Джозеф Файндер - Extraordinary Powers

Dr. Eisler, who appeared even more perturbed than his assistant, offered us coffee. We politely declined. His brow wrinkled in concern as he sat down on the sofa opposite us.

“Now then,” he said in his gravelly yet refined voice. “What seems to be the problem?”

“The contents of the vault,” I said, “are incomplete.”

He glared at me a long, long time, then shrugged imperiously. “We know nothing of the contents of a client’s vault. We are obligated only to maintain all security precautions, all—”

“The bank is liable.”

He gave a dry laugh. “I’m afraid not. And in any case, your wife is merely the co-owner.”

“A rather large quantity of gold,” I said, “seems to be missing. Rather too much to misplace. I’d like to know where it might have gone.”

Eisler exhaled through his nostrils and nodded kindly. He seemed to be relieved. “Mr. Ellison — Ms. Sinclair — surely you both understand that I am not free to discuss any transactions—”

“Since it was made on my account,” Molly broke in, “I have the right to know where it was moved to !”

Eisler hesitated, nodded again. “Madam, sir. In the case of numbered accounts, our responsibility is to permit access to anyone who fulfills the requirements stipulated by the person or persons who have established the account. Beyond that, in order to protect all involved, we must maintain total confidentiality.”

“We are talking,” Molly said steely, “about my account. I want to know where the gold went!”

“Ms. Sinclair, confidentiality in these matters is a tradition of our nation’s banking system and one which the Bank of Zurich is compelled to observe. I am awfully sorry. If there is anything further we can do—”

In one smooth motion I pulled out the Glock and aimed it at his high, broad forehead.

“This pistol is loaded,” I said. “I am fully prepared to use it. Don’t” — I released the safety when I saw him begin to slide his foot to the right, ever so subtly, toward what I now saw was a silent alarm button at the base of his desk, a few inches away — “ don’t be so foolish as to hit the silent alarm.”

I moved closer, so that the barrel of the pistol was barely an inch or two from his forehead.

I hardly had to concentrate now, his thoughts were flowing so discernibly now. I could pick up on a great deal: rushes of thought, mostly in German, but with the occasional patch of English as he readied to speak sentences, objections, declamations of outrage.

“We are, as you see, desperate,” I said. My expression let him know that desperate though I was, I retained full composure and was prepared to shoot at any moment.

“If you are so foolhardy as to shoot me,” Eisler said with astonishing equanimity, “you will accomplish nothing. For one thing, you will not leave this room. Not only will the gunshot be audible to my secretary, but there are motion sensors in this room that—”

He was lying; that much I could pick up. And he was understandably scared: this had never happened to him before. He continued: “Even assuming I were to give you the information you seek, which I will not, you will certainly not make it out of the bank.”

On that, I concluded, he seemed to be telling the truth; but it did not take extrasensory perception to realize the logic in what he was saying.

“I am prepared, however, to call an end to this idiocy,” he went on. “If you put down this gun and leave at once, I shall not report this. I understand that you are desperate. But you gain nothing by threatening me.”

“We’re not threatening. We want transaction information pertaining to the account which rightfully, by American and Swiss banking laws, belongs to my wife.”

A few beads of sweat began to run down his forehead, starting at the smooth bald crown of his head and coursing across the deeply grooved parallel lines inscribed there. I could see that his resolve was weakening.

I heard a rush of thoughts, some angry, some pleading. He was going through an agony of indecision.

“Has anyone removed gold from this vault?” I asked quietly.

Nein , I heard distinctly. Nein.

He closed his eyes, seeming to brace for the shot that would end his life. The sweat came down in rivulets now.

“I cannot say,” he said.

No one had removed any gold. But...

Suddenly, I had a thought. “There was other gold, though, wasn’t there? Gold that wasn’t moved into the vault.”

I held the gun steady, and then moved it slowly closer until the end of the barrel touched his damp temple. I pressed it against the skin. It compressed with an easy elasticity, forming tiny stretch marks all around the barrel’s end.

“Please,” he whispered. I could barely hear him.

His thoughts were coming fast and jumbled now, incoherent; I could not make them out.

“An answer,” I said, “and we will leave you.”

He swallowed, closed his eyes, and then opened them again. “A shipment,” he whispered. “Ten billion dollars worth of gold bullion. We received it all here at the Bank of Zurich.”

“Where did it go?”

“Some of it was moved into the vault. That is the gold you saw.”

“And the rest?”

He swallowed again. “Liquidated. We assisted in its sale through gold brokers we deal with on a confidential basis. It was melted down and then recast.”

“What was the value?”

“Perhaps five... perhaps six...”

“Billion.”

“Yes.”

“It was converted to liquid assets? Cash?”

“It was wire-transferred.”

“Where?”

He closed his eyes again. The muscles around them tightened as if he were praying.

“I can’t say.”

“Where?”

“I mustn’t say.”

“Was the money wired to Paris?”

“No... please, I cannot—”

“Where was the money wired?”

Deutschland... Deutschland... München...

“Was the money wired to Munich?”

“You will have to kill me,” he whispered, his eyes still closed. “I am prepared to die.”

His resolve surprised me. What possessed him? What sustained him in this foolish resolve? Was he attempting to call my bluff? By now he had to know, surely, that I wasn’t bluffing. Or if I was, with this gun at his temple, what sane man would take the chance that I was bluffing, that the gun wasn’t loaded? He would rather be killed than violate Swiss banking confidentiality!

There was a faint liquid sound, and I saw that he had lost control of his bladder. A dark spot spread in a large irregular area across the crotch of his pants. His fright was genuine. His eyes were still closed, and he was frozen still, paralyzed with fear.

But I did not let up; I couldn’t.

Compressing the barrel still harder against his temple, I said slowly: “All we want is a name. Tell us where the money was wired. To whom. Give us a name.”

Now Eisler’s entire body was racked by a visible tremor. His eyes were not just closed, the lids were squeezed tight, screwed up in little wrinkled knots of muscular tension. The sweat poured down his face, across his jawline, down his neck. Sweat darkened the lapels of his gray suit and spotted his tie.

“All we want,” I said, “is a name.”

Molly watched me, her eyes brimming with tears, from time to time wincing. The scene was too much for her to stand. Stick with it, Mol, I wanted to say. Hang in there.

“You know what name I want.”

And within a minute I had a name.

He remained silent. His lips trembled as if he were about to weep, but he did not. He did not speak.

He thought.

He did not speak.

I was about to lower the gun, when another question occurred to me. “When was the last time funds were transferred to him from this bank?”