Authors: Harold Robbins
Zurich wasn’t just an important Swiss city; it had the rich little country’s Wall Street and Rodeo Drive. I understood why Milan would choose Zurich and a Paradeplatz—Parade Square—address; the city and the location were a financial center of Europe and connoted money and straitlaced Swiss respectability. Major banks, flagships of the notoriously secretive Swiss banking system, were headquartered there.
I’d heard there was more gold under the Paradeplatz than in Fort Knox. Put there by Saudi oil princes, dot-com billionaires, and dead Nazis.
Hasbro’s game of Monopoly is sold in many countries and has real estate names that reflect the locale. The most valuable property in the American set is Boardwalk. In the Swiss version, it’s Paradeplatz.
I made my way to Zurich through Strasbourg and Basel. As I crossed the border from France to Switzerland, I was reminded of the country’s beautiful, picture-postcard perfect scenery. I once accused a Swiss friend of living in a country where lakes were dyed bright blue, meadows dyed bright green, and snow hauled to the top of the Alps to make them snowcapped in the summer.
Zurich was quaint, a city with clock faces on medieval spires. Ordinarily I would have paused along the way to enjoy the beauty, but I was on a mission and running scared. At the moment the geography of the city was more important than its charm, because I needed to find my way around in a short time. And I didn’t know if I would be leaving in a hurry.
Old Town Zurich, like Paris, had a Left and Right Bank, divided by the Limmat River. The Left Bank included the Paradeplatz, ritzy shopping on Bahnhofstrasse, and Viktor Milan’s office. I chose the Right Bank to stay, with its artsy atmosphere, red-light district, and gay scene, because it was so culturally diverse, no one stood out.
The area was famous for its connection to a famous revolutionary and one of the deciding moments in modern history: Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov, better known as Lenin, was living in the Niederdorf section when he got the call to return to Russia when the revolution broke out during World War I. Hoping he would disrupt the Russian war effort, the Germans transported Lenin to Russia in a sealed train.
The Right Bank was also the medieval heart of the city. Niederdorfstrasse and its tributaries were a maze of narrow, cobbled thoroughfares and alleys occasionally opening into quaint squares with small stores, galleries, and antique shops. As one drew closer to the rail station, the area became seedier, hosting fast-food joints and strip joints.
I found a room at a pensione that appeared reasonably respectable and clean. I lay down to rest and unwind my nerves. Since it was late afternoon, I didn’t want to approach Milan’s business in an unfamiliar neighborhood in the dark. I also needed to build up my courage.
After a nap, I took a walk to stretch my legs and get something to eat. The Kunsthaus, an art museum, was open, and I went inside.
Though not a very large museum, the Kunsthaus had important works by van Gogh, Picasso, Matisse, and others. I had seen van Gogh’s painting called
Strohdächer bei Auvers
years ago, and I wanted another look at it. I’d always been fascinated with his life and work. He was the quintessential tortured artist, desperately poor, wandering in and out of sanity. Of the fifteen hundred works of art he created, he had sold only one in his lifetime… today some of his works went for
a hundred million dollars
.
One of his last paintings before he killed himself, it was a study of two children, one of whom has been interpreted as being van Gogh himself. The children appear to be trapped in a hopeless situation.
The painting reflected how I felt myself.
Curious as to whether the curator knew Viktor Milan, I didn’t want to blatantly ask. A risk of being recognized by a curator also existed. For all I knew, my face was being broadcast around the world as a Most Wanted.
Instead of asking the question face-to-face, I had the desk clerk at the pensione get me the name of the museum curator. Under the pretense that I was trying to locate Milan, I phoned the curator and asked if he knew Milan. His response that he had never met the man didn’t surprise me—the Kunsthaus specialized in European art, and Milan was involved in antiquities.
The following morning I made my way slowly down Bahnhofstrasse, a wide street closed to everything but foot traffic and electric trams. The street crossed Paradeplatz and was Zurich’s Rodeo Drive.
Milan’s business address was on a side street near the square. The address turned out to be a small, expensive hotel.
Gathering my courage, I went inside.
I quickly learned that Milan didn’t have an office in the hotel but used it as a mail drop. No one there appeared to have actually met him or know what he looked like, nor would they give me Milan’s current forwarding address.
To mull the situation over, I headed over to Sprungli’s, a 150-year-old confectionery shop and café on Bahnhofstrasse overlooking Paradeplatz, and enjoyed some coffee and mocha-favored
Luxemburgerli
, the small, airy, cream-filled macaroons that were a local specialty there.
Albert’s words were swirling in my mind: “Sun, sea, and the beach.”
That’s where I would find Milan.
The nearest places that came to mind for winter vacations were the French Riviera, Positano in the south of Italy, and the Greek isles.
I looked out the window and saw a package delivery truck across the street. An idea struck me.
I went back to the Kunsthaus and bought a large print in their museum shop. I had them package it in a long tube-shaped mailer with a sticker that said:
DRINGEND
for “urgent.” I also asked the woman to scribble a note on their museum letterhead instructing the hotel to forward the item to Viktor Milan immediately.
I gave the package to a taxi driver to deliver to the hotel.
I returned to the business district where Milan’s hotel “office” was located and hung around, window-shopping, eating lunch, and just trying to hang out inconspicuously. A delivery truck arrived at the little boutique hotel. When the driver came out with the tube-shaped package, I acted like I had just come out of the hotel and was looking for my keys in my handbag.
“Is that the package for Viktor? He was expecting one, but he’s not here, you know,” I said, smiling at him, trying to sound like I knew Milan.
He smiled back. “They gave me the forwarding address.”
“Did they give you the right one? Because he owns several places,” I said. “Let me see.” I quickly glanced at Milan’s address. “That’s the right one. Have a good day.”
Milan was at a small town near Malaga, Spain. I hadn’t thought about sun, sea, and the beach at the Costa del Sol, the “Sun Coast” on the Mediterranean at the southern end of Spain.
Chapter 34
That evening I had dinner at a small German restaurant recommended by my hotel. I ordered Wiener schnitzel, mashed potatoes, creamed spinach, and fresh-baked bread. The veal cutlet was delicious, as was the homemade bread. I usually avoided meat, but I decided it might give me energy.
Warm and cozy, the restaurant had a fire blazing in the stone fireplace.
During dinner, one of the waiters brought out his accordion and played it while his waitress wife sang “Edelweiss.” I recognized the song from the movie
The Sound of Music
and remembered reading somewhere that the song wasn’t really German but written by Rodgers and Hammerstein.
Despite the cozy atmosphere, I couldn’t relax, not even with two glasses of red wine. The wine gave me a little buzz, but I was still tense.
My game plan was to head out next morning for Malaga. I didn’t know what else to do. I had set out on a mission and now I had to finish it. I still hadn’t figured out exactly what I would do when I met face-to-face with the enigmatic Viktor Milan.
My father’s old expression that he had learned from his Austrian grandmother reminded me of my own circumstances: “The situation is hopeless but not serious.”
Sometime during the evening a nice man in his fifties came over and asked me in German if he could join me. I knew enough German to say, “Nein, vielen Dank.”
He was attractive, but I wasn’t in a good enough mood for small talk, especially if it involved overcoming language difficulties by playing charades.
I left the restaurant to walk back to my hotel. The restaurant had been on the main street, but I took a less noisy and more peaceful way back to my hotel.
I had walked two blocks when a man grabbed me from behind and shoved me toward the open side door of a van. A second man was waiting inside the van to pull me in. I let out a yell for help and tried to break free. The second man had stepped out to grab me when another man appeared and hit the assailant holding me. The blow caught the man on the side of the head. He grunted and turned me loose.
“Police!” my rescuer yelled.
The two men scrambled back into the van when they heard the word “police” and sped off.
I didn’t move for a second.
“Are you okay?” my rescuer asked.
“Yes.”
Without another word, I started walking fast, almost jogging, in the direction of my hotel. He caught up with me.
“We should call the police,” he said.
“No, I’d rather not.” Afraid he’d see the patent fear on my face, I avoided looking at him.
“Are you sure?”
Oh, Jesus. I hadn’t even thanked him. I stopped and grabbed his arm, shaking my head. “Forgive me. You risked your own life to save me. I’m really grateful.”
He grinned and shrugged. “All in a day’s work for a knight-errant.”
That made me smile. A knight-errant wandered in search of princesses to rescue and dragons to fight. I could use a knight in shining armor right about now.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine, thanks to you. How about you? Are you okay?”
“Sure. Look, let me walk you to your hotel. Just in case they decide to come back.”
I told him where I was staying.
“Hey, I’m staying there, too.”
“Really?” What luck.
He raised his eyebrows as we walked. “I guess they were purse snatchers?”
In a pig’s eye. They weren’t after my purse but my body—for battering, not sex. And it wasn’t hard to figure out why. Viktor Milan knew I was in town looking for him. He must have gotten a call from the hotel telling him a woman was asking about him. From my description, it wouldn’t be hard for him to figure out who I was. Another phone call from him and his thug friends are sent after me. What would they have done? Beaten me to get answers? Killed me?
“Probably a purse snatching,” I agreed.
“Strange, though. Not the sort of thing that happens in Zurich or anywhere else in Switzerland. The country’s not exactly a high-crime zone.”
“Can happen anywhere,” I murmured. “Oh my gosh. I just realized—you’re an American.”
“Guilty.” He grinned. “Although I sometimes try to pass for Canadian. Not as many people in the world hate Canadians as they do Americans.”
“Good idea.”
“Let me buy you a drink in the tavern by the pensione,” he said. “You look like you could use one.”
“Yeah, I could, actually.” I was still shaken from the incident. I wanted to blurt out the truth about my predicament, but I kept my mouth shut.
“Coby Lewis,” he said, offering a handshake.
“Madison Dupre.” I squeezed his hand. I had to use my real name because the hotel was holding my passport.
I ordered a Chianti Classico; he had dark beer. We chitchatted for a while, mostly my questioning him about his reason for being in Europe.
“Just doing some sightseeing stuff,” he said, “before I head back to the States. What about you? Here on business?”
“Playing tourist. You were on business?”
“I did a short hitch as a personal trainer and bodyguard to the daughter of an oil-rich Dubai sheikh. He thought I got a little too friendly with her and gave me the boot.”
“Did you?”
“Nope.” He held up his hand with fingers folded in a Boy Scout sign. “She was a party girl; I just took the heat.”
“So what’s back in the States for you?” I asked him. I wondered if he was married. No ring, but many men didn’t wear them.
“Heading out to Hollywood. I have a buddy who does stunt work for action movies. I’d thought I’d give it a try.”
“You look like you shouldn’t have any problem.”
“Yeah, I try to keep in pretty good shape.”
He certainly looked like he put time in at the gym. He wasn’t bulging with muscles like some guys who overpumped but had a nice definition to his body.
I was immediately attracted to him, his toned body, and the fact that he was big and strong and apparently didn’t frighten easily.
“So enough about me. Why didn’t you want to call the police? Did you know these guys?”
“No. I never saw them before.”
“They could have hurt you. A lot of crazy fucking people in this world.”
I hesitated, wondering how much I should tell this guy. I didn’t know him from Adam, but he had an honest face and seemed to be really concerned about me. And he had just saved my life.
“I don’t know who attacked me, not the actual names at least, but I think I know why.” Maybe it was the liquor talking. I had already had wine earlier and was hitting it again. Or maybe it was just desperation.
“You don’t know who, but you know why?” He gave me a puzzled look. “Care to explain?”
“I’m involved in a business deal that went sour.”
“What kind of business deal would involve you getting kidnapped off the street? Sounds like you have something that someone else wants. Drugs, maybe?”
I needed a lie and reached for one. The drug connection was a good lead-in to something that he would believe about a businesswoman.
“I inadvertently got involved in a money-laundering scheme. I have to find the person who got me involved and turn him over to the police in order to clear myself.”
“The guy’s in Zurich?”
“I thought so at first, but now he’s moved on. I think he arranged long-distance for the men to grab me here.”
“Where do you think he is?”
“I traced him to an address in Malaga. Spain. I was planning to go there.” I perked up as if I suddenly had a brilliant idea, but the notion had been buzzing in my head just before we stepped into the bar. “Why don’t you come with me? I don’t expect you to get involved in anything dangerous. I’ll pay you, of course.”