Lemmy’s banking skills. Invariably, they were easy to terrify, like a bully facing someone worse. They paid handsomely for their sins, and the cash supported on-going SOD operations while he pursued the real prize—Koenig’s fortune, which awaited its destiny in a dormant account at the Hoffgeitz Bank.
Also inside the envelope were two sheets of paper. The first provided a list of the bribes paid to Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr, which totaled $76,750,000. The second sheet was a copy of an electronic transfer of $200,000 from the prince’s account at the Hoffgeitz Bank to a bank in Senlis, France, dated today.
As soon as the train reached the airport, Elie walked to a pay phone. It was two thirty p.m. He inserted a phone card and punched in the number.
The phone at Rue Buffault rang three times, and Gideon answered, “Yes?”
“Get a roadmap,” Elie said, “and find Senlis. It’s a small town, maybe a village.”
After a moment of paper shuffling, Gideon said, “Senlis is about twenty miles north of Paris.”
“Near Ermenonville?”
“Correct.”
Elie coughed and held his other hand to his chest until the pain eased. “Our man will pick up a large sum today at Banque Nationale De France at thirty-eight Rue Philippe. He won’t trust anyone else, but he’ll bring guards. Watch from a distance, take photos, but nothing else.”
“Your old friend is here. She’s napping.”
Elie considered the situation for a moment. Tanya must not learn of these developments. “Get lovebird and leave quietly. If our guest wakes up, tell her you’re going to buy food. Go to Senlis and watch the bank.”
“Follow him?”
“No. There will be more transfers. I want to confirm it’s really him, but our main target is his sponsor. We have to hold off until we can get both of them together.” Elie hung up and walked to Gate 24A, where the next Swissair flight to Paris was already boarding.
*
Gideon parked the Citroën halfway up the street from the two-story, glass-fronted building. Bathsheba propped a black-and-white photo of Abu Yusef on the dashboard, and they settled for the wait with an audio version of Frederick Forsyth’s The Fourth Protocol . An hour into the story, John Preston brought the stolen documents to the Yard, and a technician dusted them for prints. Gideon remembered Preston, played by Michael Cain, wearing his nonchalant expression that communicated so much to truly discerning Michael Cain fans.
“He’s not coming.” Bathsheba hit the stop button on the cassette player. “Or it’s not him at all.”
“The bank closes in nine minutes,” Gideon said.
“Let’s go for a drink.” Her left arm rested on the back of his seat, then slipped down to his shoulder.
He pretended not to notice.
Bathsheba’s mouth was close to his ear. “You smell so clean.” Her fingers slid under the curls at the back of his head. “I was thinking—”
“Don’t start.” Gideon pushed her hand away.
Bathsheba sat straight up in her seat and saluted.
He laughed despite his best efforts. The absurd contradiction between her girlish clowning and her womanly beauty was too funny to resist. She was a performer, both in her irreverence and on the job. Men never refused Bathsheba. He had seen her lure men who recklessly surrendered to the powerful lust she ignited. He sensed that she despised their submission. Did she despise all men because her father had died, leaving her orphaned when she was so young?
“Look!” Bathsheba pointed.
A green Peugeot stopped in front of the bank and a man sprang out of the passenger side. He looked up and down the street and tapped on the roof of the car. Both rear doors opened and two other men came out. They all wore dark suits and had thin mustaches, and the driver, Bashir, awkwardly hid a machine gun under his jacket.
She aimed the Polaroid. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Abu Yusef emerged. He was older than the others, his hair gray and thinning on top.
Also inside the envelope were two sheets of paper. The first provided a list of the bribes paid to Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr, which totaled $76,750,000. The second sheet was a copy of an electronic transfer of $200,000 from the prince’s account at the Hoffgeitz Bank to a bank in Senlis, France, dated today.
As soon as the train reached the airport, Elie walked to a pay phone. It was two thirty p.m. He inserted a phone card and punched in the number.
The phone at Rue Buffault rang three times, and Gideon answered, “Yes?”
“Get a roadmap,” Elie said, “and find Senlis. It’s a small town, maybe a village.”
After a moment of paper shuffling, Gideon said, “Senlis is about twenty miles north of Paris.”
“Near Ermenonville?”
“Correct.”
Elie coughed and held his other hand to his chest until the pain eased. “Our man will pick up a large sum today at Banque Nationale De France at thirty-eight Rue Philippe. He won’t trust anyone else, but he’ll bring guards. Watch from a distance, take photos, but nothing else.”
“Your old friend is here. She’s napping.”
Elie considered the situation for a moment. Tanya must not learn of these developments. “Get lovebird and leave quietly. If our guest wakes up, tell her you’re going to buy food. Go to Senlis and watch the bank.”
“Follow him?”
“No. There will be more transfers. I want to confirm it’s really him, but our main target is his sponsor. We have to hold off until we can get both of them together.” Elie hung up and walked to Gate 24A, where the next Swissair flight to Paris was already boarding.
*
Gideon parked the Citroën halfway up the street from the two-story, glass-fronted building. Bathsheba propped a black-and-white photo of Abu Yusef on the dashboard, and they settled for the wait with an audio version of Frederick Forsyth’s The Fourth Protocol . An hour into the story, John Preston brought the stolen documents to the Yard, and a technician dusted them for prints. Gideon remembered Preston, played by Michael Cain, wearing his nonchalant expression that communicated so much to truly discerning Michael Cain fans.
“He’s not coming.” Bathsheba hit the stop button on the cassette player. “Or it’s not him at all.”
“The bank closes in nine minutes,” Gideon said.
“Let’s go for a drink.” Her left arm rested on the back of his seat, then slipped down to his shoulder.
He pretended not to notice.
Bathsheba’s mouth was close to his ear. “You smell so clean.” Her fingers slid under the curls at the back of his head. “I was thinking—”
“Don’t start.” Gideon pushed her hand away.
Bathsheba sat straight up in her seat and saluted.
He laughed despite his best efforts. The absurd contradiction between her girlish clowning and her womanly beauty was too funny to resist. She was a performer, both in her irreverence and on the job. Men never refused Bathsheba. He had seen her lure men who recklessly surrendered to the powerful lust she ignited. He sensed that she despised their submission. Did she despise all men because her father had died, leaving her orphaned when she was so young?
“Look!” Bathsheba pointed.
A green Peugeot stopped in front of the bank and a man sprang out of the passenger side. He looked up and down the street and tapped on the roof of the car. Both rear doors opened and two other men came out. They all wore dark suits and had thin mustaches, and the driver, Bashir, awkwardly hid a machine gun under his jacket.
She aimed the Polaroid. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Abu Yusef emerged. He was older than the others, his hair gray and thinning on top.
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