“How is the money to be delivered?” asked Knight.
“Wire transfer. They’ll give us the account and routing numbers when it’s time to make the exchange.”
“What are the rules of the road for this sort of thing?”
“The final exchange? There are none,” said Gabriel. “Which means you should prepare yourself for the likelihood that things won’t go smoothly.”
“If you’d like to bow out...”
“We couldn’t possibly make a change now. For better or worse,the kidnappers seem to trust me.” Gabriel paused. “And so does your wife.”
“That leaves the money,” said Knight. “How quickly can you leave for Zurich?”
“Are you sure you want me to handle it?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“I’m not exactly beloved by Swiss bankers.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Knight, and hung up the phone.
19
Bahnhofstrasse
Higgins booked a pair of suites for them at the Baur au Lac Hotel. They stopped there long enough to check in and shed their luggage and then set off along the graceful curve of the Bahnhofstrasse, Zurich’s main artery of commerce and luxury. The headquarters of Bank Josef Bänzinger & Co. were located at Number 42. Gabriel deposited Ingrid at the café next door and headed inside.
A thirtyish woman wearing a dark pencil skirt and matching jacket met him in the lobby and with Swiss discretion escorted him upstairs. Heads turned as they crossed the firm’s trading floor. It was no secret, it seemed, that the bête noire of the Swiss banking industry was in the building.
Peter Hoffmann’s spacious office overlooked the Bahnhofstrasse. He was holding a phone to his ear as Gabriel entered. He bade the person at the other end of the call a hasty farewell and rose to his feet.
“I must admit, Mr. Allon, you’re the last person in the world I expected to see today.”
“Likewise,” replied Gabriel, and grasped Peter Hoffmann’s outstretched hand. The Swiss banker had aged slightly in the time since he had posed for his passport photo but radiated good health. His suit was gray, his necktie silver. Gabriel would not have been surprised to learn that he wore the same attire every day.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Thank you, no,” said Gabriel, and lowered himself uninvited into a stylish Barcelona chair. Peter Hoffmann remained standing a moment longer. He was tall and trim, with a narrow waist and square shoulders. He looked good on his feet, and knew it.
He placed a forefinger to his lips and eyed Gabriel speculatively through his rimless spectacles. “Five hundred million?” he asked at last.
“Dollars,” added Gabriel.
“And what exactly are we going to do with it?”
“We’re going to transfer it to another bank.”
“Which bank?”
“That has yet to be determined.”
Hoffmann was slow in taking his seat. “I can’t send the money to justanybank, Mr. Allon. Swiss anti-money-laundering laws require me to know my customer.”
“Your customer,” said Gabriel, “is Edward Knight.”
“Is he dissatisfied with the way I’m handling his portfolio?”
“Not at all.”
