Honor Among Thieves Read online

  “No, he is not, sir,” interjected Monsieur Franchard, as prearranged with Cavalli, “because he has entrusted the document’s safekeeping to our bank. But I can confirm that, as soon as the agreed sum has been transferred, I have been given power of attorney to release the document immediately.”

  “But that is not what we agreed,” interrupted Dummond, who leaned forward, feigning shock, before adding, “My client’s government has no intention of paying another penny without full scrutiny of the document. You agreed to deliver it here by midday, and in any case we still have to be convinced of its authenticity.”

  “That is understood by my client,” said Monsieur Franchard. “Indeed, you are most welcome to attend my office at any time convenient to you in order to carry out such an inspection. Following that inspection, the moment you have transferred the agreed amount the document will be released.”

  “This is all very well,” countered Monsieur Dummond, pushing his half-moon spectacles back up his nose, “but your client has failed to keep to his original agreement, which in my view allows my client’s government”—he emphasized the word “government”—“to reconsider its position.”

  “My client felt it prudent, under the circumstances, to protect his interest by depositing the document in his own bank for safekeeping,” came back the immediate reply from Monsieur Franchard.

  Anyone watching the two bankers sparring with each other might have been surprised to learn that they played chess together every Saturday night, which Monsieur Franchard invariably won, and tennis after lunch on Sunday, which he regularly lost.

  “I cannot accept this new arrangement,” said Al Obaydi, speaking for the first time. “My government has charged me to pay only a further forty million dollars if the original agreement is breached in any way.”

  “But this is ridiculous!” said Cavalli, his voice rising with every word. “We are quibbling over a matter of a few hours at the most and a building less than half a mile away. And as you well know, the figure agreed on was ninety million.”

  “But you have since broken our agreement,” said Al Obaydi, “so the original terms can no longer be considered valid by my government.”

  “No ninety million, no document!” said Cavalli, banging his fist on the table.

  “Let us be realistic, Mr. Cavalli,” said Al Obaydi. “The document is no longer of any use to you, and I have a feeling you would have settled for fifty million in the first place.”

  “That is not the—”

  Monsieur Franchard touched Cavalli’s arm. “I would like a few minutes alone with my client.”

  “Of course,” said Monsieur Dummond, rising from his place. “We will leave you. Please press the button under the table the moment you wish us to return.”

  Monsieur Dummond and his client left the room without another word.

  “He’s bluffing,” said Cavalli. “He’ll pay. I know it.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Franchard.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “The use of the words ‘my government.’”

  “What does that tell us that we didn’t already know?”

  “The expression was repeated four times,” said Franchard, “which suggests to me that the financial decision has been taken out of the hands of Mr. Al Obaydi, and only forty million has been deposited by his government with Dummond et cie.”

  Cavalli began pacing round the room, but suddenly stopped by the phone which rested on a small side table.

  “I presume that’s bugged,” said Cavalli, pointing at the phone.

  “No, Mr. Cavalli, it is not.”

  “How can you be so sure?” asked his client.

  “Monsieur Dummond and I are currently involved in several transactions, and he would never allow our relationship to suffer for the sake of one deal. And in any case, he sits on the opposite side of the table from you today but, like every Swiss banker, that won’t stop him from thinking of you as a potential customer.”

  Cavalli checked his watch. It was 6:20 A.M. in New York. His father would have been up for at least an hour. He jabbed out the fourteen numbers and waited.

  His father answered the phone, sounding wide awake, and after preliminary exchanges listened carefully to his son’s account of what had taken place in the bank’s boardroom. Cavalli also repeated Monsieur Franchard’s view of the situation. The chairman of Skills didn’t take long considering what advice he should give his son, advice which took Cavalli by surprise.

  He replaced the phone and informed Monsieur Franchard of his father’s opinion.

  Monsieur Franchard nodded as if to show he agreed with the older man’s judgment.

  “Then let’s get on with it,” said Cavalli reluctantly. Monsieur Franchard pressed the button under the boardroom table.

  Monsieur Dummond and his client entered the room a few moments later and returned to the seats they had previously occupied. The old banker pushed his half-moon spectacles up his nose once again and stared over the top of them as he waited for Monsieur Franchard to speak.

  “If the transaction is completed within one hour, we will settle for forty million dollars. If not, the deal is off and the document will be returned to the United States.”

  Dummond removed his spectacles and turned to glance at his client. He was pleased that Franchard had picked up the significance of “my government,” a phrase he had recommended Mr. Al Obaydi should repeat as often as possible.

  “White House?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “May I speak to the President’s scheduler, please?”

  “Can I ask who’s calling?”

  “Marshall, Calder Marshall, Archivist of the United States. And before you ask, yes, I do know her, and yes, she is expecting my call.”

  The line went dead. Marshall wondered if he had been cut off.

  “Patty Watson speaking.”

  “Patty, this is Calder Marshall. I’m the—”

  “Archivist of the United States.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m a great fan of yours, Mr. Marshall. I’ve even read your book on the history of the Constitution, the Bill of Rights and the Declaration. How can I help you? Are you still there, Mr. Marshall?”

  “Yes, Patty, I am. I only wanted to check on the President’s schedule on the morning of May 25th this year.”

  “Certainly, sir. I’ll just be a moment.”

  The Archivist did not have long to wait.

  “Ah yes, May 25th. The President spent the morning in the Oval Office with his speech writers, David Kusnet and Carolyn Curiel. He was preparing the text for his address on the GATT at the Chicago Council on Foreign Relations. He took a break to have lunch with Senator Mitchell, the Majority Leader. At three, the President—”

  “Did President Clinton remain in the White House the whole morning?”

  “Yes, sir. He didn’t leave the White House all day. He spent the afternoon with Mrs. Clinton in discussions with her health-policy task unit.”

  “Could he have slipped out of the building without even you knowing, Patty?”

  The scheduling secretary laughed. “That’s not possible, sir. If he had done that, the Secret Service would have informed me immediately.”

  “Thank you, Patty.”

  “Glad to have been of assistance, sir.”

  Once the meeting at Dummond et cie had broken up, Cavalli returned to his hotel room to wait for Franchard to call and confirm that the sum of forty million dollars had been deposited in his No. 3 account in Zurich.

  As long as the transaction was closed within the hour, he would still have easily enough time to catch the 4:45 out of Geneva for Heathrow and make the early-evening connection to New York.

  Cavalli began to get a little anxious after thirty minutes passed and there had been no call, and even more so after forty. After fifty, he found himself pacing around the room, staring out at the fountain and checking his watch every few moments.