“Then why is he withdrawing the bulk of his money?”
“That’s his business, Herr Hoffmann. Not yours.”
Gabriel had spoken in German. The banker responded in the same language. “And what is the nature of your relationship with Mr. Knight, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I’m restoring a painting for him.”
“Not the Bellotto?”
“He mentioned it?”
“I handled the payment. It seemed a bit high for a Bellotto, if you ask me, but Edward was insistent.” Peter Hoffmann swiveled round in his chair and watched a Number 11 tram slithering silently along the Bahnhofstrasse. “He’s not in some sort of trouble, is he?”
“Edward? Not at all.”
“His business appears to be thriving.”
“Firing on all cylinders,” Gabriel chimed in.
“So why is he converting his portfolio to cash?”
“I’m afraid that’s—”
“None of my affair?”
Gabriel was silent.
“I’ve been handling Edward’s money for more than ten years,” said Peter Hoffmann, his tone indignant. “And if the truth be told, I’ve done very well by him.”
Gabriel decided to probe a bit. “He tells me that you attended Cambridge with his wife.”
“That’s correct. Alice is the one who convinced Edward to hire me.”
“Seen her lately?”
“As a matter of fact, I bumped into her quite by chance on Ibiza a few days ago. She was there with a few of our old friends from Cambridge. It’s an annual thing.”
“What’s that?”
“A summer holiday together. Alice apparently rented the biggest house on the island.”
Gabriel returned to the topic at hand—the exact amount of cash in Edward Knight’s accounts at Bank Josef Bänzinger & Co.
“Three hundred and ninety million dollars,” replied Peter Hoffmann. “Give or take. The rest of the portfolio is locked up in bonds, equities, and other complex financial instruments.”
“Mr. Knight’s time is in short supply.”
“When does he need the money?”
“Close of business today.” Gabriel rose from the chair, signaling the meeting had come to an end. “And don’t even think about leaving the office until you hear from me.”
“I’m afraid I have an engagement this evening.”
“Cancel it,” said Gabriel, and walked out.
The kidnappers had promised to make contact again at six that evening. Gabriel and Ingrid waited them out in their adjoining suites at the Baur au Lac. They nibbled on a room service lunch, they watched a dreadful British police drama on television, they stalked and paced and stared at the blue waters of the Zürichsee. Ingrid tried to assure Gabriel that the end was near, that Alice would soon be free. Gabriel, who refused to be mollified, told Ingrid about the last abduction case he had handled. The victim, he explained, was a young girl, the daughter of an immensely rich and powerful man. The kidnappers had strapped a bomb to her before the handover. It had blown her to pieces before Gabriel and her father could reach her.
“Dear God,” whispered Ingrid.
