Havana Harvest (41 page)

His phone rang just after room service had delivered his newspaper with his breakfast: coffee and bread rolls. Lonsdale checked his watch. Eight thirty sharp.

Mr. Dreyfuss was initially very polite and cool, but warmed to “Mr. Lands” considerably when he discovered the identity of his sponsor, Reuven Gal. Although it was short notice, he said he could accommodate Mr. Lands after lunch and asked if four o'clock would be convenient. Lonsdale figured this would give Dreyfuss time to verify his bona fides with Gal.

Lonsdale was glad to have the morning to himself. He had work to do. He called Bodner & Cie after breakfast, asked for Mr. Bodner and was put through to his secretary, Mrs. Fischer.

“Frau Fischer, I would like to see Mr. Bodner this morning about an urgent personal matter.”

“What is your name, please?” Her voice was ice cold but polite.

“Cherriex, Jean Cherriex, with an
x
.”

“Does he know you?” Still ice cold.

“No, but please tell him I am from Belgium and we share a common interest. I'm sure he will want to speak with me.”

“Mr. Bodner is very busy, but please hold.”

Mrs. Fischer was back in less than a minute, somewhat flustered. “Mr. Bodner can see you at ten o'clock if that is convenient.” She tried to make amends. “Do you know where our offices are?”

“Yes, thank you. I'll be there at ten.” Lonsdale hung up.

Manila envelope in hand Lonsdale walked up Tal Strasse at a leisurely pace, inspecting the buildings, the shops, even the traffic lights. There was no doubt about it; in their ponderous way the Swiss over-engineered everything. If there was a way to provide redundant equipment, the Swiss found it: an extra traffic light for buses only, a plethora of white lines painted on the pavement ahead of every intersection, street lights backing up street lights in case they failed—the list was endless.

When he reached Lind und Sprüngli, Lonsdale scanned the nameplates and found Bodner & Cie's with ease. While taking the stairs to the third floor, he noticed that there was indeed a restaurant on the first floor and that it took less than a minute to walk up from the restaurant to the bank.

He rang the bell, the door clicked open, and he found himself in an antechamber decorated with original masterpieces: two Picasso inks, a Leger, and a Braque. The receptionist gave him a friendly smile. “Are you Monsieur Cherriex?” she inquired in French. Lonsdale nodded and she phoned Frau Fischer who appeared within seconds to escort him to the Herr General Direktor.

Bodner's office was understated elegance. The Persian rug covering most of the glittering parquet floor felt as if it were three inches deep. Bodner's desk, a large Empire escritoire, was a genuine Napoleonic antique, the client armchairs original Louis XVI. In the corner opposite the door of the large room yet another beautiful antique, a full-length Empire sofa.

Above the sofa and the first item a visitor would notice when entering this handsome room, was a discretely illuminated Renoir. Further along the wall toward the window, a Restauration vitrine housed a number of exquisite pewter pieces—a remarkable collection. An immense bookshelf along the wall on the other side of the room overflowed with rare, leather-bound and gold stamped books.

Bodner rose from his carved Belgian armchair and, with outstretched arms, met Lonsdale halfway. He spoke French with a typically Swiss accent. “Come in, come in, Monsieur Cherriex.” He pointed to the armchair nearest him next to the coffee table. “Why don't you sit here and take coffee with me?”

Lonsdale sized up his host: about fifty-five, five-ten, weighing about a hundred and seventy pounds, and athletic. Bodner was eyeing the manila envelope in his visitor's hand.

“No, thank you, Mr. Bodner, no coffee for me.”

“Nor for me then either,” Bodner said to Frau Fischer. “Please make sure we're not disturbed,” he added. She withdrew. “Shall we sit?”

Lonsdale took the armchair nearest the wall then watched the banker arrange himself in the armchair opposite. He was wearing a beautifully tailored charcoal-gray three-piece suit and a pearl gray tie over a flawlessly ironed, blinding-white shirt. Bodner took off his glasses and put them on the table, rubbed the bridge of his nose with index finger and thumb, adjusted the matching
pochette
in his breast pocket, then leaned back and linked his hands over his midriff, thumbs pointing upward. “Now then Monsieur Cherriex” he smiled pleasantly. “How can we be useful to each other?”

“I don't know how I can be of use to you, Herr Bodner,” Lonsdale said in English, “but you can certainly be of use to me.”

Taken aback, Bodner did not quite know what to say. “I'm sorry, but I do not understand. Did you not say your name was Cherriex and that you were from Brussels?”

“No, I did not. I said my name was Cherriex and that I was from Belgium.”

“Brussels, Belgium, what's the difference? Let us not split hairs.”

Lonsdale took the plunge. “Herr Bodner, I came to see you because I need some information. I hope you'll give it to me.”

“What kind of information?”

“About ten years ago a man opened an account with your bank. I want details relating to that bank account.”

“We don't give out this sort of information.”

“I think you might if I gave you the man's name.”

“What is his name?” Bodner snapped, visibly put out.

Watching intently, Lonsdale told him. Although the banker had steeled himself against giving anything away he couldn't help but blink at the mention of Montalba's name. “How can I know about such a thing?” Bodner was becoming annoyed. “We have thousands of clients. You don't expect me to remember one in particular who may have opened an account with us ten years ago, do you? Besides, what has all this to do with our common interests in Brussels?”

“Nothing.” Lonsdale reached for the manila envelope on the table in front of him. “I was afraid you might say you couldn't remember, so I brought you something to jog your memory, and galvanize you into action.”

“What kind of action?” The banker's anger rose.

“Like checking your records, getting a printout of the account … that kind of a thing.”

“How dare you come in here on false pretenses and then ask me brazenly to break the bank secrecy law?” Bodner shouted and reached for the telephone on the end table beside him. “I am calling security to have you escorted out of here.”

Lonsdale held up his hand. “You don't want to do that before you look at these.” He handed Bodner the envelope and watched as the man extracted the pictures in it.

He glanced at them and then grabbed a lead-glass ashtray and hurled it at Lonsdale, who ducked in the nick of time. The heavy object struck a painting of Napoleon on horseback behind Lonsdale, splitting it. The picture clattered to the floor as Lonsdale scrambled out of his chair to subdue his attacker.

Bodner was waiting for him. He grabbed a bronze lamp off the end table and came swinging at Lonsdale, who sidestepped, but not before the shade scored his left cheek. The momentum of his swing made the banker spin around and he got entangled in the electric cord. Lonsdale kicked his legs from under him and the two tumbled into a heap on the floor. Lonsdale tried to roll away, but Bodner would not let go of his left trouser leg, ripping the fabric as he pulled at it. Lonsdale, on his back, kicked him in the head with his right foot, but the kick was badly aimed, and hardly slowed Bodner who scurried away and stood up somehow as Lonsdale got to his knees. Bodner, stronger than Losndale had expected, threw himself at Lonsdale who brought his right elbow up and hit the Swiss just above the temple.

The man went down like a stunned ox, out cold.

Lonsdale staggered to his feet and surveyed the damage. Other than the painting, the lamp, and his trouser leg, nothing seemed to have been damaged, not even the ashtray, which had ended up on the seat of the armchair on which Lonsdale had been sitting.

Lonsdale felt his face. No blood, probably only a nasty scratch. He looked at Bodner who was not doing well. He was unconscious. His breathing was shallow, and he was probably suffering from a concussion.

Got to get some water to revive the bugger
, Lonsdale said to himself. He needed to find the door to the private bathroom without which no self-respecting Swiss chief executive could exist. He went to Bodner's desk and carefully inspected the walls to the left and right of it. Sure enough, between the end of the bookshelf and the window there were almost imperceptible parallel breaks in the brocade about three feet apart. He tried pressing on the wall. There was a click and a door swung open. Lonsdale went into the bathroom, soaked two hand towels in cold water and returned to Bodner.

The banker came to slowly, moaning softly, his head moving from side to side. There was a lump the size of a small egg above his left temple and a nasty welt on his right cheek where Lonsdale's shoe had grazed it. His waistcoat had a couple of buttons missing, as did his jacket. His once beautiful white shirt was a mess. “Time to wake up sweetheart,” Lonsdale told him and dropped one of the towels on the banker's face. Bodner spluttered, then reached for the towel and wiped his face. Lonsdale helped him to an armchair and, fetching a pillow from the sofa, made him comfortable. Then he knelt down and held up his index finger.

“Look at my finger Bodner and try to follow it with your eyes,” he said. Instead, Bodner kicked him in the stomach. Lonsdale fell back, winded—the kick had been well aimed and strong. Bodner staggered to his feet. Lonsdale, fighting nausea, somehow managed to kick the man's legs from under him once more. This time Bodner fell between the armchair and the coffee table, banging his head on the way down. Lonsdale left him there and sat down in the armchair opposite. His stomach was in spasm and he attempted to ease the pain by taking a few deep breaths. Bodner tried to get up, but Lonsdale gave the coffee table a vicious push and jammed the banker against the armchair.

“Listen you disgusting man. You try one more stunt like this and I'll beat you within an inch of your life.” He got up with difficulty and leaned over the Swiss. “You saw the pictures and you know what would happen if they got into the wrong hands.”

Bodner nodded dumbly.

“Well then, cooperate. Don't make me go to the police and the press with them.”

“Who … who are you?”

“Never mind all that. Just get me a copy of the account.”

Bodner shook his head. “I don't give in to blackmailers, ever. There is no end to it.” He tried to get up, but Lonsdale knelt on the coffee table to keep it pressed against the banker's body.

“I'm no ordinary blackmailer, Bodner. Actually, I'm not a blackmailer at all.”

Bodner snorted “Why are you here then?”

Lonsdale thought fast. “To put money in your client's bank account.”

“What?”

“To put money in your client's bank account” Lonsdale repeated and got off the table. Bodner twisted himself upright and Lonsdale handed him the other wet towel. The man wiped his face again then looked around and spotted the photographs on the table, where he had dropped them. He collapsed into the armchair.

“Where did you get these? I demand to know if it was Pierre who gave them to you.”

“Pierre? Who's Pierre?”

“Your brother, you lying bastard.” Bodner was working himself into a rage again.

“Take it easy Bodner. You're way off base.” Lonsdale made himself sound as conciliatory as possible. “I chose the name Cherriex because in one of the pictures, in the background there is a delicatessen and caterer's shop called Cherriex. Now that you mention it, it does say Cherriex and Frères. I guess you know Pierre Cherriex, who must have a brother called Jean.”

“So what is your name?”

“Bernard Lands.”

“And where are you from?” Lonsdale saw that Bodner was feeling better and that he did not have a concussion. His questions were too sharp for that.

“Miami, Florida.”

“And what do you want from Mr. Montalba?” Lonsdale was pleased with the question. He sensed Bodner wanted to negotiate, to save face, to feel he was not betraying his client.

“I want to put a million U.S. dollars into his account.”

“Well then, do so.” Bodner sounded imperious. “Send it to us and we will credit his account.”

Lonsdale took a menacing step toward his host who backed away.

“Nice try, Bodner, but it won't work. I am not sending you money until you let me see a copy of the account.”

“That is out of the question.”

“Very well then, listen. Your client, who opened the account ten years ago and who, as you know, is Cuba's minister of the Interior, desperately needs the money I am prepared to send him. His life may depend on it. As you see, my group has ways of finding out and documenting things. We are careful and discreet, and we don't bail out our business associates when they say they are in trouble without checking out their story. Montalba told us he has, to use his words, 'relatively little money' and that he urgently needed a million dollars more. We are ready to help, but we want to be sure we are not being led by the nose.”

“A likely story.” Bodner was holding his head. It was aching and the pain was getting worse by the minute.

“Fine, don't believe me. But remember this. If, because of your stubbornness, Montalba gets into trouble it will affect me and my people. Whether his goons get you or not, we will make these photographs public, just to hurt you, to punish you, so to speak, for hurting one of us.”