19 Bahnhofstrasse
Bahnhofstrasse
Higgins booked a pair of suites for them at the Baur au Lac Hotel. They stopped there long enough to check in and shed their
luggage and then set off along the graceful curve of the Bahnhofstrasse, Zurich’s main artery of commerce and luxury. The
inside.
A thirtyish woman wearing a dark pencil skirt and matching jacket met him in the lobby and with Swiss discretion escorted
him upstairs. Heads turned as they crossed the firm’s trading floor. It was no secret, it seemed, that the bête noire of the
Swiss banking industry was in the building.
Peter Hoffmann’s spacious office overlooked the Bahnhofstrasse. He was holding a phone to his ear as Gabriel entered. He bade
the person at the other end of the call a hasty farewell and rose to his feet.
“I must admit, Mr. Allon, you’re the last person in the world I expected to see today.”
“Likewise,” replied Gabriel, and grasped Peter Hoffmann’s outstretched hand. The Swiss banker had aged slightly in the time
since he had posed for his passport photo but radiated good health. His suit was gray, his necktie silver. Gabriel would not
have been surprised to learn that he wore the same attire every day.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Thank you, no,” said Gabriel, and lowered himself uninvited into a stylish Barcelona chair. Peter Hoffmann remained standing
a moment longer. He was tall and trim, with a narrow waist and square shoulders. He looked good on his feet, and knew it.
He placed a forefinger to his lips and eyed Gabriel speculatively through his rimless spectacles. “Five hundred million?”
he asked at last.
“Dollars,” added Gabriel.
“And what exactly are we going to do with it?”
“We’re going to transfer it to another bank.”
“Which bank?”
“That has yet to be determined.”
Hoffmann was slow in taking his seat. “I can’t send the money to just any bank, Mr. Allon. Swiss anti-money-laundering laws require me to know my customer.”
“Your customer,” said Gabriel, “is Edward Knight.”
“Is he dissatisfied with the way I’m handling his portfolio?”
“Not at all.”
“Then why is he withdrawing the bulk of his money?”
“That’s his business, Herr Hoffmann. Not yours.”
Gabriel had spoken in German. The banker responded in the same language. “And what is the nature of your relationship with
Mr. Knight, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m restoring a painting for him.”
“Not the Bellotto?”
“He mentioned it?”
“I handled the payment. It seemed a bit high for a Bellotto, if you ask me, but Edward was insistent.” Peter Hoffmann swiveled
round in his chair and watched a Number 11 tram slithering silently along the Bahnhofstrasse. “He’s not in some sort of trouble,
is he?”
“Edward? Not at all.”
“His business appears to be thriving.”
“Firing on all cylinders,” Gabriel chimed in.
“So why is he converting his portfolio to cash?”
“I’m afraid that’s—”
“None of my affair?”
Gabriel was silent.
“I’ve been handling Edward’s money for more than ten years,” said Peter Hoffmann, his tone indignant. “And if the truth be
told, I’ve done very well by him.”
Gabriel decided to probe a bit. “He tells me that you attended Cambridge with his wife.”
“That’s correct. Alice is the one who convinced Edward to hire me.”
“Seen her lately?”
“As a matter of fact, I bumped into her quite by chance on Ibiza a few days ago. She was there with a few of our old friends
from Cambridge. It’s an annual thing.”
“What’s that?”
“A summer holiday together. Alice apparently rented the biggest house on the island.”
Gabriel returned to the topic at hand—the exact amount of cash in Edward Knight’s accounts at Bank Josef B?nzinger the very thought of food had made his stomach turn. He checked the time. It was ten minutes past four. He allowed another twenty minutes to pass before ringing Peter Hoffmann. The Swiss banker informed him that he had raised $504 million in cash on behalf of his client Edward Knight.
“All I need now is a letter signed by Mr. Knight, granting you the authority to transfer the money.” Gabriel protested, but
Hoffmann held firm. “Sorry, Mr. Allon, but I need that document. Otherwise the money can’t leave this bank.”
Gabriel dialed Edward Knight in London and explained the situation. Knight was unconcerned. “Don’t worry, Allon, I’ll personally
authorize the transfer when the time comes.”
Gabriel would have preferred to maintain control of the ransom payment, but he could hear in Knight’s tone that there was
no point in trying to change his mind.
“The money goes when I say it goes,” insisted Gabriel. “Are we clear?”
“I’ll wait to hear from you,” replied Knight, and then hung up the phone.
It was the first unexpected turn of the evening, but Gabriel was certain it would not be the last. It therefore came as no
surprise that the promised 6:00 p.m. call from the kidnappers did not come through until half past.
“Do you have the money?” asked the automated female voice.
“We have it,” answered Gabriel. “All we need is the name of the bank and the account and routing numbers.”
“The bank is CyproBank of Nicosia.”
Gabriel knew it well. It was one of the world’s least reputable financial firms. “And the account and routing numbers?”
The automated female recited them. Gabriel jotted the numbers on a piece of hotel stationery, then read them aloud.
“Correct and correct,” said the voice.
“When would you like us to send the money?”
“Immediately.”
“No Alice, no money,” said Gabriel, and killed the connection. Then he looked at Ingrid and asked, “Do you think you can hack
CyproBank of Nicosia?”
She opened her laptop and went to work.