"Does the word swastika mean something?" asked Tom.
"The word is derived from Sanskrit. The literal translation is 'good to be.' In holy texts it can mean Brahma, which is luck, or Samsara, which is rebirth." He looked up, his voice suddenly thoughtful. "I wonder, which will it be for you, Mr. Tom?"
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Banque Volz et Cie occupied a corner lot in one of Zurich's most expensive districts. It was a neoclassical affair, probably mid-1800s, although inconsistently executed, with the huge stone columns supporting the entrance portico comprising an architecturally jarring combination of Ionic and Corinthian styles.
More telling perhaps, was that while the soaring cost of real estate had compelled the owners of neighboring lots to rebuild higher and higher to maximize the yield of their land, the Volz building remained only two stories high, dwarfed by the towering structures around it. This said more about the bank's wealth and power than the tallest skyscraper ever could.
A smartly dressed man wearing a lightweight blue flannel suit greeted Tom and Archie in the small marbled entrance vestibule. It was more reminiscent of a private house than a bank — two side tables, travertine marble resting on ebony legs engraved with gold leaf, flanked a large bronze door that Tom assumed led into the main hall. Each table supported a large iron urn.
"Guten Morgen, meine Herren."
"Guten Morgen," Tom answered, before switching to English. "We're here to see Herr Volz."
The man frowned and looked them skeptically up and down, Tom especially in his faded jeans and sneakers.
"Do you have an appointment?"
"No."
The corner of the man's mouth twitched, as if he had just been told a mildly funny joke. "I'm sorry, but Herr Volz is a very busy man. If you leave your name and number, I will ask someone to call you." He jerked his head toward the door to indicate that they should leave.
"We have a safety-deposit box here. We wish to inspect it immediately."
Now the man laughed outright. "There are no boxes here. We are a bank, not a left-luggage office."
"Tell Herr Volz that we have the key," Tom insisted, dangling it in front of him. "And that we're not leaving until he sees us."
There was a pause as the man stared at the key uncertainly.
"Wait here," he snapped eventually, walking over to the side table on the left and retrieving a black phone from behind the urn. His eyes never left them as he dialed a three-digit number.
"Herr Volz?" He turned away from them so that they couldn't hear him, at one stage glancing at the key Tom was still holding outstretched, while talking rapidly into the phone. He nodded silently as he listened to what was being said in reply, his shoulders visibly stiffening. Replacing the handset in its cradle, he paused, and then turned to face them, an apology flickering around his lips but left unsaid.
"Herr Volz will see you immediately. This way, please."
He threw open the bronze door and ushered them through. As Tom had suspected, this gave onto the main entrance hall, where a series of somber portraits lined the walls. Their footsteps echoing on the checkerboard marble floor, they followed the man into a small office where two secretaries were furiously typing away, their computers' flat screens housed in mahogany and brass boxes, as if the naked display of plastic might tarnish the bank's patrician image.
"Your coats, please." The man's voice had dropped to an ecclesiastical whisper. He took their coats, hanging them carefully on a cast-iron hat stand. He gestured to take Tom's briefcase, but a firm shake of Tom's head and an unblinking glare seemed to convince him otherwise. Then he knocked gently at the massive wooden door that loomed between the secretaries' desks. A brass plaque indicated in swirling copperplate similar to the design on the key that this was the office of RUDOLF VOLZ, DIREKTOR.
There was no response from within, and Tom followed the man's eyes to a miniature set of traffic lights positioned to the left of the door. It was on red, so they stood there patiently, the chattering of the secretaries' nails on their keyboards echoing like gunfire until finally the light flashed to green. The man opened the door, indicated with a flip of his hand that they should go in, and then shut it behind them.
Volz's office followed the same traditional lines as the rest of the building — soft red carpet underfoot, books lining one of the walls, an indifferent full-length portrait over the elaborate fireplace. The low winter sun streaming through the left-hand window had cut the room diagonally in two, leaving half swathed in shadow while flooding the other with a blinding light.
"What do you want?"
The voice was clipped and immediately hostile. Tom, squinting, had difficulty in making out where it was coming from. Eventually, as his eyes adjusted, he saw a dark shape hunched over the desk on the far side of the room.
"Herr Volz?" Tom walked toward the desk, while Archie hung back.
"What are you? A journalist? Some hack trying to make a career for yourself on the back of my family's good name?" The shape stood up and ignored Tom's outstretched hand. "Or another ambulance-chaser trying to make a living from our hard work."
"I can assure you that I am none of those things."
"The boxes are all gone. An ill-advised diversification strategy by my grandfather during the war that my father wisely dismantled in the 1960s with the full cooperation of the Swiss Banking Commission — as you would know, if you had done your research. You have no business here."
The man leaned forward as if to emphasize his point. This time Tom was able to see the face. Still quite young, perhaps in his early forties, Rudolf Volz had the same unflinching gaze and proud demeanor as the portraits Tom had seen out in the hall. His dark brown hair was neatly cut, with just a hint of gray. A closely cropped beard covered the line of his jaw like a strap, extending up around his mouth to frame his pinched lips. The underside of his chin and the flat of his sunken, hungry-looking cheeks were clean shaven. His glasses were frameless with clear plastic arms.
"The sixties?" Tom asked, throwing the key they'd discovered in the walnut box onto the desk. "In case you don't recognize it, that's your crest on the key. And, unless I'm very much mistaken, the lock that it opens is state-of-the-art."
Volz sat back into his chair, staring at the key as it lay on the desk. "Do you have an account number?" Tom nodded. "Give it to me."
Tom recited the numbers Turnbull had given him the previous night: 1256093574.
Squinting, Volz removed his glasses and typed the digits into his computer, then hit Return. After a pause, he looked up with a smile.
"Welcome to Banque Volz, gentlemen."
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
My apologies. Please forgive the little misunderstanding earlier."
Volz's frosty welcome had given way to candied smiles and a warm stream of apologies.
"Don't worry about it," said Tom, sipping the coffee that Volz had insisted on ordering for them.
"It's just that we get so many people trying their luck that we have to be cautious."
"What are they looking for?" Archie asked.
"What is everyone looking for in Switzerland? Money. In our case, either accounts abandoned by Holocaust victims or something else to sue us for. My father was wise enough to shut down the safety-deposit business and contribute all unclaimed assets to the Holocaust survivors' fund to avoid any future… complications."
"But not all the boxes were shut?" Archie again.