London Bridges: A Novel (24 page)

The Zurich Bank was a sixties-looking building, glass-and-steel front, situated very close to the lake. Sandy Greenberg met me outside. She was wearing a gray suit, had a black handbag slung over her shoulder, and looked as though maybe she worked inside the bank instead of for Interpol.

“You ever been to Zurich, Alex?” Sandy asked as she gave me a hug and kiss on both cheeks.

“Never. Had one of their multipurpose knives once when I was ten or eleven.”

“Alex, we have to eat a meal here. Promise me. Let's go inside now. They're waiting for us, and they don't like to wait in Zurich. Especially the bankers.”

The inside of the Zurich Bank was expensive-looking, highly polished, wood paneling everywhere, as spotless as a hospital operating room. The teller area was natural stone, with more wood paneling. The tellers were efficient and professional-looking, and they whispered to one another. The bank's branding was understated, but there was a great deal of modern art on the wall. I thought that I understood: the art was the bank's branding.

“Zurich has always been a haven for avant-garde intellectuals, cultured types,” Sandy said, and didn't whisper. “The Dada movement was born here. Wagner, Strauss, Jung all lived here.”

“James Joyce wrote Ulysses in Zurich,” I said, and winked at her.

Sandy laughed. “I forgot, you're a closet intellectual.”

We were escorted to the bank president's office, which had a serious look. Neat as a pin, too. Only one transaction on the desk blotter, everything else filed away.

Sandy handed Mr. Delmar Pomeroy an envelope. “A signed warrant,” she said. “The account number is 616479Q.”

“Everything has been promptly arranged,” Herr Pomeroy said to us. That was all. Then his warrant officer took us to look at the transactions in and out of account number 616479Q. So much for the secrecy and security of Swiss banks. Everything has been promptly arranged.

This was feeling more like an efficient, orderly police investigation now. Even though I knew it really wasn't. Sandy, two of her agents from Interpol, and I got to look through all of Corky Hancock's transactions in a small, windowless room somewhere deep in the basement of the Zurich Bank. The former CIA agent's account had grown from two hundred thousand U.S. dollars to slightly over six million. Youza.

The latest, and largest, deposits totaled three and a half million and had come in four installments this year.

The source of the payment was an account in the name of Y. Jikhomirov. It took us a couple of hours to track down all of the records. There were more than a hundred pages going all the way back to '91. The year the Wolf had been brought out of Russia. Coincidence? I didn't believe in them. Not anymore.

We carefully examined withdrawals from the Jikhomirov account. They included payments to a company that leased private jets; regular air travel with British Airways and Air France; hotels: Claridge's, the Bel-Air in L.A., the Sherry-Netherland in New York, the Four Seasons in Chicago and Maui. There were wire transfers to America, South Africa, Australia, Paris, Tel Aviv. The trail of a Wolf?

And an entry that particularly caught my interest—the purchase of four expensive sports cars in France, all from a dealership in Nice, Riviera Motors. A Lotus, a special-edition Jaguar, and two Aston Martins.

“The Wolf is supposed to be a sports car enthusiast,” I said to Sandy. “Maybe the cars mean something. Maybe we're closer than we suspect. What do you think?”

She nodded agreement. “Yes, I think we should visit Riviera Motors in Nice. Nice is nice. But first, Alex, lunch in Zurich. I made you a promise.”

“No, I think you made me promise. After my bad Swiss Army knife joke.”

I was hungry anyway, so it seemed a good idea. Sandy chose the Veltliner Keller, one of her favorites—a restaurant she thought I would appreciate.

As we entered, she explained that Veltliner Keller had been a restaurant since 1551, a long time for any business to survive. So we forgot about police work for an hour and a half. We dined on barley soup, zuppe engadinese; a casserole, veltliner topf; and very good wine. Everything was just so: crisp white linens and napkins, roses in sterling vases, crystal salt and pepper shakers.

“This is one of your better ideas,” I told Sandy near the end of the meal. “A nice break in the action.”

“It's called lunch, Alex. You have to try it more. You should come to Europe with your friend, Jamilla. You're working too hard.”

“It shows, I guess.”

“No, actually you look as good as ever. You're holding up better than Denzel—in his latest movies, anyway. Somehow you persevere. I don't know how, but you do. But I can tell that you're twisted up inside. Eat, relax, then we'll go to Nice and check out some sports cars. It will be like a holiday. Maybe we'll even catch a killer. Finish your wine, Alex.”

“Right,” I said, “and then I have to buy some chocolate for Jannie. A suitcase full. I made another promise.”

“Didn't you promise to catch the Wolf?” Sandy asked.

“Yeah, that too.”

Next stop, a luxury-car dealership in Nice. I felt as if I were in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

The owner of Riviera Motors, the “concessionnaire exclusif Jaguar, Aston Martin, Lotus,” appeared to like drama, too, at least in a design sense. To that effect, a long row of gleaming black cars was displayed in the showroom. The cars were clearly visible from the street through monumental bay windows. The shiny black machines cut a startling contrast to a spotless white floor.

“What do you think?” Sandy asked as we climbed out of our rented Peugeot, which we had parked across the street from the dealership.

“I think I need a new car,” I said to her. “And I know the Wolf likes fancy sports cars.”

We went inside and stopped at the reception desk in front. Behind it was an elegant reception person, well tanned with a bleached and ironed ponytail. She was checking Sandy and me out: Both over six feet; ebony and ivory. Who are these people?

“We're here to see Monsieur Garnier,” Sandy said to the woman in French.

“You have an appointment with Monsieur, madame?”

“We do indeed. Interpol and the FBI, respectively—and respectfully, I might add. Monsieur Garnier is expecting us, I believe. We're here on important business.”

While we waited, I continued to take in the place. The expensive cars were precisely parked in a herringbone pattern, interspersed with voluminous potted plants. In an adjacent service atelier, mechanics in matching Jaguar-green jumpsuits worked with pristine tools.

The manager of the car dealership appeared after a couple of minutes' wait. He was dressed in a fashionable gray suit, but not too flashy, just clearly expensive and right.

“You've come about a couple of Aston Martins, a Jaguar, a Lotus?” he asked.

“Something like that, monsieur,” Sandy told him. “Let's go up to your office. We wouldn't want to hurt business by talking down here in the showroom.”

The manager smiled. “Oh, believe me, madame, our business is bulletproof.”

“We'll see about that,” I told him in French. “Or maybe a better way of putting it: let's try and keep it that way. This is a murder investigation.”

The manager suddenly became extremely polite and cooperative. The four luxury cars in question had been purchased by an M. Aglionby, who apparently had a home nearby on the beautiful peninsula, Cap-Ferrat, just east of Nice. Monsieur Garnier told us it was “off the Basse Corniche, the main coastal road to Monaco. You can't miss it. And you won't miss the Aglionby estate.”

“To Catch a Thief,” Sandy said as we sped along toward Cap-Ferrat about two hours later. We had lost a little time calling in backup.

“Actually, the most memorable shots in the Hitchcock movie were filmed up there,” Sandy went on. She pointed toward a parallel road winding along the cliffs; it was at least a hundred yards higher than the one we were driving on. In other words, very high up, and dangerous-looking.

“Also, we're here to catch a mass murderer without any conscience,” I said, “not a witty and charming cat burglar like Cary Grant was in the flick.”

“This is true, too. Keep me focused, Alex. I could easily get distracted here,” Sandy said. But I knew she was focused—always. That's why we got along so well.

The Aglionby estate was located on the west side of Cap-Ferrat, in Villefranche-sur-Mer. There were glimpses of villas and gardens hidden behind high stucco and rock walls as we rode along D125, also known as boulevard Circulaire. Half a dozen cars and vans followed us, also catching the sights, no doubt: a shiny blue Rolls-Royce convertible easing out of one of the estates, with a blonde in sunglasses and a kerchief behind the wheel; dark-glassed tourists catching rays on the terrace of the Grand Hôtel du Cap-Ferrat; a bathing pool dug into solid rock at Piscine de Sun beach.

“You think this is a fool's errand, Alex?” Sandy asked.

“It's what we do. Hit and miss, hunt and peck. I feel good about this one. It has to be something. Monsieur Aglionby has to be connected somehow.”

I was hopeful. We had found an awful lot of money in the account of Corky Hancock, and most of it had come in recently. But how much did he really know about the Wolf? How much did anyone know?

Then we saw the estate we were looking for—and Sandy drove past. “ Got you, you bastard,” she said. “Aglionby? The Wolf? Why not?”

“Whoever lives back there is certainly loaded. Jesus, how much is enough?”

“When you have a billion dollars or so, this is rather modest, Alex. It's not a question of a house—it's houses. The Riviera, London, Paris, Aspen.”

“If you say so. I've never had a billion myself. Or a villa on the Riviera.”

The place in question was a sun-drenched, Mediterranean-style mansion, creamy yellow with white detailing; it had gleaming balustrades and porticos, shutters that the staff apparently closed to the midday sun. Or maybe the people inside just didn't want to be seen? Four stories, thirty-plus rooms—as cozy as Versailles.

But for now all we were interested in was a peek. As we had planned earlier, we reconnoitered at a small hotel just up the coast. The decision was made by local police officials to use the estate bordering the Aglionby place on the south side. It was vacant now, except for a large staff. We would dress and pose as gardeners and household help, starting tomorrow morning.

Sandy and I listened to the plan as it was laid out, step by step. We looked at each other, shook our heads. Not this time.

I spoke. “We're going in tonight,” I announced. “With or without your help.”

The decision to go right away was backed enthusiastically by Interpol, and even by the French in Paris, who were in close contact with Washington and wanted the murderous Wolf as badly as the rest of the world did, maybe more. For a change, everything happened very quickly that afternoon and through the early evening. I was going to be part of the assault, and so was Sandy.

The attack was planned as if the Wolf was definitely inside the villa. Seven two-person teams of snipers were deployed on all sides of the estate, which were designated as white (north), red (east), black (south), and green (west). Every door and window was covered, and each of the snipers had a specific number of targets. They were closest to the estate. Our eyes and ears.

So far, they weren't seeing any sign that we'd been spotted.

While the snipers moved into position, the rest of us—Interpol, the FBI, the French army and police—strapped on war gear: black Nomex flight suits, body armor, handguns, MP-5 submachine guns. Three helicopters were waiting less than a mile away and would be used during the assault. We were ready for the green light, but some of the more jaded among us expected a last-minute delay for politics, cold feet at the command level, something unforeseen to get in the way.

I lay flat on the ground on my stomach beside Sandy Greenberg. We were less than a hundred yards from the main house. Starting to feel the jitters. At least, I was. The Wolf could be inside this house; maybe he was Aglionby.

Some lights were on inside, but we seldom saw anyone at the windows past midnight. Security was modest on the grounds, just a couple of guards.

“Awfully quiet,” said Sandy. “I don't know if I like this, Alex. Security's light.”

“It's almost two in the morning.”

“You surprised that we're going in?” Sandy asked.

I smiled. “ Are we going in? No, I'm not surprised. Remember, the French want the Wolf. Maybe even more than we do.”

Then the signal came to go! Sandy and I were part of the second assault team, and we ran toward the house about forty-five seconds after the first wave. We entered through the back— black. The kitchen, to be exact.

Somebody had switched on the overheads. A guard lay on the floor, his hands cuffed behind his head. Highly polished marble was everywhere, four stoves at the center of the room. I noticed a large glass bowl on a table. I took a peek at what looked like dark noses inside.

Figs, I finally realized, smiling to myself.

Then Sandy and I were running down a long hallway. No gunshots had been fired inside the house yet. Lots of other noise, though.

We came to the formal living room of diplomatic proportions: chandeliers dangled over our head, polished-marble floor, half a dozen dark and solemn paintings by French and Dutch masters.

No Wolf so far. No sign of him.

“This for entertaining, or signing treaties?” Sandy asked me. “Alex, why aren't they fighting back? What's going on? Is he here?”

We climbed a winding staircase and saw French soldiers leading men and women out of the bedrooms. Most were in their underwear; a few were naked. Nobody looked very sexy, but they certainly looked surprised.

I didn't see anybody who might be the Wolf, but how could I tell for certain what the Wolf looked like? How could anybody?