The Account

by Roderick Mann

So Ravenel dined alone in the hotel restaurant, concerned about Julia, concerned about Marie, concerned about himself. He ate little and immediately afterwards went up to his room and put on a dark blue business suit. His only concession to his nocturnal plan was to wear a dark blue shirt, rather than a white one, and an even darker tie. Determined to have nothing incriminating on him he carried only a mini Maglite – innocent enough – and a Minox camera. In his pocket he slipped a small packet of needles.

  At 9.45 p.m. exactly he put on a raincoat and took a taxi to the corner of the rue de Hesse and the Boulevard Georges Favon. There were only a few people in the Café des Banques. He ordered a brandy. Nobody paid any attention to him but a couple of men looked up when Marie arrived a few moments later. She was wearing a long black skirt, a frilly black and white check blouse and black boots. No coat. She looked spectacular.

  Ravenel glowered. ‘I told you to come dressed like a hooker.’

  ‘That way we’d be sure to be picked up,’ she said. ‘Brandy for me too, please.’

  ‘How’s Mama?’

  ‘A little better. It’s flu, I think. Julia all right?’

  ‘They’re having dinner now.’

  They downed their drinks quickly, and went out into the cold night. The rain had stopped but the streets were still damp. Ravenel glanced up and down the rue de Hesse. It was deserted. Hand in hand, trying to look like trysting lovers, they walked up the street. In Ravenel’s pocket was the key. If it didn’t fit … well, he knew the answer to that one. They would have to run for it or they would both spend the rest of their lives in one of Switzerland’s maximum security prisons. And from what he had heard about them he knew he didn’t want to be in one.

  ‘Coming up,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I see it,’ Marie replied.

  in the darkness the wrought-iron door of the Banque Eberhardt looked massive and forbidding, the sort that would yield to nothing less than a frontal assault by an M1 tank. Unless you had the key.

  He had a key. But would it fit?

  They walked straight past the bank looking up at the darkened windows for signs of life. Nothing. Nor were there lights visible in the buildings on either side. This was a business district. The good burghers of the area were all home, watching TV, boring their wives, lying to their mistresses.

  Ravenel and Marie crossed the street.

  ‘You stay here,’ he said. ‘If the key fits, come in quickly after me and stand quite still. If it doesn’t, take off. I don’t know how long it will take the police to get here but we shouldn’t be together.’

  Marie nodded. ‘If it goes wrong, dump the key. You can’t be found with it on you.’

  Ravenel walked quickly across the street. He hesitated for just a moment, his throat constricted, his guts knotted, then inserted the key in the brass lock of the door. It slid in easily. It turned. The door swung open. He started to breathe again, confidence returning with a rush.

  Ravenel turned but Marie was already behind him. They stepped inside, closing the door, and stood there listening. There was no sound. Gradually their eyes became used to the darkness.

  ‘I feel like a burglar,’ he said.

  ‘You are a burglar,’ she said.

  Ravenel turned on the Maglite and looked around for the source of the invisible beam. It was exactly where Cristiani had predicted, halfway into the entrance hall. He took off his raincoat and dumped it on the floor. ‘I’ll go first,’ he whispered.

  Carefully he stepped over the beam, poised for a quick retreat if he triggered the alarm. Then he remembered the alarm would ring at the police station – not at the bank. He wouldn’t hear it.

  He turned to Marie. ‘Now you.’

  She moved forward.

  ‘Lift your skirt,’ he hissed.

  ‘Is that a proposition?’ She was nervous; trying not to show it. She hoisted her skirt and stepped over the beam.

  ‘Watch out for pressure pads,’ he whispered. ‘Keep to the side.’ He glanced at the TV camera above the reception desk. It seemed to be aimed straight at them. Were the police even now piling into their cars? He tried not to think about it.

  Moving the Maglite from side to side they crept slowly up the steps leading to the reception area, pausing every few seconds to listen.

  No sound.

  Ahead of them were two elevators with curved stairs on either side leading to the next floor. They took the right staircase, keeping to one side, hoping to bypass any pressure pad alarms. On the second floor was another beam. This time Marie lifted her skirt high, exposing white thighs and black panties.

  ‘Any offers?’ she said.

  Nervous as he was, Ravenel smiled. He looked around. ‘Let’s try this corridor.’

  ‘Trust me,’ she said. ‘The next floor.’

  Carefully they climbed to the third floor, which was carpeted. Marie led the way along a corridor to the right, stopping at an unmarked door. ‘This is Eberhardt’s office,’ she said.

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I came to see him while you were enjoying yourself in London. I said I was looking for a job.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He’s thinking about it.’

  Ravenel chuckled. Thank God for Marie. He turned the handle of Eberhardt’s door. It was unlocked. He walked in flashing the light around. The office was mahogany panelled, with paintings on two of the walls. In one corner, by the window, was an ornate French desk with a high-backed gilt chair behind it. In front was a smaller chair; also gilt. Along one wall was an antique table on which lay a collection of financial newspapers and magazines. Everything in the office was designed to instil confidence, to make you feel: Your money is safe with us. Have no fear.

  ‘Next room,’ Marie said. She beckoned him towards a doorway leading to an adjacent office, obviously a secretary’s. There was a wooden desk against one wall with a computer on it. Next to it stood an electric typewriter. There was a filing cabinet against the opposite wall.

  Marie took the Maglite and tried the cabinet.

  It was unlocked.

  She pulled out a drawer, flicked through some files. ‘Personal letters,’ she said. ‘No use.’

  ‘Let’s try the computer,’ Ravenel suggested.

  ‘You know the access code?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then forget it.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We’ll try the next room.’

  They went back into the corridor and crept along to the room next door. Inside was a long table. On either side were filing cabinets.

  ‘Eureka,’ Marie said. She tried one of the cabinets. It was locked. ‘Merde,’ she breathed. She tried the others. All were locked.

  ‘Fucked by the fickle finger of fate,’ Ravenel said.

  He went over to the window and looked down at the street below, expecting at any moment to see the flashing lights of a police car. Everything was quiet. He took the packet of steel needles from his pocket.

  ‘Losing a button?’ Marie enquired.

  ‘Hold this light.’

  While she did so, he examined the lock on the first filing cabinet.

  ‘Which one should we try?’

  ‘His name was Brand. How about the one marked A-D?’

  ‘Don’t be so smart,’ Ravenel said. He went to work on the lock, holding the needle between his thumb and forefinger, twisting it gently inside the lock. There was a click. The lock slid out half an inch, opening the cabinet.

  ‘Where did you learn that trick?’ Marie asked.

  ‘FBI Academy,’ he said.

  ‘You’re really a menace.’

  She opened the drawer and flicked quickly through the green-coloured files while Ravenel held the light for her. Finally she withdrew one and put it on the table.

  ‘This seems to be the most recent,’ she said.

  There were sheaves of papers in the file, in French, German and English. As far as Ravenel could see they were lists of investments and deposits aroun
d the world.

  ‘The man’s loaded,’ Marie muttered.

  ‘Was,’ Ravenel said.

  She continued going through the papers. There seemed to be nothing useful. Then, towards the end of the file, she found it. ‘Look.’ She took the light and shone it on Robert Brand’s note, written on Burlington Hotel notepaper and signed, ordering the setting up of a $20 million account for Julia Lang.

  ‘Got him,’ Ravenel said. He took the Minox from his pocket and positioned it carefully above the file paper. He took two photos. ‘Now let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Wait,’ she said. An idea had occurred to her. ‘Let’s look at the other files.’

  ‘What other files?’

  ‘There are two other Brand files in there,’ she said. She went across to the cabinet and brought them back.

  ‘We don’t need any more,’ Ravenel said.’

  ‘Just an idea,’ Marie said. She began leafing through the files, turning over ancient papers dating back, as far as Ravenel could see, to the late thirties. All were in German. What the devil was she doing? She was calmly going through the files as though it were the most normal thing in the world for them to be there. Suddenly she paused and flicked back to a previous sheet.

  ‘That’s interesting,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take a picture.’

  Ravenel looked at the paper. ‘That’s dated 1938,’ he said. ‘Can’t be the same guy.’

  ‘Take a picture,’ she said.

  He positioned the Minox again. ‘Now let’s go.’

  ‘Not yet. Open the next cabinet. The E-H.’

  ‘Dammit, Marie, we’ve got what we wanted.’

  He was becoming more and more agitated. If they’d accidentally tripped one of the beams, he thought, the police would be on the way. He could see himself in the courtyard trudging round with the other lifers.

  ‘Open it.’ Her face was serious now.

  Full of misgivings Ravenel worked the needle again. The lock slid out. Marie searched through until she found an early file marked ‘Eberhardt’, the papers yellow with age, and began leafing through it.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Ravenel hissed.

  ‘Clues,’ she said. ‘You know what clues are, don’t you?’

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he breathed. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Aha!’ She slid a page from the file. ‘Take a picture,’ she said.

  He positioned the camera.

  She produced another sheet.

  ‘One more,’ she said.

  ‘Marie …’

  ‘One more.’

  She held the yellowing sheet down while he positioned the camera.

  ‘Now come on,’ he hissed. ‘I think I heard sirens.’

  They both listened.

  ‘Far away,’ she said.

  ‘Not far enough.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘That’ll do.’

  She replaced the files in the cabinets, closed them and made sure they were locked.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ Ravenel whispered. They crept along the corridor and down the stairs, keeping to the side again. When they reached the entrance lobby she turned to him.

  ‘Let’s leave a note,’ she said. ‘Kilroy was here.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake …’

  They stepped over the beam in the entrance hall. Ravenel picked up his raincoat and cracked open the front door. He looked out. The street was deserted.

  ‘All clear.’

  They moved out, pulling the door shut behind them, and walked quickly towards the Boulevard Georges Favon. Giddy with success, near to hysteria, Ravenel put his arm around Marie.

  ‘We did it,’ he said. ‘We really did it.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said excitedly, snuggling up to him. ‘Wasn’t that a turn-on? I feel like doing it all over again. I feel like … you know what I feel like?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘Some passionate sex.’

  He looked at her. ‘We can’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to call Julia at Olympe.’

  ‘Oh merde. I’d forgotten.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Maybe she’d like to join in?’

  ‘Marie.’ Ravenel was genuinely shocked. ‘She’s English. And she’s pregnant.’

  Marie was still glum-faced when they reached the end of the street and waved down a cruising taxi. But she brightened when they got back to the hotel. While Ravenel made the call she went up to the room he had reserved for her to freshen up. Then they adjourned to the bar to await Julia.

  Over brandies.

  Chapter 40

  After her initial nervousness Julia was surprised to find herself enjoying her dinner with Paul Eberhardt. The restaurant was elegant and charming, with superb Art-Deco décor and delicious food. Eberhardt, distinguished-looking in a light suit and discreet tie, proved to be an amusing and entertaining companion. She realized he was enjoying being interviewed.

  He spoke at length about his early days in Germany with the Deutsche Bank. ‘It was so different then,’ he said. ‘We wore top hats and striped trousers.’ He talked about the great private banks of Geneva – Lombard Odier, Pictet, Rothschild, Darier and Hentsch – some of them founded during the Napoleonic era to handle the investments of the Emperor. ‘Now there are only twenty left,’ he said. He told her how the Groupement underwrote the bonds issued by the City of Geneva – ‘But of course you know all this.’

  She was surprised that he talked so frankly about the death of his wife, Hilde, from cancer; about his concern for the bank’s future after he had gone. ‘I have a good partner, a man named Alain Charrier,’ he said. ‘He is splendid but not as good as Georges di Marco. He was a great loss. That was a nice obituary your paper carried.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Julia said. She had no idea what he was talking about.

  ‘I should probably have retired long ago,’ Eberhardt continued. ‘But, as I say, I am concerned for the bank. I have no immediate heirs. Anyway, what would I do with my life? I enjoy my day-to-day work at the bank. I look after the fortunes of some very prominent people. I like to think I am respected in the banking community.’

  He smiled self-consciously, as if mildly embarrassed to have talked so much. ‘Now let me ask you some questions. How long have you been with the Journal?’

  ‘Forever, it seems,’ Julia said, hoping this would satisfy him.

  ‘I’ve been reading you for quite some time,’ Eberhardt said.

  ‘That’s because I write such a lot,’ she said. Her laugh sounded hollow even to herself.

  ‘Where were you before?’

  ‘The Financial Times. I’m English.’

  ‘I realize that. Is it usual for an American paper to employ a British journalist?’

  ‘It does happen,’ Julia said. ‘They needed someone in London so they came to me.’

  ‘They made a good choice, I’m sure,’ Eberhardt said. ‘Remind me of your editor’s name?’

  Julia’s calm abandoned her briefly. She dropped her pen on the floor and made a great business of picking it up.

  ‘The man I deal with is Walter Bushell,’ she said. ‘He’s terrific. I’m sure you’ve come across him.’

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  ‘I’m surprised. He comes here a lot. Geneva is one of his favourite cities.’

  ‘To be honest with you I don’t have much contact with journalists,’ Eberhardt said. ‘I have not given an interview in years. It was only because I know your work that I agreed to meet you this evening.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Julia said, relieved that he had let it go at that. When Eberhardt looked away to order more coffee she stole a quick glance at her watch. It was 10.30 p.m. Ravenel had to be out of the bank by now. What was keeping him?

  Eberhardt turned back to her. ‘Can you stay over tomorrow?’

  She shook her head. ‘I have to go back to London in the morning.’

  ‘Stay until lunchtime. I could show you round the bank. You’d find it interesting.
We could lunch nearby before you leave for the airport.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Monsieur Eberhardt.’ Julia reached across and shut off the tape recorder. She slipped it into her purse together with the notebook. ‘Perhaps another time …’

  ‘There is a great deal to see and enjoy in Geneva,’ he said. ‘We have fine theatre, a great orchestra …’ He was silent while the new coffees were served. ‘When do you propose to run this story?’

  ‘I’ll write it tomorrow,’ Julia said. ‘After that it’s up to them.’

  ‘You said there was some kind of rush.’

  ‘But I don’t know the exact day they’ll use it.’

  At that moment the maitre d’ came over. ‘Mademoiselle Bennett? Telephone for you.’

  Eberhardt looked puzzled.

  ‘My office,’ Julia said. ‘I told them where I’d be.’

  She took the call in the booth by the entrance.

  ‘Get to the Richemond as soon as you can,’ Ravenel said. He hung up.

  She returned to the table. ‘That settles it,’ she said. ‘They want the story as soon as possible. I’ll have to start writing tonight.’

  She held up her hand for the bill. Eberhardt made no protest. She took out her Visa card and then, dismayed, realized he would see her name on it. She slid it back into her wallet and took out the sheaf of Swiss bank notes she had bought at the airport.

  ‘Please,’ Eberhardt said. He picked up the bill. ‘This has been so enjoyable. Allow me.’

  He escorted her to the door, his hand beneath her elbow. ‘Where are you staying, Hilary?’

  ‘The Bristol,’ she said.

  ‘I will drop you off,’ he said. ‘It’s not out of my way. You’ll never find a taxi.’

  Her nervousness returned. What if he wants to come in, she thought. Or hears them call me ‘Miss Lang’?

  ‘I’ll have to transcribe my notes right away,’ she said.

  ‘I understand.’ He opened the passenger door and helped her slide into the Renault. Five minutes later he dropped her off at the hotel.

  ‘Thank you for a most interesting evening,’ Julia said. ‘But it should have been my bill.’

  ‘Now you will feel obliged to return,’ Eberhardt said. ‘I hope you do.’ He kissed her hand. ‘Goodbye, Hilary.’