It was a beautiful day and Hassani felt safe enough to enjoy the summer weather in New York. Street vendors were out on the avenue, selling kabobs and pretzels to office workers who sat sunning themselves outside their buildings. His security man kept up a couple of paces behind.
On Fifty-fourth, he recognized the familiar stone and glass tower with the iconic intersecting “RR” wrapped in a lion’s tail. He almost felt an owner’s pride.
Crossing the street, he passed through the large glass doors and walked up to the marble desk in the reception center. He announced himself to the guard, who printed off a VIP security badge and directed him to a private elevator bank that served the executive offices on the forty-second and forty-third floors. As the elevator whooshed them high above Manhattan, he knew there was much to talk about.
The largest bank in California had gone belly-up this week. In Spain, the leading real estate developer was underwater. The walls were tumbling, one by one, with even more speed than they had imagined. Mighty Lehman Brothers and Citi-their stocks were now the lowest they had even been. Everything was in play, if you had access to an unlimited supply of capital. The carnage was only beginning. Only those who had the long view, who had the required patience to accept the pain, with the promise of future reward, future domination, would be there to pick up the pieces in this new world.
The elevator opened on forty-three. Hassani and his security man stepped out. A pretty, nicely dressed secretary was there to greet him. Hassani admired her and wondered if something might be arranged later on. (Though the thought did also cross his mind that she might be just a tad old for him.)
The woman smiled and said, “Mr. Simons is waiting for you now.”
She led him along a row of important-looking offices, executives who wouldn’t even be there now, earning their large bonuses, Hassani mused, were it not for the timely investment of his own king. She led him into a spacious conference room. Hassani motioned to his man to wait outside.
“Make yourself at home,” Peter Simons’s secretary said. “Mr. Simons will be with you shortly.”
“Thank you.” Hassani smiled.
The room had a large rosewood table that might have seated as many as forty, and a sprawling, wall-to-wall vista of midtown Manhattan. In one corner there was a Giacometti bronze on a pedestal. Hassani had acquired such tastes himself, having studied at the Sorbonne. A six-foot-wide video presentation screen boasted the familiar logos of all the iconic brands that Reynolds Reid had acquired, ready for the upcoming board meeting. A set of antique silver tea and coffee pots sat on the credenza.
As Hassani admired the view, a private door to one side opened. Peter Simons stepped in.
Simons was tall, lanky, raw boned, slightly graying. He was fifty-six, but with his still light-brown hair and fit, trained body, he looked much younger. He came over and hugged Hassani with open arms. “Hanni!”
“Peter.” The two embraced, kissing each other on each cheek in the Middle Eastern fashion. “It’s very good to see you again, my friend.”
Simons patted the Bahraini warmly on the back. “I’m glad you could be here.”
There was much to talk about before their meeting, but first the Reynolds Reid CEO leaned close to Hassani’s ear and said, his voice no louder than a whisper, “One thing… That little matter in London, which so concerned us…It’s been taken care of, I presume?”
“Completely taken care of, my friend.” Hassani gave a pat to the CEO’s back. “Let us get on to other things.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Hauck flew back to New York on Sunday. Eight A.M. Monday, he was back at his desk.
The plane ride back was the first time he’d been able to think about what Steve Chrisafoulis had shared with him, the connection between Talon and Sonny Merced, the man who’d attacked Jared at the rink. He recalled how Foley had tried to put the brakes on his investigation into Thibault, citing the firm’s “other” interests with Reynolds Reid.
It also worried him how someone was always one step ahead of them in Serbia and London. Only a handful of people in the world knew about Thibault. Or al-Bashir’s connection to Hassani.
Was it possible he and Naomi were being played?
Around ten, one of the partners transferred in a call from Tom Foley. “Glad you’re back,” his boss said with seeming enthusiasm. “Ready to go forward?”
“Totally ready,” Hauck said, looking to deflect any questions on where he had been.
“Good. I want you in on a lunch meeting Skip Haley is holding up there around noon on Landmark Communication…”
Landmark owned television stations and was looking to make an Internet acquisition. Hauck told him he’d sit in.
Naomi had remained an extra day in the UK, to check with some contacts there and see if they could pin Hassani in Switzerland on the date of the supposed meeting in Gstaad.
They knew the date in question, June 26, a year ago, from Thibault’s lift ticket. If they could pin Hassani there, coupled with the flow of funds from Ascot through Thibault to James Donovan’s account in the Caymans, that might be enough to restart their investigation. Something had brought both al-Bashir and Thibault to the Swiss resort. Hauck began to wonder could there have been others? Others they didn’t know about. Something al-Bashir had said before he stepped into the car: It was never about terrorism…This was much larger than terrorism.
A thought occurred to him. He took out his BlackBerry and searched through the contact files for a name from years before, when he worked for the Department of Information at the NYPD.
Marcus Hird was a criminal inspector from Kantonspolizei in Zurich. They had gotten to know each other at a conference they both attended in DC and later, Hauck had done a favor for him, actually for his cousin who had moved to Greenwich to work for UBS; the cousin’s son had been caught with some beers behind the wheel. Hauck had gotten the boy off with a suspended license and probation.
Hauck located the number. It was four P.M. over there. The overseas call went through and connected with the usual short beeps.
“Bitte, Hird,” the inspector answered officiously.
“Marcus,” Hauck said. “It’s Ty Hauck. From Greenwich. In the States.”
“Ty!” the Swiss inspector exclaimed, switching to almost perfect English. “It’s been a long time.”
“It has,” Hauck agreed. They exchanged a few pleasantries about work; Hird’s cousin, who was now back home; and the man’s son, who was now a student at the local polytechnic college. Hauck then got to why he was calling: “Marcus, there may be something you can do for me.”
“Always happy to assist the local police there in any way I can,” the Swiss detective said politely.
“I’m afraid I’m not exactly with the local police any longer,” Hauck admitted. He explained what he was doing now, then why he had called, keeping the reason vague. “Do you ski?”
“Sure. I’m Swiss, Ty. I grew up in a village near Davos. In younger days I was quite the racer.”
“Good. I need some information from another of your resorts. From Gstaad.”
“Gesh-staad,” the Swiss said, drawing out the German pronunciation. “Beautiful place there. What is it you need?”
“I want you to look at only the five-star hotels there for me. Just the very top echelon.”
“Understood,” the Swiss said. “The Grand Hotel Park. The Grand Hotel Bellevue. The Gstaad Palace. Do you need a booking, Ty? If so, I recommend you call the Ministry of Tourism, not me.”
Hauck laughed politely. “No, not a booking, Marcus, sorry. I’m going to give you a date. On or around June twenty-sixth of last year. I’m also going to give you a series of names…”