The Killer

THIRTY-SIX

Zürich, Switzerland

Saturday

13:11 CET

Rebecca found the chill invigorating as she boarded the electric streetcar. She sat at the back so she could watch who else got on, taking the precautions that her new partner or associate or whatever the hell he was had stressed. The streetcar took her into Zürich’s financial district, and she kept her anxiety locked up deep inside as she passed through the clean streets of the city. Rebecca liked Zürich, liked the quiet efficient way the Swiss went about their business. It was a city bathed in history, but it hadn’t yet been ruined by tourists. People came to Switzerland to work or to ski, not to sightsee.

She could have rode the quiet streetcar the whole way, but paranoia made her get off and circle back on herself, stopping to window-shop intermittently so she could watch the reflections of people passing by. Again, as he had told her to do. She didn’t see anyone she’d seen before, but she was painfully aware she wasn’t trained for this kind of thing. Someone could have followed her all the way from Paris with a funny hat on and she probably wouldn’t have noticed. When she had taken control of her fear she caught another streetcar and took the last available seat.

She gave it up for an elderly man with a sad face who boarded on Bahnhofstrasse and she was off three stops later in downtown Zürich. Here every person seemed to be dressed like her, and she relaxed in the crowd. She walked a little more easily.

Rebecca walked past boutiques and cafés that catered for the horde of bankers who called Zürich home. There were banks everywhere, and where there were no banks there were financial institutions of other sorts, some openly advertising their services, others hidden from passersby.

The chill air tightened the skin on her face as she thought about him, the killer whose name she didn’t even know. She looked at her watch. It had been several hours since they’d gone their separate ways. Already she was having doubts about what she was doing. And even if she was doing the right thing, she couldn’t trust him. How could she? He killed people for money. He was about as dishonorable as a person could get.

But she hoped his own desire to survive was as strong as hers. He was clearly smart too, and a smart man in his position would know that he was going to have to work with her. Neither of them could do it on their own. That was of course unless he managed to decrypt the drive for himself. Maybe then he would try something else, without her. Then she’d be on her own, defenseless.

She took a deep breath, tried to think rationally. She’d seen his face, seen the unflinching self-belief in his eyes and the absolute displeasure at needing someone else’s help. He wouldn’t have come to her in the first place if he’d had even the slightest confidence he could do it alone. She hoped.

Rebecca bought some chocolate shortcake from a shop on the Paradeplatz. It had a great placebo effect and helped settle her stomach before she headed off the main plaza and into a less-busy side street. She took the steps casually and smiled politely to the doorman as she pushed through the revolving entrance.

It didn’t look like a typical bank and that was the point. The lobby would have seemed more at home in a grand hotel. She made for the information desk and gave her details to the meticulously groomed man behind it. He picked up the phone with a smooth, practiced action and whispered into the receiver.

“Someone will be with you momentarily, madam.”

“Thank you.”

She waited in one of the fine but uncomfortable chairs, her chin resting in her palm. She made sure to appear hurried but not restless. She kept her coat on even though it was warm inside the bank.

After a few minutes, Rebecca was aware of a slim man in a stone-brown suit walking toward her and stood up to greet him. They took a wood-paneled elevator to the second floor, and she followed him into another room, where Rebecca entered her ten-digit account number into a small hand-held device.

The man checked the screen for verification and said, “This way please.”

They passed two security guards, and, at the door to the office of a senior banker, she declined coffee and was taken inside and left to wait again. The office was classically furnished and designed to ooze wealth and power. To Rebecca it was old-fashioned and uninspiring. She was a contemporary woman through and through. Making her wait was also becoming tiresome, especially considering she had told them she was coming.

It was five minutes before a short, overweight man in glasses entered. He was finely dressed in a pin-striped suit that desperately tried, but failed, to camouflage his waistline.

“Miss Bernstein,” he said to Rebecca. “How nice to see you again.”

Rebecca had seen him once before, just over three months ago when the account was set up for operational funds. It seemed a lifetime ago, but the overweight guy seemed to recognize her. Or at least pretended to recognize her. She shook his hand; it was soft, warm, and slightly moist.

“Nice to see you again too.”

Joel Malliat sat down in the huge red leather chair. He looked ridiculous-dwarfed by its size. Rebecca pretended not to notice just as she had during their first meeting, and she wondered how many other clients did the same.

Rebecca unbuttoned her coat and took it off, placing it over the chair slowly so that Malliat had time to study her from the front and side. She wore a tan sweater that was one size too small and clung to her like a second skin. Underneath she was wearing a padded push-up bra that made her breasts seem several cups bigger. The effect of the tight sweater sprayed to her breasts had shocked her when she’d first seen it. She hoped Malliat was similarly affected.

It may still have been a man’s world, but Rebecca knew women still had a big advantage over the opposite sex. Get some blood moving south and there was less inside their brains to think with.

They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, Malliat ticking all the boxes on the charming-but-trustworthy banker checklist. Rebecca didn’t try to interrupt the charade and allowed Malliat to come to the purpose of the visit in his own time.

“I’m sure you’re a busy woman Miss Bernstein,” Malliat said. “So how is it that I can assist you today?”

“I have a small problem with some transactions, which I’m hoping you can help me with.”

Malliat looked alarmed. “A transaction problem?”

“Nothing that the bank has done. You see, embarrassingly, I seem to have lost one of my client’s details. One of my former employees was, well, incompetent, and I believe she accidentally deleted some files from our system that we’ve been unable to recover.”

“Most unfortunate.”

“Therefore,” she continued, “I’ve been put in a very difficult position. I can no longer contact my client-a very important client. All I have is their account number from the funds put into my own account.”

“I see,” Malliat said, understanding.

“So, Mr. Malliat. Joel. I would be eternally grateful if you could give me the contact details of that account number.”

“Miss Bernstein, I’m very sorry, but that information is confidential, and I would go against my banking ethics to tell you.”

“I understand your position, but I’m not asking you for information that I didn’t already have. Up until a few days ago that information was on my system. You would just be telling me what I already knew.”

Malliat smiled sympathetically. “That’s beside the point. I’m simply not allowed to tell you. I suggest you hire some computer specialist to retrieve the deleted files.”

“I have already, but they were unsuccessful.”

“I’m sure your client will contact you eventually.”

“I expect like many of your banks customers, I do not run the kind of business where there is much communication between company and client.”

She added enough emphasis to the key words that the subtext was obvious.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” Malliat said.

“Say you’ll help me. It is imperative that I get hold of my client immediately.”

“I’m very sorry, but I just can’t do what you’re asking.”

The subtle approach had failed. Time for plan B. She stood up angrily and walked to the window, giving Malliat a good view of her ass, legs, and three-inch heels that were killing her feet. She turned around after he’d had a chance to stare. She noticed his eyes had to move up to meet hers.

“This is outrageous,” she said, hands on hips. “I’m an account holder here, and I demand to know who has put hundreds of thousands of dollars into my account. If you don’t extend me this simple courtesy I will have no choice but to close my account and take my business to one of your competitors.”

She saw Malliat make a quick calculation in his head. Rebecca already knew the figure. Almost two million dollars had been paid into the account in less than three months. At that rate, over a year, it would be nearly eight million dollars. Too much money to lose interest on for something as minor as a name and address.

Malliat sighed and nodded after a minute. “Okay,” he began. “I’ll help you, but I won’t give you what you want to know.”

“Then you’re not helping and I won’t be using your services anymore. I’d like to withdraw all my funds immediately. In one hundred euro bills.”

“Wait,” Malliat said quickly. “What if I give you information on the accountant who made the payments on behalf of the account holder. Will that do?”

Rebecca resisted smiling. It was as much as she’d hoped for.

“I guess it will have to.”