‘Not good.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Moscato’s ruining the place. Everyone hates him. And we’re not doing that well any more. The Sultan says he may sell.’
Michael looked surprised. ‘That’ll be a blow. He was so proud of the Burlington.’
‘So were we all,’ Julia said. ‘Once.’
The food arrived and for several minutes they ate in silence, content with each other’s company. When Julia looked up she saw a familiar figure approaching. It was Jeremy Orde, the columnist.
‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘Look who’s here.’
‘Hello,’ she said, without enthusiasm.
Orde nodded curtly to Michael before turning to Julia. ‘What’s going on at that hotel of yours?’ he demanded. ‘There are all sorts of rumours.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Yes, really,’ he mimicked. ‘I heard the other day the place may be sold. What’s the matter? Is that randy little Sultan running out of money?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ Julia said tersely.
‘Frankly I’m not surprised it got dropped from the Top Ten list. Last time I was there all I saw were glum faces. It’s not doing well, they tell me.’
‘You have better information than I do.’
‘I hope so,’ Orde said. ‘I also have a pair of eyes.’ He smirked. ‘It’s surprising, really. After Brand keeled over on top of that bimbo I felt sure the place would be packed. All that publicity we gave you.’
Julia said nothing.
‘Who’s running it, anyway? Orde went on. ‘Moscato or that Italian tart Ricci?’
‘Why don’t you ask them? Julia said.
‘I’m asking you.’
Michael put down his knife and fork and looked up. ‘Get lost, chum,’ he said.
Orde turned to look at him. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said take off. We’re having dinner.’
‘That had not escaped me,’ Orde said.
‘Here’s something else that will not escape you,’ Michael said, getting to his feet. At six feet two he towered above Orde. Taking hold of the journalist’s tie, Michael pulled him forward until their faces were almost touching across the table. Diners on either side watched in astonishment. ‘When I’m having a quiet dinner I don’t choose to have turds like you interrupting it. Is that clear?’
He released Orde, who pulled himself back sharply. Glaring at both of them he moved away to join some people at a table at the far end of the room. Fabio rushed over to Michael and Julia.
‘I’m sorry, Fabio,’ Michael said. ‘A little misunderstanding. It’s over now.’
He sat down again and turned to Julia who was pale-faced. ‘Now,’ he said briskly. ‘What about some dessert?’
She shook her head.
‘You’re upset with me? Michael asked.
‘Upset? she echoed. ‘I’ve been longing for someone to put that little rat in his place.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘I loved what you did.’
Later, Michael dropped Julia off at her flat. ‘I suppose this is it,’ he said.
Julia kissed him on both cheeks. ‘We’ll see each other again, Michael. Somewhere.’
He smiled ruefully. ‘I like your hellos better than your goodbyes.’
‘There’ll be other hellos for you,’ Julia said, a little tearful.
‘I suppose so.’ He kissed her on the forehead, looked at her for a long moment, then turned and got back in the car.
‘It’s getting nasty around here,’ Emma said the following afternoon.
‘What’s happened now?’
‘Moscato’s fired Pam Helmore. And Bryan Penrose resigned in protest.’
‘But why?’
‘Moscato says she’s inefficient. Sound familiar? I think that Ricci woman did some snooping and found out Pam’s sister works at the Old Red House and that’s how you got hold of those bills. Anyway, Pam’s been sacked.’
Julia felt a wave of anger sweep over her. Her first instinct was to go straight to Moscato’s office and confront him. But she knew she must calm down before doing that. She knew, too, in that moment, that she was through at the Burlington. The situation had become impossible. But first she had some things to do.
She sat down at her keyboard.
‘What are you doing?’ Emma asked.
‘I have to send off a couple of news stories,’ Julia said.
‘I’ll do them for you.’
‘No, Emma. You’re not to know anything about these.’
It took her thirty minutes to finish. She read the stories over carefully and slid them into envelopes addressed to Tony Vickers of the Daily Express and Arthur Brandon of the Daily Mail. She then wrote a long letter to the Sultan of Malacca, resigning and giving him the reasons.
At four o’clock, a time she knew Moscato was always alone and most people in the executive corridor were in their offices, Julia walked in ignoring the protest of Moscato’s new young secretary.
She left the door wide open. ‘So you’ve fired Pam Helmore, have you?’ she demanded.
Moscato, who had been bent over his desk reading some papers, looked up angrily.
‘Before you start protesting, the only way you’ll get me out of here before I’ve said my piece is to throw me out physically. And I can tell you right now you won’t find one person in this hotel who’ll help you. You’ll have to do it yourself. And if you lay one finger on me by God you’ll regret it.’
Moscato looked wildly at her. ‘You’re fired. Leave this office at once.’
‘You can’t fire me. I have a contract. So just sit there and shut up.’ Caught up in a wave of anger and overcome with revulsion for the man sitting in front of her, Julia stormed on. Her voice rose. ‘You’re a despicable little shit, Moscato. How I ever allowed myself to work for you I’ll never understand. I should have spat in your face and walked out of here the day you walked in. But I’m going now and before I do you’re going to listen to me.
‘I’ve sent a story about what you’ve done to both the Mail and the Express. And when they print it, and print it they will, I’ll make sure cuttings go off to the Sultan. I want him to know just what kind of a man he hired to ruin this wonderful hotel.’
The executive corridor, which usually hummed with activity at this hour, had now gone eerily quiet.
‘You’re scum, Moscato. You’re not even, as I once thought, a decent hotel manager. A real hotelier does not tyrannize his employees as you do, or dismiss people for other people’s mistakes. The way you were ready to fire my secretary to please your bedtime pal Ricci proved what a contemptible swine you really are.’
Moscato, his face pale, glanced towards the open door. He half rose from his chair, then sat down again.
‘You’ve ruined this hotel, Moscato. You’ve betrayed everything that was fine and decent about it. When the Burlington was dropped from the list of top hotels there wasn’t one person among the staff – not one – who wasn’t glad because it was a slap in the face for you.’ She paused, breathing hard.
‘You’re trash, Moscato. You raped me in Italy –’ she pitched her voice high – ‘You raped me, a kid who trusted you and enjoyed working for you. What a gentleman. I nearly lost the sight of one eye – did you know that? – in my fight to keep your dirty hands off me. It took months for me to recover, months, and even now I can’t look at you without wanting to vomit. I hope, I sincerely hope, that the Sultan kicks you out not only for what you did to me – I’ve written him the details – but for what you’ve done to this hotel. You’re garbage, Moscato.’
She stood there, her heart thumping wildly, her face flushed. There was a long silence. No sound came from any of the other offices in the executive corridor. With a last look of contempt at the man sitting slumped before her she turned and strode from the room.
Chapter 45
Paul Eberhardt had hoped to enjoy his stay in Paris. The conference was an important one. He knew the speech he was to give would be well received.
But he w
as on edge. Grace Brand was still in the hotel – he had caught sight of her for the first time the day before, getting into the elevator. How much longer was it going to take? It was already a week since he had made the final arrangement. What had happened to the man? He had a local number to make contact in an emergency. If nothing happened in the next twenty-four hours he would have to use it.
On the third day, as he emerged from the elevator, he came face to face with her. She was standing in the richly carpeted salon de thé, wearing a black suit with a deep V neck. He had forgotten how tall she was.
‘So there you are,’ she said. ‘I wondered how much longer you’d keep avoiding me.’
‘Good morning, Madame Brand. I’m afraid I am rather pressed for time …’
‘I think you can spare a few minutes,’ she said. ‘I have something important I wish to discuss.’
‘It will have to be quick, madame. I am attending an important conference.’
‘Don’t try my patience, Monsieur Eberhardt. Sit down and listen to what I have to say.’
Reluctantly Eberhardt went over to one of the ornate chairs. He sat down carefully.
She took a seat opposite him.
‘First of all,’ she said, ‘I have decided to remove my accounts from your bank.’
‘That is your privilege.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ she said sharply. ‘I know very well what I can and cannot do. You will shortly be receiving instructions regarding the accounts.’
Eberhardt frowned. ‘There are many investments.’
‘You will be told what to do about those.’
Eberhardt took out a handkerchief and dabbed his lips. He felt exposed and vulnerable in front of this formidable woman. Two of his colleagues were standing talking not fifteen feet away. One of them glanced in his direction and nodded.
‘I have looked after the Brand accounts for many years, Madame Brand. They have prospered under my stewardship. I really feel –’
Her look was steely. ‘You don’t seem to understand. It no longer serves a useful purpose to bank with you. For reasons we both know, it suited Robert Brand to keep his private money with you. It does not suit me.’
Eberhardt, obliged to sit and listen, nodded stonily. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘You hinted on the telephone that, because of a letter you received, you were considering transferring money to an account my late husband ill-advisedly attempted to set up.’
‘The account was set up before his death, Madame Brand. Under Swiss law –’
‘I am not interested in your fucking Swiss law,’ she said quietly. Eberhardt’s face flushed. He looked around to see if they had been overheard. ‘That account does not exist. Is that understood?’ Even more quietly she said: ‘It is within my power to ruin you. While my husband was alive I could not do that. Now I can. You would do well to remember it.’
Distressed, Eberhardt looked at his watch. ‘I’m sorry. I have to leave. I will await your instructions regarding the accounts –’
‘Stay where you are,’ she said. ‘I have not finished.’
Eberhardt tried one last time. ‘I told you, Madame Brand, that a man named Ravenel had sent me a hand-delivered letter advising that he has obtained a copy of Robert Brand’s instructions regarding the new account. He warned that unless the account is set up he will contact the New York Times.’
‘And I told you the man is bluffing.’
‘I don’t think he is. He mentions a name in the letter which proves it.’
‘What name? What are you talking about?’
‘He mentions someone who was present when the Brand accounts were first set up. He clearly knows a great deal.’
‘That is ancient history. It does not bother me.’
‘Then it should, Madame Brand. It is the source of your present wealth.’
‘You impertinent fool …’
Suddenly Eberhardt’s desire to strike back at Grace Brand overcame his fear of her. He got to his feet. ‘Since I am no longer your banker I do not have to tolerate your abuse and insults, madame. And, for your information, two days ago I signed the authority to pay $20 million from the Brand account to Julia Lang in accordance with the late Robert Brand’s instructions.’
Grace Brand’s face seemed to change. Her cheeks sagged, her eyes bulged, her lips turned down at the edges. She rose slowly to her feet.
‘You treacherous bastard,’ she shouted. She struck him viciously across the face. Caught off guard, he staggered and fell, clutching the side of one of the chairs, which toppled over. ‘You dare go against my orders. You dare!’ She made a wild lunge at him again as he clambered to his feet. ‘You’ve thrown that money away, you stupid fool. You’ve given it to a dead woman …’
Suddenly everyone in the long salon was silent. There was the sound of running footsteps and two of the concierges rushed in from the front desk, eyes wide. No one spoke. Everyone stared aghast at the extraordinary tableau; the elderly Swiss banker clutching a chair for support; the elegantly dressed woman, a blue vein pulsating in her forehead, standing before him, eyes blazing.
Eberhardt straightened up. Turning, he walked unsteadily towards the elevators. When he reached his room he sat down on the bed for a few moments, trying to calm himself. Then he picked up the telephone.
Ravenel studied his face in the mirror of his hotel room in Washington, discouraged to see how pale he looked. There were dark circles under his eyes; a slight stubble on his chin. It was not surprising. He had spent two eight-hour days in the warehouse of the Central Office of the Immigration and Naturalization Service in suburban Maryland searching through files. He was exhausted. But he had found what he had come for, what he had suspected since talking with Heinz Linge. And with the arrival of the di Marco diary the pieces of the puzzle were now in place; there were no more questions.
He realized how hungry he was. He had sustained himself for the past twenty-four hours on cup after cup of black coffee. But it was finished now. He would catch the shuttle and take his daughter to an early dinner in New York. Then he would fly to London to give Julia the news.
Chapter 46
The day after her confrontation with Moscato, Julia walked out of her office for the last time. She had spent the afternoon clearing her desk and saying goodbye to friends at the hotel. Everyone seemed to have heard what had happened. People she barely knew came up to congratulate her. The story of the rape had circulated quickly. Moscato, she was told, had not put his face outside his office all day.
At 6 p.m. she took Emma out for a farewell drink. ‘Your job is safe,’ she assured her. ‘Moscato won’t dare touch you.’
‘I don’t care about that,’ Emma said. ‘It’s you I’m worried about. What will you do?’
‘It’ll be fine,’ Julia said with more confidence than she felt.
By the time she got home she was exhausted. Half of her could not believe what she had done. But she felt cleansed, relieved. Each day she had spent near Moscato had made her feel in some way contaminated. Now it was over.
Just as she was about to get in the shower the phone rang.
It was Lisa. ‘I’m alone,’ she said. ‘The Prince is in town for a couple of days and has Deena. Want to share a pork chop?’
‘I’ll be there in half an hour. I’ve got something to tell you.’
‘Incidentally,’ Lisa said, ‘your answering machine isn’t picking up. I called you a couple of times already.’
‘I’ll have a look at it,’ Julia said.
‘You really said that?’ Lisa clapped her hands together.
‘And you wrote to George?’
Julia smiled at the ‘George’. ‘I even told him about the rape.’
Lisa nodded approval. ‘I’d have given a lot to have seen Moscato’s face when you marched in.’
‘He just sat there. Hardly said a word.’
Lisa poured herself another glass of wine. ‘Truthfully I’m surprised you lasted as long as you
did with that slug.’
‘It was at the cost of my pride. But I loved the hotel. Moscato turned it into a gulag.’
‘Think, though, if you’d walked out when Moscato first got there you’d never have met Robert.’
‘Maybe that would have been a good thing …’
‘You must think positively,’ Lisa said cheerfully. ‘At least you’ll have someone to bring in the firewood when you’re an old hag. Any more news of Guy?’
Julia shook her head. ‘No. I don’t get it. He found the evidence that the bank lied. I thought that was it. Then he called to say he was going to Paris. Next there was a message saying he was off to Washington.’
‘I can tell you one thing,’ Lisa said, ‘he won’t be wasting time. That’s something you can rely on.’
‘He said I was sure to get the money. I won’t believe it till the cheque’s in my hand and I’ve paid him his share.’
‘How much are you giving him?’
‘Two million.’
‘What? The Prince paid him only $100,000.’
‘He asked for $2 million and I said yes. Look what he did for me. Without him I’d be nowhere.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘What did he do for the Prince? You never told me.’
Lisa chuckled. ‘The Prince is sometimes a little indiscreet. Once in New York he was indiscreet with some diplomat’s wife. The man found out and tried to blackmail him. He thought he had a chance to dip his fingers in the royal treasury. Then one night Guy called on him and explained how unwise he was being. That was the end of it.’
Julia smiled. She could just imagine it. Guy Ravenel could be a scary figure. But what exactly was he up to now?
Chapter 47
Friday afternoon is not the best time to arrive in London. Traffic was heavy and it was an hour and a quarter before Ravenel checked into the Berkeley. A light rain was falling; the hotel was sheathed in a fine mist.
There was a message at the desk: ‘Call me urgently – Cristiani.’ It had come in just after lunch.
Ravenel, gritty-eyed and tired, went straight to his room and put in the call.
The Account Page 25
