Thomas Greanias - The 34th Degree

The mademoiselle returned and ushered him into Gilbert’s office. Andros hadn’t seen Pierre in years, but when the tall, gray-haired man, elegant in boutonniere and black suit, rose from his desk, the family resemblance to the paintings in the reception hall was unmistakable.

“A pleasure to see you again, Monsieur Andros.”

Gilbert’s eyes regarded him keenly, and his smile was civilized. The Swiss banker asked no questions about what Andros was doing in Bern or how he had gotten there. Nor did he show any inclination to find out. His was a face that had seen everything.

“Please, sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

An officer of the bank, a big, bald man whom Gilbert introduced as Monsieur Guillaume, stood silently by his side, as was the practice. He regarded Andros warily from under his heavy eyelids. Does nothing ever change in this country? Andros thought as he sat down.

“And how can I help you, Monsieur Andros?”

“My inheritance. I’m here to check on its status.”

“Yes, I am sorry to hear about your father. A great man.”

“A dead man, Monsieur Gilbert. Life goes on.”

“But of course, we must eventually attend to business,” Gilbert said, taking a file from his desk. “You must excuse me, Monsieur Andros, but it has been some years since I last saw you. May I see both your American and Greek passports for proper identification?”

“Certainly,” said Andros, handing the passports to Gilbert.

Gilbert called in his receptionist, the blonde, who answered to the name of Elise, and gave her the passports. She promptly disappeared, presumably to check the passports and any photos and signatures on file.

“Your family account is numbered,” Gilbert said. “Do you have the code?”

Andros repeated the four-digit number. Gilbert nodded to acknowledge the number’s validity, and Elise returned with the passports.

“Thank you, Elise. You are free for the evening.” Gilbert admired her form as she walked out before he returned the passports to Andros. “Your assets, Monsieur Andros, following your grandfather’s instructions, are in the form of bearer shares of Andros Shipping. They are secure.”

“My so-called assets are frozen, and I can’t touch them.”

“This is true,” Gilbert responded. “The American blacklist is an unfortunate turn of events for all of us.”

“As things stand, my ships can arrive only at ports of call in neutral countries or the designated ‘Swiss ports’ of Genoa, Trieste, and Marseille. At this pace, my inheritance will be worthless at the end of the war, because Andros Shipping is dissipating many of these assets you inform me are so secure.”

Gilbert shrugged. “What more can we do, Monsieur?”

“You can help me get a full register of shareholders to prove that Andros Shipping is not German-controlled. Only then can I get my funds released in the States.”

Gilbert smiled. “Besides breaking federal and cantonal law, how else can I help you?”

“You see some problems?”

“Two of them. The first is Article 47 of the Swiss criminal code. Monsieur Guillaume?”

The mute bank officer now recited Article 47 from memory: “‘Whosoever as agent, official, employee of a bank, or as accountant or accountant’s assistant, or as a member of the banking commission, or as a clerk or employee of its secretariat, violates the duty of absolute silence in respect of a professional secret, or whosoever induces or attempts to induce others to do so, will be punished with a fine of up to twenty thousand francs, or with imprisonment of up to six months, or both.’”

“And the second problem?” asked Andros.

“Article 273 of the code,” Gilbert replied. “Monsieur Guillaume?”

“‘Whosoever exploits trade secrets in order to make them accessible to foreign governments or foreign enterprises or foreign organizations or their agents, and whosoever makes such trade secrets accessible to foreign governments or organizations or private enterprises or to agents thereof, will be punished by imprisonment.’”

Gilbert turned to Andros and smiled. “Surely you don’t want to see your family banker in jail. I could hardly be of any service to you there.”

“But there must be a way to identify the shareholders of my own company,” Andros persisted. “You are a director on the board of the Swiss Bankers Association, Monsieur Gilbert. You have friends at the Swiss National Bank. Surely, with their help, you could persuade the Swiss Clearing Office to certify that Andros Shipping is not German-controlled.”

Gilbert’s response was firm. “If cantonal law says Andros Shipping is Swiss, then it is Swiss. This is what I have argued with the American government and what I will continue to argue. I will not, however, break federal laws by revealing information about my depositors, and I certainly will not beseech other bankers to do likewise. The Swiss banking system owes its position in world finance to its tradition of absolute confidence between banker and customer. Any deviation from this tradition of secrecy would shake confidence in Swiss banking.”

“But this is in your personal and collective interest,” said Andros. “The shareholders’ interest.”

Gilbert shook his head. “To bow to American pressure would place our Swiss honor and neutrality at stake, Monsieur Andros. If we bow to American pressure today, who says we won’t give in to German pressures tomorrow? You Americans seem to forget that any assets a German national channels into Switzerland are completely beyond the reach of the Nazis, too. The world is filled with governments eager and demanding to see what is in Swiss safe-deposit boxes. Even now we fear a Nazi invasion.”

Andros remembered Woodrow Wilson’s admonition that “in the next war there will be no neutrals.” Men such as Pierre Gilbert would never accept such a view.

“We have spent billions on civil defense,” Gilbert continued. “Should it come to invasion, we are ready to give up Bern, Geneva, and Zurich to the invaders and burrow into our Alps. But even if war should scorch the entire face of the planet, we will emerge from our mountain fortress in the end, still intact and still neutral, ready with our hard currency to rebuild the world.”

Andros looked at Pierre Gilbert and smiled blandly. “Your confidence is reassuring. I can see our family fortune is safe with you.”

Pierre Gilbert half-closed his eyes and placed his hand over his heart. “Always, Monsieur.”

A s the cab turned down the Kornhausplatz and passed the Ogre Fountain, Andros leaned back against his seat and closed his eyes, going over in his mind his conversation with Pierre Gilbert.

If the Swiss banker was puzzled by his cover, he didn’t show it. Nor did the quiet Monsieur Guillaume, who Andros guessed was the bank’s link to von Berg. He had to be-always silent, always listening in on Gilbert’s conversations. Who else could there be? Well, now Monsieur Guillaume had something to talk about.

When Andros opened his eyes, they had arrived in front of the colonnaded Beaux Arts facade of the Bellevue Palace Hotel. He got out of the cab and went inside, passing between the Ionic columns that supported the lobby’s stained-glass ceiling. On his way to the elevator, he saw several patrons of the Bellevue bar in deep leather chairs, diplomats from the Federal Palace next door, eyeing him over the rims of their drinks.

Perhaps they knew what he was up to, perhaps not. At this moment, as Andros stepped off the elevator and approached his Louis IV suite at the end of the floor, he didn’t care. He was tired of his cover, and tonight, for the first night in several, he would get some good sleep.

He slipped his key into the lock and was about to turn it when he heard water running inside. He looked up to make sure he was at the right suite and listened again. This time he heard nothing. He turned the key and pushed the door open.