The Heist (41 page)

A
S IT TURNED OUT, THE
ten computer geniuses known collectively as the Minyan had been wrong about how long it would take. The process lasted not five minutes but slightly more than three. As a result, at 4:25 p.m. Tel Aviv time, $8.2 billion of the Syrian ruler’s assets were under Office control. A minute later, Uzi Navot sent a flash message to Gabriel at the Geneva safe flat confirming the transfer was complete. At which point Gabriel ordered a second transaction: the transfer of $500 million to an account at the TransArabian Bank in Zurich. The money arrived at 3:29 p.m. local time, as the holder of the account, Waleed al-Siddiqi, was stuck in the Paris afternoon rush. Gabriel dialed the number for the banker’s mobile phone but received no answer. He severed the connection, waited another minute, and dialed again.

They did not make her wait long, five minutes, no more. Then Jihan heard a fist pounding on the door, and a male voice instructed her to put on her hood. It was the one who had been waiting for her at Geneva Airport; she recognized his voice and the smell of his wretched cologne a moment later when he hauled her to her feet. He guided her up the flight of steep stairs, then across a marble floor. She reckoned it was a large institutional space of some sort because the echoes of her footsteps seemed to travel back to her from a long way off. Finally, he jerked her to a stop and forced her onto a hard wooden chair. And there she was made to sit for several moments, blinded by the hood and by an all-consuming fear of what would come next. She wondered how long she had to live. Or perhaps, she thought, she was already dead.

Another minute crawled past. Then a hand tore away the hood, taking a lock of Jihan’s hair with it. Mr. Omari stood before her in his shirtsleeves, a rubber truncheon in his hand. Jihan looked away from him and surveyed her surroundings. They were in the ornate great room of a large château. Not a château, she thought suddenly, but a palace. It seemed newly decorated, unlived in.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“What difference does it make?”

She looked around the room again and asked, “Who does this belong to?”

“The president of Syria.” He paused, then added, “Your president, Jihan.”

“I am a citizen of Germany. You have no right to hold me.”

The two men smiled at each other. Then Mr. Omari placed his mobile phone on the small, decorative table next to Jihan’s chair. “Call your ambassador, Jihan. Or better yet,” he added, “why don’t you call the French police? I’m sure they’ll be along in a moment or two.”

Jihan was motionless.

“Call them,” he demanded. “The emergency number in France is one, one, two. Then you dial seventeen for the police.”

She reached out for the phone, but before she could grasp it the truncheon came crashing onto the back of her hand like a sledgehammer. Instantly, she folded in half and clutched her shattered hand as though it were a broken-winged bird. Then the truncheon fell upon the back of her neck, and she crumpled to the floor. She lay there in a defensive ball, unable to move, unable to make any sound other than a deep sob of agony. So here is where I’ll die, she thought. In the palace of the ruler, in a land not my own. She waited for the next blow, but it didn’t come. Instead, Mr. Omari gathered up a handful of her hair and twisted her face toward his.

“If we were in Syria,” he said, “we would have many devices at our disposal to make you talk. But here we have only this,” he added, waving the rubber truncheon. “It might take a while, and you surely won’t be much to look at when I’m finished, but you’ll talk, Jihan. Everyone talks.”

For a moment she was incapable of offering any response. Then, finally, she summoned the ability to speak.

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know who you’re working for.”

“I work for Waleed al-Siddiqi at Bank Weber AG in Linz, Austria.”

The truncheon fell against the side of her face. It seemed to blind her.

“Who followed you to the hotel in Geneva this morning?”

“I didn’t know I was being followed.”

This time, the truncheon landed against the side of her neck. She would not have been at all surprised to see her head rolling across the ruler’s marble floor.

“You’re lying, Jihan.”

“I’m not lying! Please,” she pleaded, “don’t hit me again.”

He was still holding a fistful of her hair. His face was reddened with anger and exertion.

“I’m going to ask you a simple question, Jihan. Trust me when I tell you that I know the answer to this question. If you tell me the truth, nothing will happen to you. But if you lie to me, there won’t be much left of you when I’m finished.” He gave her head a violent shake. “Do you understand me, Jihan?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me where you were born.”

“Syria.”

“Where in Syria, Jihan?”

“Hama,” she answered. “I was born in Hama.”

“What was your father’s name?”

“Ibrahim Nawaz.”

“He was a member of the Muslim Brotherhood?”

“Yes.”

“He was killed during the uprising in Hama in February 1982?”

“No,” she said. “He was murdered by the regime in 1982, along with my brothers and my mother.”

Clearly, Mr. Omari was not interested in quibbling over the past. “But not you,” he pointed out.

“No,” she said. “I survived.”

“Why didn’t you tell Mr. al-Siddiqi any of this when he hired you to work at Bank Weber?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play games with me, Jihan.”

“I’m not,” she answered.

“Did you tell Mr. al-Siddiqi that you were born in Hama?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell Mr. al-Siddiqi that your family was killed during the uprising?”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell him your father was a Muslim Brother?”

“Of course,” she said. “I told Mr. al-Siddiqi everything.”

It took four attempts before Waleed al-Siddiqi finally answered his phone. For several seconds he said nothing, the red light beating like a nervous heart on the screen of Gabriel’s computer. Then in Arabic he asked, “Who is this?”

“I’m calling about a problem with one of your accounts,” said Gabriel calmly. “Actually, several of your accounts.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If I were you, Waleed, I’d call Dennis Cahill at the Trade Winds Bank in the Cayman Islands and ask him about some recent activity regarding the accounts of LXR Investments. And while you’re at it, I’d call Gérard Beringer, the man you just met with at Société Générale. And then I’d like you to call me back. You have five minutes. Hurry, Waleed. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Gabriel rang off and set down the phone.

“That should get his attention,” said Eli Lavon.

Gabriel looked at the computer screen and smiled.

It already had.

He called Trade Winds and Société Générale. Then he called UBS, Credit Suisse, the Centrum Bank of Liechtenstein, and the First Gulf Bank of Dubai. At each institution, he received the same story. Finally, ten minutes behind schedule, he called Gabriel.

“You’ll never get away with this,” he said.

“I already have.”

“What have you done?”

“I haven’t done anything, Waleed.
You
were the one who took the ruler’s money.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I think you should make one more phone call, Waleed.”

“Where?”

Gabriel told him. Then he severed the connection and turned up the volume on the computer. Ten seconds later, a phone was ringing at the TransArabian Bank in Zurich.

T
HEY BROUGHT HER A BOWL
of ice water for her hand. The bowl was large and silver; her hand was a bloody, swollen mess. The shock of the cold did much to dull the pain but not the rage burning within her. Men such as Mr. Omari had taken everything from her—her family, her life, her town. Now, at long last, she had a chance to confront him. And perhaps, she thought, to beat him.

“Cigarette?” he asked, and she replied that, yes, she would accept another tender mercy from the murderer. He placed a Marlboro between her parted lips and lit it. She drew upon it, then, awkwardly, removed it with her left hand.

“Are you comfortable, Jihan?”

She lifted her right hand from the ice water but said nothing.

“It wouldn’t have happened if you’d told me the truth.”

“You didn’t give me much of a chance.”

“I am now.”

She decided to play slow to his haste. She drew upon the cigarette again and exhaled a cloud of smoke toward the ruler’s ornate ceiling.

“And if I tell you what I know? What then?”

“You will be free to go.”

“Go where?”

“That is your choice.”

She returned her hand slowly to the water. “Forgive me, Mr. Omari,” she said, “but as you might imagine, I don’t put much stock in anything you say.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have no choice but to break your other hand.” Another cruel smile. “And then I’ll break your ribs and every bone in your face.”

“What do you want from me?” she asked after a moment.

“I want you to tell me everything you know about Waleed al-Siddiqi.”

“He was born in Syria. He made a great deal of money. He bought a stake in a small private bank in Linz.”

“Do you know why he bought the bank?”

“He uses it as a platform to invest money and conceal assets for powerful clients in the Middle East.”

“Do you know any of their names?”

“Only one,” she replied, looking around the room.

“How did you learn the client’s identity?”

“Mr. al-Siddiqi told me.”

“Why would he tell you such a thing?”

“I suppose he wanted to impress me.”

“Do you know where the money is invested?”

“Zurich, Liechtenstein, Hong Kong, Dubai—all the usual places.”

“What about the account numbers? Do you know those, too?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Only Mr. al-Siddiqi knows the account numbers.” She placed her hand over her heart. “He carries the information here, in a black leather notebook.”

At that same moment, the man at the center of Jihan’s remarkable narrative was seated alone in the back of his car, debating his next move—or, as Christopher Keller would later put it, trying to decide how to kill himself with as little pain as possible. Finally, al-Siddiqi rang Gabriel back and capitulated.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“You’ll know soon enough.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to call Kemel al-Farouk and tell him how you managed to misplace eight billion dollars of the ruler’s money. Then I want you to tell him how a significant portion of those assets ended up in an account under your name.”

“And then?”

“I’m going to offer you an amazing investment opportunity,” said Gabriel. “It’s a can’t-lose proposition, a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make a great deal of money very quickly. Are you listening, Waleed? Do I have your full attention now?”

Mr. Omari was about to ask Jihan about the nature of her relationship with Waleed al-Siddiqi when his telephone vibrated softly. He listened in silence for a moment, emitted a grunt, and terminated the call. Then he nodded to his young driver and accomplice, who placed the black hood over Jihan’s head and led her downstairs to her cell. And there they left her in pitch-darkness, her hand throbbing, her mind racing with fear. Perhaps she was already dead. Or perhaps, she thought, she had beaten them after all.

G
ABRIEL AND
E
LI
L
AVON TOOK
one last drive together, Gabriel behind the wheel, Lavon in the passenger seat, fretting and worrying as usual. They headed westward across the French border, then southward through the countryside of the Haute-Savoie, to Annecy. It was nearly dusk when they arrived; Gabriel dropped Lavon near the prefecture and parked the car near the Church of Saint-François de Sales. A pretty white structure on the embankment of the river Thiou, it reminded Gabriel of the Church of San Sebastiano in Venice. He peered inside, wondering if he would see a restorer standing alone before a Veronese, and then walked to a nearby café called the Savoie Bar. It was a nothing place with a simple menu and a few tables arrayed beneath a burgundy awning. At one of the tables sat Christopher Keller. He was once again wearing the lush blond wig and blue-tinted eyeglasses of Peter Rutledge, the master art thief who never was. Gabriel sat across from him and placed his BlackBerry on the table; and when a waiter finally wandered over, he ordered a café crème.

“I have to admit,” Keller said after a moment, “I didn’t expect this one to end this way.”

“How were you hoping it would end, Christopher?”

“With you holding the Caravaggio, of course.”

“We can’t have everything. Besides, I found something much better than the Caravaggio. And more valuable, too.”

“Jihan?”

Gabriel nodded.

“The eight-billion-dollar girl,” murmured Keller.

“Eight-point-two,” replied Gabriel. “But who’s counting?”

“No second thoughts?”

“About what?”

“Making a deal.”

“None whatsoever.”

Just then, Eli Lavon walked past them in the square and joined Yaakov at the café next door. Mikhail and Yossi were parked along a narrow street called the rue Grenette. Oded was watching the car from a table at the obligatory kebab joint.

“They’re good lads,” said Keller as he surveyed the square. “All of them. This wasn’t their fault. You ran a good operation in Linz, Gabriel. Something must have gone wrong at the end.”

Gabriel made no reply other than to look at his BlackBerry.

“Where is he?” asked Keller.

“A mile north of town and closing hard.”

“I think I’m going to enjoy this.”

“Something tells me Waleed isn’t going to feel the same way.”

Gabriel returned the BlackBerry to the table, looked at Keller, and smiled. “I’m sorry I got you mixed up in all this,” he said.

“Actually, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”