Daniel Silva - A Death in Vienna

“As of this morning,” Becker said, “the total value of the account stands at two and a half billion dollars. Roughly one billion of that is cash, equally divided between dollars and euros. The rest of the money is invested-the usual fare, securities and bonds, along with a substantial amount of real estate. In preparation for the liquidation and dispersal of the account, we are in the process of selling off the real estate holdings. Given the state of the global economy, it’s taking longer than we had hoped.”

“When will that process be complete?”

“Our target date is the end of the month. Even if we should fall short of our goal, dispersal of the monies will commence immediately upon receipt of the letter from the chancellor’s office. The instructions are very specific on this point. The letter must be hand-delivered to my office in Zurich, not more than one week after the chancellor is sworn in. It must be on the official stationery of the chancellery and above the chancellor’s signature.”

“I can assure you the chancellor’s letter will be forthcoming.”

“In anticipation of Herr Metzler’s victory, I’ve begun the difficult task of tracking down all those who are due payment. As you know, they are scattered from Europe to the Middle East, to South America and the United States. I’ve also had contact with the head of the Vatican Bank. As you might expect, given the current financial state of the Holy See, he was very pleased to take my call.”

“And why not? A quarter of a billion dollars is a great deal of money.”

From the banker, a vigilant smile. “Yes, but not even the Holy Father will know the true source of the money. As far as the Vatican is concerned, it is from a wealthy donor who wishes to remain anonymous.”

“And then there’s your share,” said Vogel.

“The bank’s share is one hundred million dollars, payable upon dispersal of all the funds.”

“One hundred million dollars, plus all the transaction fees you’ve collected over the years and the percentage you take from the annual profit. The account has made you an extremely wealthy man.”

“Your comrades provided generously for those who assisted them in this endeavor.” The banker closed the ledger with a muffled thump. Then he folded his hands and stared at them thoughtfully for a moment before speaking. “But I’m afraid there have been some unexpected…complications. ”

“What sort of complications?”

“It seems that several of those who were to receive money have died recently under mysterious circumstances. The latest was the Syrian. He was murdered in a gentlemen’s club in Istanbul, in the arms of a Russian prostitute. The girl was murdered, too. A terrible scene.”

Vogel shook his head sadly. “The Syrian would have been advised to avoid such places.”

“Of course, as the bearer of the account number and password, you will maintain control of any funds that cannot be dispersed. That is what the instructions stipulate.”

“How fortunate for me.”

“Let us hope that the Holy Father does not suffer a similar accident.” The banker removed his eyeglasses and inspected the lenses for impurities. “I feel compelled to remind you, Herr Vogel, that I am the only person with the authority to disperse the funds. In the event of my death, authority would pass to my partner, Herr Puhl. Should I die under violent or mysterious circumstances, the account will remain frozen until the circumstances of my death are determined. If the circumstances cannot be determined, the account will be rendered dormant. And you know what happens to dormant accounts in Switzerland.”

“Eventually, they become the property of the bank itself.”

“That’s correct. Oh, I suppose you could mount a court challenge, but that would raise a number of embarrassing questions about the provenance of the money-questions that the Swiss banking industry, and the government, would rather not have aired in public. As you might imagine, such an inquiry would be uncomfortable for all involved.”

“Then for my sake, please take care, Herr Becker. Your continued good health and safety are of the utmost importance to me.”

“I’m so pleased to hear that. I look forward to receiving the chancellor’s letter.”

The banker returned the account ledger to his attaché case and closed the lid.

“I’m sorry, but there is one more formality that slipped my mind. When discussing the account, it’s necessary for you to tell me the account number. For the record, Herr Vogel, will you recite it for me now?”

“Yes, of course.” Then, with Germanic precision: “Six, two, nine, seven, four, three, five.”

“And the password?”

“One, zero, zero, five.”

“Thank you, Herr Vogel.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, Becker’s car stopped outside the Ambassador Hotel. “Wait here,” the banker said to the driver. “I won’t be more than a few minutes.”

He crossed the lobby and rode the elevator to the fourth floor. A tall American in a wrinkled blazer and striped tie admitted him into Room 417. He offered Becker a drink, which the banker refused, then a cigarette, which he also declined. Becker never touched tobacco. Maybe he would start.

The American held out his hand toward the briefcase. Becker handed it over. The American lifted the lid and pried loose the false leather lining, exposing the microcassette recorder. Then he removed the tape and placed it into a small playback machine. He pressed REWIND, then PLAY. The sound quality was remarkable.

“For the record, Herr Vogel, will you recite it for me now?”

“Yes, of course. Six, two, nine, seven, four, three, five.”

“And the password?”

“One, zero, zero, five.”

“Thank you, Herr Vogel.”

STOP.

The American looked up and smiled. The banker looked as though he had just been caught betraying his wife with her best friend.

“You’ve done very well, Herr Becker. We’re grateful.”

“I’ve just committed more violations of the Swiss banking secrecy laws than I can count.”

“True, but they’re shitty laws. And besides, you still get a hundred million dollars.And your bank.”

“But it’s not my bank any longer, is it? It’syour bank now.”

The American sat back and folded his arms. He didn’t insult Becker with a denial.

GABRIEL HAD NO idea who Erich Radek was. Rivlin told him.

Erich Wilhelm Radek had been born in 1917 in the village of Alberndorf, thirty miles north of Vienna. The son of a police officer, Radek had attended a local gymnasium and showed a marked aptitude for mathematics and physics. He won a scholarship to attend the University of Vienna, where he studied engineering and architecture. According to university records, Radek was a gifted student who received high marks. He was also active in right-wing Catholic politics.

In 1937, he applied for membership in the Nazi Party. He was accepted and assigned the party number 57984567. Radek also became affiliated with the Austrian Legion, an illegal Nazi paramilitary organization. In March 1938, at the time of the Anschluss, he applied to join the SS. Blond and blue-eyed, with a lean athletic build, Radek was declared “pure Nordic” by the SS Racial Commission and, after a painstaking check of his ancestry, was deemed to be free of Jewish and other non-Aryan blood and accepted into the elite brotherhood.

“This is a copy of Radek’s party file and the questionnaires he filled out at the time of his application. It comes from the Berlin Documentation Center, the largest repository of Nazi and SS files in the world.” Rivlin held up two photographs, one a straight-on shot, the other a profile. “These are his official SS photographs. Looks like our man, doesn’t it?”