I arrived at Guttmacher's office at the designated time and gave his secretary my business card. It's part of the “legend” I usually prepare before going out of the country on assignment. The business card read “Peter Wooten, Attorney-at-Law,” and gave an address in New York. The information on the card wasn't completely inaccurate. The name was phony and the address was that of a front office used by the Justice Department in decoy operations, but the profession was genuine. The business card was the only physical window dressing I had. The remainder of the legend was in my mind.
The office was located at the southern corner of the second floor. A long corridor with cherrywood paneling led to his spacious chambers. The wide planking on the floor was covered with a handsome Oriental rug. Landscape paintings hung on the walls. It was obvious that the bank made every effort to make this office reflect stability and old-time respectability.
I was shown to Guttmacher's inner office. He was a man in his late fifties with a full head of iron-gray hair. I noticed that he had green eyes, although he avoided looking at me when we shook hands. Guttmacher was wearing a conservative suit with a red vest. I sat down on a brown leather couch, surprisingly well-worn for such grand surroundings.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice,” I opened.
“It is never a problem,” he said, a broad smile revealing a gold tooth. My first impression was that Guttmacher has trained himself not to reveal himself in any way. I thought I knew why. “What can I do for you?”
“I represent a group of investors from the United States led by one individual. They want to diversify their investments and need a discreet German banker who can assist them in their search for solid opportunities as well as maintain absolute confidentiality.” I paused, looking him in the eye. I had emphasized the word discreet.
“Any particular area of investment?” asked Guttmacher.
“In the United States, my clients made their money in fuel delivery and concrete plants, but they're not limiting themselves to these areas. They might consider other profitable ventures, as long as the investments are safe and discreet. The initial investment is approximately thirty-five to forty million dollars, but if your bank turns out to be what they're looking for, that amount could grow substantially.” I paused, drawing out the silence.
“Let me put it this way,” I continued, reasserting a modest pose. “Although my clients assure me that their money is legal, there could be some tax problems in the U.S. and, therefore, they must insist on complete confidentiality.”
I hoped I wasn't laying it on too heavily, watching Guttmacher trying to control his excitement. But his body language said it all. He worked very hard at controlling his fidgets; he coughed and swallowed a bit nervously and moved to the edge of his chair. I had expected Guttmacher to sit impassively, to not betray any expression. But he didn't. Apparently his greed had overcome his caution.
“I need to know more about your clients,” he said. “We have established procedures that require we understand our clients’ specific needs.”
“I can't reveal their identity yet; I need to get their permission first. Once you provide me with a plan, I'm sure there will be no problem in identifying the clients.”
“And what would be your role?” he asked.
I had a sense of cat and mouse here. But which one of us was the cat and which one was the mouse?
“Liaison,” I said curtly.
My earlier fears that Guttmacher would grill me or throw me out suspecting I was there to trap him were exaggerated. He was still guarded but visibly eager to move ahead. Finally, he managed to say, “I'll be happy to assist your clients. Our bank has a long tradition of strict confidentiality, rivaling that of Switzerland.”
He'd definitely gotten the message.
“How do you rival the Swiss banks, which are known to be the most discreet in the industry?” I asked, pushing him a bit more.
“It's not just the banks,” he explained, “it's also the governments. You see, the U.S. has a treaty with the Swiss government that forces them to disclose certain things to the U.S. government agencies. Details about financial activities of suspected criminals, such as money launderers and drug lords. So the Swiss government is actually acting as an arm of the FBI whenever there is such suspicion. The U.S. government forces the banks, through the Swiss officials and the Swiss court system, to disclose information, which the banks then give the Americans.” He smiled genially. “In Germany, the situation is different. Our courts are much more protective of the privacy rights of our clients and the stability of our business relationship. Therefore, such things don't happen here.”
I listened attentively to his speech. Of course I knew what he was saying; I had been involved in numerous cases in which the Swiss government was helpful. I also noticed that Guttmacher had conveniently forgotten to mention that, under the centuries-old international custom called letters rogatory, as well as through MLAT, a bilateral treaty between governments for mutual legal assistance, the United States and Germany could request and obtain much the same sort of banking information from one another for use in criminal investigations and prosecutions. But the subtext of the conversation showed me that Guttmacher fully understood that the money involved was the fruit of criminal activity. This was a good sign for my evaluation of his corruptibility. If DeLouise had used Guttmacher, he had probably conducted a similar assessment.
“While communicating with a potential source, and during the development process of your relationship,” Alex had told us, “you may wish to make your party feel that he's being let in on a secret. That attitude bolsters the trust between the two of you and gives your party a sense of pride. Obviously, you never disclose a real secret.” We all nodded. “Simply invent something that may sound plausible to your party, act as if you're confiding in him. Ask him to keep it a secret. Here, we build a good cover story or a plausible excuse in six months of training and endless exercises. Just keep in mind – if your cover is blown, you're next.”
“You see,” Guttmacher continued in his flowing lecture, “Germany does not have a law against money laundering and, therefore, what is not illegal here cannot become illegal just because the Americans want us to think it is. The war is over, you know,” he ended with a grin, again exposing his gold tooth. Guttmacher struck me as a person who lays his cards on the table but has at least another full deck up his sleeve.
“No money-laundering law?” I repeated.
“No,” he said with satisfaction.
There was truth to what he said, and that was promising because he showed me his dishonesty: a required trait if you want to be considered as a banker for stolen money. I knew that Germany was dragging its feet in passing a law intended to fight multinational crime. A draft of the law was being discussed in the German Bundestag but hadn't yet passed. I remembered having read the draft proposal before leaving the States.
The guy knew what he was talking about, I thought, giving Guttmacher an appreciative look. He must have been deeply involved in shady transactions if he knew the ropes so well. I didn't mention that I knew that Switzerland had just passed money-laundering laws, albeit limited in scope, thus both bowing to and resisting pressure from the United States.
“How do you want to proceed?” I asked Guttmacher, showing him I was satisfied with his answers.
“Where is the money now?” he asked directly. The man had all the sweetness of a funeral director.
“It's available immediately, if I see the right investment,” I answered, avoiding his unexpectedly direct question.
He smiled. “Fine. I'll prepare a plan for you. Where would you like it delivered?”
“To my New York office,” I answered. “You have my card.”
We shook hands, and he escorted me to the door.