Paul Christopher - The Templar Legion

“They are Moroccan, these clients?” Euhler said.

“No,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “They are not.”

“Ah.” Euhler nodded. “Perhaps we should continue our conversation in my office.”

Euhler led Saint-Sylvestre to the narrow elevator, passing the guard at the table. Despite the tailoring of the guard’s suit Saint-Sylvestre could detect the slight pull at the shoulders that marked a weapon sling; probably a German MP9 machine pistol or some other room sweeper like it.

The elevator was wood paneled and marble floored. It whined upward for a few seconds and then opened into a narrow hallway manned by another guard. Saint-Sylvestre followed Euhler to the end of the hall. The banker put his palm onto a biometric pad by the door, standing aside politely to let Saint-Sylvestre enter.

The office looked more like a Victorian living room than a banker’s office. The chairs were ornate and velvet covered, the desk was a giant, deeply sculpted thing, and the display case behind the desk was filled with what appeared to be ancient pottery. The paintings on the walls were all baroque Swiss landscapes of the sort that Sherlock Holmes would have liked-all lonely meadows and craggy peaks in serried rows.

At first glance you could easily make the mistake that the man behind the desk was some airheaded romantic, someone who’d likely inherited his position from a relative who was one of the bank’s directors and, considering that there was no ring on the third finger of his left hand, either a confirmed bachelor or more likely gay, as he’d thought before.

Saint-Sylvestre wasn’t quite so sure. Gay or not, Euhler gave off the impression of someone acting out a role but whose mind was carefully ticking somewhere behind the jolly, smiling mask, assessing and calculating, thinking about each move like a master chess player.

“You are a Muslim, Mr. Ben Barka?” Euhler asked.

“Why do you ask?” Saint-Sylvestre said, taken a little off guard.

“I usually have coffee around this time along with an aperitif. I would not like to offend you by offering you liquor.”

“Very thoughtful.” Saint-Sylvestre nodded. “But I am of the Lemba religion. Coffee and an aperitif would be very pleasant, thank you.”

Euhler beamed and called for coffee on his intercom, then stood and went to an armoire on the other side of the room. For the first time Saint-Sylvester noticed the lack of street sounds outside Euhler’s office window and it occurred to him that the window was bulletproof.

“Kummel?” Euhler offered, holding up a bottle of the caraway-and-cumin-flavored liqueur.

“Certainly.” Saint-Sylvestre nodded. The coffee arrived, brought on a silver tray with a silver service and small porcelain cups by a male secretary. The secretary left the office and Euhler returned to his desk with the drinks in their tiny crystal glasses. He then went through the coffee-pouring ritual, offering Saint-Sylvestre sugar, which he accepted, and cream, which he did not.

Saint-Sylvestre sipped the kummel while Euhler sat back in his ridiculous velvet-covered office chair.

“So tell me about these clients of yours,” he said, smiling pleasantly from beneath his mustache.

“They would like to open accounts at your bank. Private accounts.”

“All our accounts are quite private.”

“There have been rumors of Swiss bank transparency, the so-called G-twenty blacklists,” said Saint-Sylvestre mildly. He watched as Euhler’s complexion reddened slightly.

“And after all the loud talking is over and the dust settles you will see that we are in fact on no one’s blacklists, let alone the G-twenty, who I must say have enough to answer for on their own.” Euhler shook his head. “The world is in a terrible economic slump and they look to place the blame on whomever they can. Switzerland is convenient. It is hardly our fault that our ability to manage financial affairs is better than theirs. It is nothing but jealousy, Mr. Ben Barka.”

“My clients can be guaranteed complete discretion?”

“Certainly,” said Euhler a little ponderously.

Saint-Silvestre allowed himself a long pause, then spoke. “You are aware of the situation in Cuba?”

“Fragile.” Euhler nodded.

“ ‘Explosive,’ I think would be a better word,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “The Western press applauds Raul Castro’s opening of free markets in that country as a turn toward democracy, but it is not. It is an act of desperation. The country is bankrupt and the revolution is dead. The younger generation watches Miami TV on wall-sized televisions and lives almost completely within the black market. Corruption is rife.”

Saint-Sylvestre smiled at Euhler and went fishing for a moment, an idea forming in the back of his mind. Then, clearing his throat, he spoke aloud several lines from William Butler Yeats’s poem “The Second Coming.”

Euhler’s face lit up. “Ah, Yeats, one of my favorites,” he said, cooing like a dove. He recited the next verse, then said dramatically, “I’m afraid those times have come ’round again.”

Saint-Sylvestre nodded. “Which is why I am here, of course.”

“I take it your clients are Cuban, then?” Euhler said.

“And have been since Angola,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “They are farseeing men and women, most of whom have chosen Spain as their country of choice when the situation becomes too tenuous at home.”

“Yes.” Euhler nodded.

“The Spanish banking regulations are compliant with all forty of the G-twenty regulations regarding money laundering. The Moroccan banking system is not. They are referred to as ‘serious shortcomings’ by the G-twenty financial task force.”

“Loopholes,” said Euhler.

“Yes,” answered Saint-Sylvestre.

“And Morocco and Spain are separated by a mere seven nautical miles.” Euhler smiled.

“Quite so,” said Saint Sylvestre. “Getting the funds to Morocco is easy enough, but once there my clients would like to see their funds invested in a broader number of opportunities than we can offer.”

“Could you give me some idea of the amounts we are talking about?” Euhler said. The German had sniffed around enough and liked what he smelled.

“Approximately half a billion dollars, perhaps more.” The object was to put him on an equal playing field with Matheson and MRI.

Euhler didn’t even blink.

“Are these individual clients or are they willing to invest as a cartel?”

“Whichever is most beneficial,” said Saint-Sylvestre. He was making it as easy as possible for the round-faced Euhler to take the bait. It was time to add the icing to the cake.

“If your bank works out for these clients, then perhaps we could discuss further business. We have a number of clients in similar situations who could benefit from a broader investment profile.”

“This sounds extremely interesting, Mr. Ben Barka.” Euhler nodded. “Perhaps we could discuss it further over dinner tonight.”

“That would be most pleasant,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “And please, call me Tarik.”

“And I am Leonhard.” The banker smiled. “But my friends call me Lenny.” He opened a drawer in the desk, took out a card and used an expensive-looking fountain pen to scribble on it.

“I meet few men of culture in my work,” said Saint-Sylvestre, sighing as he dangled the carrot. “Certainly not ones who can recite Yeats from memory.”

“As I mentioned, he is a favorite of mine. I wrote several essays about him over the years at school.”

“A prescient man,” said Saint-Sylvestre. “In parts of Africa he would be thought of as a griot, a shaman, a foreteller of the future.”

“A role which seems to fall to bankers now.” Euhler laughed with a strange, strangled sound that was almost a giggle. He smiled again. “Perhaps you would like dinner tonight and we can discuss it?”