The Geneva Trap

Chapter 39

The Bank Difault-Légère was family-owned and famed for its discretion. In recent years, new privacy laws introduced by the Swiss government had forced Swiss banks to cooperate with both their own and other countries’ tax authorities, and reveal a previously undreamed-of amount of information about their clients’ transactions. Inevitably, many banks had suffered, losing clients to the still secrecy-enshrouded environs of Lichtenstein, Andorra, or other countries willing to sacrifice respectability to serve their deep-pocketed depositors.

Difault-Légère had suffered less than most Swiss banks, for though it had not openly resisted the new measures, it had done its best to ignore them. Behind its imposing nineteenth-century façade on Zurich’s fabled Banhoffstrasse, the banking hall continued to operate much as it had always done, safeguarding the interests of its rich international clientele. The bank’s attitude was clear: governments and their regulations come and go, but Difault-Légère and the wealth of its private clients were permanencies.

With this in mind, Otto Bech climbed the short flight of steps to the bank’s grand entrance, feeling wary. He glanced at the two stone figures of Cerberus guarding the door, and remembered that in classical mythology it was the task of these three-headed dogs to keep people in the Underworld once they’d crossed the River Styx. He hoped the Difault-Légère dogs would prove more flexible, as he had a dinner engagement back in Bern with the Justice Minister.

Bech’s appointment now was with the bank’s President, Herman Kessler, whom he knew from years back. When he was running the National Fraud Squad, Bech had dealt with all the senior bankers in Switzerland. A cautious man, with a sharp tongue when displeased, Kessler had never been particularly cooperative, and even now, after Bech had stressed that national security issues were involved, the banker had not been forthcoming when asked for CCTV footage of the mysterious Nikolai Bakowski.

Over the phone Kessler had said, ‘Before we go much further, I have to say that I am somewhat reluctant to help. Herr Bakowski, after all, is a client of ours; he might have something to say about this invasion of his privacy.’

‘It’s hardly an invasion. The image you sent us was not at all clear. We need a good look at the man.’

‘Perhaps. But I need to feel confident that you have good reason to do so. Herr Bakowski, as I say, is a valued client.’

‘Doubtless. But, Herr Kessler, what do you know about your client?’

‘Know?’ Kessler sounded affronted. ‘What should I know? The man had references that entirely satisfied me.’ The inference was clear: if Herr Kessler was satisfied, no more needed to be said.

‘I assume you would want to be sure that this client of yours actually exists. So far as we can tell, Herr Bakowski does not. We can find no trace of him anywhere in the cantons, and Immigration could find no record of his entering the country. Which points to this man being an impostor, who established his account with Bank Difault-Légère under a false name, using a false passport.’

‘Can you prove that? Many people lead very private lives, and know how to protect themselves against intrusive enquiries.’

‘Come now, Herr Kessler. I hardly think you mean to imply that I am being particularly intrusive. If you will let me look at the CCTV images, I think I should be able to resolve any doubts.’

‘And if that is not possible?’

‘Then,’ said Herr Bech, his patience suddenly snapping, ‘you will be having a different conversation, with my successor at the National Fraud Squad. You can explain to him why you allowed a foreign national to hold an account with you, knowing that he was not who he said he was. You would not, I am sure, wish the Bank Difault-Légère to be investigated for financing the drugs trade or international terrorism. So I will call on you at two-thirty this afternoon and will expect to see the CCTV pictures.’ And with that parting shot, Bech had put the phone down.

Now a doorman in a tail coat opened the tall mahogany door, and ushered him across the marble floor of the banking hall into a waiting room furnished with antique side tables and a Louis XV sofa and chair. Bech sat and thumbed unseeingly through the pages of Connoisseur magazine for the twenty minutes Kessler kept him waiting.

At last another tail-coated flunkey came in and led him out into the hall and up the sweeping staircase to the first floor and Kessler’s palatial office at the front of the mansion house. The banker, a pale, silver-haired, slightly stooping figure in black jacket and striped trousers, rose stiffly from behind his desk at the far end of the room and watched in silence as Bech walked across the carpet towards him. ‘Good afternoon, Herr Bech,’ he said, making no apology for keeping his visitor waiting. ‘Do sit down. Would you care for coffee?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Bech, and watched as Kessler reached under his desk and pressed a buzzer. They made stiff small talk for a moment without alluding to the matter at hand until the coffee was brought in and poured by yet another flunkey in tails. As he left the room, Bech hoped that at last they could get down to business.

Kessler reached into the top drawer of his desk and brought out a manila envelope. Without a word, he pushed it to a point halfway across the desk. Bech took his time reaching for it, then slowly withdrew a series of photographs. These were much clearer pictures than the one he’d seen before, and there was no doubt about the identity of the man caught, variously, at the teller’s cage, turning around after his transaction, then leaving the banking hall.

Bech put the pictures into the envelope, which he slid back across the desk to Kessler. He sat silent for a moment until, unable to contain his curiosity, Kessler asked, ‘Is that helpful, Herr Bech?’

‘Very,’ he replied, thinking he’d let Kessler sweat. But he relented, not wanting to act as churlishly as the banker, and added, ‘Herr Bakowski is in fact a man called Kubiak. He is one of the most senior Russian intelligence officers operating in our country.’

Kessler’s eyes widened. ‘I see,’ he said.

‘You told me last month that the money going into the Bakowski account has been coming from a variety of sources – all of them former republics of the Soviet Union.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Were you able to find out anything more?’

‘As a matter of fact, I have. Not that it was easy. Most of these new countries are entirely unregulated when it comes to finance,’ Kessler said disdainfully, clearly unaware of any irony in his remark. ‘They are disinclined to cooperate with their counterparts in the West, fancying themselves competitors, not colleagues.’

It was clear what Kessler thought of these upstarts, though to Bech the arrogance of the old patrician banker seemed entirely hypocritical. As his behaviour over the Bakowski account showed, Kessler himself was not choosy about the sources of the money his own bank was willing to handle.

‘However,’ he went on, ‘we do have contacts among the banks in these countries, and in two cases – Belarus and Kazakhstan – I managed to discover where the money being sent to Herr Bakowski’s account originated.’

He paused, perhaps to heighten the drama of his discovery, and Bech sat expressionless, forcing himself to wait patiently.

‘The money sent from these two countries came originally from Switzerland.’

‘Switzerland?’ Bech could not contain his astonishment. This meant the money was going in a loop, starting here in the cantons, heading east to the rough-and-ready commercial world of the ex-Soviet republics, then winging back west all over again.

‘It does seem rather strange,’ Kessler said. This, coming from a banker who had probably seen most financial wheezes, was a significant acknowledgement. ‘I hope the information means something to you.’

‘It does, Herr Kessler, it does.’ But, in truth, Bech was damned if he knew what.