The First Commandment

CHAPTER 111

The Lake Geneva branch of U.S. Bank was located on the east side of the lake in the town of Lake Geneva near the intersection of Geneva and Center streets.

Carrying a plain manila envelope, Harvath entered the bank, presented his DHS creds to one of the loan officers, and asked to speak with the branch manager.

He was shown into a private office, where an attractive woman in her late forties stood and introduced herself as Peggy Evans.

“How can we be of service to the Department of Homeland Security?” she asked once her visitor was seated and she had finished looking at his ID.

Harvath reached into his envelope and pulled out the pictures of Philippe Roussard he’d printed at his hotel’s business center. “Do you recognize this man?” he said as he handed them to Evans.

The woman studied them for a few minutes and then asked, “What is this in regard to?”

“The man in those photos is a wanted terrorist. We have records indicating that he received funds via wire transfer at this bank two days ago.”

“Are you suggesting the bank has done something wrong? Because I can assure you that—”

Harvath held up his hand and shook his head. “Not at all. We’re just trying to gather as much information as we can about him.”

“Do you have any specific information about the transaction?”

Harvath handed her copies of what Claudia had emailed him from the Wegelin & Company bank in Switzerland.

Evans studied the records, then picked up her phone and dialed an extension. “Arty, will you come in here, please?”

Moments later, a heavyset Hispanic man in his early thirties knocked and entered the office. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes, I did,” said Evans as she introduced the man to Harvath. “Arturo Ramirez, this is Agent Scot Harvath from the Department of Homeland Security. He has a few questions he’d like to ask about a customer we had in the bank two days ago.”

Harvath rose and shook the man’s hand.

“Arturo handles all the wires,” the woman continued. “He also never forgets a face. Do you, Arty?”

Ramirez smiled politely at his manager and accepted the series of photographs. “Yes, I remember him,” he said after studying the pictures. “Peter Boesiger was his name, I believe. Nice guy. Swiss.”

“Interesting,” replied Harvath, as he pulled a pen from his pocket. “How do you know he was Swiss?”

“He used a Swiss passport for ID. I assumed that meant he was from Switzerland. He spoke with an accent too.”

“Did you make a copy of his passport, by any chance?”

“Of course,” said Ramirez. “It’s standard bank procedure.”

“May I see the copy, please?”

Ramirez looked at Evans, who nodded.

He disappeared from the office and returned several minutes later with a photocopy of Roussard’s Boesiger passport.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about him?” asked Harvath.

Ramirez looked at him. “Like what?”

“Did he have anyone else with him?”

“No,” answered the portly teller. “He came in by himself.”

“How about his vehicle? Did you notice what he was driving?”

Ramirez shook his head no. “Didn’t see it.”

“Did he make small talk with you at all? Did he mention where he was staying, anything like that?”

“Not that I can remember.”

At this rate, Harvath was quickly coming to the end of possible questions he could ask.

Then Ramirez said, “Wait a second. He asked me for directions. It was an address for a real estate office. It was near here, but I can’t remember which one. We talked about walking versus driving there. I told him that if he was already parked, he’d probably be better off walking it than trying to find a new spot once he got there.”

Having remembered the crucial piece of information, Ramirez’s broad face was cleaved with a wide grin.

As Harvath accepted a phone book from the bank manager, he wondered how many real estate offices there could be in a resort town like Lake Geneva.