The Account

RODERICK MANN

THE ACCOUNT

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1994

Copyright © Roderick Mann 1994

Roderick Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780006478850

Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008235420

Version: 2016-11-21

Dedication

For Anastasia

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Postscript

About the Author

About the Publisher

From the Daily Mail

SOCIETY WOMAN MURDERED

The body of Jane Summerwood, 27, of Connaught Square, London, was discovered by an early morning jogger yesterday in a clump of bushes in Hyde Park.

Police described the condition of the body as appalling. ‘She had been brutally beaten,’ a spokesman said. ‘It was the work of a maniac.’

Miss Summerwood, daughter of Colonel James Summerwood of East Grinstead, was well known in London social circles and was an accomplished horsewoman. She is known to have been in the company of American billionaire Robert Brand, and was a frequent guest on his yacht in Monte Carlo. Mr Brand, now in America, could not be reached for comment yesterday but his secretary described him as ‘devastated’. Police inquiries continue.

Chapter 1

It was raining hard. Driving along the Quai du Mont-Blanc in his black Renault, Paul Eberhardt glanced idly towards Lake Geneva, sheathed now in a fine mist that rendered the mountains beyond barely visible.

The man sometimes called the most astute banker in Europe was deeply depressed. Usually on Thursdays his spirits rose. This was the evening he set aside his worries and drove along the lakeside to spend an hour at the house of Madame Valdoni.

Relaxing. Taking his pleasure. Watching the film that now lay on the seat beside him.

But events that afternoon had dampened his enthusiasm for the evening to come. First there was the memo from his partner, Georges di Marco, demanding a meeting. Eberhardt knew what di Marco wanted to talk about; what he had been threatening for weeks now. It could no longer be postponed. Then, to make matters worse, Robert Brand had arrived unexpectedly at the bank. Eberhardt’s relationship with the American billionaire had always been polite. They were, after all, locked in a tight financial embrace that could not easily be broken. But the meeting that afternoon had been unpleasant. Brand, in a bad mood, had queried everything and had barely been civil. Eberhardt, who had always prided himself that he could handle the American, was now not so sure.

He swore and braked hard as a woman, her view hidden by an umbrella, stepped out suddenly to cross the street. He must pay attention. This was just the sort of day when accidents occurred.

Leaving the city he adjusted the speed of the windscreen wipers and switched on the heater to demist the glass. There were few other vehicles about. That suited him fine. The drive along the Lausanne road normally took him forty-five minutes. Today it would be quicker.

An impatient horn behind him interrupted his thoughts. Pulling over he saw he was near the lakeside hotel where he occasionally dined. He drove into the car park and switched off the engine. A drink, he decided, would make him feel better; would calm his nerves. Otherwise the seductive ministrations of Madame Valdoni’s girl would be wasted.

The bar of the hotel was quiet. Relieved, he perched himself on a stool and ordered a double Scotch. The warmth of the drink in his throat made him feel better. Glancing around he caught an unwelcome glimpse of himself in a wall mirror. How pale he looked; how old. Yet he was still an aristocratic-looking man, tall and distinguished in a formal way. Anyone seeing him sitting there nursing his drink would have found it hard to guess his profession. A diplomat perhaps. Or a doctor. He was not an easy man to place on looks alone.

Finishing his drink he paid his bill and left. Outside, he stood for a moment protected by an awning, breathing in the chill late afternoon air. The smell of the lake was quite strong; tangy and pervasive. As he hurried to his car he stepped in a pool of rainwater, soaking one of his highly polished shoes. Damn! Could nothing go right this day? He held the shoe out of the car window, upside down, shaking it.

Just past the town of Nyon, Eberhardt turned up a private road that wound its way through several acres of woodland and pasture. Faded signs warning against trespassing stood alongside the road. Eberhardt knew the road well. It was the landscape of his other self, not the severe banking mandarin of Geneva but the private pleasure-seeking sensualist. At the end of the road was a large, wrought-iron gate. And, beyond, a half-moon shaped driveway fronting a two-storey mansion. The house, which had once belonged to a wealthy Swiss industrialist, had been bought by Italian-born Madame Valdoni twenty years earlier and turned into a maison de plaisir catering to an exclusive clientele of men from Geneva and Lausanne who were prepared to pay 500 Swiss francs for the services of any one of half a dozen spectacular-looking girls.

Eberhardt’s friend, the lawyer Maître Claude Bertrand, the only man in whom he ever confided, had often suggested that the banker take a permanent mistress. But the sense of illicit, furtive adventure stimulated Eberhardt’s libido in a way he knew a regular woman could not.

Anyway, he had lived alone since the death of his wife, Hilde, ten years before, and now had no intention of sharing his life with anyone. Coupled with this was the fact that Geneva banking circles, prim and censorious, would frown on any such liaison.

As he drove through the gates Eberhardt was relieved to note that there were no other cars outside the house. Highly secretive by nature, he preferred to keep these visits private and always used an alias.

Holding the can of film beneath his jacket he hastened towards the front door, which was opened almost immediately by a maid.

‘Good evening, Dr Weber,’ she said. ‘I will tell Madame you are here.’ A moment later she returned with a woman in her mid-fifties, elegantly and expensively dressed in black.

‘My dear doctor.’ Madame Valdoni proffered her hand. ‘What a pleasure.’ She turned to the maid. ‘A drink for Doctor Weber.’ She glanced at Eberhardt. ‘The usual?’

Eberhardt nodded. He pointed to his shoe. ‘Look at that. Soaked. This damn rain. Perhaps you could dry it?’

‘Of course.’ Valdoni motioned to the maid who knelt before Eberhardt and removed both his shoes and socks. ‘I will have them ready by the time you leave,’ she beamed.

‘Is everything arranged?’

‘As soon as you telephoned. We have someone quite special for you tonight …’

‘Not Genevieve?’ He felt a pang of disappointment.

‘She is away. Her mother is sick. But you will not be disappointed.’

When the maid returned with a glass of chilled white wine, Eberhardt, barefoot, followed Valdoni up the sweeping staircase. At the top she took the can of film he handed her and led him down a hallway to a thickly carpeted dressing room complete with day bed and wardrobe. A door led to an adjacent room.

A young Oriental girl stood there. She was perhaps sixteen years old and so incredibly lovely that Eberhardt was astonished. She was wearing black panties and a black brassiere. She too was barefoot.

‘Jasmine,’ the older woman said, handing her the can of film, ‘this is Dr Weber, one of our special friends. I am relying on you to take care of him.’

The girl nodded. ‘My honour, sir.’ She bowed and retreated into the other room.

Valdoni smiled. ‘Enjoy yourself, dear doctor.’ She went out closing the door.

Eberhardt undressed completely, hanging his clothes in the wardrobe, and stepped into the next room, which was in semi-darkness. Uncarpeted, it contained nothing but a wooden chair with a bell push on one arm, a screen some six feet square, and a film projector on a table at the opposite end.

Eberhardt sat in the chair facing the screen. A moment later Jasmine came in. She was naked now, her body and hands slightly oiled. She was carrying two glasses, one filled with hot water, the other with ice cubes. She put these beside the cushion at the foot of the chair. Reaching for a packet beside the projector she took out a crumpled cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply before passing it to Eberhardt. She watched as he drew the smoke deep into his lungs. He passed the joint back to the girl, who again inhaled. Soon the small room was pungent with the smell of marijuana. Eberhardt began to relax. He stubbed the joint out on the wooden floor.

‘Ready,’ he said.

The girl knelt before him, her tongue flicking across her lips. She took a swallow of hot water and enveloped him with her mouth. His erection swelled. She curled her tongue expertly, making him groan.

Soon she stopped and slipped two ice cubes into her mouth. When she again enveloped him his erection began to subside. He moaned, looking down at her. But with the second mouthful of hot water his erection swelled even more. Three times the girl repeated the process, fingers teasing, tongue flickering, writhing, twisting, hair swaying, each time driving Eberhardt nearer to climax. Finally he pressed the bell push and a beam of light stabbed the gloom. The film began unrolling. Clasping the girl’s head in his hands, pulling her further to him, Eberhardt leaned forward, his eyes fixed upon the screen, reading every word of the German subtitles although he knew them by heart.

The print, old now and scratched in places, never failed to excite him. It was one of many made by the Nazis. The film, much prized, had been given to him by a German friend. ‘Something to warm you on those cold Geneva nights,’ he had joked.

The film depicted a chilling scene. There were four people in a small, cell-like room. One of them, a young dark-haired man, his face and torso bloodied, was in a chair, his hands tied behind him. Two other men, both in black SS uniforms, were taking turns beating him with truncheons.

On a single bed in the background lay a young woman, naked, her hands also tied. She was screaming. When the beating finished the SS men turned the young man’s chair around so that it faced the bed. Removing his tunic and boots one of the SS men dropped his breeches and approached the woman on the bed.

While the Nazi forced himself into her, the young man, struggling violently, tried to look away. He could not. The other captor held his head tightly, forcing him to watch.

Hypnotized by what he was seeing, his pulse throbbing, his breath laboured, the blood pounding in his ears, Eberhardt suddenly groaned and came with such force that he almost slid from the chair. After a moment the girl rose and tiptoed from the room.

When Eberhardt looked at the screen again the other man was on the woman. The prisoner in the chair now sat without moving, apparently in shock. As the SS man climaxed, his body shuddering, the woman beneath him spat in his face. Rearing back, the man struck her savagely causing blood to gush from her nose. He continued striking her.

When his companion finally rose from the moaning woman, the first SS man, dressed now, took out his revolver and fired once into the head of each victim.

Transfixed, Eberhardt watched until the film ran off the spool. He rose shakily. Taking the film he went next door to dress. His shoes and socks, now dry, awaited him. Before leaving he placed an envelope on the day bed.

In an upstairs room Jasmine watched as he accelerated away down the drive. She turned to her employer. ‘That film.’ She shuddered. ‘He’s sick, that man.’

‘You saw it?’

‘Genevieve told me.’

‘He’s a good customer,’ the older woman said.

They stood together watching the lights of the Renault as it reached the end of the drive and turned down the private road.

Madame Valdoni shook her head. ‘And he still thinks we don’t know who he is.’

She laughed softly.

Chapter 2

Eberhardt arrived early at his office the next morning. He had slept well, relaxed after his visit to Madame Valdoni’s. But he was apprehensive about the meeting he had arranged with his partner, Georges di Marco. Confrontations of any kind were not to his liking.

Sipping the first of the many morning coffees his secretary, Marte, brought him, he let his eyes wander down to the street below.

Even the most chauvinistic citizens of Geneva agreed that the rue de Hesse was an unremarkable thoroughfare. But Eberhardt had loved it ever since he first stood on the corner by the Café des Banques trying to decide whether to move his bank there from its original location in the rue du Rhône. It was that or the rue de la Corraterie, supposedly the most respectable financial address in Geneva. In the end he had opted for the rue de Hesse – already the home of the Banque Privée de Edmond Rothschild – and he had never regretted it. There his bank had grown and prospered to the point where it was now a major player in the world’s money markets. And he, at the age of seventy-seven, was one of the most respected bankers in Europe.

Many foreigners, Eberhardt knew, thought of Switzerland as a land of watches, chocolates and cuckoo clocks. But what made Switzerland work, what gave it its independence and its prestige, were the banks. There were the three great commercial banks, Credit Suisse, Union Bank and the Swiss Bank Corporation. And there were the private banks – Lombard Odier, Pictet, Rothschild, Darier, Hentsch and Eberhardt.

The private bankers of Geneva thought of themselves as an élite group. They belonged to the Groupement, the association of Geneva private bankers, the most exclusive sector in the Swiss financial system. And they had something else in common. They were all, without exception, paranoid about secrecy, fearing rightly that its abolition would lead to a wholesale withdrawal of the trillions in marks, dollars, pounds, lire and yen invested with them. Secrecy, in fact, was the law. Clause 47(b) of the 1934 Banking Act set out stiff penalties – fines and a jail sentence – for any bank director or employee who gave away secrets.

Foreign bankers liked to point out that Swiss bankers had a poor record in forecasting movements in the stock markets. The Swiss argued back that with them the emphasis was on security rather than spectacular performance in portfolio management. And bankers like Eberhardt were quick to reiterate how much more prudent they were than American bankers, who, in his words, ‘seemed intent on throwing away clients’ money’.

But Swiss bankers could no longer afford to be smug. A billion-dollar money laundering racket had resulted in the resignation of Switzerland’s Justice Minister. And the scandal at Credit Suisse, which had written off $700 million after fraud at its branch in Chiasso, had thrown doubt on Switzerland’s reputation for prudence. Then came the jail sentence handed out to Robert Leclerc, whose private bank collapsed. No one was particularly surprised at the judge’s decision; malpractice by a partner in a private bank rated just below murder in the eyes of the Swiss authorities. Eberhardt had no concerns about his own establishment, which was the third most prestigious private bank in Switzerland. His worry was the shadow that lay over the life he had built for himself in Geneva. And the fact that the man on his way up to see him knew what it was.

Georges di Marco had joined the Banque Eberhardt just before the Second World War, leaving the prestigious firm of M. M. Warburg and Co. And he had stayed with the bank as its fortunes rose, despite attractive offers to go elsewhere. He was a good banker with the right attributes: boldness, instinct, judgement and knowledge. And because Swiss law required at least two partners to head a private bank, Eberhardt had eventually elevated him to full partner.

Now this.

When di Marco walked in, Eberhardt rose to greet him. He was a small man with a long mournful face and wispy white hair. Eberhardt had often thought he looked more like an undertaker than a banker.

‘You know why I am here, Paul …’ Di Marco took a chair on the other side of the desk.

‘A friendly talk, I trust.’ Eberhardt forced a smile.

‘Paul, I am due to retire soon. I have been with the bank a long time – almost as long as you. I have served it well –’

‘You have served it brilliantly.’

‘I cannot leave without a clear conscience.’

Eberhardt mustered another bleak smile. ‘Georges, we have been through this so often …’

‘And I have always given in to your wishes.’

‘Come now, Georges.’ Confronted by the frail little man, Eberhardt felt some of his confidence returning. ‘It’s not a question of giving in. We are friends; partners. I respect your position. You know that. But we’re talking about something that happened years ago. It’s dead; forgotten. What you are suggesting would ruin the bank.’

‘We would survive.’

‘Survive?’ Eberhardt said heavily. ‘Georges, I have not come this far merely to survive.’ He picked up his gold pen from the desk and toyed with it. ‘Next year I will chair the International Bankers’ Conference in Vienna. I have a reputation to protect.’ He leaned forward. ‘Dine with me tonight. We will go to the Lion d’Or. Talk it over. Like old times …’

‘I’m sorry, Paul.’ The little man looked at his hands. ‘I have made my decision. I am going to talk to the authorities.’

Eberhardt tried to ignore the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. A frisson of anxiety made the side of his mouth twitch.

‘Georges, please, what kind of talk is that among friends?’ He paused. ‘What you need is a break. Take a few weeks off. Somewhere warm.’ He tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. ‘Friends of mine have a house in Puerto Vallarta. I could call them. You’d like Mexico.’

‘You don’t understand,’ di Marco said. ‘What I’m looking for is peace of mind.’

‘But what you’re suggesting would make everything worse. It would destroy the bank’s reputation …’

‘It would enable me to sleep,’ di Marco said quietly. He looked straight at Eberhardt. ‘You made a decision forty years ago to say nothing to the Government when enquiries began. I begged you then to speak up. You refused. Out of loyalty I have kept quiet all this time.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Eberhardt said. ‘Even so –’

‘We are partners,’ the old man said. ‘I have some say.’

‘My dear Georges,’ Eberhardt leaned forward, ‘of course you do. But you must think of the consequences.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘When I started this bank there were 150 private banks in Switzerland. How many are there today? Twenty. Look at the clients we have – Robert Brand, Marie de Boissy, Francine Rochas, Max Schröder. World-famous names. We have survived because we are a fine bank, widely respected. Much of that respect was earned by your good work. You are a great banker, Georges. How can you think of throwing it all away now?’

‘I won’t change my mind, Paul.’ Di Marco got to his feet and began to walk towards the door.

‘I ask you again to consider the consequences,’ Eberhardt tried as a last shot. ‘Our reputations –’

‘Our consciences would be clear,’ di Marco said. He opened the door and went out.

Watching him go, Eberhardt knew he had lost. He had hoped to prolong the meeting, to reason with di Marco, make him see how foolish it would be to throw away the work of a lifetime. But the old man had already made up his mind. Like the good Catholic he was, he was going to confess his sins – but not to a priest. In doing so he would ruin the reputation Eberhardt had built up over fifty years. He rose wearily and crossed to the window, staring again at the street below. Raindrops were bouncing off the roofs of the cars parked on either side. He stood there for a long time.

Eventually, Eberhardt buzzed his secretary.

‘I’m leaving in a moment, Marte. Have the garage bring round my car.’

‘Immediately, Monsieur Eberhardt.’

He sat down in his chair again. He had been through this all before with André Leber, one of his account officers who, through diligence and hard work, had graduated to the bank’s executive committee before retiring. Leber had been after money, of course. And Eberhardt had been unwise enough to pay him. Ten thousand francs a month for five years. Just thinking about it upset him. It would have gone on and on had he not finally mustered enough courage to end it.

Now he would have to do the same thing with Georges di Marco. Crossing the room he opened his private safe and removed a black address book. Tucked inside was a slip of paper with a name on it. Eberhardt looked at it for a moment before putting it in his jacket pocket and closing the safe.