lied all his adult life. His head reeled. Abruptly a voice penetrated
Ben’s stupor.
“Mr. Hartman! Mr. Benjamin Hartman. There is a warrant for your
arrest! We must take you into custody.”
Oh, Jesus.
It was the banker, Bernard Suchet, speaking. He must have contacted the
local authorities. A swift search of the country’s arrival records
would reveal that he had no documented arrival. Schmid’s chill,
understated words returned to him: /// ever find out you’ve returned
here, things will not go well for you.
Suchet was flanked by Matthias Deschner and two security guards, their
weapons drawn.
“Mr. Hartman, the Kantonspolizei have informed me that you are in this
country illegally. Which means that you are perpetrating a fraud,” the
banker said. Deschner’s face was a mask of neutrality.
“What are you talking about?” Ben said indignantly. Had they seen him
slip the photo into his jacket?
“We are to detain you until the authorities arrive, momentarily.”
Ben stared at him, speechless.
“Your actions put you in violation of the Swiss Federal Criminal Code,”
Suchet continued loudly. “You seem to be implicated in other offenses
as well. You will not be permitted to leave except in the custody of
the police.”
Deschner was silent. In his eyes Ben could see what appeared to be
fear. Why was he saying nothing?
“Guards, please escort Mr. Hartman to Secure Room Number 4. Mr.
Hartman, you will take nothing with you. You are hereby detained
awaiting official arrest.”
The guards approached, weapons still pointed at him.
Ben got to his feet, his hands open at his side, and began walking down
the corridor, the two guards falling in beside him. As he passed
Deschner, he saw the attorney give the tiniest shrug of his shoulders.
Peter’s words of caution: They practically own half the cops. Schmid’s
words of menace: the Einwanderungsbehbrde can hold you in administrative
detention for a year before your case reaches a magistrate.
He couldn’t allow himself to be taken in. What galvanized him wasn’t
the chance that he would be killed or locked up, but the fact that in
either case his investigations would come to an end. Peter’s efforts
would have been in vain. The Corporation would have won.
He couldn’t let that happen. Whatever the price.
Secure Rooms, die Stahlkammern, were, Ben knew, where items of intrinsic
value–gold, gemstones, bearer bonds–were displayed and assessed
whenever an owner requested an official audit of his stored possessions.
Though lacking vault-like impregnability, they were indeed secure, with
reinforced steel doors and closed-circuit surveillance systems. At the
entrance of Zimmer Vier, one of the guards waved an electronic reader by
a blinking red light; when the door unlocked, he gestured Ben to enter
first, and the two guards followed him. Then the door closed with a
series of three audible clicks.
Ben looked around him. The room was brightly lit and sparely furnished;
it would be difficult to lose, or hide, a single gemstone in this space.
The slate-tiled floor was polished to a dark sheen. There was a long
table of perfectly clear Plexiglas, and six folding chairs of gray
painted metal.
One of the guards burly and overweight, his red, fleshy face suggesting
a steady diet of beef and beer gestured for Ben to sit down on a chair.
Ben paused before complying. The two guards had reholstered their
sidearms, but made it abundantly clear that they wouldn’t hesitate to
use cruder physical means if he were less than cooperative.
“And so we wait, ja?” said the second guard, in heavily accented
English. The man, his light brown hair brush cut, was leaner and, Ben
judged, probably much faster than his cohort. Doubtless mentally
swifter as well.
Ben turned to him. “How much do they pay you here? I’m a very rich
man, you know. I can give you a very nice life if I choose. You do me
a favor, I’ll do you one.” He made no effort to disguise his naked
desperation; they would either respond or they would not.
The leaner guard snorted and shook his head. “You should speak your
proposal louder, to be sure that the microphones pick it up.”
They had no reason to believe that Ben would be good for his word, and
there were no assurances he could make, while in captivity, to persuade
them otherwise. Still, their amused contempt was encouraging: his best
chance now was to be underestimated. Ben stood up, groaning, and
clutched his midriff.
“Sit down,” the guard commanded firmly.
“The claustrophobia … I can’t take the … small, enclosed places!”
Ben spoke in a tone that was increasingly frantic, verging on hysteria.
Both guards looked at each other and laughed scornfully they would not
be taken in by such an obvious ploy.
“No, no, I’m serious,” Ben said with growing urgency. “My God! How
explicit do I have to be? I have a… a nervous stomach. I have to get
to a bathroom immediately or I’ll… have an accident.” He was playing
the role of the flighty, flaky American to the hilt. “Stress brings it
on much more quickly! I need my pills. Dammit! My Valium! A
sedative. I have terrible claustrophobia–I can’t be in enclosed spaces.
Please!” As he spoke he started to gesticulate wildly, as if having a
panic attack.
The lean guard just regarded him with an amused contemptuous half smile.
“You will have to take it up with the prison infirmary.”
With a manic, stricken expression, Ben stepped closer to him, his gaze
flicking toward the holstered gun and then back at the lean man’s face.
“Please, you don’t understand!” He waved his hands even more wildly.
“I’ll have a panic attack! I need to go to the bathroom! I need a
tranquilizer!” With lightning speed, he thrust both hands into the
guard’s hip holster and retrieved the short-barreled revolver. Then he
took two steps back, holding the piece in his hands, his performance
abruptly over.
“Keep your hands at shoulder level,” he told the thickly built guard.
“Or I fire, and you both die.”
The two guards exchanged glances.
“Now one of you will take me out of this place. Or both of you will
die. It’s a good deal. Take it before the offer expires.”
The guards conferred briefly in Schweitzerdeutsch. Then the lean one
spoke. “It would be extremely stupid of you to use this gun, if you
even know how, which I doubt. You will be imprisoned for the rest of
your life.”
It was the wrong tone: wary, alarmed, yet without terror. The guard was
not at all unnerved. Perhaps Ben’s earlier performance of weakness had
been too effective. Ben could see that a measure of skepticism remained
in their expressions and posture. At once, he knew what he must say.
“You think I wouldn’t fire this gun?” Ben spoke in a bored voice, only
his eyes blazing. “I killed five at the Bahnhofplatz. Two more won’t
weigh on my mind.”
The guards suddenly grew rigid, all condescension having instantly
evaporated. “Das Monster vom Bahnhofplatz,” the fleshy one said
hoarsely to his partner as a look of horror crossed his face. The blood
drained from his florid complexion.
“You!” Ben barked at him, seizing the advantage. “Take me out of
here.” Within seconds, the thickset guard used his electronic reader to
open the door. “And if you want to live, you’ll stay behind,” he told
the leaner, evidently cleverer one. The door closed behind him, the
three muffled clicks verifying that the bolts had electronically slid
into place.
Frog-marching the guard in front of him, Ben traveled swiftly down the
beige-carpeted corridor. The feed from the closed-circuit video
probably went into archival storage and examination, rather than being
viewed in real time, but there was no way to be certain.
“What’s your name?” Ben demanded. “Wie heissen She?”
“Laemmel,” the guard grunted. “Christoph Laemmel.” He reached the end
of the corridor and started to turn left.
“No,” Ben hissed. “Not that way! We’re not going out the front. Take
me out the back way. The service entrance. Where the trash is taken
out.”
Laemmel paused in momentary confusion. Ben placed the revolver near one
of his beet-red ears, letting him feel the cold metal. Moving more
quickly, the guard took him down the back stairs, the ugly, dented steel
a dramatic contrast with the polished formality of the bank’s public
spaces. The gloom of the stairwell was scarcely diminished by the
naked, low-wattage electric bulbs that protruded from the wall at each
landing.
The guard’s heavy shoes clattered on the metal stairs.
“Quiet,” Ben said, speaking to him in German. “Make no sound, or I will
make a very deafening one, and it will be the last thing you ever hear.”
“You have no chance,” Laemmel said in a low, frightened voice. “No
chance at all.”
Finally, they reached the wide double doors that led to the back
alleyway. Ben pressed on the cross latch, made sure that the doors