The Account. Roderick Mann
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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.
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.’
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