29 Psarou Beach
Psarou Beach
As it turned out, Ingrid’s illicit cyber activities extended far beyond a single silent donor service based in the Dutch capital.
She also breached the data networks of a number of dubious financial services firms, all located in or around the Caribbean
Basin, along with the records departments of two prestigious British institutions of higher learning. Based on material gathered
during these digital raids, she could say with certainty that the recent charitable donations to a number of UK-based relief
and human rights organizations had all been made by a shell company called Regency Holdings.
“It’s a subsidiary of a shell company called Trident Resources,” she explained. “And Trident Resources is a subsidiary of
something called Pavilion Capital.”
“And the beneficial owner of these companies?” asked Gabriel.
“Impossible to say. They’re Bahamian-registered and as opaque as can be.”
“And where, pray tell, do they do their banking?”
“The Cayman Islands, Mr. Allon. Where else?”
He considered this. “It could be exactly what it appears to be.”
“A wealthy individual who hides money offshore displaying a sudden streak of generosity?”
“Something like that,” he answered without conviction.
“I picked up one or two other tidbits as well.”
“Such as?”
“Until recently all three companies were empty vessels. Bone-dry, in fact. But interestingly enough, they received a large
infusion of capital just seventy-two hours after Edward Knight approved the payment of the ransom money.”
“How large?”
“Four hundred and seventy-five million dollars, give or take. But one of the companies, Trident Resources, if I’m not mistaken,
immediately transferred twenty-five million dollars to a company called RPH Investments. By the way, RPH does its banking
in beautiful Belize.”
Gabriel reflected upon this as well while watching the last of the sun slip below the horizon. “The question is,” he said
at length, “is that money the ransom payment that Edward Knight transferred to the bank in Cyprus?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer that. But I have a feeling I know someone who can.”
“Who?”
Ingrid smiled and said, “RPH.”
She was most intrigued, she continued, not by the size of the payment but by the company’s initials—the second and third initials,
to be precise, the P and H. They were, she pointed out, the same initials as Peter Hoffmann, chief of wealth management at Bank Josef B?nzinger & Co.
in Zurich.
“What about the R?” inquired Gabriel.
“I asked myself the same question.”
“And?”
“His curriculum vitae on the bank’s website refers to him as Peter, and he was known as Peter during his time at Cambridge.
But it turns out that Peter is his second given name.”
“And his first?”
“Reinhardt.”
“How did you determine that?”
“Rather easily, actually. You see, Peter Hoffmann was known as Reinhardt Hoffmann until he headed off to Cambridge. That’s
when he started calling himself Peter, probably because it sounded a bit less, well, Swiss.”
“You’re sure?”
“I can show you his official transcripts, if you like. He was quite a student,” she added. “One wonders how he ended up at
a bank like Josef B?nzinger. Do you remember that Wikileaks dump of confidential emails? They revealed that B?nzinger was
laundering money through its affiliate in the Cayman Islands. And then there was that exposé in The New Yorker about B?nzinger stealing money from its clients. The CEO swore it wasn’t true a few days before hanging himself from the
doorknob in his private bathroom.”
“That said, you have no proof that RPH Investments is linked to Reinhardt Peter Hoffmann.”
“I also have no proof the sun will rise tomorrow, but based on the available facts, I can reasonably deduce that it will.”
“Perhaps we should review them.” Gabriel indicated Peel, then said, “For the benefit of the detective inspector.”
“British socialite Alice Winter goes missing while on holiday on Ibiza,” Ingrid began.
“A fine start,” said Gabriel. “Please continue.”
“Edward Knight, her wealthy and seemingly desperate husband, hires the renowned art conservator and retired spy Gabriel Allon to find her. Several days after her disappearance, Knight receives a ransom demand for one billion dollars. Gabriel Allon, now acting as Knight’s negotiator, whittles it down to a half billion.
Knight transfers the money to CyproBank of Nicosia before Allon can determine whether Alice Winter is still alive.
Allon is dumped by the side of a road. Alice, however, is nowhere to be found. ”
“Why not?”
“That calls for a certain amount of speculation on my part.”
“Speculate away.”
“British socialite Alice Winter was abducted by men hired by her husband, Edward Knight. Knight retained you to find her,
knowing that your involvement would suggest he was innocent of any wrongdoing. When the ransom negotiations began, you drove
a hard bargain. But what you didn’t realize was that the men at the other end of the line were working for your client.”
“Were the proof-of-life photographs real?”
“I believe they were.”
“Which means that Alice was alive then.”
Ingrid made no reply.
“When was she killed?”
“If I had to guess, not long after the money arrived at that bank in Cyprus.”
“In cold blood?”
“All contract killers murder their victims in cold blood, Mr. Allon. Why would Alice deserve better?”
“You were in the room with Knight when we received the initial ransom demand,” Gabriel reminded her.
“I remember it well.”
“Did he strike you as the sort of man who was about to have his wife murdered?”
“You could have played the role of the desperate husband, Mr. Allon. And I certainly could have played the role of a desperate
wife.”
“That’s because we’re both professional deceivers.”
“Perhaps Edward Knight is too. Many wealthy businessmen are.”
Gabriel didn’t dispute the point. “That leaves Reinhardt Peter Hoffmann.”
“Chief of wealth management at Bank Josef B?nzinger & Company, a firm with a rather dubious track record that includes laundering
and concealing money on behalf of its clients.”
“Hoffmann was in on it from the beginning?”
“Absolutely.”
“If that was the case, why did he pretend to bump into Alice on Ibiza?”
“For the life of me,” replied Ingrid, “I can’t figure that one out.”
“A rather large hole in your scenario, don’t you think?”
“Unless Edward Knight had nothing to do with his wife’s disappearance.”
“Then who was behind it?”
“Reinhardt Peter Hoffmann.”
With a movement of his hand, Gabriel instructed Ingrid to proceed.
“Peter Hoffmann hires a crew of highly professional operatives to kidnap his old friend Alice Winter during her Ibizan holiday
in order to extort five hundred million dollars from her husband, who happened to be his client. He pays off the kidnappers
with a portion of the ransom, not to mention the Cypriot banker, and buries the rest of the money offshore.”
“Where’s Alice?”
“Under this scenario, Alice is quite dead.”
“Who killed her?”
“The highly professional operatives.”
“Why would they do a thing like that?”
“They must have had a slip-up while she was in captivity. Or maybe that’s just the way they roll.”
It was entirely plausible, thought Gabriel. And it would explain Peter Hoffmann’s presence on Ibiza and Alice’s continued
absence. There was, however, one flaw in Ingrid’s premise.
“But why would Peter Hoffmann give away nearly three million pounds of his hard-earned loot?”
“The donations,” admitted Ingrid, “are harder to explain.”