Washington, DC
November 3
11:25 p.m.
The Swiss embassy was alight and active inside when they arrived slightly ahead of a developing storm. Temperatures had dropped and lightning flashed in the distance. The wind had picked up. No rain yet, but Kim could feel dropping atmospheric pressure in her bones. The cab driver said, “I’ll wait, but if you want to make it to Dulles in an hour, you’d better hurry. They’re predicting hail the size of golf balls.”
Kim tried to ignore everything she knew about flying through thunderstorms as she rushed ahead of Gaspar into the glass enclosed center connecting the two brick wings. There was more lightning, followed by deafening thunder, and then wind-whipped rain started to fall. The effect of standing inside the storm while totally shielded and feeling none of nature’s outrage was surreal.
They were escorted quickly to Finlay’s contact, deep in the north wing. The office was decorated as if by ancient financiers. Teak floors, worn orientals, ancient vases. Likely real. As was Wilfred Schmidt, according to his desk nameplate.
Schmidt offered two hard chairs on the other side of his desk. He clasped manicured hands together on a burgundy desk blotter. He had gold links in his starched white cuffs. He spoke precise English, clearly not his first language, and maybe not his second.
“Please excuse the necessary abruptness,” he said. “My schedule is quite full as it is about to be tomorrow in Zurich. I have been instructed to disclose certain information. I am allowed to answer no questions. Agreed?”
Kim nodded because she had no power to demand more.
Herr Schmidt prompted, “Yes?”
Maybe there was an audio recording.
Gaspar said, “Agreed.”
Schmidt launched into rote speech he’d likely delivered to countless customers over the past twelve months. “As you know, Empire Bank of Switzerland will provide a list of depositors and amounts on deposit to U.S. Internal Revenue Service pursuant to new treaties signed by our respective governments. Understand?”
Kim nodded. He waited. She said, “Yes.”
Everyone knew the IRS was salivating like a starving Rottweiler before dinner. Negotiations with Swiss banks and treaties executed the previous year were well publicized all around the world. Looming deadlines for disclosing tax cheats had been preceded by a period of tax amnesty about to expire. Tensions on Wall Street and Main Street and in every criminal enterprise that touched the country had led to panic among legitimate and illegitimate alike.
If Kim’s theories were correct, the same panic had led Sylvia Black to murder her husband. Panic that could lead to solid testimony against Cooper.
Schmidt noticed Kim’s preoccupation. He cleared his throat to bring her back.
He delivered a rehearsed disclaimer next, with appropriate emphasis. “Swiss privacy laws demand strict secrecy. Penalties for privacy violations are severe. Accounts will be revealed precisely as required. Individual depositors are permitted six remaining days to complete satisfactory asset arrangements and agreements with respective governments. We have no information on the status of such activities. Understand?”
“Yes,” Kim said. She understood. The Swiss remained as politically neutral as possible. A policy necessary, some said, to maintaining the most opportunistic country on earth. A friend to everyone is a friend to no one, in Kim’s view, stacks of money regardless.
Schmidt reached the red meat. “Four individual depositors are relevant here. Four numbered accounts and two safety deposit boxes. Contents of boxes are not disclosed to the bank. Understand?”
Gaspar said, “We understand. Who are the four depositors?”
Schmidt passed another sealed redwell across the desk to Kim.
She tore off the shrink wrap, removed the elastic band, pulled out four account statements and two small brass keys affixed to numbered tags. She checked the account names. Susan Kane's on one box made sense. But the others? She blinked. Again. The names didn't change. Charles Cooper, Carlos Gaspar, and Kim Otto. How could that be?
She felt the stomach snake begin to uncoil.
Nothing is ever what you think it is.
Gaspar asked, “Where are the safety deposit boxes located?”
Schmidt said, “Zurich. They’ve been alerted to receive you. Your taxi is waiting.”