Spoils of War, page 22
Its appearance was that of a large old town house, and its style of doing business belonged to the days when banks disguised themselves as gentlemen’s clubs. Through the glazed and brass-plated double doors, a marble-floored entry hall led into an elegant reception area. This was a place far removed from the nuts and bolts of commercial banking; indeed, the only sign that it dealt in money at all was a single teller’s position tucked away in one corner, where a male cashier was counting out large-denomination Swiss notes.
A woman with an efficient manner was in charge of the reception desk; Jack gave her his name and told her he had an appointment with Dr Buchmann to discuss a personal portfolio. He made a point of mentioning that the arrangement had been made through Dr Zunckel’s office; she seemed familiar with the name. Now was the time to test that plausibility of his that he had boasted to Dr Hamadi about.
After checking a desk diary the woman said: ‘You’re a few minutes early, Mr Rushton. Would you mind taking a seat?’
‘Actually, while I’m here, I have another small piece of business to do. Dr Zunckel and I are working together on behalf of an associate in the Middle East, and I have to deposit some money into the accounts of several of our clients. I can tell you the names but I’m afraid I wasn’t given the account numbers.’
‘That’s no problem. I’ll look them up and you can pay the teller.’
She produced a small stack of deposit forms, printed in German, French, Italian and English. He left blank spaces against the amounts to be credited and wrote as the names of the account holders Ibrahim Jalloul, Mohamed Ghani, and the five others he had singled out from the Kroll report. The woman took the forms, went to a computer terminal to the rear of her desk and keyed in the names. She scribbled some details on a slip of paper and returned, frowning slightly.
‘I have verified Mr Jalloul’s account, but we seem to have no customers by any of these other names.’
‘That’s odd. I do know that they all bank with you.’ Jack feigned incomprehension for a few moments, then brightened. ‘I’ve just thought . . . the accounts may not be held in their own names, but by Dr Zunckel as their nominee. Would you mind trying under that name?’
The woman looked dubious but checked her computer files again. When she came back she said, ‘Yes, Dr Zunckel has a number of nominee accounts here. But they are Form-B accounts, which means they were opened under confidential covenants between him and his clients. We have no record of the beneficial owners of the deposits.’
‘I see. I’m not familiar with your procedures, but this does seem to be just a technicality, and to save me the inconvenience of coming back . . . Would it be possible for you to phone Dr Zunckel’s office and establish which are the correct accounts? I don’t need to know which they are, just as long as you do; that would protect their privacy, wouldn’t it?’
‘I can try,’ the woman said, ‘but I doubt that they will release such information even to the bank.’
She went away again, this time to a telephone at the back of the room, out of his hearing. Jack lingered apprehensively by the counter, watching her make the call. For all their habits of discretion, banks tended to be quite trusting towards people who were putting money into them rather than taking it out. He had used similar stratagems before; whether this one would work depended on how the woman worded her request and how quick on the uptake Zunckel and his staff were.
The receptionist was on the phone for a couple of minutes. When she returned for a third time she was shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry, but they refuse to identify any of the accounts. There is nothing more I can do.’
‘But they did confirm that there are such accounts? Held on behalf of all these people?’
‘Well, they didn’t sound unfamiliar with them,’ she said, slightly puzzled. ‘They went away to check and came back saying the matter was confidential.’
‘I see. Well, thank you for your trouble. Obviously I’ll have to take this up with Zunckel himself.’
She had told him all he needed to know. More, in fact: the one big surprise was to learn that Colonel Jalloul’s account, presumably the original one, was still open. He went through the motions of completing the only usable deposit slip, copying out the eight-digit account number on the form and the attached receipt, then handing them to the cashier with a payment of one hundred Swiss francs.
He got back the stamped receipt and sat down to wait. At a cost of about forty pounds, paid into Colonel Jalloul’s account, he had established several important facts that would otherwise have been virtually impossible to ascertain.
At half-past two he was shown into the office of the investment director. The room was a continuation of the prevailing old-money theme of the bank’s public areas, and Dr Paul Buchmann was a pale, serious man of about Jack’s own age, whose English was as smooth as his manners. Once they were seated at his desk he asked to see Jack’s passport and took a note of the number, then offered him tea or coffee. Jack refused both. He produced his cheque for fifty thousand dollars and they got down to business.
It didn’t take long to agree on the essentials. Jack would open a deposit account in which a reserve of five thousand dollars would be kept. The balance would go into a separate securities account and be used to make a spread of conservative investments: international bonds, the same sort of assets into which the funds of Mohamed Ghani and the others had been channelled. Interest and dividend payments, Buchmann explained, would automatically be reinvested unless Jack chose otherwise. Should he wish to realize any of his capital, he need only notify the bank; some of the bonds could be sold within a few days and the proceeds forwarded to him.
‘In other words,’ Jack said, ‘I need never set foot in the bank again.’
‘Not if you don’t wish to.’
‘Very convenient. Even more so for those who’ve never had to come here in the first place.’
Buchmann looked at him blankly. Jack went on. ‘I mean the customers whose names you don’t know, the ones who shelter behind intermediaries. What will happen to them when these new laws come in later this year? The ones that require you to give the Swiss government a list of the actual holders of accounts?’
He had kept his tone light, at the level of idle curiosity. Buchmann shrugged and said: ‘They will have to identify themselves. Or, if they prefer to retain their anonymity, they will have to seek it in some other jurisdiction. Actually, some have already been encouraged to do so. Swiss banks no longer want to be seen, rightly or wrongly, as havens for the funds of criminals and tax evaders. But none of this is relevant to your situation. The account holders’ register will be available only to the Federal Banking Commission. In exceptional circumstances, such as when fraud is suspected, selected access may be allowed to the police or the courts. For all practical purposes, your relationship with the bank will remain as confidential as ever.’
Jack leaned back in his chair. ‘I wasn’t thinking of myself, actually. I was wondering how you’ll ascertain the identities of these other people. Are the nominees who protect them going to lead them in here to show their faces? And if so, how will you know that they really are who they claim to be? In my case, for instance, you’ve glanced at my passport but you know nothing about me except that I was introduced by one of those nominees.’
The banker was not put out by what was now, obviously, a deliberate digression from their business. He sat very still and maintained his professional composure.
‘What exactly are you getting at, Mr Rushton?’
‘Are you sincere in saying that you don’t want any tainted money in your coffers?’
‘Perfectly sincere.’
‘I ask because some Swiss banks have been known to turn a blind eye to such things in the past.’
‘That has never been the case with us,’ Buchmann said crisply. ‘On the other hand, we can’t treat every investor as a potential criminal. But you are . . . a business consultant? May I know the purpose of your questions?’
‘Bear with me, Doctor, and I may be able to do you a favour. But I’d want one in return.’
‘Is this the true reason you are here?’
‘No, I want you to manage my money for me as well.’
‘Go on.’
‘With your laws being tightened up, I imagine you’d like to be able to identify some of this dubious money, with a view to . . . as you put it, encouraging it to go away. I believe your bank may have been deliberately used for the laundering of such funds, Doctor. Many millions of dollars, in fact, stolen from the Iraqi treasury. Have you seen the report that’s just been produced by Kroll Associates?’
‘Ah, come now.’ Buchmann lost a little of his detachment. ‘That report is already old news. The investments it names are in shares and bonds bought on the open market, through a great many banks and brokers. It does not single out any one institution.’
‘That’s true. But it needs to be read in conjunction with other information. Kroll has identified individuals through their assets but has skipped over the routes by which they were acquired. I’ve examined the range of bonds purchased on behalf of some of these people, and I’ve compared them with the names of the third parties who issued the bonds. I’ve come up with six portfolios that were almost certainly put together through your bank. Six people, at least one of them using a false identity, have got twenty-six million dollars in stolen Iraqi money on your books. I have all their names, or at least their aliases: Mohamed Ghani, Sharif Hayawi, Mohamed Rashid, and three others. And I have a good idea that Dr Karl Zunckel is the nominee who controls all their accounts.’
Buchmann was watching him steadily. ‘Only an idea, Mr Rushton? Dr Zunckel is a respected lawyer and these are serious allegations. I hope you can support them with more than conjecture.’
‘Take a careful look at his records and they should tell you most of the story. But there’s more.’ Jack took out and showed the receipt for the hundred francs he had paid into Jalloul’s account. ‘This man is an Iraqi army officer suspected of a war crime, the torture and murder of a woman in Kuwait. The purpose of his opening of an account here was to hide the proceeds of a crooked ransom deal. He, at least, used his own name. The others may well all be going under false ones. I don’t think it will look very good for you, when the time comes to draw up that register, to have people like these on your books.’
Buchmann remained outwardly calm, but the rapid movements of his eyes suggested an inner conflict. Maybe he was wondering if he was about to face a blackmail demand. ‘Evidently you have done some considerable research,’ he said. ‘Perhaps now you’ll tell me what its purpose is.’
‘I have nothing to gain from it financially. I’m representing a client who has more money than he will ever need. He happens to be in a personal difficulty because of the actions of at least one of these people I’ve mentioned.’
‘Let me rephrase my question. What do you, or this client of yours, hope to get out of raising these matters with me?’
‘To confirm what I’ve told you, and to prove other things for myself, I need to look at those accounts, Doctor. Zunckel’s nominee accounts, and this man Jalloul’s. A look, that’s all.’
‘That’s all . . .?’
‘And I want a promise that you won’t tell Zunckel I’ve seen them until I’ve spoken to him myself.’
‘Mr Rushton, you are asking me to break the most fundamental rule of my profession. It’s out of the question.’
‘I have to follow similar rules in my own job, Doctor. For instance, I learned purely by accident about the way your bank has been used. How you deal with it is your own business. Since it isn’t relevant to my purposes, I don’t intend to tell anyone about it, not even my client. But I also know that rules sometimes have to be bent. You can help me, and help yourself, by letting me see those accounts. I’m on the side of the good guys, if that makes you feel any better.’
Buchmann thought for a few moments. ‘Let’s make sure there are no misunderstandings between us. If the next thing I say is no, what is the next thing you say?’
‘I didn’t come here to make any threats. Why not just say that as matters now stand, I see no reason why anything said in this office should ever be repeated outside it? Except to Zunckel, and if I’m right he won’t be complaining.’
The banker gave a thin, humourless smile. ‘I thought you introduced yourself as an associate of his.’
‘I am, after a fashion.’
‘He could be an innocent party to these transactions.’
‘It’s possible.’
‘Then let us say we are both acting in his interests.’
Without another word, Buchmann swivelled his chair to face the computer terminal beside his desk. He tapped some commands into it, and while he waited for a response Jack moved his own chair around to where he could see the screen.
Vertical columns sprang into view, a display of file titles in German. Buchmann selected one, then made a further choice from a second list that was presented. Zunckel, Dr Karl Wolfgang, appeared in the top left corner of the screen, followed by a dozen or more groups of numbers.
‘Where do you want to start?’ Buchmann said.
‘Take your pick.’
The banker pecked at more keys. A balance sheet appeared, the credit column showing a six-figure sum carried forward, the debits eked out in five-figure amounts. The space left for the client’s name was blank. The document was headed Depositenkonto.
‘Deposit account?’ Jack said.
Buchmann nodded. ‘The figures are in Swiss francs. The debits represent drawings transferred into investments.’
‘It doesn’t say much. Can we concentrate on the securities?’
Another set of keystrokes, a different image on the screen. This one was called a Depotauszug. Again there was no name attached to it, but a list of bond titles occupied one column, with those beside it detailing quantity, par value, current price and market value. Jack took out the notes he had drawn up last night and within a few moments he had found a page that corresponded almost exactly to the listing on the screen. He was looking at a current statement of the bond holdings of the man named Sharif Hayawi. Their market values were given in various currencies but they added up roughly to the equivalent of about two and three-quarter million dollars.
Jack took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Let’s have some more,’ he said.
Within ten minutes they had gone through all Zunckel’s nominee accounts. They had found six sets of figures that corresponded to the holdings of the six Iraqi names Jack had singled out from the Kroll report, starting with Hayawi and ending with Mohamed Ghani. He was the richest of them all, with assets totalling nearly seven million dollars. There was also a balance sheet for what was clearly the original joint account set up for Jalloul and Hamadi, with the Swiss franc equivalent of two million dollars credited to it and a million immediately withdrawn. The overall picture was very close to the way Jack had imagined it.
Buchmann had got quite absorbed in the enterprise and by now was almost friendly. When his telephone rang he dismissed the caller quickly and turned to Jack with a grin. ‘Your . . . associate, Dr Zunckel, trying to reach me. Apparently he’s in a panic over some enquiry that our receptionist made to his office.’
‘My doing,’ Jack confessed.
‘Bending the rules for the good guys again? Well, we have one more bad one to deal with.’
He keyed the number of Colonel Jalloul’s account into the computer and another balance sheet appeared on the screen. It was a deposit account statement and it bore Jalloul’s name without an address. The details it recorded were simple to the point of starkness. In the credit column was an opening balance of one million, two hundred and eighty-seven thousand and some hundreds of Swiss francs, the equivalent of one million dollars transferred from the joint account. The entry was dated 29 August last year, and some interest had been added at the end of December. Before and after that, nothing. The debit column was blank.
Jack stared at the screen in amazement.
Jalloul’s account had not been touched since the day it had been opened.
21
From his voice on the telephone Jack had imagined Dr Zunckel to be a heavy, slow-moving man with a self-satisfied manner. He wasn’t far wrong in this assumption; what he had not been expecting in addition was a dandy.
Zunckel was in his mid-sixties. His face was smooth and round as a football, with vivid but rather watery blue eyes, a tuft of white hair and a Colonel Sanders goatee grown to disguise a receding chin. He was perhaps forty pounds overweight, and his ruddy complexion suggested chronic high blood pressure. In place of the expected lawyer’s pinstripes he wore a biscuit-coloured suit, a dark brown shirt fastened at the cuffs with heavy gold links, a silk, floral-patterned tie and beige Gucci loafers with gold buckles. A red carnation was in his buttonhole and a brown silk handkerchief spilled from his breast pocket.
Jack and he sat in armchairs facing each other across a hearth. The room they were in was far too hot, with a fire of pine logs burning in the grate in addition to baking radiators, and from time to time Zunckel pulled out the handkerchief and dabbed at the moisture on his face. The temperature alone did not account for his discomfort. He had begun by being angry and indignant, but had run out of steam; trying to sound reasonable, he spoke with a mixture of bluster and self-pity.
‘Nothing I have done is illegal, Mr Rushton. I have spent more than thirty years building up this practice, and my reputation rests on the correctness of my dealings with the authorities here as well as on mutual trust and understanding between me and my clients.’
‘I don’t doubt that, Dr Zunckel. I’m just asking you to confirm a few guesses I’ve made.’
‘It’s my understanding that you were commissioned to find, if possible, this Iraqi, Jalloul, and reach an agreement with him allowing the closure of his joint account with Dr Hamadi. Had you succeeded in this, the matter could have been settled in five minutes. Instead you have meddled in an unscrupulous and unethical way in the business of other clients of mine. Listen . . .’ he said over a threatened interruption. ‘I do not feel obliged to account to you for what you have learned. Nevertheless, I will explain the background. Perhaps then you will not judge me so harshly.
