Montaro Caine: A Novel

by Sidney Poitier

  For a full week, she and Victor slept late, made love, strolled hand in hand along the trails of the Ruggeller Riet national park and along the Rhine River. They sipped cappuccino in romantic backstreet bistros, toured the castles of Liechtenstein and the municipality’s Kunstmuseum, and attended an open-air performance of Fidelio. In short, they submerged themselves in a weeklong binge on European culture and continental food, most of which, according to Victor, failed to live up to the food that was readily available in Hell’s Kitchen. But these were far from the most important items on Victor and Cordiss’s agenda; those were Switzerland, Kritzman Fritzbrauner, and the next seven-figure transaction they hoped to make. They wanted another target, and they had chosen Fritzbrauner from the lofty Ten to be the next dealer they contacted. Their decision was based less on the obvious influence and power his ten-billion-dollar conglomerate generated than on the crude psychological profile that emerged from their extensive research, which suggested a man whose tastes tilted toward the mysterious.

  The young couple settled comfortably in a suite at the Geneva Hilton, which became their headquarters for what turned out to be ten frustrating days of fruitless effort. Each day’s attempt at arranging a meeting with Fritzbrauner, or any of his representatives, ended in disappointment. On the morning of the eleventh day, however, Cordiss received a call from a man named Anatole Ziffren, who invited her to lunch.

  The luncheon at Le Cygne, a restaurant with an arresting view of the Alps, set in motion a series of stressful events that included interrogations, probes, background checks, legal threats, and psychological intimidation. But though Cordiss felt she had handled herself well under the stress, she was not granted an audience with Fritzbrauner. After she faced Herman Freich, and later Colette Beekman, she realized that they were probably as close as she would ever get to Fritzbrauner.

  Throughout her meetings with Freich and Beekman, during which she allowed them to examine her Xerox copies of the documents pertaining to the first coin, and, finally, the second coin itself, Cordiss did not mention the asking price for the object. Then, toward the end of the third meeting, held again at Le Cygne, she introduced the subject without warning.

  “The price, you understand, is ten million dollars,” she announced.

  An impatient frown clouded Freich’s face. “It’s premature to discuss money,” he stated. Then he softened slightly and asked if she would consider releasing the coin for the period of time necessary so that he could have it examined by someone whose scientific expertise they were willing to trust. Cordiss, taking his request to mean that her price was not out of the question, agreed.

  During the time that Herman Freich busied himself with consulting such individuals as Johann Flugle, Michael Chasman, and Gertz Welbocht, Cordiss received no communication from any of Fritzbrauner’s people. Not a word. Victor and Cordiss fought the urge to call Freich’s office. During that time, they flew to Atlanta where they had dinner with Whitney and Franklyn Walker to discuss the possibility of working together on a plan involving health care clinics in Africa. Then, after securing the Walkers’ unwitting cooperation, they arranged for a secluded, off-the-grid dwelling in Spain where they could keep close watch on the young couple until their child was born, a coin or coins appeared, and Gabler and hopefully Fritzbrauner would bid against each other for them. But as the days wore on, uneasiness pervaded Cordiss’s and Victor’s moods. They grew increasingly tense, each unable to shed the gnawing fear that the decision of allowing Freich to take the coin with him had been imprudent.

  But then a call arrived from Anatole Ziffren. “Mr. Freich is away on business,” he told Cordiss. “But he has asked me to relay this message. In four days you will be advised of our intentions as to whether or not we wish to discuss your proposal further. Someone will call you at eight p.m. on Thursday.”

  “Four more days of not knowing which way they’re gonna come down will drive me up a fucking wall,” Victor said. “Let’s go somewhere. Do something. Anything. Get our minds off it.”

  Cordiss, who now felt herself to be an expert in the ways of the wealthy, suggested a few days in Paris. There, they checked in to the Tremont Hotel, which had been recommended by the concierge at the Geneva Hilton, whereupon they lunged headlong into a love affair with the City of Lights and all that they could now afford in it. Enchantment scooped the couple into her net by the end of their first evening on the town; and, after two days of roaming around like smitten teenagers, Cordiss called Freich’s office in Geneva to say that they would remain in Paris and await his call there on Thursday at the appointed time.

  On the Thursday in question, as the late afternoon folded gradually into night, Victor was walking back from the Arc de Triomphe for the third time in an hour as he tried to keep his anxiety within manageable range. Meanwhile, Cordiss paced their hotel suite, considering and reconsidering the lucky chain of events and coincidences that had brought her to this moment. These thoughts were interrupted at precisely eight o’clock by the sound of a telephone.

  Cordiss jumped. Both hands flew to her mouth as the phone splintered the silence. She stared down at the phone, momentarily paralyzed.

  The phone continued to ring.

  She inhaled deeply, crossed the fingers of her left hand for luck, then snatched the receiver from its cradle with her right. “Hello?”

  “Miss Krinkle?” a male voice asked.

  “Yes,” Cordiss answered, recognizing the voice. “How are you, Mr. Freich?”

  “Very well, thank you. Are you enjoying your stay in Paris?” Freich inquired with little apparent interest in her answer.

  “Yes, very much,” she replied, biting the nail on the pinkie of the hand that held the phone.

  “Miss Krinkle?”

  “Yes, Mr. Freich?”

  “Could you return to Geneva tomorrow?”

  Cordiss gasped. Her head swirled a little. “Of course,” she managed shakily.

  “At the Union Bank of Switzerland at one p.m.?”

  Oh my God, she thought. Oh my God. But all she said was “One p.m., yes.”

  “Ask for Mr. Helmont Zurber. There will be a few questions we need to address. Once that is done, we hope to be able to conclude our transaction.”

  Cordiss felt her whole body flush with excitement. A light-headed feeling flowed over her. She reached for a pen with a trembling hand and instantly tightened her grip on it to steady herself. “Mr. Helmont Zurber,” she repeated with as much calm as she could muster, jotting down the name.

  “You are booked out of Orly, eleven a.m., Swiss International Flight 86,” said Freich. “A car will meet you, drop you by your hotel so you can freshen up if you would like, and then bring you to the bank. Have a pleasant trip, Miss Krinkle.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fr—.” Then, the phone went dead. He had hung up before she could thank him. Gingerly, she replaced the receiver. She gazed curiously at her shaking hand, then raised it to the level of her face and showed it to the reflection in the mirror. Cordiss and her image smiled broadly at each other. Then she lifted her other trembling hand and snapped both hands into clenched fists. Cordiss spun from the mirror, then strode once more around the suite. This time, her thoughts were audible. “It’s gonna happen, son of a bitch, I knew it! I knew it! Way to go! Way to go!” She jabbed the air with her clenched fists for punctuation. Just then, her thoughts were interrupted by the click of a key in the door lock. The door burst open and Victor hurtled in. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Cordiss standing in the center of the room wearing a radiant smile.

  Victor’s eyes brightened. “Yes? Yes? Yes?”

  “Yes, baby. Yes, yes, yes,” she gushed.

  Cordiss opened her arms wide. Victor rushed over, swept her off her feet, and twirled her around in a victory dance while Cordiss laughed and laughed.

  20

  THE RECEPTION SALON OF HELMONT ZURBER’S OFFICE, ON THE uppermost floor of the UBS’s main headquarters, offered a grand view of the city, Lake Geneva, a
nd the mountains beyond. But Cordiss had little interest in sightseeing as she was promptly ushered along a stately hall toward Herman Freich, who stood waiting just inside the doorway of Zurber’s private chambers.

  “Miss Krinkle, you’ve had a pleasant flight, I hope?” Freich greeted her.

  “I did.”

  “This is Mr. Helmont Zurber. He represents Mr. Fritzbrauner’s interest in this matter.”

  Standing before her, Helmont Zurber seemed younger than Freich, but not by much. Cordiss had not been able to scare up much information about him on the Internet, but she had learned that, in financial matters, he was a member of the six-person watchdog committee made up of European bankers who kept Fritzbrauner’s worldwide holdings under constant review. To Cordiss, Zurber’s skinny body, broad chin, bull-like neck, overscrubbed complexion, thick spectacles, fat hands, and concave chest seemed a mixture of contradictions.

  “Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Zurber,” she almost purred as she took his hand.

  “No, mine, my dear lady, mine indeed,” he charmed back, bowing slightly from the waist.

  “Please have a seat, Miss Krinkle,” Zurber offered, gesturing Cordiss toward a chair at the table near the window. Standing politely behind her, Freich assisted Cordiss as she sat. “I do hope you’ve been enjoying our city.”

  “I have,” she said, smiling warmly, sensing that this was neither the time nor the place to mention the fact that she preferred Paris. To her, Geneva seemed to be a place where you gathered wealth; Paris, on the other hand, was where you spent it.

  “Geneva is especially beautiful this time of year,” Zurber said, turning to the window for a glance at the view he had never grown tired of.

  “Yes, especially the mountains,” said Freich, with a sly smile.

  Zurber and Freich joined Cordiss at the table where Zurber turned his attention to the paperwork in front of him, all of which bore directly on the coin. He thumbed through one page and then another. Then, without warning, he looked up at her with a hardened expression.

  “We’re not prepared to offer you ten million dollars. I’ve been instructed to offer you one price and only one price. You will give me a yes or no answer. The price is three million.”

  Cordiss was taken aback by the abrupt, harsh tone. What is he up to? she wondered. Then she heard herself say coolly, “That’s not quite what I had in mind.”

  “I take it that is a no?” Zurber said.

  Cordiss tried to return the man’s intense stare while she searched for a way to respond. Was there to be no discussion at all? Cordiss glanced at Freich, who glanced back for only the barest moment. This is Zurber’s show, not mine, he seemed to say to her before he turned to look out the window at the mountains, which he did loathe up close but did not mind admiring from this distance.

  Cordiss’s eyes returned to Zurber. He had her and knew it. He had pushed the right button when she least expected it and he could see the doubt on her face. Shaken, Cordiss leaned back in the chair while Zurber abruptly stood and extended his hand. “Sorry you have refused our offer. We wish you the best of luck. Good day, Miss Krinkle.”

  Cordiss felt herself thrown off balance with no possible way to recover. She smiled at Zurber as if admitting defeat. “I accept your offer, Mr. Zurber,” she said humbly.

  Seconds after the words had passed her lips, Cordiss saw the corners of Zurber’s mouth curl into a faint smile before he shot a triumphant glance at Freich. When he turned back to face her, he seemed almost to be gloating. You sneaky son of a bitch, you tricked me, she thought. It had dawned on her too late that Zurber’s instructions must have been to pay the full price—only if he had to.

  Cordiss struggled to calm herself, to remind herself that either way, she stood to collect more money than she had ever seen in her life, that she would never have to go home to the States or work as a receptionist ever again. Nevertheless, she felt blood racing through her veins and she knew that her cheeks had reddened. If it is the last thing I ever do, I will teach myself to piss ice water, she thought.

  “There is of course a caveat, Miss Krinkle,” Zurber said.

  “Oh? A caveat?” Cordiss muttered, still lost in her own thoughts.

  “Yes. Our price is dependent upon your giving us the name of the person or persons who now hold the first coin.”

  Cordiss tried to think of a way to hold the line. She and Victor had planned that such information would play an important role later and should therefore be held in reserve. It was a bargaining chip of considerable power and could not be squandered now, she thought.

  But Cordiss was too close to a done deal to play brinksmanship with this barracuda banker. She took comfort in the thought that, when this deal was successfully put to bed, the way would be cleared for the third and most lucrative act of her scheme, one in which Whitney Carson and Franklyn Walker, currently living in a safe house in Alcala de Henarés, Spain, and generating useless spreadsheets for imaginary health clinics, would play a key role.

  “You may have that information,” she told the banker.

  “Good,” said Zurber.

  “However, I have my own caveat.”

  “Oh?” Zurber said. “And what may that be?”

  “You may have it at the moment your check clears my bank.”

  “I’m sorry, that is not satisfactory,” he said.

  Cordiss suppressed an explosive urge to lash out. You prick, she fumed inwardly. Sexist bastard. Then, remembering the costly lesson she had only just learned, she decided there could never be a better time to piss ice water. “I’m sorry, too, Mr. Zurber. Good day, sir.” She turned to Freich. “May I have the merchandise back, please?” She stood, extending her palm.

  Freich was not quick enough. She had knocked him off his cool. “I’m afraid I don’t have it here at the moment,” he said.

  “Where is it?” she asked. “I no longer want to do business here. I must have it back this afternoon. I have a flight at five-thirty.”

  “It can be arranged.” He started across the room. “Let me make a phone call. Excuse me a moment.” He disappeared into an adjacent office.

  Cordiss sensed that Freich was calling Fritzbrauner for instructions. Zurber, in the meantime, stared at her disdainfully. But the uncertainty in his eyes told her she had him by the balls. She liked pissing ice water. And hell, if she turned out to be wrong and the deal fell through, there were still eight other names from The Ten on her list of potential customers.

  “Heading back to New York, are you, Miss Krinkle?” inquired the barracuda banker, apparently hoping to signal that she should not mislead herself into thinking she had scored some kind of victory.

  “Not yet. We have meetings in London and Paris,” she said.

  When Freich returned from his phone call in the next room, he nodded to Zurber, who responded with a displeased look at Cordiss before he walked to his desk and pulled open a drawer. He hesitated, then shot Cordiss another cold look before fishing in the drawer for a folder.

  “We accept your condition, Miss Krinkle,” Freich told Cordiss.

  “But you have not heard my condition, Mr. Freich. My price is once again ten million. That is my condition if we are to do business. Otherwise I will return for the merchandise this afternoon.”

  Freich smiled, but for a long time he said nothing. Then, turning to Zurber, his smile disappeared. He gave the banker a curt nod before his stern eyes shifted back to Cordiss. “When our check clears, you will tell us what we want to know,” he said. Taking her by the arm he led her over to Zurber’s desk. From his folder, Zurber reluctantly removed the paperwork needed to complete the deal. Cordiss read the pages carefully, then signed. When she finished, Zurber gave her a glare and an envelope. She lifted its flap and pulled out a check made out to her for ten million dollars. In light of the wild exhilaration that had just been let loose inside her, she was proud of her cool, controlled appearance.

  “My bank in Liechtenstein has a branch here in Geneva,” she b
egan before Freich interrupted her.

  “Therefore, your check should clear by tomorrow at noon,” he said.

  “Then you should hear from me no later than two.” With that, Cordiss Krinkle, now a multimillionaire, turned and walked out of Helmont Zurber’s office. She had made quite a payday for herself with only two little coins, plus a lifetime’s worth of preparation. In addition, she now knew how to piss ice water.

  21

  MONTARO CAINE HAD ENDURED A SLEEPLESS NIGHT AND A distracted day before arriving at the Mozelle Women’s Health Center to meet with Howard and Elsen Mozelle, Anna Hilburn, and Michael Chasman. The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal had been refreshingly free of stories speculating about Fitzer Corporation’s future, but that didn’t necessarily mean good news. In the all-too-smooth exchanges he’d had earlier in the day at his office with Carlos Wallace and Alan Rothman, he sensed that they were concocting a plot against him, although he couldn’t say for certain what that plot might be. Later, he had tried without success to get hold of Gordon Whitcombe to see if he could glean any new information about Priscilla’s case, but this didn’t necessarily mean bad news; Whitcombe was a perfectionist and generally did not like to speak until he had brought matters to a successful resolution.

  On the taxi ride to Mozelle’s office, Caine made what he judged to be a tactical error by telling his wife more than he intended to when he called to tell her that he would be coming home late, if at all. Feeling guilty about spending so many nights in the city, he began to tell Cecilia the story about the coins and what he hoped might come out of the meeting with Mozelle, then had to stop midway through when he realized that he couldn’t answer half the questions his wife was asking him. What coins? How much are they worth? How can they be used? Wait, what?

  Dr. Michael Chasman was the last to arrive at the meeting. His return flight from Geneva had touched down at 2:15 p.m. at JFK Airport. Two hours later, he rushed into Howard Mozelle’s office, where he found the doctor, Mrs. Mozelle, Anna Hilburn, and Montaro Caine seated expectantly.