foot-thick rubber blocks that kept all vibrations (specifically human
speech) from transferring out. Immediately adjacent to the conference
module was a permanent installation of antennae constantly searching for
HF, UHF, VHP, and microwave transmissions–any attempt, that is, to
listen in on the discussions held within the room. Attached to the
antennae was a spectrum analyzer programmed to check across the spectrum
for any anomalies.
At one end of a coffin-shaped mahogany conference table sat two men.
Their conversation was protected against interception by both white
noise generators and a “babble tape,” which sounded like the yammer of a
crowded bar at happy hour. Anyone somehow able to bypass the elaborate
security and listen in would be unable to separate the words of the two
men at the table from the background noise.
The older of the two was speaking on a sterile telephone, a flat black
box of Swiss manufacture. He was a pasty-faced, worried-looking man in
his mid-fifties with gold-framed glasses, a soft jowly face, oily skin,
and receding hair dyed an unnatural russet. His name was Paul Mar qua
nd and he was a vice president of security for the Corporation. Marquand
had come to the Corporation by a route common to corporate-security
directors of international businesses: he had spent time in the French
infantry, was forced out for wild behavior and joined the French Foreign
Legion, later moving to the U.S.” where he’d worked as a strikebreaker
for a mining company before he was hired to do corporate security for a
multinational firm.
Marquand spoke rapidly, quietly, and then hung up the phone. “Vienna
Sector is disturbed,” Marquand told the man beside him, a dark-haired,
olive-skinned Frenchman some twenty years younger named Jean-Luc
Passard. “The American survived the propane accident in St. Gallen.”
He added darkly, “There can be no more errors. Not after the
Bahnhofplatz debacle.”
“It was not your decision to assign the American soldier,” JeanLuc said
softly.
“Of course not, but neither did I object. The logic was persuasive:
he’d spent time in proximity to the subject and could pick the face out
of a crowd in a matter of seconds. No matter how often a stranger is
shown a photograph, he could never move as quickly or as reliably as
someone who has known the target personally.”
“We’ve now mobilized the very best,” Passard said. “With the Architect
on the case, it will not be long before the mess is eliminated
completely.”
“His perfectionism leads to persistence,” Marquand observed. “Still the
pampered American is not to be underestimated.”
“The marvel is that he is still alive, the amateur,” Passard agreed.
“Being a fitness freak does not give one survival skills.” He snorted
and spoke mockingly in heavily accented English: “He doesn’t know the
jungle. He knows the jungle gym.”
“All the same,” Marquand said, “there is such a thing as beginner’s
luck.”
“He is no longer a beginner,” Passard observed.
Vienna
The elderly, well-dressed American emerged from the gate, walking
stiffly and slowly, clutching a carry-on bag. He searched the crowd
until he saw a uniformed limousine driver holding up a little sign with
his name on it.
The old man gave a wave of acknowledgment, and the driver, accompanied
by a woman in a white nurse’s uniform, hurried up to him. The driver
took the American’s bag, and the nurse said, “How was your flight, sir?”
She spoke in English with an Austrian-German accent.
The man grumbled, “I despise traveling. I can’t tolerate it anymore.”
The nurse escorted him through the crowds and to the street immediately
outside, where a black Daimler limousine was parked. She helped him
into the interior, which was equipped with the standard appurtenances
–phone, TV, and bar. Tucked unobtrusively into one corner was an array
of emergency medical equipment, including a small oxygen tank, hoses and
face mask, defibrillator paddles, and IV tubes.
“Well, sir,” the nurse said once he was settled in the deeply cushioned
leather seat, “the ride is not long at all, sir.”
The old man grunted, reclined the seat back, and closed his eyes.
“Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make you more
comfortable,” the nurse said.
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
Zurich
Anna was met at her hotel by a liaison officer from the office of the
Public Prosecutor of the canton of Zurich. He was Bernard Kesting, a
small, powerfully built, dark-haired young man with a heavy beard and
eyebrows that joined in the middle. Kesting was unsmiling, all
business, very professional: the quintessential Swiss bureaucrat.
After a few minutes of stilted introductory chat, Kesting led her to his
car, a BMW 728, parked in the semicircular drive in front of the hotel.
“Rossignol is of course well known to us,” Kesting said, holding the car
door open for her. “A revered figure in the banking community, for
many, many years. Certainly my office has never had reason to question
him.” She got into the car, but he stood there with the car door still
open. “I’m afraid the nature of your inquiry was not made clear to us.
The gentleman has never been accused of any crime, you know.”
“I understand.” She reached for the handle and closed the door herself.
He made her nervous.
Behind the wheel, Kesting continued as he pulled out of the drive and
headed down Steinwlesstrasse, a quiet residential street near the
Kunsthaus. “He was, or is, a brilliant financier.”
“I can’t disclose the nature of our investigation,” Anna said, “but I
can tell you that he’s not the target of it.”
He was silent for a while, then said with some embarrassment, “You asked
about protective surveillance. As you know, we haven’t been able to
locate him precisely.”
“And this is customary for prominent Swiss bankers? To simply…
disappear?”
“Customary? No. But then he is retired, after all. He is entitled to
his eccentricities.”
“And how are his official communications handled?”
“Received by a trust, domestic representatives of an offshore entity
that remains, even to them, completely opaque.”
“Transparency not being a notable Swiss value.”
Kesting glanced at her quickly, apparently unsure whether she was being
snide. “It seems that at some point in the past year or so, he decided
he wanted to, well, keep a lower profile. Perhaps he had the delusion
that he was being stalked, pursued–he’s in his early nineties, after
all, and mental deterioration can sometimes lead to paranoid fantasies.”
“And perhaps it wasn’t a delusion.”
Kesting gave her a sharp look but said nothing.
Herr Professor Doktor Carl Mercandetti had warmed immeasurably when Ben
mentioned that he was a friend of Professor John Barnes Godwin. “There
is no inconvenience, and nothing to apologize for. I have an office in
the library. Why don’t you meet me there midmorning? I’ll be there
anyway. I hope Godwin didn’t tell you–I’m supposed to be publishing a
monograph as part of a Cambridge University Press series that he’s
editing, and already I’m two years late with it! He tells me my sense
of timing is a touch Mediterranean.” Mercandetti’s laugh was booming
even over the phone line.
Ben had been vague about what he’d wanted from Mercandetti, and
Mercandetti, judging from his high jollity, had probably assumed it was
as much by way of a social call as anything.
Ben spent the first part of the morning searching through every
directory of corporations in Switzerland he could find, even running a
computer search of all telephone listings. But he could find no record
of such a corporation as Sigma AG. So far as he could see, there was no
public record that it ever did exist.
Carl Mercandetti was more austere-looking in person than Ben had
imagined when they spoke on the telephone. He was around fifty, slight,
with a gray crew cut and oval wire-rimmed glasses. When Ben introduced
himself, however, the eyes became lively, and his handclasp was
welcoming.
“Any friend of God’s …” Mercandetti said.
“And I thought it was only Princeton undergraduates who called him
that.”
Mercandetti shook his head, smiling. “In the years I’ve known him, I’d
say he’s only grown into his nickname. I’m quite terrified he’ll be
there at the pearly gates, saying, “Now, a small query about footnote
forty-three in your last article
After a few minutes, Ben mentioned his efforts to track down a
corporation named Sigma AGone founded in Zurich toward the end of the
Second World War. He didn’t explain further: the scholar would
doubtless assume it was the sort of thing that an international banker
might well pursue, perhaps in the course of corporate due diligence. In
any case, Ben knew he would not be ill-served by reticence.
When he learned of Ben’s immediate concerns, Mercandetti was polite but
unengaged. The name Sigma clearly meant little to him.
“You say it was established in 1945?” the historian asked.
“That’s right.”
“A magnificent year for Bordeaux, did you know that?” He shrugged. “Of
course, we’re talking well over half a century ago. Many companies that