He walked like a crane, slow and lurching from arthritis of the hip, which he refused to have operated upon, afraid of the consequences a full anaesthetic might have for someone of his age. He had been a widower for ten years, was father of nine children, warden of the Augustiner church, devoted knight of the Order of Malta, holder of several Vatican distinctions granted by His Holiness, friend of the Archbishop of Chur - who profited from his generous gifts - with whom he spent his summer vacations in the Graubünden mountains. He was an Opus Dei supernumerary, which he denied when necessary in line with the rule of personal humility, obedient to the prohibition against flaunting membership that had been relaxed to some degree in the 1982 statutes. In addition to two wedding rings, however, he also wore the gold ring with the inset black stone of Opus Dei, but no one had any idea what it meant. He lived alone with an aged Alsatian in a genuine eighteenth-century chalet with a weathered wooden roof hidden among the trees on the flanks of the Uetliberg, with breathtaking views of the Lake Zurich, although he paid them little attention. His primary secret was his executive position on the board of the “
Stiftung Limmat
”, a bank network that administered billions of Opus Dei dollars. His greatest strength was being a citizen of a peaceful country in the centre of old Europe, in which historical axes intersected and where creativity was considered a superfluous quality best left to artists and writers, brats that needed constant supervision because they tended to think as they acted and vice versa, patent proof of unreliability.
On Tuesday 25 May 1999 at eleven forty-five a.m. - he started work at eight every day except Sunday - Jacobi was sitting at his desk in a gloomy office on the fourth floor of the imposing Credit Suisse building, Paradeplatz 8. The edifice’s nuclear bomb-proof cellars, five concrete shafts thirty metres deep, preserved the secret fortunes of the likes of Mobutu, Ceauşescu, Hailie Selassie, Hassan II, Idi Amin, Bokassa, Stroessner, Saddam Hussein, Abu Nidal, Duvalier, Noriega, Suharto, Marcos, Karadžić, Pinochet and others.
When American journalists demonstrated in 1996, on the basis of irrefutable documentation, that billions of dollars of Holocaust money were locked up in the safes of a number of Swiss banks, Ernst Jacobi responded in an interview in the
Neue Zürcher Zeitung
: “A waste of breath… peanuts!”
The telephone rang. Jacobi, who was examining a file on tax evasion and fraud, blindly lifted the receiver with his giant liver-spotted claw of a hand. A fatherly smile lit up his face. “
Grüezi
, dear Hervé,” he said, and listened carefully.
As usual, his responses were limited to a monotonous drone and guarded nods of the head, his eyes fixed on a Gobelin tapestry from Brussels hanging on the wall opposite, portraying a pogrom against medieval Jews who had desecrated the body of Christ by cutting Communion wafers into pieces to add lustre to the sacrifice of goy children.
The conversation only lasted a few minutes.
All he did was note down a telephone number and address in Antwerp in cursive convent school handwriting and conclude the conversation with a formal “
Pax
”, something without meaning for either party, given their status, to be ascribed to his obsession for decorum and nothing more.
A rigid grin appeared on his face as he hung up the receiver. He placed the index finger of his right hand on his left wrist and took his pulse in silence without referring to his watch. He waited until his heartbeat had reached what he considered an appropriate number of beats per minute and called a number in Brussels.
“Belgacom?”
“
Oui
.”
“I would like to speak to the director general for International Communications.” While his French was correct, he had a marked guttural accent, once described in the Paris gossip rag
Le Canard Enchaîné
as a sickness caused by too much cold air passing through an open stable door.
“With whom do I have the pleasure?”
“A friend…”
“I’ll put you through.”
“Hello,” a neutral male voice introduced itself.
“Ernst Jacobi from Zürich speaking.”
“Aha! How is life in Switzerland, my dear Mr Jacobi?” The man’s tone of voice changed pitch.
“
Pax
.”
“
In aeternum
. How can I be of assistance?”
“We have a technical problem…”
“Continue.”
“I have a Belgian telephone number here. We would like to have access to the international call statements for, let’s say, the last year.”
“Is there an ongoing judicial inquiry into this number?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then what you ask is illegal.”
“I’m asking on behalf of Hervé van Reyn.”
“Hmm… I see… Can I fax the information?”
“Thank you, my dear director general.” Ernst Jacobi hung up without saying goodbye and returned immediately to the file on the desk in front of him as if nothing had happened.
Albert uncorked a bottle of champagne with a loud bang, something Amandine considered evidence of a lack of style, much to his enjoyment. An open tin of caviar with two mother-of-pearl spoons awaited them on a plate. He considered eating caviar from the tin as the height of decadence. They sat on the floor in riding breeches at a squat coffee table, their boots left by the door, both stinking of horse sweat. Igor lay stretched out on a blanket, sound asleep.
As he was about to pour the champagne, Louise lit a cigarette and said casually: “I’m not really in the mood for caviar and champagne.”
“What do you fancy then?” he asked light-heartedly, hiding his disappointment.
“Gin and tonic and cheese crackers.”
“OK, then I’ll have a whisky.”
She nodded, puffed at her cigarette and inspected the varnish on her toenails, slowly wriggling her toes in the process.
He closed the tin of caviar with an expressionless face, popped a bottle stop in the champagne and brought both to the kitchen.
“Large or small?” he shouted after cursing under his breath.
“Whatever.”
He returned to the living room with a smile a few minutes later, carrying two glasses and a bowl of cheese crackers on a tray.
“
Madame est servie
.”
“Ha, not a bad race, eh?” she said, stretching her back, the contour of her breasts filling her silk blouse.
“Until you lost control of Yamma.”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Chin.”
“Chin.”
“Louise…”
“Mmm?”
“Do you still love me?”
“Of course, idiot,” she said with a chuckle, gazing at him with her shallow, lance-shaped eyes. He felt relieved. Her tone was like the old days, the best days, but when he looked in her eyes she turned away.
“There’s something different about you,” he said. He took a gulp of whisky and held it in his mouth. He suddenly felt like an old man. The ride had tired him. His legs felt like lead.
She pinched his hand and threw him a kiss.
He swallowed his whisky. “Come, let’s talk about something else,” he said resignedly.
“Good idea.”
“Buy anything new lately?” He knew from experience this was the best preamble to reconciliation. The whisky gave him heartburn.
“No, but I have my eye on something?”
“What?”
“An Armani ensemble, in Brussels.”
“How much?”
“No idea. Sixty or seventy, thereabouts. Armani isn’t cheap and it’s my birthday soon.”
“And is it pretty?” The question was out before he realized how redundant it was.
“Did I ever buy anything that wasn’t pretty?”
“No, of course not. What colour?”
“Black. Necklace and earrings to match.”
“Plus shoes and a handbag…” he said flatly.
“You like me to be pretty, don’t you?” She stubbed out her half-finished cigarette.
“Aren’t you hungry?” he enquired.
“Yes, but not for crayfish.”
“What then?”
“An omelette and a glass of red wine.”
He finished his glass and held it at his lips to take in the medicinal smell. Whisky always had an unpredictable effect on him. It either made him aggressive or made him yearn for tranquillity and harmony, like looking at snow-covered mountains at an altitude of three thousand metres with your back against a warm rock.
But this time there was no tranquillity, only melancholy and self-pity, because he had unexpectedly stumbled into a situation that was none of his doing. He headed to the kitchen and poured a second whisky.
When he returned to the living room, she said: “To be honest, I fancy going to Brussels more than anything else.”
“And the omelette?”
“Why don’t we just have lunch at L’Ecailler?”
He closed his eyes, took a large gulp of whisky and held it in his mouth as before. This was too much, he thought, clenching his fist.
“Cat got your tongue?” she said as she petted Igor’s head indifferently.
He swallowed.
“Did you already reserve a table?”
“Reservations aren’t necessary for lunch. Besides, I know the head waiter.”
“OK.”
“Would you rather stay here?” she asked in a soft toneless voice, staring at him intently.
“No, Brussels is fine by me.” He emptied his glass, got to his feet, and made his way to the bedroom, his legs stiff.
“Did you bring a suit?”
He turned. “Yes, it’s in the BMW.”
“Don’t forget to get rid of that stupid pin from your lapel.”
“I won’t.”
“I fancy a shower.”
He entered the bedroom and stared vacantly at his trousers lying on the bed. His self-pity was so bad it made him furious with himself. I’ve been mistaken all those years, he thought. She’s right up there in Buddha’s category one, and I’m too old for a demanding young woman like her. Hemingway called them “rich bitches”. He was absolutely fucking right!
As he lifted his right leg to take off his riding breeches, he felt the same dreaded dart of pain shooting from his lower belly to his anus, where it grabbed hold like pair of forceps.
While Albert and Louise were savouring Colchester oysters and sipping Trimbach Pinot Blanc in L’Ecailler du Palais Royal, a renowned restaurant in Brussels’ exclusive Sablon district, Opus Dei cooperator and director general of international communications Anneessens was faxing a four-page printout to Zurich. He was no more than a mile and a half away, on Jacqmainlaan. It was two fifteen.
Ernst Jacobi pressed a button under his desk. An elegantly dressed young man appeared in the doorway, but remained motionless, like a statue, a yellow folder in his hand. Jacobi gave a sign that resembled the start signal of the Tour de France. The young man approached the desk, handed over the folder, bowed his head like a Prussian aristocrat and said “
Bitte, Herr Doktor
.”
Jacobi nodded and said: “
Gut
.”
The young man turned and left the office. Jacobi immediately opened the folder, brought the printout to within six inches of his face and started to read with interest, his cumbrous index finger running down the series of numbers. When he discovered the number of a Credit Suisse branch in Geneva, on the first page for Christ’s sake, he roared with laughter.
“
Nicht möglich
… unbelievable,” he rejoiced, hastily circling the number. He flexed the fingers of both hands several times, as if trying to restore the circulation, and called a number in Geneva.
Baron Hervé van Reyn received a telephone call at three fifteen from a triumphant Ernst Jacobi, who launched into his report without the customary “
Pax
”. Albert Savelkoul’s code name was Beaver. He immediately provided the address and telephone number of the branch in Geneva, together with the denomination and balance of the account and the market value of the shares portfolio. The latter was superfluous, but sheer villainy forced him to mention it. He carefully dictated each piece of information and waited patiently until van Reyn had noted everything necessary. They agreed to visit one another at the first possible opportunity.
Van Reyn decided after hanging up to keep the information to himself for a while, to take his time and mull over his next move. He had developed a unique procedure to this end: first reduce his thoughts to what he called a “gaseous mass”, then “ionize” them until he could attune himself with precision to their “focal point”. In other words, a few minutes meditation on one of the sayings of El Padre. He knew all 999 by heart. He opted for his favourite, number 349: “Never compromise, since such is an indisputable sign that you do not possess the truth.”