Читать книгу The Account - Roderick Mann - Страница 8

Eberhardt arrived early at his office the next morning. He had slept well, relaxed after his visit to Madame Valdoni’s. But he was apprehensive about the meeting he had arranged with his partner, Georges di Marco. Confrontations of any kind were not to his liking.

Sipping the first of the many morning coffees his secretary, Marte, brought him, he let his eyes wander down to the street below.

Even the most chauvinistic citizens of Geneva agreed that the rue de Hesse was an unremarkable thoroughfare. But Eberhardt had loved it ever since he first stood on the corner by the Café des Banques trying to decide whether to move his bank there from its original location in the rue du Rhône. It was that or the rue de la Corraterie, supposedly the most respectable financial address in Geneva. In the end he had opted for the rue de Hesse – already the home of the Banque Privée de Edmond Rothschild – and he had never regretted it. There his bank had grown and prospered to the point where it was now a major player in the world’s money markets. And he, at the age of seventy-seven, was one of the most respected bankers in Europe.

Many foreigners, Eberhardt knew, thought of Switzerland as a land of watches, chocolates and cuckoo clocks. But what made Switzerland work, what gave it its independence and its prestige, were the banks. There were the three great commercial banks, Credit Suisse, Union Bank and the Swiss Bank Corporation. And there were the private banks – Lombard Odier, Pictet, Rothschild, Darier, Hentsch and Eberhardt.

The private bankers of Geneva thought of themselves as an élite group. They belonged to the Groupement, the association of Geneva private bankers, the most exclusive sector in the Swiss financial system. And they had something else in common. They were all, without exception, paranoid about secrecy, fearing rightly that its abolition would lead to a wholesale withdrawal of the trillions in marks, dollars, pounds, lire and yen invested with them. Secrecy, in fact, was the law. Clause 47(b) of the 1934 Banking Act set out stiff penalties – fines and a jail sentence – for any bank director or employee who gave away secrets.

Foreign bankers liked to point out that Swiss bankers had a poor record in forecasting movements in the stock markets. The Swiss argued back that with them the emphasis was on security rather than spectacular performance in portfolio management. And bankers like Eberhardt were quick to reiterate how much more prudent they were than American bankers, who, in his words, ‘seemed intent on throwing away clients’ money’.

But Swiss bankers could no longer afford to be smug. A billion-dollar money laundering racket had resulted in the resignation of Switzerland’s Justice Minister. And the scandal at Credit Suisse, which had written off $700 million after fraud at its branch in Chiasso, had thrown doubt on Switzerland’s reputation for prudence. Then came the jail sentence handed out to Robert Leclerc, whose private bank collapsed. No one was particularly surprised at the judge’s decision; malpractice by a partner in a private bank rated just below murder in the eyes of the Swiss authorities. Eberhardt had no concerns about his own establishment, which was the third most prestigious private bank in Switzerland. His worry was the shadow that lay over the life he had built for himself in Geneva. And the fact that the man on his way up to see him knew what it was.

Georges di Marco had joined the Banque Eberhardt just before the Second World War, leaving the prestigious firm of M. M. Warburg and Co. And he had stayed with the bank as its fortunes rose, despite attractive offers to go elsewhere. He was a good banker with the right attributes: boldness, instinct, judgement and knowledge. And because Swiss law required at least two partners to head a private bank, Eberhardt had eventually elevated him to full partner.

Now this.

When di Marco walked in, Eberhardt rose 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.