“I’m afraid that I’m not asking for your help. I’m ordering it. First thing in the morning, I want to see all the paperwork you have on the trust holding those Curaçao companies. Lawyers’ names, directors, everything.”
“The government has no right to order me to do anything.”
“Who mentioned the government?”
“Come now, Marcus, no one cares about all that old business anymore. The war’s been over seventy years. People barely remember Hitler, let alone the Nazis. Besides, we paid our debt. A billion dollars buys a lot of understanding.”
As part of his work on the Holocaust Commission, von Daniken had been detailed to look into the degree of collaboration between Swiss banks and the Economic and Administrative Main Office of the SS, the agency charged with handling the Third Reich’s financial dealings. If the Swiss banks had been remiss in their conduct toward survivors after the war, the vast majority could claim in good conscience that they had only been following long-established rules to guarantee the privacy and safety of their clients’ deposits. The same rules that denied their deceased clients’ heirs access to their money had also denied access to less scrupulous forces, namely a constant parade of German officers sent to Zurich, Basel, and Geneva with orders to pry imprisoned, and soon to be dead, Jews’ money out of the bankers’ greedy little fingers.
One bank, though, had not been as stringent in the enforcement of these rules as the others. Not only had the Tingeli Bank cooperated with the Germans and transferred millions of francs from their rightful (Jewish) owners to the Third Reich, it had actually set up an office in-house for officers of the SS to systematically loot these accounts.
Von Daniken had discovered all of this and more in his research, including a photograph of Tobi Tingeli’s grandfather, Tobias II, in the company of Hermann Goering, Joseph Goebbels, and Reichsführer Adolf Hitler. In the photograph, Tingeli was wearing an SS officer’s black uniform with the rank of Standartenführer, or colonel.
News of the discovery was vehemently hushed up. In exchange for the Commission’s silence, the Tingeli Bank had donated one hundred million dollars to the survivors’ fund. Case closed.
“You’re right,” said von Daniken. “The war is old hat. I’m talking about something more recent.” He slid an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the banker. Tobi Tingeli opened it. Several photographs were inside. Not photos of old Nazis from a bygone era. But something equally shocking.
“Where did you get this?” Tingeli’s face drained of color.
“My mandate is to cover extremists. I’d say the activity in those pictures qualifies. Not political extremism, but some rather embarrassing behavior all the same. You see, I don’t like you, Tobi. I don’t like your father, either. For far too long you’ve been allowed to buy yourself a clean conscience. I’ve been keeping an eye on you. I always knew that you were a strange one. I just didn’t know how strange.”
There were only two pictures, but two were enough. The first showed Tobi Tingeli standing at a bar in a dark room, dressed in his grandfather’s SS tunic, the death’s-head cap cocked rakishly on his head. He wore nothing else. No pants. No socks. No shoes. He stood with an erection in one hand and a quirt in the other, whipping the hairy white ass of a man bent over beside him.
The second picture was, if possible, more bizarre. In it, Tingeli was on his knees, dressed head to toe in a black latex suit with slits cut out for the eyes, nose, and mouth. Hands cuffed behind his back, his head was buried in a woman’s crotch. True, his face wasn’t visible, but the large gold signet ring engraved with his family crest that he wore on his right hand was. The cops in the undercover unit had gotten laughs out of it for months.
“Not exactly something to inspire the shareholders, are they? I’d imagine the scandal sheets would love to get their hands on them. If I wanted, I could feather my retirement nest very nicely. What do you think they’d pay? A hundred thousand? Two?”
Tingeli tossed the photographs onto a coffee table. “Bastard.”
“Count on it.”
Tingeli stood. “You’ll have the names in the morning. But I want those pictures.”
“Deal.” Von Daniken walked himself to the front door. “Just remember that I can always get more.”
58
Alphons Marti popped his head into Marcus von Daniken’s unoccupied office. The overhead lights were extinguished. A sole desktop lamp burned, casting a halo on the papers covering the desk. It was eight o’clock in the evening, and he’d come for a briefing on the day’s progress. He wandered down the hall until he found an office still occupied. “Excuse me,” he said with a knock on the door. “I’m looking for Mr. von Daniken.”
A stocky bald man shot from his desk. “Hardenberg, sir. I’m afraid Chief Inspector von Daniken isn’t here at the moment.”
“I can see that. He was due to update me on today’s activity.”
“It’s not like him to miss a meeting. Was it scheduled?”
Marti avoided the question. The visit was unannounced. He hadn’t wanted to give von Daniken time to doctor his findings. “Where is he?”
“In Zurich. Looking into a lead regarding the financing of the operation.”
“Really? Aren’t the banks closed at this hour?”
“He’s not at a bank. He’s visiting Tobias Tingeli. They know each other from the Holocaust Commission. You can reach him on his cell phone.”
Marti considered this. “Not necessary,” he said after a moment. “I’m sure you can fill me in. You said that you’ve discovered a lead on the financing of this operation. Do you have any idea which group is behind the plot? Is it the Revolutionary Guard? Al-Qaeda? Islamic Jihad? Or is it some organization we haven’t heard of?”
“We’re not certain yet,” replied Hardenberg. “All we know is that Blitz’s house was purchased by an offshore company based in Curaçao. Once we find out who paid his bills, we’ll be a lot closer to knowing who’s behind this attack.”
“What’s standing in your way?”
“The law, sir. The existing bank secrecy requirements make it difficult for us to obtain the information we need. Still, Mr. von Daniken is confident he’ll be able to get around them. He has close ties with a number of bankers.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Marti, laboring to sound pleased. “Keep up the good work.”
Hardenberg accompanied him to the door. “I’ll tell Mr. von Daniken that you came by. I’m sure he didn’t mean to miss the meeting.”
Marti hurried down the stairs, a man with a mission.
Back in his office at the Bundeshaus, Marti rooted around in the files until he found the paperwork relating to the government’s request to Swisscom, the national telecommunications authority, for a record of all of Blitz’s, Lammers’s, and Ransom’s phone calls. Papers in hand, he phoned the Swisscom executive in charge of judicial relations.
“I need a complete record of all calls made to and from these numbers,” he said, after introducing himself. He provided Marcus von Daniken’s business, home, and cellular numbers.
“Certainly. Is there any time period you’re interested in?”
“Last Monday from eight a.m. to four p.m.”
“Just last Monday?”
“That’s all,” said Marti. “How soon can you have it?”
“Tomorrow at noon.”
“I need it by eight a.m.”
“You’ll have it.”