Paul Erdman - The Billion Dollar Sure Thing

Much of Bernoulli’s job was spent at a desk, filtering such information and passing it along to the right place. But he had already worked extensively in the field, where his expertise in economic matters only served as a cover. For quite a period he had served with the International Red Cross, operating out of its world headquarters in Geneva. The top jobs there are reserved exclusively for Swiss, since after all the Red Cross was a Swiss invention. He had been slipped into the Number Three slot in their financial department. The spot was a good one. Thus, for instance, when in 1970 the Arabs kidnapped a couple of planeloads of people, including one Swiss DC-8, it was the International Red Cross which made the arrangements to get the people back from Jordan. The Swiss nationals, naturally, were the first to leave. Dr. Bernoulli had done a beautiful job under difficult circumstances, although it did cost quite a few Swiss francs. He was also in Biafra quite regularly, helping out the poor refugees, but also making quite sure that Swiss businessmen were put into contact with the people who would come out on top when Nigeria was reunited. His participation in the aid mission to West Bengal led to a noticeable cooling of relations between Switzerland and Pakistan, matched by a new fervour for India’s development problems, at least two months before the military clash which resulted in the creation of Bangladesh and the emergence of Indian hegemony on that subcontinent.

It was not without some regret that Bernoulli agreed to his recall to that department’s headquarters in Bern. In fact, he secretly hoped that he would soon be sent back to Geneva to serve the cause of humanity. Maybe success in Basel would help. And, at the moment, this did not seem impossible. For Bernoulli was convinced that, as Sammy Bechot’s cellmate, he could get to the heart of the matter in a very short time, with just a little luck.

But I’ve got to get things moving, he thought, as he was walked back to his cell, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, who was apparently not in on the game. It had hardly been necessary, for God’s sake, to put on handcuffs. Or maybe it was just a sick joke of Bucher’s.

Not much time had really passed. It was just shortly after ten when the cell door clanked closed behind him once again. Bechot was stretched out on his bed reading and barely glanced up as George pulled down his bed and also lay down.

“Hey,” said George finally, “what’s new?”

“Hah,” replied Sammy, “what’s ever new here!”

“What have you been doing?”

“Reading. You read?”

“Sure, but I don’t feel like it right now. You play chess?”

“Of course. But we need a chess set.”

“How do we do that?”

“Watch!”

Sammy jumped from his bed and started pounding on the metal door with his fist. He just kept pounding until the door opened.

“Sammy, you know better than that,” said the warden with a big grin. “What are you trying to do, impress your friend?”

“Look,” replied Sammy, “you are here to protect and help us, and we need a little service. A chess set.”

“Sure, I’ll see if I can drum one up.”

“No, no. Now,” said Sammy.

“Why now?”

“Because my friend here feels suicidal. I’m trying to occupy his mind. You prefer to mop up a big puddle of blood?”

The warden looked carefully at George. You never knew in this place.

“O.K. Just calm down, Sammy.”

Five minutes later he was back with a battered chess set, and left after giving Bernoulli another rather mistrustful look. Nobody in prisons likes nuts, and a quiet one like this was always suspicious. With a shrug he left again, locking the door with what seemed to be an extra flourish this time.

Sammy had the board set up immediately on his bed and soon was deeply involved in his initial moves. He played amazingly well, and George, who was very rusty to say the least, was well on his way to losing when the door clanged open again.

Lunchtime. At eleven o’clock in the morning, for God’s sake.

In spite of the metal containers, the meal was astoundingly well prepared.

“Is the food always so good here?”

“The best of any prison in Switzerland,” answered Sammy. “I know, I’ve tried a few of them and heard about lots of others. One thing is sure, if the cops are looking for you, make sure you get arrested here and not in Geneva or St. Moritz. Those places are horrible. Some people, you know, have absolutely no sense of responsibility. They let their jails run down in a way you simply would not believe.”

Sammy reached under his bed, and his hand reappeared holding a bottle of beer. His supplies had obviously arrived during Bernoulli’s short absence.

“You see what I mean. In the Bâle prison you get service, prompt service. It’s also the only jail in the country where they let you drink.”

He offered Bernoulli a pull on the bottle and was not turned down.

“Aah,” gasped Bernoulli, “that really hit the spot. Sammy, you know, somehow I have the feeling that things are looking up.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. You sure looked worried earlier this morning.”

“I guess because it’s my first time. You know how it is when you have absolutely no idea how the system works.”

“Sure, I went through the same thing about, lemme think, yeah, about seven years ago. And that was in Geneva. Ugh. Look, just make sure you order lots to eat and drink from the outside. It takes your mind off of other things. You must have money the way you look. What did you do?”

“Bad cheque. And you?”

“Safes. That’s my speciality. They know me all over. Sammy Bechot. The best in the business.”

Both men had suddenly warmed to each other. Bernoulli found Sammy to be a highly sympathetic and amusing person. And obviously Sammy felt more than a bit sorry for this man who could not quite cope with a life to which Sammy had long ago become accustomed. Prison cells produce peculiar social chemistry.

In the afternoon Bernoulli followed Sammy’s advice and pounded on the door with his metal cup, and when the warden appeared handed him a list of food and especially wine—good wine—that he wanted bought as soon as possible. He deliberately overordered. When the supplies came, the bulk of them was locked in a wooden cupboard right outside the cell door in the corridor. The daily ration of alcohol per day was limited to one litre of wine per head. Through some mixup, however, Bernoulli ended up with two litres in the cell. Then Sammy came up with a further brilliant idea. Nothing in the jail rules precluded one inmate from making gifts to another. He banged on the door with his cup, producing a volume of noise reflecting skill born of practice. This time the door was not opened. The night shift was just coming on and security precautions increased. The metal covering on the peephole in the door was swung aside.

“What’s going on?”

“All I want is some wine for the evening.”

“Sammy, don’t push things too far. All you’ve got is beer and you damn well know it.”

“But my friend George wants to offer me one of his bottles. And he thought you might be able to use one, too.”

The door swung open.

“Not so loud, Sammy. For Christ’s sake, you want to get us all into trouble?” He turned to Bernoulli.

“Is Sammy here telling the truth?”

“Of course.”

“Well, fine. As an exception, mind you, I’ll accept your offer.” He unlocked the cabinet in the corridor and two more bottles appeared. He started to apply the corkscrew, hanging from his heavy keychain.

“Stop it!” commanded Sammy. “Just leave the corkscrew here.”

“You know that’s against the rules. I open the bottles. You drink.”