The Cellist by Daniel Silva
27Geneva
RhineBank AG of Hamburg was not the only financial institution to do a brisk business with Nazi Germany. Switzerland’s National Bank accepted several tons of gold from the Reichsbank throughout the six years of World War II and earned a tidy profit of twenty million Swiss francs in the process. The major Swiss banks also took on high-ranking Nazis as clients—including none other than Adolf Hitler, who deposited the royalties from his anti-Semitic manifesto Mein Kampf in a UBS account in Bern.
But more often than not, party leaders and senior officers of the murderous SS enlisted the services of discreet private bankers such as Walter Landesmann. A minor figure in Zurich banking before the war, Landesmann was by the spring of 1945 the secret guardian of a vast ill-gotten fortune, much of which remained unclaimed after his clients were arrested as war criminals or forced to seek sanctuary in distant South America. Never one to miss an opportunity, Landesmann used the money to transform his bank into one of Switzerland’s most prominent financial services firms. And upon his death, he bequeathed it to his only child, a charismatic young financier who was called Martin.
Martin Landesmann knew full well the source of the bank’s rapid postwar growth and wasted no time washing his hands of it. With the proceeds of the sale, he created Global Vision Investments, a private equity firm that financed forward-looking start-up enterprises, especially in the field of alternative energy and sustainable agriculture. His abiding passion, however, was his One World charitable foundation. Martin delivered medicine to the sick, food to the hungry, and water to the thirsty, oftentimes with his own hands. Consequently, he was much beloved by the smart set in Aspen and Davos. His circle of influential friends included prominent politicians and the luminaries of Silicon Valley and Hollywood, where his production company bankrolled documentaries on topics such as climate change and the rights of immigrants. His most recent film was the flattering self-portrait One World. Its legion of critics, mainly on the political right, wondered why he hadn’t called it Saint Martin instead.
The first documented use of the sobriquet was an unfavorable profile in the Spectator. It was now wielded regularly by his defenders and detractors alike. Martin secretly loathed it, perhaps because it bore no resemblance to the truth. For all his corporate piety, he was remorseless in his pursuit of profit, even if it required ravaging the rain forests or pouring carbon into the atmosphere. Among his more lucrative ventures was Keppler Werk GmbH, a metallurgy firm that manufactured some of the world’s finest industrial-grade valves. Keppler Werk was part of a global network of companies that supplied nuclear technology to the Islamic Republic of Iran in violation of United Nations sanctions—a network that Gabriel had penetrated and then used to sabotage four previously undisclosed Iranian uranium-enrichment facilities. Martin’s participation in the affair had not been voluntary.
His public pronouncements to the contrary, he did not play exclusively with his own money. GVI was the clandestine owner of Meissner PrivatBank of Liechtenstein, and Meissner PrivatBank was the portal of a sophisticated money-laundering operation utilized primarily by organized crime figures and wealthy individuals averse to taxation. For a substantial fee, and few questions asked, Martin turned dirty money into assets that could be held indefinitely or converted into clean cash. Gabriel and Graham Seymour were aware of Martin’s extracurricular activities. Swiss financial regulators were not. As far as they were concerned, Saint Martin Landesmann was the one Swiss financier who had never put a foot wrong.
He had fled cold, gray Zurich after the rapid sale of his father’s tainted bank and settled in genteel Geneva. GVI was headquartered on the Quai de Mont-Blanc, but the true nerve center of Martin’s empire was Villa Alma, his grand lakeside estate on the rue de Lausanne. Martin’s longtime chief of security greeted Gabriel in the forecourt. Their last conversation had been conducted over the barrel of a SIG Sauer P226. Gabriel had been the one holding it.
“Are you armed?” asked the bodyguard in his atrocious Swiss German.
“What do you think?” answered Gabriel in proper Hochdeutsch.
The bodyguard held out his hand, palm up. Gabriel brushed past him and went into the gleaming entrance hall, where Saint Martin Landesmann, bathed in a corona of golden light, waited in all his glory. He was dressed, as was his custom, like the lower half of a gray scale: slate-gray cashmere pullover, charcoal-gray trousers, black loafers. When combined with his glossy silver hair and silver spectacles, the clothing lent him an air of Jesuitical seriousness. The hand he raised in greeting was white as marble. He addressed Gabriel in English, with a vaguely French accent. Martin no longer spoke the language of his native Zurich. Unless, of course, he was threatening to have someone killed. If that were the case, only Swiss German would do.
“I hope you and Jonas had a chance to get reacquainted,” he said amiably.
“We’re having drinks later.”
“Do you know your Covid status?”
“Somehow I’m still negative. You?”
“Monique and I are tested every day.” Monique was Martin’s Parisian-born wife and an international celebrity in her own right. “I hope you’ll forgive her for not saying hello. She’s not anxious to relive the Zoe Reed affair.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I bumped into Zoe at Davos last year,” Martin volunteered. “She was anchoring CNBC’s afternoon coverage. As you might imagine, it was all rather awkward. We both pretended that none of the unpleasantness of that night happened.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“And your associate who broke into my computer?”
“He sends his best.”
“No hard feelings, I hope.”
“A few,” said Gabriel. “But let’s not dwell on the past. I’m here to talk about the future.”
Martin frowned. “I didn’t realize we had one.”
“A bright one, actually.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Restore the global order and Western liberal democracy before it’s too late.”
“And how are we going to do that?”
“By going into business with Arkady Akimov.” Gabriel smiled. “How else?”
The walls of Villa Alma were hung with a world-class collection of Impressionist and postwar paintings. Martin showed off a few of his newer acquisitions, including a voluptuous nude by Lucian Freud, as they repaired to the sweeping terrace. The Savoy-blue waters of the lake sparkled in the dazzling sunlight. Martin pointed out the Mont Blanc massif, where the Planpincieux glacier was in danger of imminent collapse after several days of above-normal temperatures. The planet, he feared, was hurtling toward the point of no return. The American withdrawal from the Paris Agreement had been a disaster; four irrecoverable years had been lost. He was confident the Democratic candidate for president, were he to win the election, would create a cabinet-level post devoted solely to combating climate change. He had been told by a campaign source that the leading contender for the job was the former senator and secretary of state who had negotiated the Iran nuclear accords. Martin knew him well. Indeed, he had been a frequent guest at the secretary’s homes in Georgetown, Nantucket, and Sun Valley. It was true what they said about the rich, thought Gabriel, listening. They really were different.
“And did you tell your good friend the secretary that you were the one who helped the Iranians construct their centrifuge cascades? That you were the one who brought the world to the brink of yet another war in the Middle East?”
“Actually, it never came up. You and your friends at MI6 and the CIA managed to keep my identity secret, even from the man who was sitting across the negotiating table from the Iranians.”
“We assured you we would.”
“Forgive me for doubting your word. After all, you know what they say about promises, Allon.”
“I do my best to keep mine.”
“Have you always?”
“No, Martin. But let’s not get into a game of moral relativism. The scale of your duplicity is almost as breathtaking as the view from your terrace.”
“Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. Isn’t that what the good book says?”
“Not our book. In fact, we were the ones who pioneered the technique.”
“It’s not all a lie,” said Martin. “I really do want to make the world a better place.”
“We have that in common, you and I. As the inhabitant of a small country with limited water and arable land, I share your concerns about the changing climate. I also appreciate the work you’ve done in Africa, as uncontrolled migratory flows are inherently destabilizing. For proof, one needs to look no further than Western Europe, where the anti-immigrant extreme right is ascendant.”
“They’re racist cretins. Not to mention authoritarians. I fear for the future of democracy.”
“Which is why you’re going to announce a new One World initiative to promote freedom and human rights, especially in Hungary, Poland, the former republics of the Soviet Union, and Russia itself.”
“George Soros cornered that market long ago. By the way, he’s a friend, too.”
“In that case, I’m sure he won’t mind if you join his crusade.”
“It’s a fool’s errand, Allon. Russia will never be a democracy.”
“Not anytime soon. But your initiative will nevertheless infuriate Arkady Akimov and his good friend the Russian president.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Which is why Arkady will want to go into business with you.”
“Explain,” said Martin.
“Arkady doesn’t form business relationships with prominent Westerners out of the goodness of his heart. He uses Russian money as a stealth weapon to rot the West from within. You are an ideal target, a saintly liberal activist who harbors a dark secret. Arkady will use you and compromise you at the same time. And once you’ve taken the bait, you will be a wholly owned subsidiary of Kremlin Incorporated. At least in their eyes.”
“Which is why I never do business with Russians. They’re too corrupt, even for me. And far too violent. Mind you, I do business with plenty of gangsters, including the Italians. They’re quite reasonable, actually. They take their cut, I take mine, and everybody lives. But chaps like Boris and Igor are quick to resort to violence if they think they’ve been cheated. Besides,” added Martin, “I was under the impression Arkady took his dirty laundry to RhineBank.”
“He does. But he will soon find himself in need of a new cleaning service.”
“And if he approaches me?”
“You will play very hard to get. But once you agree to take his money, you will violate as many laws as possible, including in Great Britain and the United States.”
“What happens then?”
“Arkady goes down. You, however, will emerge with your glittering reputation intact, just like after the Iran operation.”
“And when Boris and Igor come calling?”
“You’ll have a roof over your head.”
“You?”
“And the Swiss,” said Gabriel.
Martin made a show of thought. “I suppose I have no choice but to say yes.”
Gabriel was silent.
“And who’s going to pay for this democracy project of yours?” asked Martin.
“You are. You’re also going to purchase a painting.”
“How much will it cost me?”
“A fraction of what you paid for that Lucian Freud of yours. What was it? Fifty million?”
“Fifty-six.” Martin hesitated, then asked, “Is that all?”
“No,” said Gabriel. “There’s one more thing.”