the European Currency Unit, speculators, that sort of thing. Ask him if he thinks the dollar will go up or down – I’d like to know that myself. Keep him talking.’

  ‘What time do you go in?’

  ‘Ten o’clock. I’ll call you the minute we’re through.’ He paused. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘I’m going to need it,’ Julia said.

  Chapter 39

  Cristiani had come through as promised. Ravenel had the duplicate key in his pocket. Now all he needed was the nerve.

  In his life he had done some risky things. But what he contemplated doing this time was crazy: illegally entering a bank to search for a file that might no longer exist. How absurd, how quixotic, to suppose he could get away with it. Then why do it? Was it the prospect of $2 million? Or the challenge of doing something that had never been done before – gaining unauthorized access to a private Swiss bank?

  To help calm their nerves he had arranged to take Marie to dinner before leaving for the rue de Hesse. He had made reservations at Le Duc on the Quai du Mont-Blanc. A good dinner, he reasoned, might ease the sinking feeling in his stomach. But half an hour before he was due to leave for the restaurant Marie called. She was delayed in Montreux. Her mother was unwell. She would have to skip dinner but would meet him at 10 p.m. at the Café des Banques.