The Heist (29 page)

She had in her handbag a set of driving instructions, which she removed as they turned off the A1, onto the Atterseestrasse. Gabriel had insisted she carry them, and now, with her conscience in rebellion, she clutched them tightly as she guided Jihan toward her destination. They passed through a small resort town, then through a checkerboard of cultivated land. The lake lay to their left, deep blue and rimmed by green mountains. Dina, playing the role of tour guide, pointed out the tiny island, reached by a jetty, where Gustav Klimt had painted his renowned Attersee landscapes.

Beyond the island was a marina where white sailboats sparkled at their moorings, and beyond the marina was a colony of lakefront villas. Dina feigned a moment of confusion over which one belonged to their host. Then, suddenly, she pointed toward an open gate, as though surprised they had reached it so quickly. Jihan swung the car expertly to the left and headed slowly up the drive. Dina was grateful for the heavy scent of the pine and the flowering vines, for it temporarily overwhelmed the accusatory aroma of Jihan’s perfume. Several cars were parked haphazardly in the shade of the forecourt. Jihan found an empty space and switched off the engine. Then she reached into the backseat to retrieve the flowers and wine she had brought as gifts. As they climbed out of the car, music swelled from an open window: “Trust in Me” by Etta James.

The front door of the villa was open, too. As Dina and Jihan approached, there appeared a man of late middle age with a head of wispy, flyaway hair. He wore a costly dress shirt of French blue, pale linen trousers, and a large gold wristwatch. He was smiling pleasantly, but his brown eyes were watchful, vigilant. Jihan took a few steps toward him and froze. Then her head turned toward Dina, who appeared oblivious to her apprehension. “I’d like you to meet an old friend of my family,” she was saying. “Jihan Nawaz, this is Feliks Adler.”

Jihan remained motionless, unsure of whether to advance or retreat, as the man she knew as Feliks Adler came slowly down the steps. Still smiling, he relieved her of the flowers and wine. Then he looked at Dina.

“I’m afraid Miss Nawaz and I are already acquainted.” His gaze moved from Dina to Jihan. “But she can’t tell you that because it would violate the customs of Austrian private banking.” He paused long enough to hoist another smile. “Isn’t that correct, Miss Nawaz?”

Jihan remained silent. She was staring at the flowers in Herr Adler’s hand.

“It’s not a coincidence I opened an account at Bank Weber the week before last,” he said after a moment. “Nor is it a coincidence you’re here today. You see, Miss Nawaz, Ingrid and I are more than old friends. We’re colleagues, too.”

Jihan shot Dina a dark look of anger. Then she stared again at the man she knew as Herr Adler. When finally she spoke, her voice was hollow with fear.

“What do you want with me?” she asked.

“We have a serious problem,” he replied. “And we need your help in solving it.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Come inside, Jihan. No one can hurt you here.” He smiled and took her gently by the elbow. “Have a glass of wine. Join the party. Meet the rest of our friends.”

In the great room of the villa a table had been laid with food and drink. It had not been touched, so the impression was of a celebration canceled, or at least delayed. A gentle wind blew in through the open French doors, bringing with it the occasional grumble of a passing motorboat. At the far end of the room was a dormant fireplace where Gabriel sat peering into an open file. He wore a dark business suit with no necktie, and was unrecognizable in a gray wig, contact lenses, and eyeglasses. Uzi Navot sat next to him in similar attire, and next to Navot was Yossi Gavish. He wore chinos and a rumpled blazer and was staring at the ceiling in the manner of a traveler suffering from terminal boredom.

The arrival of Jihan Nawaz stirred only Gabriel into action. He closed his file, placed it on the coffee table before him, and rose slowly to his feet. “Jihan,” he said through a charitable smile. “It was good of you to come.” He advanced on her cautiously, an adult approaching a lost child. “Please forgive the unorthodox nature of our invitation, but it was all done for your protection.”

He said this in German, in his distinct Berlin dialect. It was not lost on Jihan, the Syrian girl from Hamburg now living in Linz.

“Who are you?” she asked after a moment.

“I’d rather not begin this conversation by lying to you,” he said, still smiling, “so I won’t bother giving you a name. I am employed by a government department that deals with issues related to taxation and finance.” He pointed to Navot and Yossi. “These gentlemen are similarly employed by their respective governments. The large, unhappy-looking fellow is from Austria, and the wrinkled chap sitting next to him is from Great Britain.”

“What about them?” Jihan asked with a nod toward Lavon and Dina.

“Ingrid and Herr Adler belong to me.”

“They’re very good.” She glared at Dina through narrowed eyes. “Especially her.”

“I’m sorry we deceived you, Jihan, but we had no other choice. It was all done for your safety.”

“My safety?”

He took a step closer to her. “We wanted to meet you in a way that wouldn’t raise the suspicion of your employer.” He paused, then added, “Mr. al-Siddiqi.”

She seemed to recoil at the mention of his name. Gabriel pretended not to notice.

“I assume you brought your mobile phone with you?” he asked, as though the thought had just occurred to him.

“Of course.”

“Would you give it to Ingrid, please? It is important that we switch off all our mobile devices before we continue this conversation. One never knows who’s listening.”

Jihan extracted her phone from her handbag and surrendered it to Dina, who switched off the power before slipping silently into the next room. Gabriel returned to the coffee table and retrieved his file. He opened it gravely, as though it contained material he’d rather not air in public.

“I’m afraid the bank for which you work has been under investigation for some time,” he said after a moment. “The investigation is international in nature, as you can see by the presence of my counterparts from Austria and the United Kingdom. And it has uncovered substantial evidence to suggest that Bank Weber AG is little more than a criminal enterprise involved in money laundering, fraud, and the illegal concealment of taxable assets and income. Which means that you, Jihan, are in serious trouble.”

“I’m just the account manager.”

“Exactly.” He drew a sheet of paper from the file and held it up for her to see. “Whenever an account is opened at Bank Weber, Jihan, your signature appears on all accompanying documentation. You also handle most of the bank’s wire transfers.” He drew another sheet of paper from the file, though this time his consultation was private. “For example, you recently wired a rather large sum of money to the Trade Winds Bank in the Cayman Islands.”

“How do you know about that transfer?”

“There were two, actually—one for twenty-five million dollars, the other for a paltry twenty million. The accounts where the money was sent are controlled by LXR Investments. A lawyer named Hamid Khaddam opened them on Mr. al-Siddiqi’s instructions. Hamid Khaddam is from London. He was born in Syria.” Gabriel looked up from the file. “Like you, Jihan.”

Her fear was palpable. She managed to lift her chin a little before offering her response.

“I’ve never met Mr. Khaddam.”

“But you’re familiar with his name?”

She nodded slowly.

“And you don’t dispute the fact that you personally wired the money into those accounts.”

“I was only doing what I was told.”

“By Mr. al-Siddiqi?”

She was silent. Gabriel returned the documents to the file folder and the file folder to the coffee table. Yossi was staring at the ceiling again. Navot was gazing out the French doors at a passing boat as though he wished he could be on it.

“I seem to be losing my audience,” Gabriel said, gesturing toward the two unmoving figures. “I can tell that they’d like me to get to the point so we can move on to more important matters.”

“What point is that?” Jihan asked with more calm than Gabriel would have thought possible.

“My friends from Vienna and London aren’t interested in prosecuting a lowly bank clerk. And, quite frankly, neither am I. We want the man who pulls the strings at Bank Weber, the man who works behind a locked door, protected by a pair of armed bodyguards.” He paused, then added, “We want Mr. al-Siddiqi.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“Of course you can.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“We all make choices in life,” Gabriel replied. “Unfortunately, you decided to take a job at the dirtiest bank in Austria.”

“I didn’t know it was dirty.”

“Prove it.”

“How?”

“By telling us everything you know about Mr. al-Siddiqi. And by giving us a complete list of all of Bank Weber’s clients, the amount of money they’ve placed under management there, and the location of the various financial instruments in which the money is invested.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be a violation of Austrian banking laws.”

Gabriel placed a hand on Navot’s shoulder. “This man works for the Austrian government. And if he says it isn’t a violation of Austrian law, then it isn’t.”

Jihan hesitated. “There’s another reason I can’t help you,” she said finally. “I don’t have complete access to the names of all the account holders.”

“Are you not the account manager?”

“Of course.”

“And is not the job of the account manager to actually
manage
the accounts?”

“Obviously,” she replied with a frown.

“So what’s the problem?”

“Mr. al-Siddiqi.”

“Then perhaps we should start there, Jihan.” Gabriel placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “With Mr. al-Siddiqi.”

T
HEY SETTLED HER IN A
place of honor in the sitting room, with Dina, her false friend, on her left, and Gabriel, the nameless tax authority from Berlin, on her right. Uzi Navot offered her food, which she refused, and tea, which she accepted. He served it to her Arab style, in a small glass, medium sweet. She granted herself a small sip, blew gently on the surface, and placed the glass carefully on the table in front of her. Then she described an afternoon in the autumn of 2010, when she noticed an ad in a trade publication for a job opening in Linz. She was working deep within the Hamburg headquarters of an important German bank at the time and, quietly, was exploring other options. She traveled to Linz the following week and interviewed with Herr Weber. Then she walked down the hall, past a pair of bodyguards, for a separate meeting with Mr. al-Siddiqi. He conducted it entirely in Arabic.

“Did he mention the fact he was from Syria originally?” asked Gabriel.

“He didn’t have to.”

“Syrians have a distinct accent?”

She nodded. “Especially when they come from the Ansariya Mountains.”

“The Ansariya are in western Syria? Near the Mediterranean?”

“That’s correct.”

“And the people who live there are mainly Alawites, are they not?”

She hesitated, then nodded slowly.

“Forgive me, Jihan, but I am a bit of a novice when it comes to the affairs of the Middle East.”

“Most Germans are.”

He accepted her rebuke with a conciliatory smile and then resumed his line of questioning.

“Was it your impression that Mr. al-Siddiqi was an Alawite?” he asked.

“It was obvious.”

“Are you an Alawite, Jihan?”

“No,” she answered. “I’m not an Alawite.”

She offered no additional biographical details about herself, and Gabriel didn’t ask for any.

“The Alawites are the rulers of your country, are they not?”

“I am a citizen of Germany living in Austria,” she replied.

“Will you allow me to rephrase my question?”

“Please.”

“The ruling family of Syria are Alawites—isn’t that correct, Jihan?”

“Yes.”

“And Alawites hold the most powerful positions in the military and the Syrian security services.”

She gave a brief smile. “Perhaps you’re not such a novice after all.”

“I’m a quick study.”

“Obviously.”

“Did Mr. al-Siddiqi tell you he was a relative of the president?”

“He hinted at it,” she said.

“Did this concern you?”

“It was before the Arab Spring.” She paused, then added, “Before the war.”

“And the two bodyguards outside his door?” asked Gabriel. “How did he explain them?”

“He told me he’d been kidnapped in Beirut several years earlier and held for ransom.”

“And you believed him?”

“Beirut is a dangerous city.”

“You’ve been?”

“Never.”

Gabriel peered into his file again. “Mr. al-Siddiqi must have been very impressed with you,” he said after a moment. “He offered you a job on the spot, at twice the salary you were earning at your bank in Hamburg.”

“How do you know that?”

“It was on your Facebook page. You told everyone you were looking forward to a fresh start. Your colleagues in Hamburg threw a good-bye party for you at a swanky restaurant along the river. I can show you the photos if you like.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I remember the evening well.”

“And when you arrived in Linz,” Gabriel continued, “Mr. al-Siddiqi had an apartment waiting for you, didn’t he? It was fully furnished—linens, dishes, pots and pans, even the electronics.”

“It was included in my compensation package.”

Gabriel looked up from the file and frowned. “Didn’t you find it odd?”

“He said he wanted my transition to be as painless as possible.”

“That was the word he used? Painless?”

“Yes.”

“And what did Mr. al-Siddiqi ask for in return?”

“Loyalty.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” she said. “He told me I was never to discuss the affairs of Bank Weber with anyone.”

“With good reason.”

She was silent.

“How long did it take you to realize Bank Weber was no ordinary private bank, Jihan?”