She was on the phone and also pecking at a keyboard. “It will be just a moment, Mr. Lazzeri,” she said. “Would you mind waiting?”
“No,” he said. Waiting? He’d been dreaming of this for years. He took a chair, crossed his legs, saw the shoes, then put his feet under the chair. He was certain that he was being watched from a dozen different camera angles now, and that was fine. Maybe they would recognize Backman sitting in the lobby, maybe they wouldn’t. He could almost see them up there, gawking at the monitors, scratching their heads, saying, “Don’t know, he’s much thinner, gaunt, even.”
“And the hair. It’s obviously a bad coloring job.”
To help them Joel removed Giovanni’s tortoiseshell glasses.
Five minutes later, a stern-faced security type in a
much lesser suit approached him from nowhere and said, “Mr. Lazzeri, would you follow me?”
They rode a private elevator up to the third floor where Marco was led into a small room with thick walls. All the walls seemed to be thick at Rhineland Bank. Two other security agents were waiting. One actually smiled, the other did not. They asked him to place both hands on a biometric fingerprint scanner. It would compare his fingerprints to the ones he left behind almost seven years ago, at this same place, and when the perfect match was made there would be more smiles, then a nicer room, a nicer lobby, the offer of coffee or juice. Anything, Mr. Backman.
He asked for orange juice because he’d had no breakfast. The security agents were back in their cave. Mr. Backman was now being serviced by Elke, one of Mr. Van Thiessen’s shapely assistants. “He’ll be out in just a minute,” she explained. “He wasn’t expecting you this morning.”
Kinda hard to make appointments when you’re hiding in toilet stalls. Joel smiled at her. Ol’ Marco was history now. Finally laid to rest after a good two-month run. Marco had served him well, kept him alive, taught him the basics of Italian, walked him around Treviso and Bologna, and introduced him to Francesca, a woman he would not soon forget.
But Marco would also get him killed, so he ditched him there on the third floor of the Rhineland Bank, while looking at Elke’s black stiletto heels and waiting on her boss. Marco was gone, never to return.
Mikel Van Thiessen’s office was designed to smack his visitors with a powerful right hook. Power in the massive
Persian rug. Power in the leather sofa and chairs. Power in the ancient mahogany desk that wouldn’t have fit in the cell at Rudley. Power in the array of electronic gadgets at his disposal. He met Joel at the powerful oak door and they shook hands properly, but not like old friends. They had met exactly once before.
If Joel had lost sixty pounds since their last visit, Van Thiessen had found most of it. He was much grayer too, not nearly as crisp and sharp as the younger bankers Joel had seen on the streetcar. Van Thiessen directed his client to the leather chairs while Elke and another assistant scurried around to fetch coffee and pastries.
When they were alone, with the door shut, Van Thiessen said, “I’ve been reading about you.”
“Oh really. And what have you read?”
“Bribing a president for a pardon, come on, Mr. Backman. Is it really that easy over there?”
Joel couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Joel was in an upbeat mood, but he didn’t exactly feel like swapping one-liners.
“I didn’t bribe anyone, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“Yes, well, the newspapers are certainly filled with speculation.” His tone was more accusatory than jovial, and Joel decided not to waste time. “Do you believe everything you read in the newspapers?”
“Of course not, Mr. Backman.”
“I’m here for three reasons. I want access to my security box. I want to review my account. I want to withdraw ten thousand dollars in cash. After that, I may have another favor or two.”
Van Thiessen shoved a small cookie in his mouth
and chewed rapidly. “Yes, of course. I don’t think we’ll have a problem with any of that.”
“Why should you have a problem?”
“Not a problem, sir. I’ll just need a few minutes.”
“For what?”
“I’ll need to consult with a colleague.”
“Can you do so quickly?”
Van Thiessen practically bolted from the room and slammed the door behind him. The pain in Joel’s stomach was not from hunger. If the wheels came off now, he had no plan B. He’d walk out of the bank with nothing, hopefully make it across the Paradeplatz to a streetcar, and once on board he would have no place to go. The escape would be over. Marco would be back, and Marco would eventually get him killed.
As time came to an abrupt halt, he kept thinking about the pardon. With it, his slate was wiped clean. The U.S. government was in no position to pressure the Swiss to freeze his account. The Swiss didn’t freeze accounts! The Swiss were immune from pressure! That’s why their banks were filled with loot from around the world.
They were the Swiss!
Elke retrieved him and asked if he would follow her downstairs. In other days, he would’ve followed Elke anywhere, but now it was only downstairs.
He’d been to the vault during his prior visit. It was in the basement, several levels below ground, though the clients never knew how deep into Swiss soil they were descending. Every door was a foot thick, every wall appeared to be made of lead, every ceiling had surveillance cameras. Elke handed him off to Van Thiessen again.
Both thumbs were scanned for matching prints. An
optical scanner took his photo. “Number seven,” Van Thiessen said, pointing. “I’ll meet you there,” he said, and left through a door.
Joel walked down a short hallway, passing six windowless steel doors until he came to the seventh. He pushed a button, all sorts of things tumbled and clicked inside, and the door finally opened. He stepped inside, where Van Thiessen was waiting.
The room was a twelve-foot square, with three walls lined with individual vaults, most about the size of a large shoe box.
“Your vault number?” he asked.
“L2270.”
“Correct.”
Van Thiessen stepped to his right, bent slightly to face L2270. On the vault’s small keypad he punched some numbers, then straightened himself and said, “If you wish.”
Under Van Thiessen’s watchful eyes, Joel stepped to his vault and entered the code. As he did so, he softly whispered the numbers, forever seared in his memory: “Eighty-one, fifty-five, ninety-four, ninety-three, twenty-three.” A small green light began blinking on the keypad. Van Thiessen smiled and said, “I’ll be waiting at the front. Just ring when you’re finished.”
When he was alone, Joel removed the steel box from his vault and pulled open the top. He picked up the padded mailing envelope and opened it. There were the four two-gigabyte Jaz disks that had once been worth $1 billion.
He allowed himself a moment, but no more than
sixty seconds. He was, after all, very safe at that time, and if he wanted to reflect, what was the harm?
He thought of Safi Mirza, Fazal Sharif, and Farooq Khan, the brilliant boys who’d discovered Neptune, then wrote reams of software to manipulate the system. They were all dead now, killed by their naïve greed and their choice of lawyer. He thought of Jacy Hubbard, the brash, gregarious, infinitely charismatic crook who had snowed the voters for an entire career and finally gotten much too greedy. He thought of Carl Pratt and Kim Bolling and dozens of other partners he’d brought into their prosperous firm, and the lives that had been wrecked by what he was now holding in his hand. He thought of Neal and the humiliation he’d caused his son when the scandal engulfed Washington and prison became not only a certainty but a sanctuary.
And he thought of himself, not in selfish terms, not in pity, not passing the blame to anyone else. What a miserable mess of a life he’d lived, so far anyway. As much as he’d like to go back and do it differently, he had no time to waste on such thoughts. You’ve only got a few years left, Joel, or Marco, or Giovanni, or whatever the hell your name is. For the first time in your rotten life, why don’t you do what’s right, as opposed to what’s profitable?
He put the disks in the envelope, the envelope in his briefcase, then replaced the steel box in the vault. He rang for Van Thiessen.
______
BACK
in the power office, Van Thiessen handed him a file with one sheet of paper in it. “This is a summary of
your account,” he was saying. “It’s very straightforward. As you know, there’s been no activity.”
“You guys are paying one percent interest,” Joel said.
“You were aware of our rates when you opened the account, Mr. Backman.”
“Yes, I was.”
“We protect your money in other ways.”
“Of course.” Joel closed the file and handed it back. “I don’t want to keep this. Do you have the cash?”
“Yes, it’s on the way up.”
“Good. I need a few things.”
Van Thiessen pulled over his writing pad and stood ready with his fountain pen. “Yes,” he said.
“I want to wire a hundred thousand to a bank in Washington, D.C. Can you recommend one?”
“Certainly. We work closely with Maryland Trust.”
“Good, wire the money there, and with the wire open a generic savings account. I will not be writing checks, just making withdrawals.”
“In what name?”
“Joel Backman and Neal Backman.” He was getting used to his name again, not ducking when he said it. Not cowering in fear, waiting for gunfire. He liked it.
“Very well,” Van Thiessen said. Anything was possible.
“I need some help in getting back to the U.S. Could your girl check the Lufthansa flights to Philadelphia and New York?”
“Of course. When, and from where?”
“Today, as soon as possible. I’d like to avoid the airport here. How far away is Munich by car?”
“By car, three to four hours.”
“Can you provide a car?”
“I’m sure we can arrange that.”
“I prefer to leave from the basement here, in a car driven by someone not dressed like a chauffeur. Not a black car either, something that will not attract attention.”
Van Thiessen stopped writing and shot a puzzled look. “Are you in danger, Mr. Backman?”
“Perhaps. I’m not sure, and I’m not taking chances.”
Van Thiessen pondered this for a few seconds, then said, “Would you like for us to make the airline reservations?”
“Yes.”
“Then I need to see your passport.”
Joel pulled out Giovanni’s borrowed passport. Van Thiessen studied it for a long time, his stoic banker’s face betraying him. He was confused and worried. He finally managed, “Mr. Backman, you will be traveling with someone else’s passport.”
“That’s correct.”
“And this is a valid passport?”
“It is.”
“I assume you do not have one of your own.”
“They took it a long time ago.”
“This bank cannot take part in the commission of a crime. If this is stolen, then—”
“I assure you it’s not stolen.”
“Then how did—”
“Let’s just say it’s borrowed, okay?”
“But using someone else’s passport is a violation of the law.”
“Let’s not get hung up on U.S. immigration policy, Mr. Van Thiessen. Just get the schedules. I’ll pick the flights. Your girl makes the reservations using the bank’s account. Deduct it from my balance. Get me a car and a driver. Deduct that from my balance, if you wish. It’s all very simple.”
It was just a passport. Hell, other clients had three or four of them. Van Thiessen handed it back to Joel and said, “Very well. Anything else?”
“Yes, I need to go online. I’m sure your computers are secure.”
“Absolutely.”
______
HIS
e-mail to Neal read:
Grinch—With a bit of luck, I should arrive in U.S. tonight. Get a new cell phone today. Don’t let it out of your sight. Tomorrow morning call the Hilton, Marriott, and Sheraton, in downtown Washington. Ask for Giovanni Ferro. That’s me. Call Carl Pratt first thing this morning, on the new phone. Push hard to get Senator Clayburn in D.C. We will cover his expenses. Tell him it’s urgent. A favor to an old friend. Don’t take no for an answer. No more e-mails until I get home. Marco
After a quick sandwich and a cola in Van Thiessen’s office, Joel Backman left the bank building riding shotgun in a shiny green BMW four-door sedan. For good
measure, he kept a Swiss newspaper in front of his face until they were on the autobahn. The driver was Franz. Franz fancied himself a Formula One hopeful, and when Joel let it be known that he was in somewhat of a hurry, Franz slipped into the left lane and hit 150 kilometers per hour.
32
AT 1:55 P.M., JOEL BACKMAN WAS SITTING IN A LAVISHLY
large seat in the first-class section of a Lufthansa 747 as it began its push back from the gate at the Munich airport. Only when it started to move did he dare pick up the glass of champagne he’d been staring at for ten minutes. The glass was empty by the time the plane stopped at the end of the runway for its final check. When the wheels lifted off the pavement, Joel closed his eyes and allowed himself the luxury of a few hours of relief.
______
HIS
son, on the other hand, and at exactly the same moment, 7:55 Eastern Standard time, was stressed to the point of throwing things. How the hell was he supposed to go buy a new cell phone immediately, then call Carl Pratt again and solicit old favors that did not exist, and somehow cajole a retired and cantankerous old senator from Ocracoke, North Carolina, to drop what he was doing and return immediately to a city he evidently disliked immensely? Not to mention the obvious: he, Neal
Backman, had a rather full day at the office. Nothing as pressing as rescuing his wayward father, but still a pretty full docket with clients and other important matters.
He left Jerry’s Java, but instead of going to the office he went home. Lisa was bathing their daughter and was surprised to see him. “What’s wrong?” she said.
“We have to talk. Now.”