for your judgment and instincts, and he’d like you to recommend your
successor. The President hasn’t much more than a year left in office,
and wants to make sure the next Supreme Court vacancy isn’t filled by
the other party, which looks awfully likely at this point.”
Justice Bateman replied quietly, “And what makes the President think my
seat’s going to be vacant any time soon?”
Ronald Evers bowed his head, his eyes closed as if in prayer or deep
contemplation. “This is a delicate matter,” he said gently, like a
priest in a confessional, “but we’ve always spoken openly with one
another. You’re one of the finest Supreme Court Justices this nation
has ever seen, and I have no doubt you’ll be mentioned in the same
breath as Brandeis or Frankfurter. But I know you’ll want to preserve
your legacy, and so you have to ask yourself a very hard question: how
many more years do you have left?” He lifted his head, and looked
directly into her eyes. “Remember, Brandeis and Cardozo and Holmes all
outstayed their welcome. They lingered at the Court well past the time
when they could do their best work.”
Justice Bateman’s gaze was unyielding. “Can I get you some coffee?” she
asked unexpectedly. Then, lowering her voice conspiratorially, she
said, “I’ve got a Sachertorte I’ve just brought back from Demel’s in
Vienna, and the doctors tell me I really shouldn’t have any.”
Evers patted his flat midriff. “I’m trying to be good. But thank you.”
“Then let me return bluntness with bluntness. I’m familiar with the
reputation of just about every judge with any stature in every circuit
in the country. And I have no doubt the President will find someone
highly qualified, extremely bright, a legal scholar of range and
breadth. But I want to let you in on something. The Supreme Court’s a
place that takes years to learn. One can’t simply show up and expect to
exert any influence. There’s simply no substitute for seniority, for
length of service. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned here, it’s the
power of experience. That’s where real wisdom comes from.”
Her guest was prepared for this argument. “And there’s no one on the
Court as wise as you are. But your health is failing. You’re not
getting any younger.” He smiled sadly. “None of us is. It’s a
terrible thing to say, I know, but there’s just no way around it.”
“Oh, I don’t plan to keel over any time soon,” she said, a glint in her
eye. The telephone beside her chair suddenly rang, startling both of
them. She picked it up. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” came the voice of her longtime secretary,
Pamela, “but it’s a Mr. Holland. You asked me to put him right through
whenever he calls.”
“I’ll take it in my hideaway office.” She put down the phone and stood
with difficulty. “Will you excuse me for a moment, Ron?”
“I can wait outside,” Evers said, getting to his feet and helping her
up.
“Don’t be silly. Stay right here. And if you change your mind about
that Sachertorte, Pamela’s right outside.”
Justice Bateman closed the door to the study and laboriously made her
way to her favorite chair. “Mr. Holland.”
“Madame Justice, forgive this intrusion,” said the voice on the phone,
“but a difficulty has arisen that I thought you might be able to help us
with.”
She listened for a few moments and then said, “I can make a call.”
“Only if it’s not too great an inconvenience,” said the man. “I would
certainly never disturb you if it weren’t extremely important.”
“Not at all. None of us wants this. Certainly not at this time.”
She listened as he spoke some more, then said, “Well, we all trust you
to do the right thing.”
Another pause, and she added, “I’ll see you very soon,” and then hung
up.
Zurich
An icy wind blew down the Limmatquai, the quay on the banks of the
Limmat River. The Limmat cuts through the heart of Zurich before it
flows into the Zurichsee, splitting the city into two distinct halves,
one the Zurich of high finance and high-priced shopping, the other the
Alt stadt, the quaint medieval Old Town. The river twinkled in the soft
early morning sunlight. It wasn’t even six in the morning, but already
people were striding to work, armed with briefcases and umbrellas. The
sky was cloudy and overcast, though rain didn’t appear imminent. But
the Zurichers knew better.
Ben advanced tensely along the promenade, past the thirteenth century
Zunfthausen, the old guild halls with their leaded-glass windows, that
now housed elegant restaurants. At Marktgasse he turned left, heading
into the warren of narrow cobbled streets that was the Old Town. After
a few minutes he found Trittligasse, a street lined with medieval stone
buildings, some of which had been converted into dwellings.
Number 73 was an ancient stone townhouse that was now an apartment
building. A small brass frame mounted beside the front door held only
six names, white letters embossed in black plastic rectangles.
One of them was M. DESCHNER.
He kept walking without slowing down, careful to evince no particular
interest. Perhaps it was baseless paranoia, but if there was any chance
that spotters for the Corporation were keeping a lookout for him, he did
not want to jeopardize Liesl’s cousin by simply arriving at the door.
The appearance of a strange visitor by itself might arouse curiosity.
However remote the possibility that watchers were in place, rudimentary
precautions would have to be taken.
An hour later, a deliveryman in the distinctive orange and black uniform
of Blumchengallerie rang the bell of Number 73 Trittligasse. The
Blumchengallerie was Zurich’s most upscale florist chain, and its
colorfully clad de liverymen were not an uncommon sight in the city’s
wealthiest neighborhoods. The man held a sizable bouquet of white
roses. The roses did, in fact, come from the Blumchengallerie; the
uniform from the charity bazaar of a Catholic parish across town.
After a few minutes, the man rang again. This time a voice crackled out
of the speaker: “Yes?”
“It’s Peter Hartman.”
A long pause. “Again, please?”
“Peter Hartman.”
An even longer silence. “Come to the third floor, Peter.”
With a buzz, the front door lock released, and he found himself in a
dark foyer. Depositing the flowers on a marble side table, he climbed
the worn stone stairs, which rose steeply through the gloom.
Liesl had given him Matthias Deschner’s home and office addresses and
phone numbers. Instead of calling the lawyer at his place of work,
however, Ben had decided instead to appear unannounced at his home,
early enough so that the attorney presumably wouldn’t have left for the
office. The Swiss, he knew, are supremely regular in their business
hours, which usually begin between nine and ten. Deschner would surely
be no different.
Liesl had said she trusted him–“totally,” she said–but he could not
assume anything anymore. Therefore he had insisted that Liesl not call
ahead to introduce him. Ben preferred to surprise the attorney, catch
him off guard, observe his genuine, unrehearsed first reaction to
meeting a man he believed to be Peter Hartman–or would Deschner already
know of Peter’s murder?
The door opened. Matthias Deschner stood before him in a green plaid
bathrobe. He was small, with a pale craggy face, thick wire-rimmed
glasses, reddish hair that frizzed out at the temples. Age fifty, Ben
supposed.
His eyes were wide with surprise. “Good God,” he exclaimed. “Why are
you dressed this way? But don’t stand there–come in, come in.” He
closed the door behind Ben and said, “May I offer you coffee?”
“Thank you.”
“What are you doing here?” Deschner whispered. “Is Liesl–?”
“I’m not Peter. I’m his brother, Ben.”
“You–what? His brother? Oh, my God!” he gasped. Deschner pivoted
around and stared at Ben with sudden dread. “They found him, didn’t
they?”
“Peter was killed a few days ago.”
“Oh, Lord,” he breathed. “Oh, Lord. They found him! He was always so
afraid it would happen someday.” Deschner stopped suddenly, a look of
terror striking his face. “Liesl–”
“Liesl’s unharmed.”
“Thank God.” He turned to Ben. “I mean, what am I saying–”
“That’s all right. I understand. She’s your blood relative.”
Deschner stood before a small breakfast table and poured Ben a china cup
of coffee. “How did this happen?” he asked gravely. “Tell me, for
God’s sake!”
“Surely the bank where you had a meeting the morning of the Bahn
hofstrasse incident was the tripwire,” Deschner said. The two of them
faced each other intently across the table. Ben had peeled off the
baggy orange and black uniform to reveal his ordinary street clothes.
“The Union Bank of Switzerland is a merger of several older banks. Maybe
there was an old, sensitive account that was flagged, being watched.
Perhaps by one of the parties you met with. An assistant, a clerk. An
informer who’d been given a watch list.”