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RODERICK MANN

THE ACCOUNT

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1994

Copyright © Roderick Mann 1994

Roderick Mann asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780006478850

Ebook Edition © NOVEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780008235420

Version: 2016-11-21

Dedication

For Anastasia

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Postscript

About the Author

About the Publisher

From the Daily Mail
SOCIETY WOMAN MURDERED

The body of Jane Summerwood, 27, of Connaught Square, London, was discovered by an early morning jogger yesterday in a clump of bushes in Hyde Park.

Police described the condition of the body as appalling. ‘She had been brutally beaten,’ a spokesman said. ‘It was the work of a maniac.’

Miss Summerwood, daughter of Colonel James Summerwood of East Grinstead, was well known in London social circles and was an accomplished horsewoman. She is known to have been in the company of American billionaire Robert Brand, and was a frequent guest on his yacht in Monte Carlo. Mr Brand, now in America, could not be reached for comment yesterday but his secretary described him as ‘devastated’. Police inquiries continue.

Chapter 1

It was raining hard. Driving along the Quai du Mont-Blanc in his black Renault, Paul Eberhardt glanced idly towards Lake Geneva, sheathed now in a fine mist that rendered the mountains beyond barely visible.

The man sometimes called the most astute banker in Europe was deeply depressed. Usually on Thursdays his spirits rose. This was the evening he set aside his worries and drove along the lakeside to spend an hour at the house of Madame Valdoni.

Relaxing. Taking his pleasure. Watching the film that now lay on the seat beside him.

But events that afternoon had dampened his enthusiasm for the evening to come. First there was the memo from his partner, Georges di Marco, demanding a meeting. Eberhardt knew what di Marco wanted to talk about; what he had been threatening for weeks now. It could no longer be postponed. Then, to make matters worse, Robert Brand had arrived unexpectedly at the bank. Eberhardt’s relationship with the American billionaire had always been polite. They were, after all, locked in a tight financial embrace that could not easily be broken. But the meeting that afternoon had been unpleasant. Brand, in a bad mood, had queried everything and had barely been civil. Eberhardt, who had always prided himself that he could handle the American, was now not so sure.

He swore and braked hard as a woman, her view hidden by an umbrella, stepped out suddenly to cross the street. He must pay attention. This was just the sort of day when accidents occurred.

Leaving the city he adjusted the speed of the windscreen wipers and switched on the heater to demist the glass. There were few other vehicles about. That suited him fine. The drive along the Lausanne road normally took him forty-five minutes. Today it would be quicker.

An impatient horn behind him interrupted his thoughts. Pulling over he saw he was near the lakeside hotel where he occasionally dined. He drove into the car park and switched off the engine. A drink, he decided, would make him feel better; would calm his nerves. Otherwise the seductive ministrations of Madame Valdoni’s girl would be wasted.

The bar of the hotel was quiet. Relieved, he perched himself on a stool and ordered a double Scotch. The warmth of the drink in his throat made him feel better. Glancing around he caught an unwelcome glimpse of himself in a wall mirror. How pale he looked; how old. Yet he was still an aristocratic-looking man, tall and distinguished in a formal way. Anyone seeing him sitting there nursing his drink would have found it hard to guess his profession. A diplomat perhaps. Or a doctor. He was not an easy man to place on looks alone.

Finishing his drink he paid his bill and left. Outside, he stood for a moment protected by an awning, breathing in the chill late afternoon air. The smell of the lake was quite strong; tangy and pervasive. As he hurried to his car he stepped in a pool of rainwater, soaking one of his highly polished shoes. Damn! Could nothing go right this day? He held the shoe out of the car window, upside down, shaking it.

Just past the town of Nyon, Eberhardt turned up a private road that wound its way through several acres of woodland and pasture. Faded signs warning against trespassing stood alongside the road. Eberhardt knew the road well. It was the landscape of his other self, not the severe banking mandarin of Geneva but the private pleasure-seeking sensualist. At the end of the road was a large, wrought-iron gate. And, beyond, a half-moon shaped driveway fronting a two-storey mansion. The house, which had once belonged to a wealthy Swiss industrialist, had been bought by Italian-born Madame Valdoni twenty years earlier and turned into a maison de plaisir catering to an exclusive clientele of men from Geneva and Lausanne who were prepared to pay 500 Swiss francs for the services of any one of half a dozen spectacular-looking girls.

Eberhardt’s friend, the lawyer Maître Claude Bertrand, the only man in whom he ever confided, had often suggested that the banker take a permanent mistress. But the sense of illicit, furtive adventure stimulated Eberhardt’s libido in a way he knew a regular woman could not.

Anyway, he had lived alone since the death of his wife, Hilde, ten years before, and now had no intention of sharing his life with anyone. Coupled with this was the fact that Geneva banking circles, prim and censorious, would frown on any such liaison.

As he drove through the gates Eberhardt was relieved to note that there were no other cars outside the house. Highly secretive by nature, he preferred to keep these visits private and always used an alias.

Holding the can of film beneath his jacket he hastened towards the front door, which was opened almost immediately by a maid.

‘Good evening, Dr Weber,’ she said. ‘I will tell Madame you are here.’ A moment later she returned with a woman in her mid-fifties, elegantly and expensively dressed in black.

‘My dear doctor.’ Madame Valdoni proffered her hand. ‘What a pleasure.’ She turned to the maid. ‘A drink for Doctor Weber.’ She glanced at Eberhardt. ‘The usual?’

Eberhardt nodded. He pointed to his shoe. ‘Look at that. Soaked. This damn rain. Perhaps you could dry it?’

‘Of course.’ Valdoni motioned to the maid who knelt before Eberhardt and removed both his shoes and socks. ‘I will have them ready by the time you leave,’ she beamed.

‘Is everything arranged?’

‘As soon as you telephoned. We have someone quite special for you tonight …’

‘Not Genevieve?’ He felt a pang of disappointment.

‘She is away. Her mother is sick. But you will not be disappointed.’

When the maid returned with a glass of chilled white wine, Eberhardt, barefoot, followed Valdoni up the sweeping staircase. At the top she took the can of film he handed her and led him down a hallway to a thickly carpeted dressing room complete with day bed and wardrobe. A door led to an adjacent room.

A young Oriental girl stood there. She was perhaps sixteen years old and so incredibly lovely that Eberhardt was astonished. She was wearing black panties and a black brassiere. She too was barefoot.

‘Jasmine,’ the older woman said, handing her the can of film, ‘this is Dr Weber, one of our special friends. I am relying on you to take care of him.’

The girl nodded. ‘My honour, sir.’ She bowed and retreated into the other room.

Valdoni smiled. ‘Enjoy yourself, dear doctor.’ She went out closing the door.

Eberhardt undressed completely, hanging his clothes in the wardrobe, and stepped into the next room, which was in semi-darkness. Uncarpeted, it contained nothing but a wooden chair with a bell push on one arm, a screen some six feet square, and a film projector on a table at the opposite end.

Eberhardt sat in the chair facing the screen. A moment later Jasmine came in. She was naked now, her body and hands slightly oiled. She was carrying two glasses, one filled with hot water, the other with ice cubes. She put these beside the cushion at the foot of the chair. Reaching for a packet beside the projector she took out a crumpled cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply before passing it to Eberhardt. She watched as he drew the smoke deep into his lungs. He passed the joint back to the girl, who again inhaled. Soon the small room was pungent with the smell of marijuana. Eberhardt began to relax. He stubbed the joint out on the wooden floor.

‘Ready,’ he said.

The girl knelt before him, her tongue flicking across her lips. She took a swallow of hot water and enveloped him with her mouth. His erection swelled. She curled her tongue expertly, making him groan.

Soon she stopped and slipped two ice cubes into her mouth. When she again enveloped him his erection began to subside. He moaned, looking down at her. But with the second mouthful of hot water his erection swelled even more. Three times the girl repeated the process, fingers teasing, tongue flickering, writhing, twisting, hair swaying, each time driving Eberhardt nearer to climax. Finally he pressed the bell push and a beam of light stabbed the gloom. The film began unrolling. Clasping the girl’s head in his hands, pulling her further to him, Eberhardt leaned forward, his eyes fixed upon the screen, reading every word of the German subtitles although he knew them by heart.

The print, old now and scratched in places, never failed to excite him. It was one of many made by the Nazis. The film, much prized, had been given to him by a German friend. ‘Something to warm you on those cold Geneva nights,’ he had joked.

The film depicted a chilling scene. There were four people in a small, cell-like room. One of them, a young dark-haired man, his face and torso bloodied, was in a chair, his hands tied behind him. Two other men, both in black SS uniforms, were taking turns beating him with truncheons.

On a single bed in the background lay a young woman, naked, her hands also tied. She was screaming. When the beating finished the SS men turned the young man’s chair around so that it faced the bed. Removing his tunic and boots one of the SS men dropped his breeches and approached the woman on the bed.

While the Nazi forced himself into her, the young man, struggling violently, tried to look away. He could not. The other captor held his head tightly, forcing him to watch.

Hypnotized by what he was seeing, his pulse throbbing, his breath laboured, the blood pounding in his ears, Eberhardt suddenly groaned and came with such force that he almost slid from the chair. After a moment the girl rose and tiptoed from the room.

When Eberhardt looked at the screen again the other man was on the woman. The prisoner in the chair now sat without moving, apparently in shock. As the SS man climaxed, his body shuddering, the woman beneath him spat in his face. Rearing back, the man struck her savagely causing blood to gush from her nose. He continued striking her.

When his companion finally rose from the moaning woman, the first SS man, dressed now, took out his revolver and fired once into the head of each victim.

Transfixed, Eberhardt watched until the film ran off the spool. He rose shakily. Taking the film he went next door to dress. His shoes and socks, now dry, awaited him. Before leaving he placed an envelope on the day bed.

In an upstairs room Jasmine watched as he accelerated away down the drive. She turned to her employer. ‘That film.’ She shuddered. ‘He’s sick, that man.’

‘You saw it?’

‘Genevieve told me.’

‘He’s a good customer,’ the older woman said.

They stood together watching the lights of the Renault as it reached the end of the drive and turned down the private road.

Madame Valdoni shook her head. ‘And he still thinks we don’t know who he is.’

She laughed softly.

Chapter 2

Eberhardt arrived early at his office the next morning. He had slept well, relaxed after his visit to Madame Valdoni’s. But he was apprehensive about the meeting he had arranged with his partner, Georges di Marco. Confrontations of any kind were not to his liking.

Sipping the first of the many morning coffees his secretary, Marte, brought him, he let his eyes wander down to the street below.

Even the most chauvinistic citizens of Geneva agreed that the rue de Hesse was an unremarkable thoroughfare. But Eberhardt had loved it ever since he first stood on the corner by the Café des Banques trying to decide whether to move his bank there from its original location in the rue du Rhône. It was that or the rue de la Corraterie, supposedly the most respectable financial address in Geneva. In the end he had opted for the rue de Hesse – already the home of the Banque Privée de Edmond Rothschild – and he had never regretted it. There his bank had grown and prospered to the point where it was now a major player in the world’s money markets. And he, at the age of seventy-seven, was one of the most respected bankers in Europe.

Many foreigners, Eberhardt knew, thought of Switzerland as a land of watches, chocolates and cuckoo clocks. But what made Switzerland work, what gave it its independence and its prestige, were the banks. There were the three great commercial banks, Credit Suisse, Union Bank and the Swiss Bank Corporation. And there were the private banks – Lombard Odier, Pictet, Rothschild, Darier, Hentsch and Eberhardt.

The private bankers of Geneva thought of themselves as an élite group. They belonged to the Groupement, the association of Geneva private bankers, the most exclusive sector in the Swiss financial system. And they had something else in common. They were all, without exception, paranoid about secrecy, fearing rightly that its abolition would lead to a wholesale withdrawal of the trillions in marks, dollars, pounds, lire and yen invested with them. Secrecy, in fact, was the law. Clause 47(b) of the 1934 Banking Act set out stiff penalties – fines and a jail sentence – for any bank director or employee who gave away secrets.

Foreign bankers liked to point out that Swiss bankers had a poor record in forecasting movements in the stock markets. The Swiss argued back that with them the emphasis was on security rather than spectacular performance in portfolio management. And bankers like Eberhardt were quick to reiterate how much more prudent they were than American bankers, who, in his words, ‘seemed intent on throwing away clients’ money’.

But Swiss bankers could no longer afford to be smug. A billion-dollar money laundering racket had resulted in the resignation of Switzerland’s Justice Minister. And the scandal at Credit Suisse, which had written off $700 million after fraud at its branch in Chiasso, had thrown doubt on Switzerland’s reputation for prudence. Then came the jail sentence handed out to Robert Leclerc, whose private bank collapsed. No one was particularly surprised at the judge’s decision; malpractice by a partner in a private bank rated just below murder in the eyes of the Swiss authorities. Eberhardt had no concerns about his own establishment, which was the third most prestigious private bank in Switzerland. His worry was the shadow that lay over the life he had built for himself in Geneva. And the fact that the man on his way up to see him knew what it was.

Georges di Marco had joined the Banque Eberhardt just before the Second World War, leaving the prestigious firm of M. M. Warburg and Co. And he had stayed with the bank as its fortunes rose, despite attractive offers to go elsewhere. He was a good banker with the right attributes: boldness, instinct, judgement and knowledge. And because Swiss law required at least two partners to head a private bank, Eberhardt had eventually elevated him to full partner.

Now this.

When di Marco walked in, Eberhardt rose to greet him. He was a small man with a long mournful face and wispy white hair. Eberhardt had often thought he looked more like an undertaker than a banker.

‘You know why I am here, Paul …’ Di Marco took a chair on the other side of the desk.

‘A friendly talk, I trust.’ Eberhardt forced a smile.

‘Paul, I am due to retire soon. I have been with the bank a long time – almost as long as you. I have served it well –’

‘You have served it brilliantly.’

‘I cannot leave without a clear conscience.’

Eberhardt mustered another bleak smile. ‘Georges, we have been through this so often …’

‘And I have always given in to your wishes.’

‘Come now, Georges.’ Confronted by the frail little man, Eberhardt felt some of his confidence returning. ‘It’s not a question of giving in. We are friends; partners. I respect your position. You know that. But we’re talking about something that happened years ago. It’s dead; forgotten. What you are suggesting would ruin the bank.’

‘We would survive.’

‘Survive?’ Eberhardt said heavily. ‘Georges, I have not come this far merely to survive.’ He picked up his gold pen from the desk and toyed with it. ‘Next year I will chair the International Bankers’ Conference in Vienna. I have a reputation to protect.’ He leaned forward. ‘Dine with me tonight. We will go to the Lion d’Or. Talk it over. Like old times …’

‘I’m sorry, Paul.’ The little man looked at his hands. ‘I have made my decision. I am going to talk to the authorities.’

Eberhardt tried to ignore the uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. A frisson of anxiety made the side of his mouth twitch.

‘Georges, please, what kind of talk is that among friends?’ He paused. ‘What you need is a break. Take a few weeks off. Somewhere warm.’ He tried to inject some enthusiasm into his voice. ‘Friends of mine have a house in Puerto Vallarta. I could call them. You’d like Mexico.’

‘You don’t understand,’ di Marco said. ‘What I’m looking for is peace of mind.’

‘But what you’re suggesting would make everything worse. It would destroy the bank’s reputation …’

‘It would enable me to sleep,’ di Marco said quietly. He looked straight at Eberhardt. ‘You made a decision forty years ago to say nothing to the Government when enquiries began. I begged you then to speak up. You refused. Out of loyalty I have kept quiet all this time.’

‘I appreciate that,’ Eberhardt said. ‘Even so –’

‘We are partners,’ the old man said. ‘I have some say.’

‘My dear Georges,’ Eberhardt leaned forward, ‘of course you do. But you must think of the consequences.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘When I started this bank there were 150 private banks in Switzerland. How many are there today? Twenty. Look at the clients we have – Robert Brand, Marie de Boissy, Francine Rochas, Max Schröder. World-famous names. We have survived because we are a fine bank, widely respected. Much of that respect was earned by your good work. You are a great banker, Georges. How can you think of throwing it all away now?’

‘I won’t change my mind, Paul.’ Di Marco got to his feet and began to walk towards the door.

‘I ask you again to consider the consequences,’ Eberhardt tried as a last shot. ‘Our reputations –’

‘Our consciences would be clear,’ di Marco said. He opened the door and went out.

Watching him go, Eberhardt knew he had lost. He had hoped to prolong the meeting, to reason with di Marco, make him see how foolish it would be to throw away the work of a lifetime. But the old man had already made up his mind. Like the good Catholic he was, he was going to confess his sins – but not to a priest. In doing so he would ruin the reputation Eberhardt had built up over fifty years. He rose wearily and crossed to the window, staring again at the street below. Raindrops were bouncing off the roofs of the cars parked on either side. He stood there for a long time.

Eventually, Eberhardt buzzed his secretary.

‘I’m leaving in a moment, Marte. Have the garage bring round my car.’

‘Immediately, Monsieur Eberhardt.’

He sat down in his chair again. He had been through this all before with André Leber, one of his account officers who, through diligence and hard work, had graduated to the bank’s executive committee before retiring. Leber had been after money, of course. And Eberhardt had been unwise enough to pay him. Ten thousand francs a month for five years. Just thinking about it upset him. It would have gone on and on had he not finally mustered enough courage to end it.

Now he would have to do the same thing with Georges di Marco. Crossing the room he opened his private safe and removed a black address book. Tucked inside was a slip of paper with a name on it. Eberhardt looked at it for a moment before putting it in his jacket pocket and closing the safe.

He would call the man from home, he decided. He prayed he was still available.

Chapter 3

At the same time that Paul Eberhardt was heading for home, Robert Brand’s Gulfstream IV was landing in the rain at Paris’s Charles de Gaulle Airport.

Staring out of the window at the glistening runway Brand had begun to feel better. That morning, getting out of bed in Geneva, an attack of dizziness had made him sway on his feet. Alarmed, he had waited until noon and called his doctor in New York.

‘Look,’ Rex Kiernan said, ‘it’s probably nothing serious. Maybe you got up too quickly. How’s your hearing?’

‘Fine. Why?’

‘Could be an inner ear problem. Want me to recommend someone over there?’

‘I haven’t the time. Anyway, I’ll be home soon.’

‘You should slow down,’ Kiernan said. ‘I keep telling you that. What is it – a year since your attack? All that trauma? Takes time. At our age the body heals more slowly …’

In Robert Brand’s opinion he had slowed down since his heart attack. At that time Kiernan had advised complete rest.

‘This is your life we’re talking about,’ he said. ‘You’re sixty-three years old. You’ve been through a terrible experience. Why don’t you use that damn great yacht of yours and take a long cruise, do nothing for a few months?’

Brand had agreed that he would. But the month-long cruise of the Mediterranean with a couple of business friends had only served to increase his sense of loss.

Trapped in a sterile and unhappy relationship for many years, Robert Brand, a handsome, energetic man, had almost abandoned hope of ever enjoying a romantic and emotional relationship with a woman. Instead he had allowed himself a succession of brief affairs, most of them unsatisfactory. Then one evening, in the bar of the Athenaeum Hotel in London, he had been introduced to Jane Summerwood.

The attraction had been immediate. She had left with friends that evening, but he had managed to track her down. And, in the ensuing weeks, they had fallen in love.

Within three months he had made up his mind. He would ask his wife for a divorce – regardless of the consequences – and marry Jane, a decision hastened by the discovery that she was pregnant. He could still remember her face, flushed with happiness, when he took her down Bond Street to buy the engagement ring.

He had told only one person of his plan, his friend Bobby Koenig. Koenig had encouraged him. ‘Go for it,’ he said. ‘You have one life. Don’t waste it.’

A month later Jane was found dead in a London park. The police, with no clues, had put it down to another senseless random murder.

And within weeks Brand, almost immobilized with grief, suffered a heart attack. At first he was forced to rest, but then, ignoring Rex Kiernan’s warnings, he had plunged back into work. And, until that morning in Geneva, felt reasonably fit.

According to the latest Fortune magazine, he was now the sixth richest man in America. A workaholic, he spent most of his time on the top floor of the thirty-storey black glass building on Madison Avenue where the Brand Corporation was based. There, he put in a fourteen-hour day, overseeing a business empire with interests in oil, shipping, hotels, food processing and drugs.

‘The Man Who Has Everything’, Business Week dubbed him in a piece that was laudatory but glaringly short of facts, for Brand never gave interviews and provided no biography for inquisitive journalists. Even the accompanying photograph was an old one.

Brand knew that success usually came either through an accident of birth or the sheer power of will. But in his case it was both. At twenty-two, with $50 million inherited from his father, he had tasted the heady fruits of power and found them to his liking.

Calculating risks to the nth degree he flew in and out of the world’s capitals making deals and increasing his fortune. He took gambles that even the biggest banks balked at. With the Pacific Rim booming, he waited until Indonesia’s currency became convertible and then invested heavily, knowing the country was rich in natural resources. Within two years his investment had tripled. He then moved into the Finnish market, which was underpriced, and doubled his money within a year. Then, anticipating the dollar’s fall, he invested heavily in other currencies.

Since Jane’s death, however, he found himself deriving less and less satisfaction from the mere making of money. He wanted someone, or something, to change his life, to set him on a new course.

Speeding down the neon-lit autoroute into Paris he lay back against the chill leather of the limousine and closed his eyes. He realized he had never felt so lonely in his life.

Georges di Marco awoke suddenly. He glanced at the clock by his bedside. It was 2.30 a.m. He had been asleep less than two hours. Touching his forehead he realized it was damp with perspiration. The dream. It was always the same. Ghosts from the past, jeering, pointing fingers. And money, stacks of it, scattering in the wind as he tried to count it. He sat up, switching on the bedside light. I’m an old man, he thought; I should be sleeping soundly. My conscience should be clear. Instead I awake in dread.

For a moment, as a spasm of nausea assailed him, he feared he might be sick, and reached for a handkerchief. What’s the matter with me? he thought, on the edge of panic. Why is this happening? He took a drink of water from the glass on his bedside table.

I must tell someone, he decided. That man with the Federal Banking Commission – Albert-Jean Cristiani – I will call him. Take him to dinner. Ask his advice. Produce the diary, perhaps. He will know what I should do. He will realize I am an honourable man.

He bunched the pillows beneath his head. Switching off the light he closed his eyes, hoping for sleep.

Chapter 4

Julia Lang had thought herself prepared for the encounter, for the time when she would have to face him again, but now that the moment had arrived, now that he was standing there in the lobby of London’s Burlington Hotel talking to one of the guests, she was swept by a feeling of such revulsion that for a moment she feared she might be physically sick.

It had been-sixteen years since their last meeting and seeing him again it seemed to her that he had not changed at all. The same aristocratic stance, hands behind his back; the same black hair brushed straight back; the same rimless spectacles. And the same dark grey suiting with a light blue tie.

Her face set, she walked towards him.

He turned, pivoting on one foot. ‘Miss Lang. Good morning.’ It was as if nothing had ever happened; he might have been greeting her after an absence of a day instead of all those years.

He turned to the elderly American by his side. ‘Mr Elliott, this is Julia Lang, Publicity Director for the hotel.’

The American looked approvingly at Julia’s shoulder-length blonde hair and deep-set grey eyes. In a lobby full of pale-faced people in heavy winter coats she stood out sharply in her forest-green velvet jacket and black skirt.

He smiled warmly. ‘Glad to know you, Miss Lang. I was just telling Mr Moscato here how impressed we are with the Burlington.’

‘Will you be staying in London long?’

‘Just a week. Mrs Elliott wants to see a couple of shows. I want to get some shirts made. Turnbull and Asser – I like their shirts.’

Julia smiled politely. ‘If there’s anything I can do while you’re here …’

‘Thank you, Miss Lang. We’re being looked after very well.’

Julia excused herself and walked back towards the executive offices. She realized with a pang of dismay that just being near Guido Moscato had made her feel soiled. She had not expected that. Well, she would have to come to terms with his presence. It was that or quit; those were her only choices. But she loved her job. And if she walked out with two years left of her contract, her chances of working for another London hotel were slim.

In her office at the end of the corridor, Emma Carswell, her secretary, was waiting with a sheaf of letters to sign. Seeing Julia’s expression, she frowned.

‘You’re looking glum.’

‘I just ran into Moscato,’ Julia said.

Emma groaned. ‘He’s finally here, then.’

‘Arrived yesterday.’

‘Did he say anything?’

Julia shook her head. ‘There was someone with him.’

‘You’re sure he recognized you?’

‘Of course.’

Emma nibbled on her lower lip. ‘Of all people for the Sultan to hire.’

‘He must think Moscato is a good choice,’ Julia said.

‘How did he ever hear of him?’

‘Everyone knows the Palace on Lake Como.’

Emma put the letters on her desk. ‘I still think you should have told the Sultan what happened …’

‘Emma, the Sultan runs this hotel as a business. People’s personal lives don’t come into it.’

She moved round to the other side of her desk and sat down in the swivel chair.

‘Are you going home to change for the party?’ Emma asked.

‘I brought a dress with me.’

She had been looking forward to the cocktail party that evening, planned months earlier to celebrate the fifth anniversary of the Burlington’s reopening after its £40-million face-lift. All the hotel’s guests had been invited, together with people from London’s social and political circles. Julia had even bought herself a black cocktail dress from Louis Féraud, an extravagance she excused by convincing herself it would be useful for other occasions. But with Moscato’s arrival at the hotel much of her earlier enthusiasm had waned.

Emma paused before returning to her own office. ‘Maybe it won’t be so bad,’ she said, her face rather implying the opposite.

Julia mustered a faint smile and reached for her pen.

By 7.30 p.m. the Terrace Room was crowded. Guido Moscato stood just inside the wide mirrored doors greeting guests.

Inside the huge room, bars had been set up at either end. In the centre a buffet table was laden with delicacies prepared by the Burlington’s chef, Gustave Plesset. In a far corner a willowy young man was playing forties melodies on the piano. Blue-jacketed waiters moved among the guests offering canapés and drinks. The buzz of conversation was very loud.

‘Don’t just stand there. Mingle.’

Julia turned. Bryan Penrose, the hotel’s Director of Sales and Marketing, was standing beside her. She smiled. She and Penrose were friends.

‘You’re looking spectacular,’ he said. ‘New dress?’

She nodded.

‘I never want to see you in anything else,’ he said.

He winked at Julia and moved away. Left alone, Julia scanned the room for familiar faces. Someone waved to her from the bar by the window. She recognized Bobby Koenig, an American screenwriter and frequent visitor to the hotel. He was standing talking to an impressive-looking man with grey hair. Julia moved towards him, nodding to people she knew.

‘Julia.’ Koenig grasped her hand warmly. ‘You know this gentleman, of course. He’s paying a fortune for the privilege of staying here. Julia Lang … Robert Brand.’

She was faintly surprised to see Brand there. Although he was not registered under his own name and had requested no publicity, word had soon filtered down through the hotel grapevine that the secretive American billionaire had checked into the Empire Suite.

‘Julia is Publicity Director for the hotel,’ Koenig said. ‘And one of the most eligible women in London.’ He retrieved his champagne glass. ‘She’s single, she speaks fluent Italian and she once got a love letter from Marcello Mastroianni.’ He turned to Julia. ‘Am I right?’

‘You’re impossible,’ Julia laughed. ‘Revealing all my secrets. Anyway, it was Alain Delon.’

‘Close enough,’ Koenig said. ‘Both actors.’

During this banter Brand had not taken his eyes from her. She felt vaguely disturbed by the intensity of his gaze. His eyes, she decided, were the darkest she had ever seen. He was an impressive figure in his beautifully cut dark suit. Impressive and handsome.

‘Bobby tells me you have a new manager,’ Brand said.

‘That’s right.’

‘What happened to the last one?’

‘He died. He was the one who brought me here. Andrew Lattimer. A lovely man.’

‘Where were you before?’

‘The Ambassador Royal.’

Was he really interested, Julia wondered, or just making a polite conversation.

‘Miss Lang …’

She turned. Freddy, one of the barmen, was holding out a glass of champagne.

She shook her head. ‘No thanks.’

‘Oh go on,’ Koenig said. ‘It’s good stuff. Must be costing the hotel a fortune. Mind you, with what Robert’s paying for his suite they can afford it.’

It occurred to Julia that Brand probably had no idea what the suite cost. Such petty details were no doubt handled by his staff. She could not imagine him standing by the cashier’s window filling out traveller’s cheques.

Julia took the glass and put it down at the edge of the bar.

‘You may not know it,’ Koenig said, ‘but Robert owns two of the best hotels in New York – the Raleigh and the Carlton House. He’s always trying to recruit new talent for them. So watch yourself.’

‘Tim Perrin’s at the Raleigh?’ Julia asked.

‘He is,’ Brand said. ‘And doing a fine job. You know him?’

‘He was assistant manager here.’

‘We’re very pleased with him. You must come and see us when you’re next in New York.’ Brand glanced around the room. ‘You put all this together?’

‘Most of it.’

‘You got a great turnout.’

‘Free drink,’ Koenig said drily. ‘Never fails. Anyway, Julia has magic powers.’

‘I believe it,’ Brand said. He had hardly taken his eyes from her. How old was he, she wondered. Early sixties? It was hard to tell, he exuded such energy. ‘I suppose everyone tells you you could be Grace Kelly’s kid sister?’

Julia, never comfortable with compliments, flushed slightly. ‘Not everyone,’ she said.

‘I knew her years ago,’ Brand said. ‘Wonderful woman. Before Rainier came along, of course. I couldn’t compete with a prince.’ He looked at Julia intently. ‘Any princes in your life, Miss Lang?’

‘Mine’s on the way, according to my horoscope,’ she said, laughing.

‘You know what the French say?’ Brand chuckled. ‘Every woman waits for the right man to come along. In the meantime she gets married.’

‘You’re sure that’s what the French say?’ Julia said.

‘Positive.’

Was he flirting with her? She hoped so.

She needed a morale boost after her encounter with Moscato. And Robert Brand was one of the most charismatic men she had ever met. She felt a surge of attraction towards him and was disconcerted. This was a cocktail party for the hotel. He was a guest; she an employee. She must not forget it.

‘If the peasants could see us now,’ Koenig said, surveying the room, ‘they’d be lining up the tumbrels outside.’

‘We don’t do this very often,’ Julia said.

‘Well you should,’ Koenig replied. ‘Give me the excuse to come here more often. I love this town.’

‘Can’t think why,’ Brand laughed. ‘It’s freezing cold and it rains all the time.’

‘What a masterly summing up of one of the world’s great cities,’ Koenig said, deadpan.

‘Well, it’s true,’ Brand insisted.

‘It’s the last truly civilized city on earth,’ Koenig said. ‘A cornucopia of pleasures. New York is violent and vicious … Paris is too desperately chic … Rome is bedlam-’

‘So is London,’ Brand said. ‘I don’t understand what you see in the place.’

‘I told you. It’s civilized.’ Julia watched Koenig, amused, as he got into his stride. ‘Remember Sam Danovich, the producer? The great Sam? He brought me here thirty years ago to do a rewrite on a script. He loved it here. He said, “There’s no other city in the world for the cultivated man.” By the time I’d finished the film I agreed with him.’

‘On the basis of what?’

‘The conversation, for one thing. People here talk about ideas.’

‘Give me an example,’ Brand said.

‘Well, just last night at dinner the woman next to me asked if I thought it was mere coincidence that none of the great philosophers – Spinoza, Kant, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche – was married –’

‘You are too easily impressed, my friend,’ Brand said. ‘A little Reader’s Digest trivia can hardly be categorized as good conversation.’

‘Sneer all you like,’ Koenig said. ‘All I know is that back home in Los Angeles we’d have been asking people which dermatologist they used and how much the new addition to their house cost.’

‘Both subjects of considerable interest,’ Brand chuckled. ‘Particularly if you live in a tiny house and have spots all over your face.’

‘I’m being serious,’ Koenig protested.

‘So am I,’ Brand replied. ‘I promise you there are plenty of idiots here too.’

‘Agreed,’ Koenig said. ‘But there’s one other great thing about London: you don’t need an Uzi by your bedside to feel secure.’

Brand turned to Julia. ‘Our friend tends to exaggerate, as you’ve noticed. But then he’s a writer.’

‘Sorry, Mr Brand. I agree with Bobby. I love London too.’

‘New York is much more exciting.’

‘A morally bankrupt city,’ Koenig said. ‘With a social world made up of fools who consider it desirable to associate with people simply because they are rich.’

‘Are you suggesting they don’t do that in Los Angeles?’

‘Only morons,’ Koenig said easily. ‘Morons and movie stars.’

Brand glanced round the room. ‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Look who’s over there. Jack Blacklock. Black Jack himself. We must go and say hello.’ He turned to Julia. ‘I enjoyed talking with you, Miss Lang. Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

‘I hope so,’ Julia said.

Koenig smiled and squeezed her arm. Watching them leave, Julia felt curiously deflated. Brand had such a powerful presence it was as if she had been left in a vacuum.

Looking round she saw Moscato approaching. She felt a sense of dread.

‘I saw you talking with Mr Brand,’ he said. ‘Does he seem happy with the hotel?’

‘Perfectly.’ She turned abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to talk to the reporters outside. They’ll need some details of the party.’

She wove her way through the crowded room towards the door, taking a last glance at Brand and Koenig, who were deep in conversation with a tall, flamboyant-looking man wearing an eye-patch. They did not look her way.

The rain had eased as Julia left the hotel. Only a few reporters still stood around, hunched in their raincoats. Two of them nodded to her.

As she walked down the steps, she called goodnight to Henry Wilson, the uniformed night doorman.

‘Good night, Miss Lang.’

Henry liked Julia. She always had a cheery word for him – unlike some of the other hotel executives. After six years he knew quite a lot about Julia Lang. He knew she was thirty-three and unmarried. He knew how conscientious she was; how late she often worked. He liked the way she held herself, the way she dressed. She was, in his book, a very stylish lady. He had even met her boyfriend, Michael Chadwick. Nice enough, but not good enough for her.

Tonight she seemed preoccupied. Working too hard, he decided, stepping forward to open the taxi door for a late arrival.

At 11 p.m. on Friday in Geneva, Paul Eberhardt picked up the telephone in his study and dialled the number of Georges di Marco.

‘Georges, I’m sorry to worry you so late but there are a couple of papers here that require your signature.’

‘My signature?’ The old man’s voice was vague. He sounded as if he’d been dozing. ‘Surely it can wait until Monday?’

‘I’m afraid not. I must express them to New York tomorrow. Don’t distress yourself. I’ll send someone round with them.’

‘It’s very late, Paul. I was about to retire …’

‘I realize that, but this is really urgent. I wouldn’t dream of bothering you otherwise. I’d bring them round myself but I am still at the office.’

‘What papers are they, Paul? I don’t recall –’

‘The de Boissy estate.’

‘I thought that was all settled.’

‘There are a couple of loose ends.’

‘Very well. Send them round.’

‘The messenger will wait and bring them back.’ Eberhardt paused. ‘You haven’t had second thoughts, I suppose?’

‘Second thoughts?’

‘Our discussion the other morning.’

‘No, Paul. No second thoughts.’

‘Then you must do what you think is right, Georges. We must all do what we think is right.’

When the buzzer sounded di Marco pressed the button to open the street entrance and unlocked the door of his apartment. He went into the bedroom to remove his comfortable slippers and put on more formal black shoes.

When he returned to the living room he was surprised to find the messenger standing by the open door with a large envelope in his hand.

‘I did knock,’ the man said.

‘That’s all right. Come in, come in. I just have to sign a couple of papers.’

He took the envelope from the messenger, a burly young man, and went over to the desk by the window. Inside the envelope were two blank sheets of paper. He turned, bewildered.

‘There’s nothing –’

Before he could finish his arms were pinioned behind him and tape was wrapped around his wrists. He let out a whimper of fear.

‘What are you doing?’

Before he could say more another tape was pasted over his mouth.

Eyes wide with fright, the old man was hustled out of his apartment. The door slammed behind him.

The morning following the cocktail party Julia had arranged to have breakfast with an American travel writer and take him on a tour of the hotel. When she finally got to her office Emma was waiting for her.

‘I hear it was a great success,’ she said. ‘Everyone was there.’

‘Not everyone,’ Julia said. ‘The Foreign Secretary didn’t make it.’

‘Oh pooh,’ Emma sniffed. ‘Who cares about him? Robert Brand was there, wasn’t he? Imagine him turning up.’

‘Life is full of surprises.’

There was a pile of messages on Julia’s desk, together with that morning’s mail.

‘Anything important?’ She flicked through the notes.

Emma held up a letter. ‘There’s an invitation to speak on public relations at the annual conference of the International Travel and Tourism Research Association in Acapulco. Expenses paid.’

‘Acapulco,’ Julia signed. ‘Wouldn’t I just love to do that. But how can I get away now?’

‘Tell Moscato to get stuffed and go.’

‘Don’t tempt me.’

Emma chuckled. ‘So what shall I tell them?’

‘When is the conference?’

Emma consulted the letter. ‘A couple of months’ time.’

‘Don’t reply just yet. Who knows what’s going to happen?’

Emma turned to go. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a bottle of champagne in your bottom drawer. Came an hour ago.’

After Emma returned to her own office Julia opened the drawer. Wrapped in Cellophane was a bottle of Krug ’81. Thank you for inviting me, the card read. It was signed: Robert Brand.