‘Then one day in 1951 Eberhardt was told that a man was downstairs asking to see him. His name was Heinz Linge. He was one of the two officers who had brought out Goering’s money. Linge had just been released by the Russians and had decided to put the squeeze on Eberhardt. But Linge was now a broken, pathetic figure and Eberhardt decided to bluff it out. He summoned the police and had Linge deported. And although his sudden appearance had momentarily unnerved Eberhardt, the banker’s prestige and reputation were now so high he did not worry.
‘But six months later the second officer involved in bringing out Goering’s money showed up at the bank. He, too, had miraculously survived and just been released by the Russians. This man was not at all like Linge. Told that Eberhardt would not see him he sent up a note giving the number of Goering’s secret account, a list of every trip he had made to the bank, details of where he had stayed and copies of two photographs showing Eberhardt and Goering together at the Field Marshal’s estate outside Berlin. He warned that if Eberhardt still refused to see him he would go straight to the Justice Ministry in Bern.’
Ravenel leaned forward and stubbed out his cigarette. He lit another one. The smoke drifted towards Julia. She did not even notice. She realized she had edged forward and was sitting right at the edge of the sofa. She tried to relax.
‘Eberhardt realized he could not send this man packing as he had Heinz Linge. So he saw him. The man told him his terms: $50 million to keep silent. Eberhardt knew he had no option. Washington was pressing the Swiss Government to reveal just how much Nazi money was being held in Swiss banks. He could not risk this man talking. He agreed to give the man the money on the understanding that it remained in an account with his bank. The man accepted the terms. After all, he could hardly lug $50 million in cash back to the ruins of Berlin.’
‘How do you know all that?’
‘Eberhardt’s partner kept a diary. We got hold of it.’
‘He gave it to you?’
‘A gift from the grave,’ Ravenel said. He put down his brandy glass. ‘To continue – the former officer returned to Berlin. But it was too late for his new fortune to help him. His health had been ruined in captivity. His wife was already dead, killed in the bombing of Berlin. All he had was his son, now twenty-two. When the man died, the son inherited the millions. Two years later he emigrated to the United States for good.
‘Once in America the young man determined to reinvent himself. He went to college. He worked as a trainee at Bankers’ Trust, then joined Lehman Brothers for a shot at investment banking. He found he had the knack of making money. Soon he doubled, tripled, and quadrupled his original fortune. He became an American citizen. He dropped the last letter from his surname. He married an American woman …’
Ravenel looked at Julia. Her fingers, interlaced, were straining against each other. ‘You know his name, of course.’
‘Robert Brand.’ It was almost a whisper.
‘Robert Brand. His father’s name was Walter Brandt. Once in America young Robert discovered there was a man named Roland “Fire” Brand who’d built his fortune on Texas oil. He let it be rumoured they were related. People accepted that. They were already intrigued by this young man who seemed to be building one of America’s great fortunes.’
Julia sat motionless. Now nothing seemed too farfetched or incredible. So many things that had perplexed her about Robert Brand suddenly made sense: his phobia about being photographed; his refusal to be interviewed. His whole success, she realized, had been based on a lie. The fortune he had inherited from his father had been stolen. He had been brought up by Nazis.
‘I didn’t know you spoke German.’
‘A smattering. It helps in business …’
A life of lies.
She shivered.
‘Are you all right?’ Ravenel put a hand on her arm.
She nodded. ‘All this was in that diary?’
‘Not all. Some of it I found in files when we got into the bank. One of them had the name of Heinz Linge. I went to Germany to see him. He told me about Walter Brandt and his son. It was too much of a coincidence. I went to Washington to check the names of German immigrants in the fifties. There it was: Robert Brandt.’
‘Why didn’t anybody find out about him? He was so well known …’
‘In my country nobody probes a person’s past unless there’s a reason – they’re running for office or something. It’s un-American. And Brand was extremely careful. He was hardly ever photographed. He never gave interviews. He never talked about the past. He kept a very low profile. It’s easier than you think to stay out of the spotlight if that’s what you want.’
‘But his wife …?’
‘She knew. It’s not that easy to explain away $50 million when you’re in your early twenties. And she had to know he wasn’t a native-born American. In those days he’d have had an accent.’
Ravenel ran his hand over his chin. ‘Think about it. Here we have a woman – Grace Standsfield Brand – who is widely accepted as one of America’s top hostesses. The day after her husband dies, when calls of sympathy are coming in, she gets one that enrages her. Her banker in Switzerland tells her that before he died, Robert Brand instructed him to transfer $20 million to the account of Julia Lang. The banker has to inform her because the transfer order came in after Brand’s death. She knows all about you already. Somebody here kept her informed.’
‘I know who it was,’ Julia said quietly. ‘Robert’s secretary, Jill Bannister.’
Ravenel’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘Really? Anyway, Grace Brand tells Eberhardt: No way. Then, when she learns – from this Jill Bannister, I assume – that you’re pregnant, she goes really crazy. She had never forgiven Brand for the death of their son – you know about that?’ Julia nodded. ‘She wasn’t about to let him father another child. When she found out about Jane Summerwood she had her killed. She arranged the same end for you.’
‘It’s beyond belief.’
‘Not really. People are always hiring hit men in my country.’
‘You found out so much,’ she said.
‘I got a lot from Brand’s friend, Bobby Koenig.’
‘How did you get in touch with him?’
‘Through the Chelsea police. Koenig was the one who took Brand’s body back to New York.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘You didn’t know?’
Julia shook her head. She realized with a pang just how little she did know.
‘It was Koenig who filled me in about the kidnapping. It goes back to Linge. One day Linge came across a German magazine and saw a story about Robert Brand, the American multimillionaire. There was an old photograph of him taken in the street and even though it was blurred and indistinct Linge knew at once it was Walter Brandt’s son. The article went on to detail Brand’s luxurious lifestyle in New York and Mexico, and ran pictures of his wife and young son. Linge is not very bright but even he was able to figure out the probable origin of Brand’s wealth. He knew, you see, that Walter Brandt had gone to Geneva to see Eberhardt just as he had. They’d discussed it. But Brandt had not told him the outcome.
‘Linge told his son, Gerhardt, about the magazine story. Gerhardt was bitter. Here he was, the son of a gardener in Bavaria, and there was Brand, living in luxury in America. The resentment festered. He thought of different ways he could pressure Brand to help him. At length he hit upon a scheme. With two friends he would fly to Mexico and kidnap Brand’s son and hold him to ransom. Gerhardt was always in trouble with the law. Old Heinz had long ago given up on him.
‘They pulled it off. They got the boy, killing the bodyguard in the process. But then the unthinkable happened. Brand refused to pay the ransom demand. He guessed, and he was right, that his son was already dead. Gerhardt and the others panicked. They fled. But Brand had recruited a team of professionals to track them down. They followed them to Cuernavaca and in the shoot-out Gerhardt and the others were killed.’
‘It’s almost unbelievable,’ Julia said.
&nb
sp; ‘It happened.’ Ravenel got to his feet and stretched. He walked across to the window and parted the curtains, looking out into the dark night.
‘There are some things I don’t understand,’ Julia said. ‘Why did Robert keep on using the Banque Eberhardt? Eberhardt couldn’t have done anything to him without incriminating himself.’
‘That’s true,’ Ravenel said, sitting down again. ‘And Brand had done nothing illegal. He’d inherited the money from his father. He was an American citizen. The story of how he first accrued wealth would certainly have hurt him but it would have destroyed Eberhardt. He’d have gone to jail. I think Brand just kept his money there rather than take any chances. He needed a bank in Europe.’
‘And that man you said had the diary; the one you found?’
‘Georges di Marco.’
Julia leaned forward. ‘I know that name. Paul Eberhardt mentioned him.’
‘He was his partner. Been with him from the early days. He was a very proper Swiss banker and he’d kept notes of every deposit Goering made. Other people had to be involved, you see. Those two officers couldn’t just hand a suitcase full of money to Eberhardt and say: “Put this in the vaults.” It all had to be itemized properly. But di Marco went further. He made notes in his diary of actual conversations, including what took place when Walter Brandt turned up and demanded that $50 million.
‘Di Marco was due to retire soon. I think his conscience had begun to trouble him. He’d supported Eberhardt and lied when Washington began making enquiries after the war about Nazi funds deposited in Switzerland. Now he wanted to confess. He didn’t care about the consequences. When he ran across Cristiani he decided he was the man to talk to. He set up a meeting. A day or two later he was found floating in Lake Geneva. He was murdered.’
Julia put her hand to her mouth.
‘Cristiani suspected it from the start. The police kept insisting it was suicide. Then di Marco’s sister found his diary and got in touch with Cristiani. Once he saw that di Marco had been present each time Goering’s money was delivered he saw the motive.’
‘Then who killed him?’
‘The one man who would be finished if di Marco talked. Paul Eberhardt. It had happened once before. There’d been another man involved during the Goering transactions. His name was André Leber. We know all this because both men’s signatures were on receipts we found in the bank’s files. Leber retired years ago but Eberhardt kept paying him money every month. Cristiani is convinced Leber was blackmailing him. It went on for a long time until Leber was run down by a car in a street in Zurich. Eberhardt ordered that too, I’m convinced.’
‘Good God.’
‘You’ve got to realize what was at stake: a top Swiss banker’s reputation. Eberhardt is one of Switzerland’s banking mandarins. Next year he’s due to chair the International Bankers’ Conference in Vienna. He is a very important man in banking circles, responsible for the fortunes of some of the richest people in the world. He had everything to lose. He would not have hesitated to have those two men killed.’
Julia raised her legs, resting her chin on her knees. In the darkness Ravenel caught a glimpse of her pale thighs. He had to remind himself that she was a client; one who would soon be paying him $2 million. As if aware of his thoughts, Julia lowered her legs, stretching them.
‘It all seems so incredible. He seemed such a civilized man at that dinner.’
Ravenel nodded. ‘They said the same thing about Hermann Goering.’
‘Will you tell the Swiss police what you know?’
‘Maybe Cristiani will. I don’t know. They’d probably be afraid to touch it.’
‘But he’s a murderer.’
‘Yes, he is.’
She frowned again. ‘Why do you suppose he decided to pay me at last? If he has.’
‘I had Cristiani hand deliver a letter to him. In it I warned him that if the money wasn’t released to you immediately I would give the whole story to the New York Times. I mentioned Heinz Linge’s name in the letter so he’d know I wasn’t kidding. My guess is you’ll get your money quite quickly.’
Struck by a sudden thought she got up and went into the hall. The small pile of letters was there on the entry table. She flicked through them. The last one was from the Midland Bank in Jersey acknowledging receipt of a draft in her favour for $20 million, payable by the Banque Eberhardt of Geneva.
‘We require your instructions regarding this draft,’ the letter read. ‘Please contact us as soon as possible.’
She stared at it for a long time. ‘Heavens,’ she muttered. ‘It’s really true.’ She returned to the lounge and showed it to Ravenel. ‘Two million of that is yours,’ she said. ‘I don’t even know how to write a cheque for that amount.’
‘It’s not difficult,’ he said with a small smile. ‘Just write a two with six zeros after it.’
She glanced at the black and white photograph of her mother and father on the table; the two of them sitting in the front of some tour bus, squinting a little in the bright sun, looking happy and relaxed. She remembered the day she had seen them off to Italy; her mother, concerned as always for her well-being while they were gone; her father, jokey and happy, arms full of newspapers and magazines, carrying the camera that he would never use and the umbrella they would never need. They had been killed in a plane crash while on holiday in Sicily. They had left her £12,000. She had thought that quite a lot. Now she had $18 million.
Ravenel held up his empty glass. ‘Any more of this?’
‘Of course.’
‘I shouldn’t be letting you wait on me,’ he said. ‘My daughter told me pregnant women should be pampered.’
‘You have a daughter?’
‘What’s the matter? You think I’m not fit to have a child?’
‘But you never talk about her.’
‘I saw her just the other night in New York. Here.’ He took a bulky wallet from his pocket and produced a picture of a little girl standing in the street, smiling at the camera.
‘She’s adorable,’ Julia said. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Louise.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Five.’
‘Where’s her mother?’
‘She died. Eighteen months ago. Breast cancer.’
‘Oh no. I’m so sorry.’ She reached down and touched Ravenel’s face lightly with her fingertips.
‘Where was this taken?’
‘Outside our apartment on West 57th Street. That’s Carnegie Hall in the background.’
‘Who looks after her?’
‘I’ve got a nanny.’
Julia studied the picture again. ‘You’re a lucky little girl, Louise Ravenel. You’ve got the most remarkable daddy.’ She refilled Ravenel’s glass.
The phone rang. It was Cristiani. ‘Are you all right? he asked urgently. ‘We’ve been trying to reach you for hours.’
‘I’m fine,’ she said.
‘Thank God. Is Guy there?’
‘Sitting right here.’ She passed the receiver to Ravenel. He listened intently for several minutes, saying nothing. ‘Thanks, Albert-Jean,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll see you in a day or two.’
He put down the receiver. ‘It’s over, Julia,’ he said. ‘Eberhardt and Grace Brand were shot dead in Paris this morning.’
Chapter 50
A week had passed. Julia’s back was still bruised but most of the pain had gone. The baby was all right. Dr Grierson had given her a thorough examination and reassured her. ‘You’re lucky,’ he said. ‘A fall like that. You must be careful.’
A story about the man found dead in the park was carried by several of the morning papers. According to the police he was a known underworld figure and a gangland revenge killing was suspected.
Guy Ravenel had been gone three days. He had flown first to Geneva, then on to New York. Julia had insisted on going with him to the airport.
He had bought himself a new, dark blue suit in Regent Street. She had grown so used to
him in his crumpled outfits she found it odd to see him looking so dapper.
‘I’ll never be able to thank you enough,’ she said.
He chuckled. ‘Two million is a good start.’
‘That’s your fee. That doesn’t count.’
‘There is a way,’ Ravenel said, suddenly earnest. ‘Come with me to New York.’
She gave him a long look.
‘I can’t do that, Guy. Not right now.’
‘Later?’
‘I’ll try.’
They said goodbye outside Passport Control. He took her hands in his and kissed her full on the lips.
‘Look after yourself,’ he said as he went through the door.
The knowledge that he would no longer be part of her life saddened her. For weeks she had been with him on a roller-coaster ride that had turned her days upside down. She realized with a pang how placid things would be from now on.
The fact that she was a wealthy woman had still not sunk in. She could go where she liked; do as she pleased.
‘I still feel a bit uneasy about the money,’ she told Lisa when they had lunch together. ‘After all, it was Nazi money.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Lisa said firmly. ‘It was Robert’s money. He made it and he wanted you to have it for the child.’ She speared a piece of smoked salmon with her fork. ‘You know what I’ve been wondering? Who’ll inherit the Brand fortune? Some cousin twice removed living in a one-room apartment in Milwaukee, perhaps.’
‘I neither know nor care,’ Julia said. ‘I was in love with Robert Brand for a very short while. Even if he’d lived I’m not sure it would have lasted. There were too many lies.’
‘I think he was scared of losing you,’ Lisa said. ‘That’s why he lied.’
‘He lied to me from the beginning,’ Julia said. She pushed aside her own smoked salmon. I shouldn’t be eating all this, she decided. I’m big enough already.
The Account Page 27
