Читать книгу Andrew Gross 3-Book Thriller Collection 1: The Dark Tide, Don’t Look Twice, Relentless - Andrew Gross, Andrew Gross - Страница 51

Saul Lennick waited on the Charles Bridge in Prague overlooking the Vltava River.

The bridge teemed with tourists and afternoon pedestrians. Artists sat at easels capturing the view. Violinists played Dvorák and Smetana. Spring had left a festive mood in the city. He looked up at the Gothic spires of St. Vitus and Prague Castle. This was one of his favorite views.

Three men in business attire stepped onto the span from the Linhart Ulice entrance and paused underneath the east tower.

The sandy-haired one, in a topcoat and brown felt hat, wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, and with a ruddy, cheerful face, came forward holding a metal briefcase, while the others waited a few steps behind.

Lennick knew him well.

Johann-Pieter Fichte was German. He had worked in the private banking departments of Credit Suisse and the Bundesbank. Fichte possessed a doctorate in economics from the University of Basel. Now he was a private banker, catering to the highest financial circles.

He was also known to represent some of the most unsavory people in the world.

The banker was what was known in the trade as a “money trafficker.” His particular skill was to be able to shift sizable assets from any part of the world in no matter what form: cash, stones, arms—even drugs on occasion—until they emerged in a completely different currency as clean and perfectly investable funds. He did this through a network of currency traders and shell corporations, a labyrinthine web of relationships that stretched from the dark corners of the underworld to boardrooms across the globe. Among Fichte’s less visible clients were Iraqi clerics and Afghani warlords who had looted American reconstruction funds; a Kazakh oil minister, a cousin of the president, who had diverted a tenth of his country’s reserves; Russian oligarchs, who dealt primarily in drugs and prostitution; even the Colombian drug cartels.

Fichte waved, angling through the crowd. His two associates—bodyguards, Lennick assumed—stayed a few paces behind.

“Saul!” Fichte said, embracing Lennick with a broad smile, placing his case at Lennick’s feet. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, my friend. And for you to come all this way.”

“The price of a service job.” Lennick grinned, grasping the banker’s hand.

“Yes, we are only the high-priced errand boys and accountants of the rich”—the banker shrugged—“available at their beck and call. So how is your lovely wife? And your daughter? She’s still up in Boston, is she not? Lovely city.”

“All fine, Johann. Thank you for asking. Shall we get on?”

“Ah, business.” Fichte sighed, turning to face the river. “The American way … His Excellency Major General Mubuto sends you his highest regards.”

“I’m honored,” Lennick said, lying. “And you will return them, of course.”

“Of course.” The German banker amped up his smile. Then, in a soft voice, staring ahead, as if his gaze were tracking a far-off bird that had landed on the Vltava, he explained. “The funds we discussed will be in the form of four separate deliveries. The first is already on account at Zurich Bank, ready to be transferred upon your say-so to anywhere in the world. The second is currently held at the BalticBank in Estonia. It is in the form of a charitable trust designed to sponsor UN grain shipments to needy populations in East Africa.”

Lennick smiled. Fichte always had a cultivated sense of irony.

“I thought you’d appreciate that. The third delivery is presently in non-cash form. Military hardware. Some of it your own, I am told. It should be leaving the country within the week. The general is quite insistent on the timing.”

“Why the rush?”

“Pending the status of the Ethiopian military buildup on the Sudanese border, it’s conceivable His Excellency and his family may be forced to leave the country at fairly short notice.” He winked.

“I’ll see to it the funds don’t sit unproductive for too long,” Lennick promised with a smile.

“That would be greatly appreciated.” The German bowed. Then his tone turned businesslike again. “As discussed, each of the deliveries will be in the amount of two hundred and fifty million euros.”

Well over a billion dollars. Even Lennick had to marvel. It crossed his mind just how many heads had had to roll and thousands of fortunes wiped out to assemble such a sum.

The banker said, “I think we’ve already gone over the general agreement.”

“The mix of products is quite diversified and fully transparent if need be,” Lennick replied. “A combination of U.S. and worldwide equities, real-estate trusts, hedge funds. Twenty percent will be retained in our private equity fund. As you know, we’ve been able to achieve a twenty-two and a half percent average portfolio return over the past seven years, net of any unforeseen fluctuations, of course.”

“Fluctuations …” The German nodded, the warmth in his blue eyes suddenly dimmed. “I assume you’re speaking of that energy hedge fund that collapsed last year. I hope it won’t be necessary to revisit my clients’ unhappiness over that development, will it, Saul?”

“As said”—Lennick swallowed a lump, trying to redirect the subject—“an unforeseen fluctuation, Johann. It won’t happen again.”

The truth was, with the amount of capital available in today’s world, Lennick had learned to make money in every conceivable market environment. In times of economic strength or stagnation. Good markets or bad. Even following acts of terrorism. The panic after 9/11 would never occur again. He had billions invested on all sides of the economic ledger, impervious to the vagaries of whoever won or lost. Today geopolitical trends and shifts were merely hiccups in the global transfer of capital. Yes, there were always blips—blips like Charlie, betting on the price of oil so stubbornly and unable to cover his spots on the way down. But behind that, all one had to do was look at the vast Saudi and Kuwaiti investment funds, the world’s greatest oil producers, hedging their bets by buying up all the ethanol-producing sugarcane fields in the world.

It was the greatest capital-enlarging engine in the world.

“So it doesn’t bother you, my friend?” the German banker suddenly asked. “You are a Jew, yes, and yet you know that this money you take regularly finds its way into the hands of interests that are unfriendly to your own race.”

“Yes, I’m a Jew.” Lennick looked at him and shrugged. “But I learned a long time ago that money is neutral, Johann.”

“Yes, money is neutral,” Fichte agreed. “Still, my client’s patience is not.” His expression sharpened again. “The loss of over half a billion dollars of their funds does not sit easily with these kinds of people, Saul. They asked me to remind you—your daughter has children up in Boston, does she not?” He met Lennick’s eye. “Ages two and four?”

The blood seeped from Lennick’s face.

“I was asked to inquire as to their general health, Saul. I hope they’re well. Just a thought, my old friend, from my own employers. Please, do not dwell. Still …” His smile returned with an affable tap of Lennick’s arm. “A small incentive to keep those—how was it you phrased it?—fluctuations to a minimum, yes?”

A cold bead of sweat traveled down Lennick’s back underneath his six-hundred-dollar Brioni pinstripe shirt.

“Your man lost us a considerable amount of money,” Fichte said. “You shouldn’t be so surprised, Saul. You know who you’re playing with here. No one is above accountability, my friend—even you.”

Fichte put on his hat.

Lennick felt a constriction in his chest. His palms, suddenly slick with sweat, pressed deeply onto the bridge’s railing. He nodded. “You spoke of four new deliveries, Johann. Two hundred and fifty million euros each. So far you’ve only mentioned three.”

“Ah, the fourth …” The German banker smiled and patted Lennick briskly on the back. He drew his gaze to the metal case at his feet.

“The fourth I’m giving you today, Herr Lennick. In bearer bonds. My men will be happy to escort you to wherever you would like it placed.”