That Will Do Nicely (15 page)

“Do you really expect us to believe that?"

“It's the truth. I went to a conference at the Grosvenor Hotel here in London, just before the holiday and they were dishing them out like confetti."

“I think we'd better start at the beginning Mr. Freiburg. When did you arrive in London?"

That afternoon, while Pascoe and Sam sampled the delights of Paris, a few miles across town, T.T. Ford arrived back at his hotel just off the Champs Elysee.

"Monsieur Ford, I 'ave a telegram for you. I believe it is urgent." The desk clerk called to him before he stepped into the lift.

Ford took the telegram from the clerk. The news was serious - his wife had been involved in a car accident while visiting her sister in Fort Worth and was in a serious condition in the Memorial Hospital there.

"Can you make up my bill please. There's been an accident and I will have to return home right away. See if you can get me on the next available flight to Fort Worth or Dallas."

"Of course m'sieur. Je suis desolé."

Sam and Pascoe finished th
eir sight-seeing trip on the 'bâteau mouche' at the 'Pont Neuf' jetty and crossed to the right bank of the Seine and strolled as lovers towards the 'Chatelet' metro station. The trees were budding and the fragrance of fresh blossom filled the air - it felt good to be alive. Soon, the anonymous buildings on their left, gave way to the splendour of the 'place de l'Hotel de Ville' - the Town Hall of Paris. Pascoe steered Sam away from the river and made for the 'Hotel de Ville' metro station.

Inside the underground complex, they made their way to the Gare de Lyon where they reserved a seat for Sam the following day.

"Why, must we leave now? I was just beginning to enjoy myself."

"I feel the same way too. In fact, I can feel myself fall
... " Pascoe didn't finish the sentence.

"You can feel yourself what?"

"Nothing Sam, forget it."

"Forget it? It almost sounded as though you were about to make a commitment."

"Maybe I was."

"And would that be so terrible?"

"Of course not. It's just that we still have things to finish, to concentrate on before we can get on with our lives. It's not easy for me either."

"O.K. What time does it leave in the m
orning? Not too early I hope?" asked Sam.

"10.41 sharp, so don't be late."

"And what time does it get in?"

"It arrives at a place called Culoz at 13.29 and you will have three minutes to make the connection to Geneva, where it's scheduled to arrive at 14.25."

“That sounds fine, but you'd better explain what you want me to do when I get there."

"Go to the Hotel des Bergues and book a suite in your own name. Once you have settled in, I want you to find us a bank and a lawyer and make an appointment for me at each office for the following day, at a reasonable time."

"What do I tell them if they ask the purpose of the appointment?"

"Just tell them that we wish to open a deposit account. If he starts to ask too many questions ask him to wait until he sees me. As for the lawyer, tell him that I need someone to be able to act on my behalf, in Switzerland, with my power of attorney. If you get too many questions, hint about large amounts of money being involved."

"All right, but in the meantime, what will you be doing?"

"I shall be going to Brussels, to open another bank account."

"Why?"

"So that we can instruct the Provincial Bank in London where to send our money."

"Then why open the account in Geneva?"

"To muddy the waters. The money can be transferred electronically, from one bank to the other, but it is traceable. Remember in '84, the sequestrators traced the National Union of Miners' funds to a bank Brussels, but it took them days to get the co-operation of the Belgians. Even if they pick that lead up and follow it, we will already have transferred that money into the Swiss account
... "

"And from there, what happens?"

"We get our lawyer to take it out of the Swiss account, change it into bearer bonds send it to somewhere exotic to open another account for us, where we will be able to draw the money safely."

"Such as."

"Brazil perhaps or Acapulco."

"You’re serious
... "

"Aren't I always?"

"Why go to all that trouble?"

"Because the banks don't like giving out information on customers. It's bad for their image and lawyers are bound by their oath. Even if they eventually trace the money to Brazil or somewhere, there are no extradition treaties for this sort of crime. Remember Ronnie Biggs
... they couldn't extradite him."

"I thought that was because of his son?"

"You're right, it was. I'll do some checking, but for now we'd better head back for the hotel and get ready for this evening."

They arrived at the 'Lido de Paris' in the Champs Elycees shortly before eight that evening. The foyer was bursting with a mixture of high rolling tourists and the 'tout-Paris' crowd. A veritable fashion parade passed by in front of them and Sam cast an envious eye over the haut-couture styles.

"I do believe you're envious," remarked Pascoe."I can't imagine why."

"Those dresses are gorgeous," s
aid Sam.

"They haven't got anything that you haven't and now you can afford to dress with the best of them."

"But that's another time. I'm here tonight. I might never get here again, might never get the chance to show off a beautiful dress."

"You look pretty damn good to me and when we've finished all our business, I'll take you shopping and we'll buy ourselves a whole new wardrobe."

At the mention of the chef's name to the maitre d'hotel they were escorted to one of the best tables in the house. The meal that followed was superb... bouillon, frogs legs, coquille St. Jacques preceded the main course of a medallion steak cooked to perfection and accompanied by a '66 Chateau Margaux.

The show itself was a knockout, some 40 showgirls and male dancers, singers and
specialty acts giving their all. The center of the stage was interchangeable, disappearing from view during production numbers, only to reappear as a swimming pool or ice-skating rink. The best was saved for the finale, when, in true showbiz fashion, with everyone on stage, a waterfall swept down from the rear of the stage at a height of some 10 feet and cascaded around the artistes. Neither of them had ever seen anything like it. It was a show to remember as was the bill of more than £100.

The journey back to the hotel was magical, giving them a sparkling glimpse of the city at night, the crowds in the streets were happy, singing, drinking and dancing. Although neither of them would admit it, they had fallen in love in Paris, both with each other and with the city itself.

Their lovemaking that night was different. No longer was Pascoe the passive partner, but the aggressor. Not that Sam had lost any of her enthusiasm, but new life had been reborn into him. For the first time in her life Sam wanted to be dominated by her man, welcomed it. In fact, the passions released within them were so unlike anything either of them had ever felt, that neither of them wanted to stop. There was no conversation between them. No sweet nothings murmured in each-others' ears, just passion... lust... and energetic couplings to the sounds of half silent screams. Eventually, exhaustion claimed them both and they shuddered into a deep sleep.

Separate ways

Next morning, over breakfast, Pascoe ran through the plans for the day, making sure that Sam knew what she had to do. Afterwards, he collected the briefcases and his flight bag from the bedroom and walked with Sam to the Gare du Nord, where he knew he would find a taxi to take him to the airport.

"You're sure you know what to do darling?" He asked.

"Yes. Sure. When will you get to Geneva?"

"Sometime this evening. There's a direct flight by Sabena. As long as things go smoothly I should make it all right." They said their good-byes and Pascoe took the first available cab and told the driver to head for Charles de Gaulle airport. A feeling of emptiness flooded over Sam as she watched her man leave and she needed all her willpower to get back to the hotel, pack and make her own way to the Gare de Lyon.

Pascoe made it to the airport with time to spare before his 9.40 a.m. Air France flight to Brussels. By the time the Train de Grande Vitesse left the Gare de Lyon at 10.41, Pascoe was already in Brussels.

The immigration officer at Brussels International airport took Pascoe's proffered passport and flipped it open to the 'observations' page.

"English?"

"Half-American on my father's side actually." The official smiled and returned the passport. He wasn’t so lucky at customs.

"Anything to declare?"

"No."

"What is the purpose of your visit?"

"Business."

"How long will you be in Belgium?"

"Just today."

"Is there something wrong with our country?"

"I don't know. This is my first visit to it."

"Then why do you stay only one day."

"It is all the time that I have at the moment, but I intend to come back for a longer visit if things work out well today," said Pascoe, hoping that humoring the man would stop him being searched.

"What is in the suitcase?"

"Some personal and business papers and some money."

"Open, please."

Pascoe felt as if someone had walked over his grave. The official lifted the loose top papers from the case and stared at the piles of notes.

"How much money do you bring in to Belgium?"

"There's £25,000 in this case. Have I committed an offence?"

"Not unless you have robbed a bank!" The customs officer joked. Pascoe felt the
color drain from his face and prayed it didn't show. There was a delay of several seconds before the official started laughing. Pascoe was only too pleased to join in the fun.

"Do you wa
nt me to open the other case?" he asked, when the laughter had subsided.

"Why, what's in that one
... more of the same?"

"Of course."

"It's pointless me looking then. You may go." Pascoe accepted his chance of escape and moved clear of the customs lounge. The sense of humor of the Belgians and the French eluded him. Perhaps he would only ever understand them after living with them. He bought 30,000 Belgian francs at the exchange office before leaving the terminal building.

It took him a little while to find a taxi-driver who spoke good English and only then by encouraging the drivers with a 1,000 Belgian franc note. Once they were on the move, Pascoe explained what he was looking for.

"Can you to take me to a bank which has a reputation for being discreet?”

"Of course, monsieur, you want a bank which doesn't ask too many questions."

"That's right, I've got a French wife who's divorcing me to run off with her young lover and I want somewhere to put my life savings; somewhere safe, out of the way where her lawyers can't find them or get at them."

"You don't have to tell me about women. I know just the place." The car pulled up outside a medium sized bank, called the Belgaebank. The driver asked him to wait and disappeared inside the building. Presently he came out and beckoned Pascoe to follow him inside. The interior was designed in open plan style. No anti-bandit screens stretching from counter to ceiling, just the all seeing eye of a roving television camera, constantly sweeping the length and breadth of the room.

Pascoe was ushered towards the door to the manager's office by the cab-driver.

"Entré
e." A voice responded to Pascoe's discreet knock.

He was relieved to hear the French word spoken as it could easily have been Flemish, the city being divided by the two languages.

Pascoe felt himself pushed inside the room by the cabbie's eager helping hand. The introductions were quickly made by the driver who then left to wait outside.

"Monsieur, I am at your service, said the middle-aged manager. My name is Rodolphe. Monsieur Xavier, the taxi-driver tells me something of your difficulties with your wife and that he has recommended me to you because he knows I will be discreet. How can I help you?"

"It is a simple matter monsieur. I wish to open a deposit account with your bank to effect the transfer of funds from another bank account to it. After a little while, when I am settled, I wish to withdraw these funds from your bank to another and close the account."

"You do not wish to have a compte courant?"

"No, thank you. There is no need."

"Will the funds be transferred from within Belgium."

"No. From the United Kingdom. "The manager made a note on his desk pad.

"Tell me monsieur, how much money are we talking about?"

"In sterling, between £30,000 and £40,000,.. maybe more, if I get a good price."

"And how many transactions will there be?"

"Three or four, Perhaps half a dozen at the most."

For a little while the manager studied the notes on his pad.

"Well monsieur, I think we will be able to do some business together. Tell me, do you wish these transactions to be official or unofficial."

"What's the difference?"

"The difference monsieur is mainly one of price. If you wish we can complete the formalities of opening an ordinary account, in a few days, while I check your references."

"I'm afraid I only have today to complete my arrangements in Belgium."

"Bien! Then, as Ms. Xavier explained to me, you will probably want to have my unofficial service. That is, after all the reason he brought you to me."

"What does that consist of?" a
sked Pascoe.

"No formalities;
no questions, but a much higher price."

"I see, how much higher?"

"I have an arrangement fee of 5% of the expected business, plus a handling charge of 1000 Belgian francs per transaction, plus the usual ancillary charges. The rates they are not negotiable. Are they acceptable?"

"I think they will have to be. I don't seem to have much choice."

"Then I will make the arrangements immediately. What name do you wish the account in."

"Guyton, Reginald Guyton."

"Do you wish to use a special phrase or code word to authenticate any instructions you may have for me."

"Yes, I have a number that will suffice 346365."

"Good. There seems to remain only the question of the arrangement fee to settle. You mentioned the sum of £40,000 I believe?"

"Yes, at most."

"Well 5% of that will come to £2,000 plus an extra £500 to cover the charges etc.," Pascoe opened his briefcase and counted out the money in £20's and £50's and pushed it across the desk to the manager, who locked it away in the drawer of his bureau.

The manager stood up to signal the end of the meeting.

"Thank you for coming to us Mr. Guyton. I hope our arrangements will ease your problems with your wife monsieur."

"My wife?"

"Bien sure, Ms. Xavier told me of your problems with her and if necessary, that is what I shall tell anyone who twists my arm, yes?"

"You are very understanding monsieur."

"That is what you are paying me for. Now, if you would just like to sign this form, giving me your instructions as to the transfer of monies, our business will be concluded."

The formalities took another few minutes and Pascoe noticed that the manager was taking no chances. The worst thing he could be accused of would be carelessness and as he hadn't enquired too closely into Pascoe's reasons and motifs, he would be able to tell the authorities very little when and if such a time ever came.

Outside the bank, Xavier was waiting for Pascoe, sitting on the bonnet of his Peugot 504, reading his newspaper.

"Was my cousin able to help you?"

"Your cousin? I thought perhaps he was your bank manager."

"He is and he's my cousin as well."

"Well we managed to sort out the problems I had, but he knows how to charge for his services."

"He should, he's been charging them long enough. He learned during the war the value of such things and has never forgotten. Where would you like to go now?"

"What time is it?"

"A little after twelve."

"How long is it to the airport?"

"15 to 20 minutes monsieur."

"To the airport then. Now how much do I owe you for this morning," asked Pascoe.

"For the taxi and the waiting time 2,600 francs. As for the introduction. I shall leave that to you."

"Would 5,000 francs be acceptable?" Xavier took the note, worth nearly £70 sterling and slid it into his hip-pocket with a practiced movement.

"That is most acceptable monsieur and when my cousin pays me his commission for the introduction, I shall have done a good day's work. Now I can afford to take the rest of the day off and go visit my mistress. They are so much easier to handle than wives and cheaper too in the long run. You should try one."

"Thanks for the advice. Maybe I will one day."

There was plenty of room on the Sabena flight and with a tail wind the plane touched down at Geneva's Cointrin Airport at 14.20, some ten minutes ahead of schedule. He took the bus to the city center and a taxi to the hotel on the 'quai des Bergues'. He still had an hour and a half to wait for Sam's arrival on the train. She wasn't expecting him until that evening and he surmised that it would be interesting to see her reaction.

He used the time to book a suite at the hotel and to list names and addresses of banks and lawyers in the city. He chose three of each from the telephone directory and changed clothes before leaving to meet Sam.

A large scale map on the wall of the hotel lobby showed him that it was only half a mile to the station. The walk gave him an interesting view of the Swiss. The city was tidy - spotlessly clean; many small shops displayed their wares openly on unguarded pavement stands, something impossible to envisage anywhere else in the world. He sat down at an outside table at the station bar and ordered coffee and cognac, another pleasure almost impossible to enjoy in England waited for Sam.

He was just finishing his second café grand-crème and cognac when the train from Culoz arrived. Like Rolex watches and Tessina cameras, there was a degree of Swiss precision about the timing of its arrival. The platform clock agreed with both train and timetable - a feat rare on the continent, impossible for British Rail, but commonplace for the Swiss. In England, it would have been remarkable to find any two platform clocks to even agree with each other, let alone have one of them telling the truth. At Geneva the trains ran like clockwork. As the clock's second-hand hit 16.44, the carriages came to a final stop.

Pascoe watched from the comfort of his terrace seat, until he caught sight of Sam at the station's entrance. He left a 20 franc note with his bill wedged underneath the ash-tray on his table and crossed the road to intercept her.

"Take yer bags Miss?"
he said gruffly. Sam swung round in the direction of his voice, ready to tell its owner where to go. She had already started to mouth some obscenity when she recognized him.

"What on earth?" h
er surprise was cut short as Pascoe lifted her off her feet and kissed her hungrily on the lips.

"Pleased to see me?" Pascoe asked.

"I missed you."

"Me too. But it was only a day."

"How come you got here so early?"

"I got a flight to Brussels and found a taxi-driver who introduced me to his own bank. The rest was easy and I made a direct flight here to Geneva. How was your trip?"

"That sure is one hell of a train - it touches 186 m.p.h. - incredible."

"Remind me to try it sometime."

After dinner they strolled along the Quai des Bergues, its narrow confines opening out into lake Geneva itself. From their position near the Mont Blanc bridge, they could see across to the magnificent fountains on the far side of the lake. The fountains remained in sight while they walked as far as the Casino. They were tempted to enter and try their luck, but neither of them had the clothes for it and the Casino de Genève was not the sort of place where you could feel at ease in anything less than full evening dress.