Panetti had the information he needed in sixty seconds. No blood. No threats. Not even a raised voice, thank you very much. The suspect, John J. Gavallan, and his accomplice, Catherine Elizabeth Magnus, had rented a car from Hertz. They were expected back at the plane sometime that afternoon. The pilots had instructions to be refueled and ready to take off at 4 P.M. More than that, they said they didn't know, and Panetti believed them. A five-minute stroll took him to the Hertz desk. He flashed his badge and asked for the make, model, and license number of the car the Americans had rented. The answer came immediately. A black Mercedes 420S, Vaud license 276 997 V.
Panetti thanked the employees for their help. He was lighting cigarette number seven of the shift when the manager appeared from his office, waving a fey hand to get his attention.
"Attendez. Attendez. Officer, thank goodness you're here."
"Oh?" asked Panetti through a blue haze.
"You are interested in the Americans?"
"Banh oui." Panetti raised a brow, curious as to what the Americans might have done to so disturb this fat old poof.
"Ils sont terribles, les Amis. Come, I show you." The manager led Panetti to a bank of phone booths, pointing archly at the third in line. "There. Look. See for yourself."
Panetti sauntered over to the booth. He picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. The dial tone sounded as innocuous as ever. He flicked the coin return. A-OK. "What's wrong?"
"Non, non, les annuaires," puffed the manager breathlessly. The phone books. And pushing Panetti aside, he pulled open the registry for the canton Vaud. "They stole a page. They ripped it right out. I saw them."
"A page? The whole thing? And you didn't call right away? Next time, I'll have to arrest you for not reporting the incident."
The manager curled his face into a sour smirk. "Very funny."
"Okay. Off you go. Your poodle is waiting."
"I don't own a…" The manager hoomphed, then spun on his heel and hurried back to his office.
When he was out of sight, Panetti sat down on the stool and laid the phone book on his lap. He flipped through the directory several times until he spotted the frayed pennants of the missing page. He had no idea whom Mr. Gavallan might be looking for, but the missing page might indicate where that person- or business, for that matter- might be. Swiss directories were divided alphabetically by city or town, with the locale's name printed on the top outside corner of each page.
Panetti was in luck. The same town was listed at the top of the preceding and succeeding pages.
Lussy-sur-Morges.
He had the local police on the line within fifteen seconds. And Mr. Howell Dodson of the FBI a minute after that.
42
You're saying you work for Novastar, too?" Gavallan asked Jean-Jacques Pillonel on the way to Silber, Goldi, and Grimm's headquarters in downtown Geneva.
"As their accountants, we do all of their bookkeeping," replied Pillonel. "As their fiduciare, we counsel them on setting up offshore accounts, shell companies, the usual song and dance to help our customers avoid paying too much tax."
"And how much is that?" asked Cate from her post in the backseat.
"Why, any, of course," answered Pillonel, who was driving. "When Mr. Kirov purchased Novastar Airlines last year, he came to me to set up a holding company outside of Russia where he could deposit the shares."
"Why would he want to deposit Novastar's shares outside of Russia?" asked Gavallan.
Pillonel smirked, but didn't take his eyes off the road. "You'll see soon enough."
Silber, Goldi, and Grimm's headquarters were located on the Rue du Rhône, one block from the lake. The newly remodeled building was a symphony of brushed steel and exposed girders. The lines were spare, the profile vibrant and supremely confident. One moment Gavallan thought he was looking at the Beaubourg in Paris; the next, the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank on Hong Kong Island. Modernism had trumped tradition. Prudence had been declared a four-letter word. So had conservatism, stability, and any other trait that implied the slightest resistance to change.
Once, on the third floor, Pillonel guided them along a dim corridor. Stopping in front of an anonymous doorway, he placed an eye to a retinal scanner. The lock disengaged and the door swung open.
"The funny thing is I knew this would happen," he said, allowing Cate and Gavallan to pass and enter the storage room. "I did it anyway, and I'm still not sure why. Foolish, wasn't it?" He looked at Cate. "You wanted to know how much Kirov was paying me? Fifteen million."
"Dollars, I hope."
"No. Francs."
Cate gave him a sad look. "Was it worth it?"
Even now, Pillonel's venal nature demanded he think on the answer. "Alors, non."