The Account

by Roderick Mann

‘What’s up, pal?’

  ‘Jesus, Guy. Thank God you called.’ There was an undercurrent of alarm in Cristiani’s voice. ‘I had the most extraordinary call this morning from Paul Eberhardt. He’s in Paris. So is Grace Brand. They’ve had the most terrible confrontation in the Plaza-Athénée. She slapped his face in front of some of his colleagues. Screamed abuse at him. He went straight to his room and called me. Told me everything; how she tried to stop him opening the account for Julia; threatened him if he did …’

  Ravenel sat down on the bed. ‘Why call you?’

  ‘He’s scared,’ Cristiani said. ‘I could tell by his voice. He told me that when he got your letter he transferred the money to Julia immediately. A bank in the Channel Islands. He knows that if anything happens to her now there’ll be hell to pay. The whole story will come out.’

  Ravenel’s voice rose. ‘What do you mean – if anything happens to her?’

  ‘When Eberhardt told Grace Brand he’d transferred the money, that’s when she hit him. She screamed something like: “You’ve thrown that money away. You’ve given it to a dead woman.”’

  Ravenel was shaken. ‘She said that?’

  ‘She was deranged, Eberhardt says. He thinks she’s crazy enough to do something terrible. He wants us to warn Julia. He likes her, he says –’

  ‘Likes her?’ Ravenel shot back. ‘What’s he talking about? He doesn’t know her.’

  ‘He knows it was her he had dinner with in Geneva. He found out somehow. He thinks she was just playing an innocent trick on him. He didn’t seem resentful; just concerned about her. I’ve been calling her home number to warn her. There’s no reply.’

  Ravenel felt suddenly shaky. Fatigue mixed with fear. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  He hung up and dialled Julia’s number. There was no reply. He tried Lisa’s number. There was no answer there either. He left a message on her machine to call him urgently and tried Julia’s number again. Filled with dread he sat slumped on the edge of the bed, holding the receiver tightly while the phone rang and rang …

  Julia had spent the day with Lisa, shopping at Harrods and lunching at a Knightsbridge restaurant renowned for its health food. When it began to drizzle Lisa suggested a French film that had been highly praised.

  ‘We’ve got to do this often now you’re free,’ Lisa said.

  Julia agreed. It had been so long since she’d taken a weekday off she was truly enjoying herself.

  She was back in her flat by 6.30 p.m. There were some letters on the hall table, arranged in a neat pile by Rosie. She debated whether to go through them immediately or change into her tracksuit for a quick walk. The walk won. She had missed her regular exercise for several days. She knew how important it was not to become lazy. Picking up a torch she set off.

  The park itself had closed at dusk so she was forced to circle it, striding along Cambridge Terrace and cutting down Chester Road. Because of the earlier rain the trees and bushes were dripping steadily. There was no sound anywhere, not even the barking of dogs. All she could hear was her own breathing as she walked along.

  Suddenly she slowed, aware of a sound. She stopped and listened. Others used this route at night, joggers and walkers like herself. But no one else was about and she felt apprehensive.

  ‘Hello,’ she called.

  Silence.

  Looking back all she could see was an empty road, bordered on both sides by hedges. The sound, she felt sure, had come from inside the park itself. At that moment the weak moon was obscured by drifting cloud and the darkness intensified; the road now seemed like a black tunnel. She switched on her torch.

  ‘Is anyone there?’

  There was no reply.

  By the time dusk settled over London, Ravenel was racked with worry. Where in God’s name was she? Perhaps someone in her building would know? It was a long shot but anything was better than sitting cooped up in his hotel room. He left a message with the hotel switchboard operator in case Lisa called, and went down to find a taxi. By the time he reached Great Portland Street it was quite dark. He looked up at Julia’s windows on the third floor. No lights. Still hopeful, he pressed her buzzer. There was no response. One by one he pressed the other buttons on the panel. Finally one of them answered: ‘Hello.’ A woman.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Ravenel had to yell to be heard above the noise of the traffic. ‘I need your help. I’m trying to find Julia Lang.’

  ‘She just went out,’ the woman said. ‘Ten minutes ago. I saw her at the door.’

  ‘Do you know where she went?’

  ‘She had on a tracksuit. My guess would be Regent’s Park. She usually –’

  Ravenel started running.

  The streets around the park were dark and smelled of winter; rotting leaves, wet grass and weeping trees. It was cold. Ravenel shivered as he walked along, looking from left to right, feeling exposed and vulnerable. He did not know this area, where the streets led. All he knew was that down one of them Julia Lang was walking, unaware that in the darkness someone could be waiting for her.

  To the right were the Georgian terraces, illuminated by hazy streetlights. He walked quickly, his heart thudding, his shoes echoing on the wet pavement. To the left was a smaller road, bisecting the park. Leafless trees lined either side. He turned down it, then stood still, listening, sure he had heard something, a rustling in the bushes. A squirrel ran across the road in front of him and vanished behind the hedge to the right. He shivered again.

  At the end of the road were ornate iron gates, the entrance to the park proper. Closed, they looked dark and forbidding. Somewhere ahead of him he heard a twig snap. He froze. He sensed rather than saw a slight movement in the bushes. There was someone there. He was convinced of it. He moved between two of the trees trying to slow his rapid breathing.

  Then he saw her, walking fast towards him, waving the beam of her torch from side to side.

  He put his hand in the pocket of his raincoat and took out his black Swiss army knife. It was the largest one made, with all the right tools and a three-inch blade, honed razor sharp. He opened the blade carefully.

  He heard the sound before he saw the movement. A figure leaped from the bushes. He heard Julia’s cry as the man swung her round, raising something high in the air, bringing it hard down on her back. She groaned as she sank to her knees. Ravenel hurled himself forward, propelled by a burst of adrenalin. Then he was on the man, clawing at him, reaching for his neck. The assailant wheeled, cursing, raising some sort of bar in the air, thrusting at him. Ravenel held on desperately, caught up in a wave of fury, his left arm around the man’s neck, pulling it back, the knife slicing deep through the jugular, the man’s legs twitching, his arms flailing as the frothing blood gushed out and he slid slowly to the ground.

  Gasping for breath, his heart beating wildly, his knees shaking, Ravenel lost his footing on the blood-soaked asphalt and fell, landing heavily on his shoulder. He turned painfully, looking at Julia who lay crumpled on the wet path, drenched in her attacker’s still spurting blood.

  It began to rain again.

  Chapter 48

  It was cold on top of the building. He was wearing a heavy overcoat and gloves but the freezing wind still cut right through him. He shivered, cursing the weather.

  He did not usually operate this way. But the original plan to use a car would not work. As with many of the avenues in Paris, there was a secondary lane, a contre-allée, running parallel with the wide street allowing cars and taxis to turn in to pick up and discharge people using the hotels, stores and restaurants.

  He had watched the woman for several days now. She always waited until her limousine had pulled up in front of the hotel before venturing out.

  It had to be a rifle.

  He had found what he wanted in Montmartre five days before; a Weatherby Mark V with a Pentax scope and a specially designed silencer which, he was assured, in no way detracted from its accuracy. He hoped this was true. He had had no chance to try it out.
>
  Lying flat on the roof he scanned the avenue below. Posing as the dispatcher for the limousine company he had called the hotel to determine what time the driver was supposed to pick her up.

  He had not long to wait.

  On the roof two pigeons waddled past looking for scraps. The only sound was the hum of the generator on the far side of the stairwell housing. On the floors below residents of the expensive block were sitting down to breakfast, reading the paper, planning the day. It was Friday and people were starting to unwind in preparation for the weekend. From the open window of one of the apartments he could smell fresh coffee brewing. He tried to ignore it. He had eaten no breakfast that morning, preferring to come to an assignment hungry and alert. Afterwards, he would treat himself to a large café au lait at a nearby café. And some croissants with butter and jam.

  From where he lay he commanded a perfect, uninterrupted view of the entrance to the Plaza-Athénée Hotel.

  While he lay there an attractive young woman emerged from the hotel and stood for a moment looking around. She glanced upwards and for a moment he thought she had seen him or caught the glint from the rifle barrel. Then she was joined by a dark-haired man and together they set off up the avenue towards the Champs-Elysées.

  Suddenly he froze. A black cat appeared on the roof and strolled towards him, miaowing. He shooed it away. The cat, without resentment, slunk over to a corner where an empty cola can was lying. With its right paw it dislodged the can, which rolled across the roof. Even above the hum of the generator the noise of the rolling can could clearly be heard. Putting down his rifle the sniper reached for the can and propped it upright.

  At 9.30 a.m. precisely a black limousine pulled up in front of the hotel. The sniper snuggled the butt into his shoulder, wincing slightly as the concrete dug into his right elbow. He saw the woman emerge, nod to the doorman and approach the limo. He edged the rifle barrel slightly to the left so that the crosshairs of the scope were centred on her head. At this distance the power of the scope was so fine he could see the design on her silk scarf.

  It happened in an instant!

  As he squeezed the trigger the black cat suddenly shot in front of him. At that precise moment a tall man came rushing from the hotel, bumping into the woman. The bullet from the Weatherby smashed into the woman’s head and continued on, less accurate now, ripping into the man’s forehead. Both of them fell backwards, legs twitching, hands clawing the air, before slumping to the pavement.

  He swore. Dammit. That fucking cat! He had nearly missed her. And he’d killed some other poor bastard. The man who had commissioned the hit had been quite specific; no one else was to get hurt. He hoped there would not be repercussions. He peered cautiously over the parapet. People were standing around in shock, staring at the inert bodies on the ground. Then the hotel doorman rushed back into the hotel. To call the police, he supposed.

  Carefully he slotted the Weatherby into the contoured base of the carrying case. Spinning the coded lock he got up, brushed some cement dust from his overcoat and left the roof.

  There was nobody on duty in the small office to the left of the entrance hall. The concierge, he had already established, went next door to the café for breakfast at this hour. Without a glance towards the hotel, he set off briskly for the Place de l’Alma, the gun case concealed beneath his copious overcoat. It would be at least twenty minutes before a police van came wailing up, he guessed. He was wrong. Police from the Eighth Arrondissement station, proud of their reputation for speed and efficiency, were there in half that time. But by then the rifle was embedded in the mud of the Seine beneath the Pont de l’Alma and the marksman was buttering the first of two croissants at Le Grand Corona, sitting in one of the window seats.

  Next day the shooting made headlines in both Le Monde and Le Figaro. The stories described Grace Brand as the widow of the late billionaire Robert Brand, and Paul Eberhardt as one of Geneva’s top bankers.

  Police inquiries were continuing, they reported.

  Chapter 49

  Julia came to with a moan, her mouth dry, a dull, throbbing pain down her back. Blinking her eyes open, she breathed in slowly. The ceiling of the room seemed to be floating above her, moving in and out of focus. She sat up slowly, wincing at a sudden spasm of pain.

  She looked around. She was lying on her own bed in her white bathrobe. She had on only her underwear underneath.

  Bewildered, she let her head fall back on the pillow. What was she doing there? She had been walking. And then …

  Instinctively her hand moved down to the swell of her stomach.

  ‘Welcome back.’

  Ravenel stood in the doorway of her bedroom. He was wearing nothing but a bath towel around his waist. She sat up, astonished.

  ‘You?’

  Ravenel nodded, smiling.

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Rest now,’ he said. His voice was gentle. ‘I’ll explain later.’

  She sank back against the pillows, then looked towards the door again. He was still standing there, watching her.

  Ravenel was back. She was in her own flat. She was safe.

  She closed her eyes and slept.

  ‘I carried you,’ Ravenel said. ‘Over my shoulder, firemen style. Luckily it was pouring with rain. The streets were deserted.’

  ‘All that way?’

  ‘I couldn’t risk a taxi,’ he said. ‘I had blood on my clothes.’

  They were sitting in the lounge of Julia’s flat. Julia was still in her bathrobe and underclothes. Ravenel was wearing his shirt and trousers, washed and dried.

  ‘Then you … you undressed me?’ She was surprised at her own embarrassment.

  ‘You were a bit of a mess,’ Ravenel said. He glanced at her over the rim of his cup. ‘I didn’t want to ruin your bed so I stripped you in the bathroom and put you in your robe.’ He chuckled. ‘Then I took a shower with my clothes on. A first for me.’

  ‘I don’t remember a thing,’ she said.

  ‘You were out like a light,’ Ravenel said. ‘I had a hell of a job getting the flat key out of your pocket.’

  Trying to adjust her position on the sofa, she winced.

  ‘Still hurting?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Tomorrow you must see your doctor. Make sure you’re all right. Check on the baby.’

  ‘Who was it … who attacked me?’

  ‘Someone sent by Grace Brand. Probably the same man who murdered Jane Summerwood.’

  ‘Dear God.’ Julia stared at him, horrified. ‘He was sent to kill me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then he’ll try again.’

  ‘No,’ Ravenel said, ‘he won’t. He’s dead.’

  ‘You killed him?’

  Ravenel nodded.

  ‘What will we tell the police?’

  ‘We don’t involve the police. The man was a thug. They’ll think he was killed by his own sort. That’s the end of it.’ He sneezed suddenly.

  Hunched in one corner of the sofa Julia realized the front of her robe had opened slightly, revealing the tops of her breasts. She wrapped the robe more tightly around herself. Ravenel appeared not to have noticed. ‘I’d better go and change,’ she said.

  ‘Relax,’ he said. ‘This is your home.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ She shook her head. ‘How do you know it was her who sent him?’

  Briefly Ravenel related the events that had led him to the park. Julia sat back, her legs tucked beneath her, shocked at what she was hearing.

  ‘Why was Grace Brand even in Paris?’

  ‘That I don’t know,’ Ravenel said. ‘Maybe to see Eberhardt – she knew he was attending a conference there. Maybe for some other reason. In any event they had this confrontation at the hotel. When he told her he’d transferred the money to you she actually hit him. She said he’d thrown the money away. You were a dead duck. That’s when Eberhardt called Cristiani. By that time he’d had enough of Grace Brand.’

  She looked at
him soberly. ‘I could be dead by now,’ she said. ‘So could you.’

  ‘I had one advantage,’ Ravenel said. ‘He didn’t know I was there.’

  ‘Even so …’

  ‘Are you ready for the rest of the story?’

  She nodded.

  He sneezed again. ‘Damn. I think I’m getting a cold.’ He glanced around. ‘Any chance of a brandy? Kill it at birth.’

  She went over to the side-table and poured a cognac. Ravenel lit a cigarette – his first since they had begun talking.

  Julia sat down again, watching him as he sipped the brandy.

  ‘The story starts with Hermann Goering.’

  ‘The fat Nazi? What’s he got to do with all this?’

  ‘Be patient. You’ll find out. Although he seemed to be a jovial man he was a very sinister fellow. At the height of the war he lived like a rajah at his country estate outside Berlin. He was unscrupulous, immoral and very, very dangerous.

  ‘All that is well documented. What is not documented is that from the late thirties until the early forties Goering secretly sent large amounts of money out of Germany into Switzerland. Most of it was money from the sale of properties belonging to Jews who’d been sent to concentration camps or forced to flee the country.

  ‘This money was deposited in a bank in Geneva belonging to a friend of his.’ Observing Julia’s reaction, he nodded. ‘The Banque Eberhardt. Eberhardt, you see, was the friend. To get the money out of Germany he recruited two young officers, who took it out in suitcases.

  ‘By the early forties Goering had deposited $200 million in the bank. He had the two young men transferred to the Russian front. They were captured at Stalingrad and sent to prison camps in Siberia. Goering confidently expected them to perish there, and with them all traces of what he had done. That’s how the money got to the Banque Eberhardt.’

  ‘Incredible,’ Julia said, still not sure where it was all leading.

  Ravenel brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead. ‘When Paul Eberhardt received the news of Goering’s suicide he waited a few years to see if Goering’s family came forward or if the Allies stumbled across some reference to the money in captured papers. When they did not he relaxed. The money stayed in the vaults and over the years the Banque Eberhardt became one of the most successful private banks in Switzerland.