“No,” Newman said. “On the contrary, I continue to be pleased with the services of your fine institution.”
Montillier nodded. “Then you wish, perhaps, investment advice?”
Newman sat forward. “What I wish most for is discretion, monsieur. Absolute discretion.”
Montillier reacted as if Newman had slapped him in the face. The color left his cheeks, and it seemed for a moment as if he was having difficulty catching his breath.
The door opened, and the receptionist entered and laid a buff-colored folder on the desk, then turned and left, giving no indication that he had noticed anything wrong with Montillier.
“I am wounded, monsieur…” Montillier began, but Newman interrupted him.
“If I may see my daily balances?”
The banker held Newman’s gaze a moment or two longer, then picked up the file, opened it, scanned the figures, and passed it across.
“If, in any way, you have been dissatisfied with our services, I would be more than happy to.look into your specific complaints.”
“On the contrary,” Newman said, looking over the tabulations. “I am, and I continue to be, very happy with our arrangement here, as I have already said.” The daily balances in the TradeCon account had risen from a start of slightly more than $350,000 to an average high of around $20 million, until two days ago. Then a Eurobank transfer of funds totaling $507 million had come in from a numbered account.
Newman closed the file and laid it back on the desk, then took a drink of his cognac. There had been no mistake. The money was there. The numbered account was Dybrovik’s, or rather a blind account of Exportkhleb’s; Newman had recognized the number.
“You are familiar with my business dealings, monsieur,” Newman began. “And I trust that you are satisfied that I am indeed a legitimate businessman.”
“Again I am wounded, Newman. There has never been the slightest question as to your integrity where it concerns Swiss law — for that is what we are talking about here — and I shall confine myself to that issue and no other.”
Swiss laws were very harsh; their most stringent federal statutes dealt with the area of secrecy. For any bank employee or officer to divulge the status of even the smallest account to anyone — absolutely anyone, including government representatives — was punishable not only by instant dismissal, but by fines of $10,000 and more, and imprisonment for as long as twenty years.
“That is comforting, monsieur, but no less than I expected,” Newman said. “There could be a problem in the future. I want to make you aware of it.”
“I am at your complete disposal.”
“Very soon there will be a great deal of activity within the TradeCon account. The Eurobank transfer is only the beginning.”
“I see,” Montillier said, clasping his hands in front of him on the desk. “Please continue.”
“This activity will take the form of numerous and often quite large transfers of funds, many of which will be from outside Switzerland. Your discretion, monsieur, has never been in question in my mind. However, there are those who pride themselves on a certain ability to deduce active business arrangements merely from the frequency of fund transfers.”
Montillier smiled thinly. “I understand perfectly, Mr. Newman. Let me assure you that each and every payment to, or debit from, your account will be handled on a highly personal basis. No matter the number or the frequency. The sheer act of transfer shall be kept as confidential as the actual status of your account, or indeed its very existence.”
Newman finished his cognac and set the glass down. “Then my business here today is concluded.” He got to his feet, and the banker followed suit.
Newman had no illusions about Swiss law, or any other law for that matter. When the stakes became high enough, some would be willing to bend or break the rules. Swiss law was inviolate only in Switzerland. If a man — Montillier, perhaps — was willing to abandon his position here in Switzerland, say for something in Buenos Aires, he could do it, providing he was not intercepted before leaving this country.
All Newman had done today — the only thing he had hoped to do, besides making absolutely sure the Eurobank transfer had actually occurred — was to put Montillier on notice that TradeCon would be watched, and watched very closely, for any irregularities. If anything should come up, Newman had told Montillier in effect that he would go straight to the Swiss authorities.
“I am so happy that you spoke with me about a matter of such concern to you. Again let me assure you that you may have the utmost confidence with us.”
“I do,” Newman said. They shook hands.
Back downstairs, the receptionist showed him out the door. It was still raining.
It was late, nearly ten o’clock in the evening, and still misty, when Newman drove his rented car off the lakeshore highway just past Coppet and stopped at the beginning of the narrow gravel driveway. Behind him, the headlights of the second car bounced up the road and swung directly on him as he got out and walked back.
Evans cranked down his window. “What is this place, Mr. Newman?”
“This is as far as you go. About a hundred yards farther up is the house.”
“We’ll follow you.”
“No, you won’t,” Newman said. “I won’t be long. A half-hour at the most. Probably less. The place is crawling with security people.”
The two bodyguards looked at each other. “You’re making it very difficult for us to do our job, sir.”
“Can’t be helped,” Newman said. “Turn your car around and wait here.”
“What if someone comes?”
“Stop them, find out who they are, and let them pass.”
“A half-hour?”
“Probably less,” Newman said. He went back to his car, continued down the driveway, and stopped in front of the house Dybrovik was using as his headquarters.
There were several Mercedes, a Citroën, and a couple of small Ford Cortinas parked out front and around the side. The house was lit up like a Christmas tree.
As Newman pulled up, a heavily built man in a dark suit came down from the porch. He frisked Newman the moment he stepped out of the car.
Newman wondered how the Russians were getting away with something like this. It would not be possible in the States, but then the Swiss had a habit of turning a blind eye to anything that was financial in nature.
“He is waiting inside for you,” the man said, his English guttural.
Dybrovik, his shirt sleeves rolled up, came into the main hallway, clutching a thick sheaf of papers. He was not smiling.
“What brings you out here tonight?” he asked.
Newman had called earlier to make the appointment. Dybrovik had hesitated before agreeing.
“We have to talk.”
“Is something wrong? There is not enough money? You are having trouble with purchases or shipping?”
“We have to talk. In private, Dybrovik. No microphones, no listeners.”
Dybrovik looked at him as if he were speaking nonsense. “Don’t cause me such worry, Kenneth. If there is a problem, tell it to me straight out, and let’s see if we cannot come up with a solution.”
Newman said nothing.
Dybrovik began to squirm. “Everything we do here, Kenneth, is being recorded. Even now our conversation is on tape. Please, you cannot do this to me… to our arrangement. Is it not profitable, as I promised?”
Newman jerked his head toward the front door. Dybrovik’s gaze flickered that way, and he nodded.
“I wanted to make sure that you will continue transferring funds into my TradeCon account.”
“We have passed more than five hundred million dollars over.”
“The amount of grain we are purchasing will amount to four times that, probably more by the time we are finished.”