The comment was met with a sigh from the young man, and he visibly eased at the notion. “Thank you, sir. Have a good day.” He waved and returned to the confines of his little office.
Adriana led the way and pressed one of the buttons to go up. The doors to her left opened immediately, and the three stepped inside. The elevator’s interior was wrapped with a brushed steel guardrail attached to warped mirrors. She pressed the number four, and a moment later, the doors closed.
“I assume I should do all the talking,” Hummels said as the lift began to climb.
“That would probably be best,” Adriana agreed.
“What if he asks who you two are?”
Her response was swift and decisive. “I’m your girlfriend,” she winked.
“And him?” Hummels jerked his thumb at the professor.
“He’s your cousin.” Adriana looked him over. “You take care of him because he can’t take care of himself.”
Hummels snorted a laugh. “Good enough.”
Koenig’s mouth dropped open at the insinuation, but before he could protest, the elevator reached the fourth floor.
The doors opened to a wide hallway with a plush maroon carpet extending in both directions. Straight in front of the elevator was a receptionist desk where a young woman, probably in her early twenties, sat next to a phone and pecked away busily at a computer. Her hair was bright auburn and wrapped neatly into a bun. The color was a bright contrast to her pale skin. She smiled at the visitors as they stepped off the elevator; her bright green eyes narrowed as her mouth stretched thin.
“You must be the ones who are here to see Mr. Immelman.”
Hummels nodded. “Indeed we are.”
“I have already notified him that you are here. He is on his way to greet you.”
The words had no sooner left her red lips than a tall man in a black pinstriped suit strode toward them. His silvery gray hair was slicked back, set atop a high forehead and tanned, smooth face. The strong jawline told Adriana he was full of confidence and probably a little conceited. His bright blue eyes only had a few wrinkles around them, making guessing his age a difficult proposition.
He greeted them with a courteous smile, but there was little substance behind it other than formality. “My name is Dolf Immelman,” he said, extending his hand to Hummels first. After a short, firm shake, he offered the same to Adriana.
“I am Friedrich Hummels, and this is my girlfriend, Adriana, and my cousin, Helmut.” He leaned close to Immelman and pressed the edge of his hand next to his face. “He’s in my care. I wouldn’t shake his hand.”
“Understood,” Immelman said. His face remained stoic like a statue frozen permanently in a singular expression. “Please, come with me.”
He spun around and walked quickly back the way he’d come, taking long strides as he did so. The three visitors had to hurry to keep up. Immelman was clearly a man who kept his time closely guarded and preferred not to waste it by walking slowly.
After turning to the right and walking the length of the building, past several other offices, they arrived at an open door to a corner space. Immelman motioned them inside and offered them seats. “Please, sit.”
He stepped over to a nearly full coffee pot and set aside three ceramic cups. “Would you like a coffee?” he asked. The guy was as cordial as a rock. Adriana wondered if he had a social life outside of work, and what it must be like.
“Yes, please,” Hummels answered. Adriana nodded, adding a polite smile to see if she could crack Immelman’s stone face.
“Helmut,” Hummels said as if talking to a child, “would you like some coffee?” He spoke loudly and enunciated each word.
Koenig frowned and shook his head. He clearly wasn’t enjoying his role.
Immelman poured two cups for his guests. “Would you like sugar or cream?”
“Black is fine,” Adriana said.
Hummels requested one of each.
Once the host had prepared the coffees, he handed them over with the weakest of grins and returned to his high leatherback chair. It sat behind a wide, glass-topped desk that was supported by four shiny steel legs. The desk was a splash of contemporary minimalistic design in an otherwise opulent building. Apparently, Immelman liked to keep his office simple. It featured very little in the way of décor, other than a clock on the wall, the four black leather guest seats, and a black bookshelf containing only a dozen or so volumes.
“So, Friedrich, you are from Innsbruck?” Immelman started the conversation with almost no emotion.
“Yes. My family has lived there for quite some time. It is a beautiful city. Do you know it?”
“Of course. And you are correct. It is a pretty place. The high mountains overlooking the valley and river make for a unique setting. How is the weather there right now? Getting cooler, I imagine.”
“Yes, it’s pleasant but getting cooler. I fear we are in for a long winter.”
Adriana listened as the men bantered back and forth. Swiss business etiquette required they engage for ten minutes in conversation that wasn’t related to business. She’d always thought it a nice idea, but such a thing would never go over in the United States. American businessmen were direct, eager to get to the point. This beating around the bush would never fly.
“And what about you, Adriana? Where are you from?” Immelman jerked her from her thoughts and drew her into the conversation, almost against her will. “I am from Madrid,” she answered. She stared into the banker’s calculating eyes. He was searching her for something — what she didn’t know. So she returned the favor, probing him for answers.
“Have you lived in Zurich long?” she asked.
His face barely cracked a smile. It must have been her smooth, sensual voice. Maybe it was the way her full lips moved as she spoke. Either way, the breach didn’t last long. “Yes,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “Nearly my entire life. My family moved here from Bern when I was very young.”
The city of Bern was in the western half of the country, closer to France, which explained the hint of French in Immelman’s accent.
He continued. “My father worked for one of the other banks here in Zurich. He was a brilliant financial mind. I wonder: Do you have a career of some kind?” His hands folded atop the glass desk. His eyebrows rose half an inch with the question.
Her answer was as smooth as silk. “I curate art.”
For a split second, Immelman let himself look impressed. He nodded. “Anything I might have heard of?” His hands opened wide.
“Probably not,” she shrugged. “Most of it is local or regional work. We get a few pieces from international sources on occasion. But usually, just struggling artists looking to make a name for themselves.”
“That must be an interesting line of work.”
Her right cheek rose as her lips parted in a sly grin. “It has its moments.”
There was an awkward pause as the two locked stares with one another, neither willing to surrender for what seemed like ten minutes. Finally, Immelman gave in.
“So you are here to look into a family account. Is that correct?” he asked, returning his attention to Hummels. The time for etiquette was over.
Hummels nodded. “Yes. It was my father’s account.”
“And your father is dead?” The question was blunt and insensitive, but it was also the quickest way to get the desired information.
“Yes. He died many years ago.”
Immelman’s eyes widened a little. “And you are only just now coming to check on his holdings?”
“To be honest, I didn’t know about this account until recently. I was digging through some of his old records and found this one.” He passed a piece of paper across the desk.