The Geneva Decision (23 page)

Berardi hesitated, a cloud of confusion crossing his face, before translating.

Villeneuve drummed her pencil on the table and thought for a minute before responding. She sat up, smiled and responded.

“These things are in the past,” he translated. “We look forward to your informative and helpful assistance. If you would interview the survivors that would be most helpful. We have already finished those interviews but could have missed something. Thank you and good evening.”

The Major rose and turned to leave.

Agent Miguel stopped in the doorway and looked at their translator. He said, “You’re good. You moonlight? We might need a native translator, and Sabel is generous.”

Berardi handed over a business card.

The Major marched through the gendarmerie’s lobby. Miguel caught up, and out they went.

“What do we do now, Agent Miguel? Does the Grand Duchess of Sabel listen to you? ’Cause I don’t think she hears me.”

Miguel kept silent.

“And we have no official capacity except to tell Villeneuve things? That’s nice—we come up with something, hand it over, she gets credit. We cause problems and she’ll say she doesn’t know us.”

“You guys acted like vigilantes last week,” Miguel said. “Did you expect a free hand?”

The Major gave him a stern look, then said, “Why did you get that guy’s card?”

“He was surprised about something you said. I’ll ask him about it later.”

“Did I miss anything in there?” she said. “They talked a lot more than he translated.”

“Nope. You got it. She was trying to figure out how to get credit for our work.”

“OK,” she said. “Let’s see what the next of kin have to say.”

They made a list of the victims’ survivors and made calls. Most of them were anxious to discuss the investigation. Anxious to get it moving forward, anxious for an arrest, and unhappy with the police for their lack of results.

The first person available
was Marina Bachmann, sister of Sandra Bachmann, VP of Banque Genève International. Sandra was the second victim, killed upon returning home from the ill-fated dinner party. Marina, a cordial older woman, had come to live with her sister five years earlier after both went through divorces. They had a quiet social life, involving themselves in a charity and attending the Lutheran church once or twice a month. Marina hadn’t worked since moving to Geneva from Zurich but had considerable savings. She could think of nothing in Sandra’s life that would precipitate murder. But they rarely talked about business.

“Did you know anyone named Mustafa Ahmadi?” the Major said.

“No,” Marina said.

“How about Elgin Thomas or Conor Wigan? Calixthe Ebokea?”

Marina shook her head.

“Ever hear the term le Directeur?”

“Yes, every company has them.”

“I meant more like a nickname. Someone people refer to as le Directeur?”

Marina shook her head.

When they were ready to leave, she saw them to the door.

Agent Miguel pointed to a crystal sphere with a French inscription. He said, “The award for charity. Which one are you involved in?”

“La Crèche de Tangier,” she said. “They aid abandoned babies until they’re old enough for an orphanage. A great cause.”

Ramona Wölfli, the young
widow of Eren Wölfli, Banque Genève International’s president, answered her penthouse door in yoga pants and stiletto heels. The black tights left nothing to the imagination and her pale blue top clung to every surgically enhanced curve. Her blond hair was cut boyish and short. She led them into a modern white living room and jumped cross-legged onto the couch.

“Why are you interested in this?” she asked in English with a German accent.

“Two reasons,” the Major said. “First, the killers tried to kill our company president. Second, they killed one of our agents, Ezra Goldstein.”

Ramona shrugged. “What can I tell you? I already told the police that I would have killed him if someone else had not beaten me to it.”

Miguel shot the Major a look. She kept her eyes on Ramona and raised her eyebrows.

“They did not tell you this?” Ramona said. “He carried on with his ex-wives as if they were still married. One night with Sylvia, his first, the next night he spends with Eniko, the porn star from Budapest. Then he comes home to me. What do I want with him? He made me sign a contract before we married. I get nothing. Anyway, I made plans to live with my brother in Bern. I will move there next week. Let Sylvia bury him.”

“We were interested in a few people your husband might have known,” the Major said. She launched into the list, Ramona listened to each name and shook her head.

She said she knew nothing of the banking business—she noticed only that her husband became upset after a call from Sandra Bachmann. He left abruptly and went to his office. She had no idea why.

“For most of the night,” Ramona said, “I assumed it was he who did the killing.”

“I thought he and Marot were friends,” the Major said.

“Best friends. That meant nothing to Eren when it came to money. He cheated anyone he could. The only thing he cared about was Banque Genève International. He would never let anything happen to that ancient institution. He would not put up a dime if I needed medical treatment, but nothing was too good for his bank.”

“How did the killer get to him?”

“He hired security guards. They came to our house but he was at his office with Reto. When he went to his car, the killer was waiting.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no. It was perfect.”

“Was he involved in any charity?” Miguel asked.

“Ha! His libido was his charity, and he was most generous with it. Sandra handled the real charity.”

“Thank you,” the Major said. “Those are all the questions we have.”

“When you get back to the gendarmerie, be sure to tell the French whore I’m leaving next week. She thinks I’m a gold digger, going after the boy, Marot.”

The Major raised her eyebrows again.

“He’s not my type—I need maturity.” Ramona paused. “But if I wanted him?” She snapped her fingers, “I could have him like that.”

Joey Campbell—mid-fifties
, handsome and athletic—smelled of alcohol, his knees sagged when he stood, and his eyes were bloodshot. He recounted everything he’d already told Lieutenant Lamartine: he was unemployed since arriving in Switzerland, stood to collect two million euros of insurance following his wife’s death, and had taken no interest in her work. He pointed out that the insurance money was a quarter of what his wife’s income was worth to him had she lived. He was an artist from New York with no following in Europe. None of the pirates’ names sounded familiar to him. His wife had never been involved in any charities, thought church was for fools, read crime novels, and would never have an affair because no one would want her. She’d answered the door after getting a call and was shot in the face. All this he told them in the foyer where Sara Campbell died. He held the door open the whole time they talked.

“She had to have known her killer,” the Major said on the drive to Madame Marot’s estate. “She got a call, expected someone, answered the door, and could see at least a rough shape through the glass. Four bankers were murdered just hours earlier—she’d have been on her guard. Had to be someone from the bank or one of the wives.”

“No police detail,” Miguel said.

“Right, Lena Marot said they were going to arrange private security. They hadn’t done it yet? Or did the killer present himself as the security? Why were there no police standing by? Is that because there are more banks in Geneva than you can shake a stick at?”

“How many?” Miguel asked. “Thirty? Fifty?”

“Seventy-five,” she said. “With four or five potential targets at each. Yes, guard detail would overwhelm the police.”

“Only two banks involved, though.”

“They didn’t know that in the first twenty-four hours. And Villeneuve couldn’t protect one without protecting all of them. Still, they could have made an effort for Banque Marot’s ranking officer, right?”

“I would.”

“So why did Sara Campbell open the door?”

Maison Marot was a
sprawling estate with a stone mansion centered on a rise above Lake Léman. A butler opened the massive oak front door and ushered them into the drawing room.

After a long wait, a sallow young man dressed in black came in. At a glance, it was obvious he’d not slept in days, his face pale, his eyes hollow. At first he said nothing, just stood with his hands on the double doors as if summoning the strength to speak.

“Philippe Marot? I’m Major Jonelle Jackson. We met at the Banque—”

“Oui. Parlez-vous Français?”

Miguel answered him in French and they exchanged brief pleasantries. Philippe explained that his mother had already answered all the questions the police asked of her. He asked that they respect her privacy and check with the police for any information needed. Twice he mentioned she was grieving and needed rest. In the end, he recommended they make an appointment to see her some other time. Miguel got up to leave.

“Wait a minute,” the Major said. “Tell him we have an update on the investigation. Pia Sabel asked me to deliver the update in person.”

Miguel translated. Philippe stood still for a moment, then sighed and went to get his mother. Miguel looked at the Major and waited for an explanation.

“She’s a racist,” she said and shrugged.

Several minutes later, Mme. Marot took a seat in an overstuffed wingback chair, her son at her side in a matching chair. The Major sat on an ottoman in front of her, Miguel stood to the side. Mme. Marot studied the Sabel Security agents for a moment, then nodded.

“Madame Marot, Pia Sabel gave you her word she would try to find your husband’s assassin. I went with her to Cameroon, and we found him. Unfortunately, we were unable to catch him. We believe he was working with others and that some of them may have ties to your husband’s bank. Could you tell me if any of these names sound familiar? Elgin Thomas, Conor Wigan, Mustafa Ahmadi, Calixthe Ebokea?”

She shook her head and made it clear that she associated only with Switzerland’s finest families—she didn’t mix with French or English. She quickly added that she harbored no ill will toward them, simply had never made time to seek them out. She hadn’t even associated with Clément’s family in Geneva despite owning the family estate. She spent most of her free time with her own family.

“And where does your family live?” The Major asked.

“Wien.”

“Ah, the opera,” the Major said. “Mozart,
Die Zauberflöte
.”

“
Don Giovanni
,” Mme. Marot said with a smile. “You are a fan of the opera?”

“My aunt was a singer with big dreams and a great voice. She played Carmen in Santa Fe one summer. That’s as far as she got.” The Major looked away. “Bad choices in men.”

Mme. Marot nodded knowingly. “Men, a necessary evil.”

“Do you get back to Vienna often?” the Major asked.

“I am on the board of the state opera. My daughter, Daniela, goes with me to all the opening nights. My son,” she nodded at him, “will go if I bribe him. He would rather drive to the mountains. My husband went three times, but that was twenty-five years ago. He hated it.”

“Are you involved in any other charities there?”

“Opera fills all my time, especially when I have to live so far away. Philippe has a charity, I think—African children or something.”

She turned to him and spoke in French. A crimson hue rose upward from his neck as he replied in short clipped sentences. She turned back to the Major. “I’m afraid he was dragged into that one by his father’s friend, Mme. Bachmann.”

The Marots were called to dinner after a few more minutes. The butler showed Miguel and the Major out.

Driving to the next
witness, Miguel pulled out the police translator’s business card and called him.

Lieutenant Marco Berardi answered. “Unfortunately, I cannot translate for you.”

“Shame,” Miguel said. “I have a question. Something Major Jackson told Capitaine Villeneuve surprised you. What was it?”

“The incident on the bridge—there is a small discrepancy in the report. No matter.”

Miguel said, “I can send you Major Jackson’s report. She said three shots ricocheted off the guard rail in front of the hydroelectric plant before she drew her weapon. Her reports are always accurate.”

“I am sure it is nothing but I will check it out.”

He clicked off.

Antje Affolter answered the
door of her lakefront home in a robe—no makeup, over forty, waves of glossy brown hair framed high cheekbones. She apologized in German, then English.

“You have been to see Joey,” she said as she led them down the hallway. “It is bad he drinks, ja? I tell him, have a good cry. He says no. Such a man always.”

At that, Antje broke down. The Major and Miguel waited. After a minute, she motioned for them to go ahead of her and sit. In a weak voice she offered drinks, cheese, and crackers, all of which they declined.

“Reto was the best thing that ever happened to me,” Antje said. “I was just a schoolteacher, no hope for a privileged life. And I was the best thing for him. He was an accountant, overweight and not much to look at but good at math. I trimmed him up, he gave me an allowance. Our children go to the best schools. Now, all that is gone. It is my fault. I am punished, ja?”

“Punished?” Miguel asked.

“For my attentions to Joey.” Antje looked around the room, coming back to the Major. “Reto found out. He was so angry—for days he would not speak to me. The night Clément was murdered he worked with Eren all night. Then both killed. I never had the chance to…”

The Major got up, found a box of tissue, handed it to her, and sat again. After Antje blew her nose, the Major asked, “You said they killed him?”

“Ja, the men on the video, two of them. The men who kicked him and shot him.”

She described how the police showed her the video in which Reto Affolter was beaten by two men. One fit the description of Mustafa, the other his blond accomplice. Silent and monochrome, the action occurred in a blurred corner of the screen. Despite the distance, it was clear from the body language that they were interrogating him. After they’d learned everything possible, they shot him.