Fury

by Andy Maslen

  “Mr Wolfe? Welcome to Händler und Ziegelhaus. I am Trudi. Herr Krieger will be with you shortly. Come with me, please.”

  Gabriel followed the blonde’s long legs down the hall. They were clad in sheer tights that whispered as her legs brushed together. She stood at a door and motioned for him to go in. The room was furnished like some sort of nineteenth-century salon. The furniture was dark and polished to the same high gloss as the doors, and upholstered in dark-blue velvet. A low table, inlaid with different-coloured woods to represent swirling leaves, was positioned to the left of the one of the chairs, its shining surface bearing that day’s Financial Times, Frankfurter Allgemeiner Zeitung, International Herald Tribune, and Washington Post.

  “May I offer you a tea or coffee? Or a bottle of water?” she asked, smiling and revealing perfect white teeth.

  “Coffee, please. Milk, no sugar. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said with another smile, then turned and left him alone to wait.

  He took a chair and flicked through the first few pages of the FT, more for something to do than out of a genuine interest in whatever big companies and their shareholders were doing.

  Trudi reappeared at his side after a few minutes, placing a plain white bone china cup and saucer on the table. She was close enough for Gabriel to smell her perfume, a deep, spicy scent, before she straightened and withdrew with, “Herr Krieger won’t be long.”

  She was right. Gabriel was still blowing on the surface of the fine-smelling coffee when he heard footsteps outside the door. He put the cup onto its saucer with a clink, stood, and turned to face the door. The elderly man who appeared might as well have had “Swiss Banker” tattooed on his forehead, so closely did he match the stereotype. Krieger was Gabriel’s height, but soft where Gabriel was hard, his midriff swelling outwards, his chin pushing lazily over the starched white collar of this shirt. His white hair was brushed back from a high, shining forehead and gold-rimmed, half-moon glasses perched on his nose. Gabriel detected only a single jangling note in the major chord of respectability he emitted. Beginning on the right side of his forehead, just below the hairline, a thin scar cut down across the creases in the tanned skin, bisected the eyebrow, paused over the eye, then restarted on the right cheekbone and continued for a couple of inches. It looked old, and to judge from the smoothness of the skin to each side, had evidently been a clean wound.

  “Mr Wolfe,” Krieger said with a broad smile. “Welcome, welcome. It is my great pleasure to greet you on behalf of our humble firm. Has Trudi been looking after you?”

  “Yes, Herr Krieger, thank you.”

  The older man smiled again. His voice was warm and low, as a favourite uncle might speak to a nephew.

  “Please, you must call me Walti. It is short for Walter.”

  “Then you must call me Gabriel.”

  Krieger laughed. “Just so, just so! Gabriel, bring your coffee and your case, and let’s go to my office. It is upstairs, and I am afraid we have no elevator here or, how do you say in England, lift?”

  “Yes, lift. The Americans say elevator.”

  “This building has a preservation order on file with the city council. Very old. Very important.” He chuckled. “Which means we keep fit, no?”

  Gabriel had sat in many offices since leaving the army. He had become something of a connoisseur of the differing styles in which their occupants decorated, furnished and adorned them. From Russian Mafia bosses with acres of white leather and chrome, to corporate tycoons and their shrines to good taste and expensive modern art, he’d seen it all.

  Krieger’s eyrie, which they had reached after five minutes of steady climbing up a succession of narrow staircases, was different again. The walls were lined with leather-bound books in burgundy, navy, bottle-green and black. All had gold tooling on their spines in a gothic script Gabriel couldn’t decipher. Freestanding silver frames in alcoves between the books held photos of Krieger smiling at the camera and shaking hands or simply standing beside similarly bourgeois-looking men with white hair, tailored suits and looks of well-fed self-satisfaction.

  When they were sitting facing each other across a mahogany desk inlaid with a wide rectangle of gold-tooled, black leather, Krieger interlaced his soft, white fingers in front of him and spoke.

  “So, Gabriel. You said on the phone you wanted to open an account with us, yes? If I may ask, how did you settle on our firm?”

  Gabriel nodded. “I researched all the private banks in Zurich. You seemed to offer the sort of discretion I’m looking for.”

  “You won’t find another bank with a finer pedigree, or a lower profile. Our competitors enjoy spending money on corporate branding consultants, and expensive modern headquarters. We prefer to let our reputation speak for us. And you? What line of business do you follow?”

  “I’m in defence contracting. Security work.”

  Krieger nodded once more. He smiled at Gabriel. “One or two of our other clients are in a similar line of work. It is a borderless business, is it not? South Africans, Americans, Chileans, Russians, everyone needs help with,” he paused, “security.”

  “Yes, they do. I wonder whether we could—”

  Krieger’s eyes widened and he spread his hands as if to say ‘What was I thinking of, gossiping when you have money to deposit?’

  “Forgive me. I am an old man, and sometimes I underestimate the value of other people’s time. We are both men of business. So, let us get to business. You have, perhaps, some assets you wish to deposit with us?”

  “I do. And I am correct in assuming that your bank is used to handling non-standard financial instruments? Securely?”

  Krieger leaned back in his chair and bestowed a complacent smile on Gabriel.

  “Gabriel. May I share a little of our history with you? It will not take long, I promise you.” He continued without waiting for Gabriel’s assent. “Franz Händler and Hans-Rudolf Ziegelhaus established our firm as a finance house for spice merchants in 1685. Our founders had the good fortune to be born with names that reflected their future careers. Händler means trader, or dealer. Ziegelhaus means brick house. You see? Our field of expertise and the safety of our premises. Since that time, we have supported international, and then global, trade. Over the intervening three centuries, we have developed expertise in each new way of trading, each new way of representing money. From stocks and shares to bonds, derivatives, exchange-traded funds and, what shall we call them,” he paused, “unorthodox asset classes.”

  Gabriel opened his case on his knee and removed a large, brown envelope. He placed the briefcase back on the floor by his left ankle and slid the bearer bonds out from the envelope. He laid them on the desk, just over the centre line. Krieger’s territory.

  Das Haus der Tochter

  HE watched as the Swiss banker reached forward and gathered the stiff sheets of paper into his hands and turned them around to face him. Something caught Gabriel’s eye as the banker collected the bonds. As his hairless left wrist extended from the pristine white shirt cuff, the tip of a tattoo, etched in a smudge of dark indigo, flashed briefly at him from its inner surface. Krieger’s lips, thin and a pale purplish-pink, moved as he scrutinised the printing. He lifted one of the bonds between his fingertips and brought it to his nose, inhaling deeply, with his eyes shut. Next in Krieger’s display of showmanship, he switched on the desk lamp, an art deco construction in chrome and green glass, angled the shade towards him, then held the bond in front of the light.

  Finally, he ran a manicured nail over the rear surface of the document while listening to the scritch the ridges made.

  He laid the bond back on top of its fellows and peered over his half-moon spectacles at Gabriel.

  “We will need to have them formally assessed by our technical department, of course, but my banker’s intuition tells me you have the genuine article there, Gabriel. If I may ask, how did you come by these? They are a somewhat exotic instrument to be playing nowadays.”

&nbs
p; Gabriel smiled.

  I took them from the corrupt CEO of an American defence contracting company in payment for a failed attempt on my life by an assassin he hired. Then I blew his brains out.

  “An inheritance,” he said. “My father was a trader, just like Franz Händler.”

  Krieger nodded, as if this catch-all job description explained everything.

  “Just so, just so. Well, we can discuss the details of your facilities with us as soon as we have verified the authenticity of your bonds. Though, as I said, my senses tell me we shall have no problems on that score. Would you be able to return tomorrow? I can have one of our experts available then to assay your bonds.”

  “Yes, of course. What time?”

  “Oh, ten in the morning? We like to keep gentlemen’s hours here.”

  “Fine. Ten it is.”

  Krieger frowned then, though to Gabriel the expression looked theatrical. “Gabriel, I wonder, are you here in Zurich alone?”

  “Yes. It was just a flying visit, literally. Purely business,” Gabriel said, replacing the bearer bonds in his briefcase.

  “Then, you would be doing me a great honour if you would join me for dinner at my club this evening. It is behind 157 Storchengasse. Meet me there at seven. I think I can guarantee you an entertaining evening.”

  The club was called Das Haus der Tochter. The name, and the street number, were engraved on the small brass plaque screwed to the stonework to the right of the door. The door itself was open, and Gabriel, as he approached, saw no sign of any security. Or not the physical kind; a CCTV camera monitored the comings and goings of the club’s patrons from its mount above the fanlight.

  Gabriel still wore the same suit he’d arrived in. But between his meeting at the bank and now, he returned to his hotel to change into his running gear. An hour’s run had taken him out of the centre of Zurich and into a large public park where he’d burned off some energy completing laps. Then he’d returned to the hotel for a shower and changed into a fresh shirt.

  The lobby was brightly lit by a huge crystal chandelier hanging from a length of chain. Around him, men in evening dress were wandering between what was obviously a bar, and other rooms, chatting in that quiet, amiable way wealthy people often do when they feel most at ease. A few women walked past arm in arm, wearing long gowns and dripping with expensive-looking jewellery. All appeared to be well past sixty, if not seventy. All were white. All glanced at Gabriel as he made his way to the reception desk, then looked away. One man in particular gave him a hard stare as he passed Gabriel’s chair. He was fiddling with something pinned to his jacket as he walked away.

  Gabriel felt a vague sense of unease. To be wearing a lounge suit instead of a dinner jacket was part of it, and the failure of his host to advise him the club had a dress code irritated him. But something else was bothering him.

  All good soldiers had it, to a degree. The indefinable ability to just know when something was off. Training was a part of it. Situational awareness was the technical name given to it by the instructors. But in Gabriel, the attribute was honed to a far sharper edge. He didn’t know if he’d been born with it, or whether he’d developed it later, maybe under the guidance of his mentor, Master Zhao. But it had kept him, and his men, out of trouble on more than one occasion.

  Before he could pin it down, the receptionist behind the tall black granite desk spoke to him, breaking his concentration. She wore a white blouse under a charcoal grey suit, cut to flatter her figure.

  “Good evening, sir,” she said, in English. “You are Mr Wolfe?”

  “Yes. You’re clearly expecting me.”

  She smiled, revealing large, uneven teeth, the canines crossing slightly in front of the incisors. Her hair was a rich, dark brown, and shining in the light from the chandelier.

  “Herr Krieger let us know he was entertaining a guest from England this evening.”

  Gabriel fingered the lapel of his suit.

  “I didn’t realise the club had a dress code. I’m sorry if that—”

  The receptionist smiled at him again. “Oh, no, sir. We do not have a dress code. There is a private party in one of our function rooms, that is all. Please take a seat and I will let Herr Krieger know you have arrived.”

  Gabriel’s irritation was smoothed out by the receptionist’s assurances that he wasn’t committing a social gaffe, and he took a seat on a deep-red Chesterfield sofa. The leather was worn, but smooth and soft to the touch. The brass nail heads around the edge of the padding were as highly polished as the club’s nameplate outside. He plucked the knees of his trousers up a fraction to avoid bagging the fabric, crossed his legs, ankle to knee, and sat back to wait for Krieger.

  He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Gabriel!” a man’s voice called from across the lobby. It was Krieger. The old man was walking towards him, hand outstretched. He wore the same suit he’d been wearing at their meeting.

  Gabriel stood and shook Krieger’s hand, which was warm and dry, the bones and sinews visible beneath the papery skin. He gestured at another couple dressed to the nines and chatting as they moved through the lobby.

  “For a horrible moment, I thought I’d have to go back to my hotel and change.”

  Krieger put his hand to his chest. “My dear Gabriel. You must forgive me. I hope I did not cause you any embarrassment. An old man’s foible, to assume everyone knows what he himself does.”

  “It’s fine. The receptionist told me. A private function.”

  “Ah, well, they hold them all the time. I only come a few times a year, with guests.” He held out his left arm. “Come. Let’s get a drink.”

  The bar was of a kind Gabriel loved. Dark; lit by table lamps, not overheads; leather club chairs that accepted you like old friends; booths around the edge and a long, curved zinc bar top behind which dozens of bottles and glasses glinted with rich promise. Above the bar itself was a huge gilt-framed mirror, its upper edge an art deco sunrise in alternating bands of paler and darker gold. In a corner, a jazz trio – piano, double bass and guitar – were playing “Fly Me to the Moon.” They appeared to be the only black people in the entire club, although Gabriel supposed there might be guests already sequestered in one of the private rooms.

  Krieger motioned him towards one of the booths, and he slid in with his back to the wall so he could command a view of the bar. Tall, narrow drink menus stood waiting in the centre of the table, and Gabriel pulled one towards him. Krieger smiled at him and did the same. The menus were printed on glossy black card, decorated with the club’s logo – a stylised version of the building’s exterior in white line artwork.

  A waitress appeared by Gabriel’s side a couple of minutes later. She was mid-thirties, plump where the receptionist had been slim, blond where she had been brunette. She wore black-framed glasses that magnified her eyes, which were a shade of brown that was almost amber.

  “Sir, may I bring you something from the bar?”

  “A martini, please. Made with Tanqueray Number Ten.”

  “Olive or a twist, sir?”

  “Olives, please. Three. And please tell the bartender not to make it too dry.”

  “Very good, sir. And for you, Herr Krieger?”

  “Well remembered, Marta,” Krieger said with a smile, which she reciprocated. “I think tonight I shall have a Manhattan. Made with Canadian Club. Thank you.”

  With their drinks before them, Krieger raised his cocktail glass. “My father taught me that banking is built on relationships, not money. To relationships, Gabriel.”

  “To relationships.”

  They clinked and drank.

  Gabriel felt the final shreds of apprehension dissolving as the alcohol hit his stomach. The martini was ice-cold and very good. The bartender had followed Gabriel’s instructions to the letter and allowed just enough of the vermouth to remain in the glass to add some herby off-dryness to the gin. He let out his breath in a sigh.

  “Is everything all right?” Krieger asked.
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  Gabriel took another pull on his drink and then set the glass down on the cocktail napkin the waitress had provided.

  “I had some bad news before I left England. Well, two lots of bad news.”

  “Would you like to tell me? I am old, and have heard much bad news in my time. I may not be able to help, but sometimes speaking these matters aloud takes away some of their sting.”

  Gabriel made a split-second decision. Why not? He was far from home and as a Swiss banker, Krieger was probably as watertight as a doctor – or a shrink – when it came to secrets.

  “Six days ago, a close friend of mine was killed. Murdered. Then, yesterday, a former comrade was killed. I am certain it was the same person.”

  Krieger’s eyebrows, already on their way up at Gabriel’s first sentence, arched higher at his second.

  “My dear boy, that is terrible. Most terrible. And you said ‘comrade’ – this was a soldier who died? You were a soldier yourself?”

  “Yes. I was in the army. Thirteen years.”

  “Aha. And you served in…?”

  “The Parachute Regiment.”

  This seemed to please Krieger.

  “An elite force, no? Only the SAS is better. Here in Switzerland, we have national service, as you may know. It is every young man’s duty to perform his military service.” Gabriel sipped his drink as Krieger spoke. Judging his feelings, wondering whether he would be safe to continue speaking. Krieger continued. “And you know who it was? The killer?”

  Gabriel nodded, thinking that the number of killings he’d caused, witnessed or actually performed since leaving military service was now approaching his total while in uniform. “Pretty sure, yes.”

  “And you have informed the authorities? The police?”

  “I have, but they won’t find her. She’s a professional. The question is, who hired her?”