The Account

He would call the man from home, he decided. He prayed he was still available.

Chapter 3

At the same time that Paul Eberhardt was heading for home, Robert Brand’s Gulfstream IV was landing in the rain at Paris’s Charles de Gaulle Airport.

Staring out of the window at the glistening runway Brand had begun to feel better. That morning, getting out of bed in Geneva, an attack of dizziness had made him sway on his feet. Alarmed, he had waited until noon and called his doctor in New York.

‘Look,’ Rex Kiernan said, ‘it’s probably nothing serious. Maybe you got up too quickly. How’s your hearing?’

‘Fine. Why?’

‘Could be an inner ear problem. Want me to recommend someone over there?’

‘I haven’t the time. Anyway, I’ll be home soon.’

‘You should slow down,’ Kiernan said. ‘I keep telling you that. What is it – a year since your attack? All that trauma? Takes time. At our age the body heals more slowly …’

In Robert Brand’s opinion he had slowed down since his heart attack. At that time Kiernan had advised complete rest.

‘This is your life we’re talking about,’ he said. ‘You’re sixty-three years old. You’ve been through a terrible experience. Why don’t you use that damn great yacht of yours and take a long cruise, do nothing for a few months?’

Brand had agreed that he would. But the month-long cruise of the Mediterranean with a couple of business friends had only served to increase his sense of loss.

Trapped in a sterile and unhappy relationship for many years, Robert Brand, a handsome, energetic man, had almost abandoned hope of ever enjoying a romantic and emotional relationship with a woman. Instead he had allowed himself a succession of brief affairs, most of them unsatisfactory. Then one evening, in the bar of the Athenaeum Hotel in London, he had been introduced to Jane Summerwood.

The attraction had been immediate. She had left with friends that evening, but he had managed to track her down. And, in the ensuing weeks, they had fallen in love.

Within three months he had made up his mind. He would ask his wife for a divorce – regardless of the consequences – and marry Jane, a decision hastened by the discovery that she was pregnant. He could still remember her face, flushed with happiness, when he took her down Bond Street to buy the engagement ring.

He had told only one person of his plan, his friend Bobby Koenig. Koenig had encouraged him. ‘Go for it,’ he said. ‘You have one life. Don’t waste it.’

A month later Jane was found dead in a London park. The police, with no clues, had put it down to another senseless random murder.

And within weeks Brand, almost immobilized with grief, suffered a heart attack. At first he was forced to rest, but then, ignoring Rex Kiernan’s warnings, he had plunged back into work. And, until that morning in Geneva, felt reasonably fit.

According to the latest Fortune magazine, he was now the sixth richest man in America. A workaholic, he spent most of his time on the top floor of the thirty-storey black glass building on Madison Avenue where the Brand Corporation was based. There, he put in a fourteen-hour day, overseeing a business empire with interests in oil, shipping, hotels, food processing and drugs.

‘The Man Who Has Everything’, Business Week dubbed him in a piece that was laudatory but glaringly short of facts, for Brand never gave interviews and provided no biography for inquisitive journalists. Even the accompanying photograph was an old one.

Brand knew that success usually came either through an accident of birth or the sheer power of will. But in his case it was both. At twenty-two, with $50 million inherited from his father, he had tasted the heady fruits of power and found them to his liking.

Calculating risks to the nth degree he flew in and out of the world’s capitals making deals and increasing his fortune. He took gambles that even the biggest banks balked at. With the Pacific Rim booming, he waited until Indonesia’s currency became convertible and then invested heavily, knowing the country was rich in natural resources. Within two years his investment had tripled. He then moved into the Finnish market, which was underpriced, and doubled his money within a year. Then, anticipating the dollar’s fall, he invested heavily in other currencies.

Since Jane’s death, however, he found himself deriving less and less satisfaction from the mere making of money. He wanted someone, or something, to change his life, to set him on a new course.

Speeding down the neon-lit autoroute into Paris he lay back against the chill leather of the limousine and closed his eyes. He realized he had never felt so lonely in his life.

Georges di Marco awoke suddenly. He glanced at the clock by his bedside. It was 2.30 a.m. He had been asleep less than two hours. Touching his forehead he realized it was damp with perspiration. The dream. It was always the same. Ghosts from the past, jeering, pointing fingers. And money, stacks of it, scattering in the wind as he tried to count it. He sat up, switching on the bedside light. I’m an old man, he thought; I should be sleeping soundly. My conscience should be clear. Instead I awake in dread.

For a moment, as a spasm of nausea assailed him, he feared he might be sick, and reached for a handkerchief. What’s the matter with me? he thought, on the edge of panic. Why is this happening? He took a drink of water from the glass on his bedside table.

I must tell someone, he decided. That man with the Federal Banking Commission – Albert-Jean Cristiani – I will call him. Take him to dinner. Ask his advice. Produce the diary, perhaps. He will know what I should do. He will realize I am an honourable man.

He bunched the pillows beneath his head. Switching off the light he closed his eyes, hoping for sleep.

Chapter 4

Julia Lang had thought herself prepared for the encounter, for the time when she would have to face him again, but now that the moment had arrived, now that he was standing there in the lobby of London’s Burlington Hotel talking to one of the guests, she was swept by a feeling of such revulsion that for a moment she feared she might be physically sick.

It had been-sixteen years since their last meeting and seeing him again it seemed to her that he had not changed at all. The same aristocratic stance, hands behind his back; the same black hair brushed straight back; the same rimless spectacles. And the same dark grey suiting with a light blue tie.

Her face set, she walked towards him.

He turned, pivoting on one foot. ‘Miss Lang. Good morning.’ It was as if nothing had ever happened; he might have been greeting her after an absence of a day instead of all those years.

He turned to the elderly American by his side. ‘Mr Elliott, this is Julia Lang, Publicity Director for the hotel.’

The American looked approvingly at Julia’s shoulder-length blonde hair and deep-set grey eyes. In a lobby full of pale-faced people in heavy winter coats she stood out sharply in her forest-green velvet jacket and black skirt.

He smiled warmly. ‘Glad to know you, Miss Lang. I was just telling Mr Moscato here how impressed we are with the Burlington.’

‘Will you be staying in London long?’

‘Just a week. Mrs Elliott wants to see a couple of shows. I want to get some shirts made. Turnbull and Asser – I like their shirts.’

Julia smiled politely. ‘If there’s anything I can do while you’re here …’

‘Thank you, Miss Lang. We’re being looked after very well.’

Julia excused herself and walked back towards the executive offices. She realized with a pang of dismay that just being near Guido Moscato had made her feel soiled. She had not expected that. Well, she would have to come to terms with his presence. It was that or quit; those were her only choices. But she loved her job. And if she walked out with two years left of her contract, her chances of working for another London hotel were slim.

In her office at the end of the corridor, Emma Carswell, her secretary, was waiting with a sheaf of letters to sign. Seeing Julia’s expression, she frowned.

‘You’re looking glum.’

‘I just ran into Moscato,’ Julia said.

Emma groaned. ‘He’s finally here, then.’

‘Arrived yesterday.’

‘Did he say anything?’

Julia shook her head. ‘There was someone with him.’

‘You’re sure he recognized you?’

‘Of course.’

Emma nibbled on her lower lip. ‘Of all people for the Sultan to hire.’

‘He must think Moscato is a good choice,’ Julia said.

‘How did he ever hear of him?’

‘Everyone knows the Palace on Lake Como.’

Emma put the letters on her desk. ‘I still think you should have told the Sultan what happened …’

‘Emma, the Sultan runs this hotel as a business. People’s personal lives don’t come into it.’

She moved round to the other side of her desk and sat down in the swivel chair.

‘Are you going home to change for the party?’ Emma asked.

‘I brought a dress with me.’

She had been looking forward to the cocktail party that evening, planned months earlier to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the Burlington’s reopening after its £40-million face-lift. All the hotel’s guests had been invited, together with people from London’s social and political circles. Julia had even bought herself a black cocktail dress from Louis Féraud, an extravagance she excused by convincing herself it would be useful for other occasions. But with Moscato’s arrival at the hotel much of her earlier enthusiasm had waned.

Emma paused before returning to her own office. ‘Maybe it won’t be so bad,’ she said, her face rather implying the opposite.

Julia mustered a faint smile and reached for her pen.

By 7.30 p.m. the Terrace Room was crowded. Guido Moscato stood just inside the wide mirrored doors greeting guests.

Inside the huge room, bars had been set up at either end. In the centre a buffet table was laden with delicacies prepared by the Burlington’s chef, Gustave Plesset. In a far corner a willowy young man was playing forties melodies on the piano. Blue-jacketed waiters moved among the guests offering canapés and drinks. The buzz of conversation was very loud.

‘Don’t just stand there. Mingle.’

Julia turned. Bryan Penrose, the hotel’s Director of Sales and Marketing, was standing beside her. She smiled. She and Penrose were friends.

‘You’re looking spectacular,’ he said. ‘New dress?’

She nodded.

‘I never want to see you in anything else,’ he said.

He winked at Julia and moved away. Left alone, Julia scanned the room for familiar faces. Someone waved to her from the bar by the window. She recognized Bobby Koenig, an American screenwriter and frequent visitor to the hotel. He was standing talking to an impressive-looking man with grey hair. Julia moved towards him, nodding to people she knew.

‘Julia.’ Koenig grasped her hand warmly. ‘You know this gentleman, of course. He’s paying a fortune for the privilege of staying here. Julia Lang … Robert Brand.’

She was faintly surprised to see Brand there. Although he was not registered under his own name and had requested no publicity, word had soon filtered down through the hotel grapevine that the secretive American billionaire had checked into the Empire Suite.

‘Julia is Publicity Director for the hotel,’ Koenig said. ‘And one of the most eligible women in London.’ He retrieved his champagne glass. ‘She’s single, she speaks fluent Italian and she once got a love letter from Marcello Mastroianni.’ He turned to Julia. ‘Am I right?’

‘You’re impossible,’ Julia laughed. ‘Revealing all my secrets. Anyway, it was Alain Delon.’

‘Close enough,’ Koenig said. ‘Both actors.’

During this banter Brand had not taken his eyes from her. She felt vaguely disturbed by the intensity of his gaze. His eyes, she decided, were the darkest she had ever seen. He was an impressive figure in his beautifully cut dark suit. Impressive and handsome.

‘Bobby tells me you have a new manager,’ Brand said.

‘That’s right.’

‘What happened to the last one?’

‘He died. He was the one who brought me here. Andrew Lattimer. A lovely man.’

‘Where were you before?’

‘The Ambassador Royal.’

Was he really interested, Julia wondered, or just making a polite conversation.

‘Miss Lang …’

She turned. Freddy, one of the barmen, was holding out a glass of champagne.

She shook her head. ‘No thanks.’

‘Oh go on,’ Koenig said. ‘It’s good stuff. Must be costing the hotel a fortune. Mind you, with what Robert’s paying for his suite they can afford it.’

It occurred to Julia that Brand probably had no idea what the suite cost. Such petty details were no doubt handled by his staff. She could not imagine him standing by the cashier’s window filling out traveller’s cheques.

Julia took the glass and put it down at the edge of the bar.

‘You may not know it,’ Koenig said, ‘but Robert owns two of the best hotels in New York – the Raleigh and the Carlton House. He’s always trying to recruit new talent for them. So watch yourself.’

‘Tim Perrin’s at the Raleigh?’ Julia asked.

‘He is,’ Brand said. ‘And doing a fine job. You know him?’

‘He was assistant manager here.’

‘We’re very pleased with him. You must come and see us when you’re next in New York.’ Brand glanced around the room. ‘You put all this together?’

‘Most of it.’

‘You got a great turnout.’

‘Free drink,’ Koenig said drily. ‘Never fails. Anyway, Julia has magic powers.’

‘I believe it,’ Brand said. He had hardly taken his eyes from her. How old was he, she wondered. Early sixties? It was hard to tell, he exuded such energy. ‘I suppose everyone tells you you could be Grace Kelly’s kid sister?’

Julia, never comfortable with compliments, flushed slightly. ‘Not everyone,’ she said.

‘I knew her years ago,’ Brand said. ‘Wonderful woman. Before Rainier came along, of course. I couldn’t compete with a prince.’ He looked at Julia intently. ‘Any princes in your life, Miss Lang?’

‘Mine’s on the way, according to my horoscope,’ she said, laughing.

‘You know what the French say?’ Brand chuckled. ‘Every woman waits for the right man to come along. In the meantime she gets married.’

‘You’re sure that’s what the French say?’ Julia said.

‘Positive.’

Was he flirting with her? She hoped so.

She needed a morale boost after her encounter with Moscato. And Robert Brand was one of the most charismatic men she had ever met. She felt a surge of attraction towards him and was disconcerted. This was a cocktail party for the hotel. He was a guest; she an employee. She must not forget it.

‘If the peasants could see us now,’ Koenig said, surveying the room, ‘they’d be lining up the tumbrels outside.’

‘We don’t do this very often,’ Julia said.

‘Well you should,’ Koenig replied. ‘Give me the excuse to come here more often. I love this town.’

‘Can’t think why,’ Brand laughed. ‘It’s freezing cold and it rains all the time.’

‘What a masterly summing up of one of the world’s great cities,’ Koenig said, deadpan.

‘Well, it’s true,’ Brand insisted.

‘It’s the last truly civilized city on earth,’ Koenig said. ‘A cornucopia of pleasures. New York is violent and vicious … Paris is too desperately chic … Rome is bedlam-’

‘So is London,’ Brand said. ‘I don’t understand what you see in the place.’

‘I told you. It’s civilized.’ Julia watched Koenig, amused, as he got into his stride. ‘Remember Sam Danovich, the producer? The great Sam? He brought me here thirty years ago to do a rewrite on a script. He loved it here. He said, “There’s no other city in the world for the cultivated man.” By the time I’d finished the film I agreed with him.’

‘On the basis of what?’

‘The conversation, for one thing. People here talk about ideas.’

‘Give me an example,’ Brand said.

‘Well, just last night at dinner the woman next to me asked if I thought it was mere coincidence that none of the great philosophers – Spinoza, Kant, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche – was married –’

‘You are too easily impressed, my friend,’ Brand said. ‘A little Reader’s Digest trivia can hardly be categorized as good conversation.’

‘Sneer all you like,’ Koenig said. ‘All I know is that back home in Los Angeles we’d have been asking people which dermatologist they used and how much the new addition to their house cost.’

‘Both subjects of considerable interest,’ Brand chuckled. ‘Particularly if you live in a tiny house and have spots all over your face.’

‘I’m being serious,’ Koenig protested.

‘So am I,’ Brand replied. ‘I promise you there are plenty of idiots here too.’

‘Agreed,’ Koenig said. ‘But there’s one other great thing about London: you don’t need an Uzi by your bedside to feel secure.’

Brand turned to Julia. ‘Our friend tends to exaggerate, as you’ve noticed. But then he’s a writer.’

‘Sorry, Mr Brand. I agree with Bobby. I love London too.’

‘New York is much more exciting.’

‘A morally bankrupt city,’ Koenig said. ‘With a social world made up of fools who consider it desirable to associate with people simply because they are rich.’

‘Are you suggesting they don’t do that in Los Angeles?’

‘Only morons,’ Koenig said easily. ‘Morons and movie stars.’

Brand glanced round the room. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Look who’s over there. Jack Blacklock. Black Jack himself. We must go and say hello.’ He turned to Julia. ‘I enjoyed talking with you, Miss Lang. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

‘I hope so,’ Julia said.

Koenig smiled and squeezed her arm. Watching them leave, Julia felt curiously deflated. Brand had such a powerful presence it was as if she had been left in a vacuum.

Looking round she saw Moscato approaching. She felt a sense of dread.

‘I saw you talking with Mr Brand,’ he said. ‘Does he seem happy with the hotel?’

‘Perfectly.’ She turned abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to the reporters outside. They’ll need some details of the party.’

She wove her way through the crowded room towards the door, taking a last glance at Brand and Koenig, who were deep in conversation with a tall, flamboyant-looking man wearing an eye-patch. They did not look her way.

The rain had eased as Julia left the hotel. Only a few reporters still stood around, hunched in their raincoats. Two of them nodded to her.

As she walked down the steps, she called goodnight to Henry Wilson, the uniformed night doorman.

‘Good night, Miss Lang.’

Henry liked Julia. She always had a cheery word for him – unlike some of the other hotel executives. After six years he knew quite a lot about Julia Lang. He knew she was thirty-three and unmarried. He knew how conscientious she was; how late she often worked. He liked the way she held herself, the way she dressed. She was, in his book, a very stylish lady. He had even met her boyfriend, Michael Chadwick. Nice enough, but not good enough for her.

Tonight she seemed preoccupied. Working too hard, he decided, stepping forward to open the taxi door for a late arrival.

At 11 p.m. on Friday in Geneva, Paul Eberhardt picked up the telephone in his study and dialled the number of Georges di Marco.

‘Georges, I’m sorry to worry you so late but there are a couple of papers here that require your signature.’

‘My signature?’ The old man’s voice was vague. He sounded as if he’d been dozing. ‘Surely it can wait until Monday?’

‘I’m afraid not. I must express them to New York tomorrow. Don’t distress yourself. I’ll send someone round with them.’

‘It’s very late, Paul. I was about to retire …’

‘I realize that, but this is really urgent. I wouldn’t dream of bothering you otherwise. I’d bring them round myself but I am still at the office.’

‘What papers are they, Paul? I don’t recall –’

‘The de Boissy estate.’

‘I thought that was all settled.’

‘There are a couple of loose ends.’

‘Very well. Send them round.’

‘The messenger will wait and bring them back.’ Eberhardt paused. ‘You haven’t had second thoughts, I suppose?’

‘Second thoughts?’

‘Our discussion the other morning.’

‘No, Paul. No second thoughts.’

‘Then you must do what you think is right, Georges. We must all do what we think is right.’

When the buzzer sounded di Marco pressed the button to open the street entrance and unlocked the door of his apartment. He went into the bedroom to remove his comfortable slippers and put on more formal black shoes.

When he returned to the living room he was surprised to find the messenger standing by the open door with a large envelope in his hand.

‘I did knock,’ the man said.

‘That’s all right. Come in, come in. I just have to sign a couple of papers.’

He took the envelope from the messenger, a burly young man, and went over to the desk by the window. Inside the envelope were two blank sheets of paper. He turned, bewildered.

‘There’s nothing –’

Before he could finish his arms were pinioned behind him and tape was wrapped around his wrists. He let out a whimper of fear.

‘What are you doing?’

Before he could say more another tape was pasted over his mouth.

Eyes wide with fright, the old man was hustled out of his apartment. The door slammed behind him.

The morning following the cocktail party Julia had arranged to have breakfast with an American travel writer and take him on a tour of the hotel. When she finally got to her office Emma was waiting for her.

‘I hear it was a great success,’ she said. ‘Everyone was there.’

‘Not everyone,’ Julia said. ‘The Foreign Secretary didn’t make it.’

‘Oh pooh,’ Emma sniffed. ‘Who cares about him? Robert Brand was there, wasn’t he? Imagine him turning up.’

‘Life is full of surprises.’

There was a pile of messages on Julia’s desk, together with that morning’s mail.

‘Anything important?’ She flicked through the notes.

Emma held up a letter. ‘There’s an invitation to speak on public relations at the annual conference of the International Travel and Tourism Research Association in Acapulco. Expenses paid.’

‘Acapulco,’ Julia signed. ‘Wouldn’t I just love to do that. But how can I get away now?’

‘Tell Moscato to get stuffed and go.’

‘Don’t tempt me.’

Emma chuckled. ‘So what shall I tell them?’

‘When is the conference?’

Emma consulted the letter. ‘A couple of months’ time.’

‘Don’t reply just yet. Who knows what’s going to happen?’

Emma turned to go. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a bottle of champagne in your bottom drawer. Came an hour ago.’

After Emma returned to her own office Julia opened the drawer. Wrapped in Cellophane was a bottle of Krug ’81. Thank you for inviting me, the card read. It was signed: Robert Brand.

Chapter 5

Julia Lang stood by the bedroom window of her flat, sipping a glass of white wine, looking out over the darkened town. It was a cold, wet night, the sky a seemingly endless panoply of grey. The lights of the pub on the corner were hazy in the light mist. Across the street she could see directly into another flat. In one brightly lit room a man and a woman were sitting in armchairs, reading. They looked comfortable, settled, at ease. She felt a momentary pang of envy. She was, she knew, ambivalent about marriage. Did she really want it? Would she trade her independence for a shared life with a man? When she had first come to London from Birmingham her one aim had been to have a career of her own. To abandon that plan now, to marry and have children – was she ready for that?