Damnation Page 10

  ‘Regular coffee would be fine.’ With Swiss pride, Winter noted that the machine was manufactured by Jura.

  While the security guard was busy getting the coffee, Winter took a closer look around the conference room. On the tables were loose photocopied sheets, bound presentations, plastic sleeves and glossy brochures. Figures and graphs.

  There was a sort of matrix on one of the flip charts. Probably the result of a brainstorming session with an evaluation using different parameters. Cost–benefit analysis. Down the vertical axis was a long list: Telcos, Ports and Shipping, Roads and Rail, Airports, Energy (Gas, Coal, H2O, Nuc), Drinking water, Pipelines. Along the horizontal one it read: ‘Return, Necessary investment, Risks.’ Everything in billions of US dollars. Most were three-digit figures.

  ‘Sugar? Milk?’ the security guard asked.

  In the realm of milk and honey, all the same. ‘No, thanks.’

  Winter took the coffee he was offered. ‘Thanks. This will wake me up.’

  He turned around and made for the glass door. But when his foot got caught in a cable he had to hold onto the nearest table to steady himself, and some coffee spilled on the table.

  Winter looked around for a cloth, at the same time searching his trouser pockets in vain for a tissue. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We’ll have that cleared up in no time.’ The guard left the room. Winter grabbed a pile of loose documents that looked like summaries, an agenda and a list of participants, folded the pieces of paper and stuffed them in his trousers behind his back. His jumper hid the documents that in a few hours one of the people at the meeting would miss.

  The security guard came back with a bundle of paper towels, wiped away the coffee stains and said, ‘Let’s go.’ They left the conference room. Winter waited till his coffee was the right temperature, smiled as the guard wished him fun with the canoe, drank up his brew and left for the main building. The sun had risen.

  Winter sat in the lobby and read his emails. He didn’t open Känzig’s message entitled ‘Status report ASAP’. Schütz had sent the contact details of the Viking he’d met in Riyadh: Dr H. Hansen, President, Galaxy – IIS Individual Investment Solutions. An address in Bergen with telephone numbers and a personal email address. ‘Best of luck, Schütz’, followed by a PS: ‘He looks like a Viking who’s fought more than one battle…’

  At that very moment a colossus of a man entered the lobby. He was followed by a tiny suitcase on wheels, like a dog. His black, tailor-made suit was crumpled and the man was clearly in a bad mood, because he just grunted when the woman at reception cheerfully greeted him by the name of Hansen. Winter got up, strolled to the lift and stood beside him, noticing he had big rings below his eyes and was unshaven. Where his unfastened collar had been rubbing against his fleshy neck it looked greasy. He smelled bad – of sweat, cigarette smoke and a long journey.

  ‘Good morning, Dr Hansen. My name is Winter and we have a mutual friend who’s now dead.’

  JULY 30 – 05:42

  They arranged to meet at breakfast. Winter went straight into the large, almost empty dining hall and sat at a table in the corner. He had a good view of the unoccupied tables, the growing breakfast buffet and the Hardangerfjord. The world was a peaceful place in the morning. A silent waiter poured him a cup of coffee. Winter nodded his gratitude and waited for Hansen: viking and money manager.

  Hansen arrived twenty minutes later. His gait and stature suggested that he had once been a strong, powerful man. He was between thirty and forty. The rings under his eyes were not merely those of someone who’d hadn’t had enough sleep; they were also indicative of too much food and too little exercise. The fat on his cheeks made the rings appear deeper. His blue eyes wandered calmly across the room and inspected Winter’s face.

  Hansen was not a man easily ruffled though, neither physically nor psychologically. Good nerves were necessary when you bet on the stock market with large sums of foreign money and high leverage.

  A violet-coloured, silk handkerchief was perched in the breast pocket of his pinstripe jacket, beneath which he wore a fresh, light-pink shirt with broad, violet stripes and a fat, matching tie. Hansen smelled of his morning shower. Golden cufflinks flashed on his wrists. Winter couldn’t help smiling. The Viking was terribly British. He’d probably worked in the City of London.

  After their wordless greeting Hansen ordered coffee and a Full English breakfast. A waitress swiftly brought a large, silver pot of hot coffee. Winter helped himself modestly at the buffet, taking some fruit muesli, toast and orange juice. He ignored the lavish towers of salmon. Fish for breakfast wasn’t his thing.

  It was early in the morning and neither man had any desire to waste energy on exchanging pleasantries. After the coffee started to take effect Hansen said, ‘We both have an interest in finding out who killed Al-Bader. He was your client, and mine too. What do you have so far?’

  ‘Not a lot. The official investigation is still in progress. I’m working with the assumption that the helicopter crashed as the result of an explosion. The list of possible motives is long. Obviously I’m wondering what sort of business Al-Bader was pursuing here.’

  Hansen stirred two cubes of sugar into his black coffee.

  ‘Galaxy’s vision is to become the world’s largest and most profitable private equity fund for investment into essential infrastructure. I can also say that we’ll soon need a more ambitious vision.’ Winter nodded and thought of the security guard who had quoted his boss. ‘World domination’ took on quite a new meaning. Whoever controls water, energy and transport is in command; something the rulers of the Roman Empire realized a couple of millennia ago. Hansen was a well-paid mercenary. ‘Galaxy offers its clients a unique service. We act as brokers between investors and promising infrastructure projects.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Let him talk.

  ‘Western governments need to save and sell the family silver to private buyers. And the projects in the Third World and emerging nations really need investors with deep pockets and stamina.’

  ‘Are you saying that Galaxy has both?’

  ‘Galaxy is only open to clients who are prepared to invest an adequate sum over several years. For private investors, such as Al-Bader’s family, we’re opening doors that would never be opened otherwise.’

  ‘As a head of security I’m only an educated amateur in such banking affairs. Can you explain what that means?’

  ‘It’s easiest if I give you an example. International trade is going to grow in the future too. Which means more ships. Which means more ports. These are mostly owned by regional or national governments who want to invest, for which they need capital. We provide that for them on favourable terms. The point is that the oil sheikhs have difficulty in getting close to these investments. Ports are strategic, geopolitically important infrastructures. Which Western nation is going to sell them to a Muslim?’

  ‘And that’s where Galaxy comes in?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t need to tell you, a Swiss citizen, about the value of neutrality. As a Norwegian private equity fund we are completely neutral politically. The only thing that counts is business. Norway isn’t in the EU and because we’re a Norwegian fund we aren’t subject to the pressures of a particular financial centre either. It’s one of our unique features that our fund is located here on Norway’s beautiful western coast, far removed from the everyday frenzy of the stock markets. Here we can focus squarely on the long-term trends.’

  ‘What about your clients? I’m assuming they’re big players from the east?’

  ‘Correct. Quality above quantity. I’d rather have a hundred professionals than ten thousand grannies wanting to invest their cash under the pillow in the railways. A few Russians, more and more Asians, but mainly Arabs value our services. Oil to oil.’ It sounded like ashes to ashes. Winter wasn’t the only one who thought so, as Hansen grinned and crossed himself. ‘We have specific skills in this area. And they love Norway: cool and secure. In fact, I’m amazed that you Swi
ss didn’t invent this business model.’

  ‘In Switzerland private equity funds are strictly regulated, which scares off lots of investors. One man’s joy is another man’s sorrow.’

  When Hansen’s breakfast arrived his face visibly lit up at the sight of fried eggs, sausages and bacon. Winter spread some cloud-berry jam on his toast. To prevent Hansen’s flow from drying up, he said, ‘I envy you this idea. First you take the money, then you fleece the sheiks with all manner of fees. Congratulations.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate them. Alright, I admit that some have more money than sense. Not all of them are Einsteins. But most are sharp, professional investors seeking to diversify their portfolios. There’s little correlation between our performance and the stock markets. Some are semi-state investors who want to get the best global yield on their citizens’ money based on their risk.’ One sausage per bite. Winter made a bet with himself that Hansen would soon order seconds.

  ‘So what are you doing here in the “Sole Bad”?’

  ‘We work very closely with our clients. Twice a year we invite them to a presentation of our projects and vehicles. As we have a seventy per cent stake in this hotel we can kill two birds with one stone.’ Hansen grinned once more. ‘The discussions here give us the opportunity to listen to the clients’ needs. Often they’ll come with other interested investors who are eager to meet us in an informal setting.’

  ‘How well do you really know your clients? Were there any signs that things between Al-Bader and other investors weren’t totally smooth?’

  ‘I didn’t see or hear anything. We’ve been involved in the Middle East for years. The winner is the person who’s always a few steps ahead of the competition. Your Schütz was impressed at any rate. Have you ever been there?’ Hansen pointed his fork, grinning. ‘And don’t get dazzled by all that gold. The sheikhs are buying up half of America and nobody’s noticing. They come, they buy and they profit.’

  ‘In the wake of the financial crisis the Americans need the money to pay off their debts.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. George Bush senior saw it years ago. He’s got good pals in Saudi Arabia. Which is great news for world peace. Who’s going to start bombing their own assets?’ Hansen waved at a waiter, pointed to his plate and ordered more.

  The bet was won.

  Leaning his elbows on the table, Hansen folded his hands, rested his chin on them and said, ‘Did you know that the Abu Dhabi Investment Council has bought the Chrysler Building in the heart of the Big Apple? Those with debts have to sell. It’s as simple as that.’

  Winter gave a feeble smile. His gut feeling told him that Hansen had warmed up and it was time for some concrete questions. ‘What role did Al-Bader play in these investments?’

  Hansen glanced towards the kitchen. A pause for thought or just a craving for more sausages? The stomach is half an hour ahead of the brain. It’s only with a half-hour delay that the brain registers you’ve eaten enough and you’re not actually hungry any more. But Hansen wasn’t a Slow Food advocate. With him everything had to go quickly, although he hadn’t said anything of substance yet.

  ‘Dead clients are bad for business. That’s why I want us to find Al-Bader’s killer. He should rot in a hole for the rest of his life. If needs be I’ll smash his skull in with my own hands.’ But he still hadn’t answered the question.

  Winter probed further. ‘Was Al-Bader a special client then?’

  ‘Every client is special. Al-Bader represented his family, his clan. And I’m hardly letting you in on a secret if I say we’re not talking about pocket money here.’

  ‘What sort of sums are we talking about?’

  ‘You’re worse than the journalists.’ More eggs, bacon and sausages arrived, putting Hansen in a generous mood, which is why before launching his assault on the plate he condescendingly added, ‘They’ve entrusted Galaxy with a few billion.’

  Winter looked out of the window, tried to imagine an amount with nine zeros and by the time he’d turned back to Hansen, the man’s plate was already half empty.

  ‘In your opinion, who might have a reason for killing Al-Bader?’

  He shrugged. ‘The Al-Bader family has been with us since the beginning. From time to time they’ve helped us win new clients on the Arabian Peninsula. But the answer is: I don’t know.’

  ‘Could you speculate?’

  ‘I was at Al-Bader’s funeral in Riyadh. And when I looked at this family I couldn’t imagine that everything’s harmonious all the time. Too much money at stake. Perhaps he trod on someone’s toes. You know what I’m talking about. One enemy too many. I really don’t know. You’re the expert. Isn’t it your job to find out?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Winter didn’t want to talk about his job spec, and certainly not about his sense of duty.

  Hansen was keen to know something too. Abruptly he asked, ‘Was the helicopter shot down?’

  ‘A fire broke out in the cockpit and currently the authorities are investigating what caused it. I’m inclined to believe it was an explosion.’

  ‘Who had access to the helicopter?’

  ‘Al-Bader, the pilot, the service engineers, the passengers on that or the preceding flight, the pilot’s wife, airport staff.’

  ‘If it was an explosion, have they found a detonator?’

  At this point Winter could easily imagine how a firm’s management would feel if it were being grilled by Hansen. ‘No, as far as I know, no detonator has been found yet.’

  ‘How was it triggered?’ Hansen was more interested in the technical aspects than the human ones.

  ‘A timer? On the internet you can find all sorts of instructions for building a bomb. Or a mobile phone. One call is enough.’

  Hansen shook his head and rubbed his smoothly-shaven double chin thoughtfully. After a dismissive grunt he contemplated the problem from another angle.

  ‘Who’s got the strongest motive?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’

  ‘There were no terrorists claiming responsibility? No call to a tabloid?’

  ‘No, not as yet. I’ve been trying to reconstruct Al-Bader’s last few days. Do you know why he left the conference here?’

  ‘Al Bader’s family is investing directly in the Middle East. All he told me was that one of his projects in Egypt needed his urgent attention. He wanted to be back the following evening for the presentation on the subject of water.’

  ‘Who was he going to meet?’

  ‘I don’t know. A minister?’ Hansen grinned. ‘Was there no suitcase full of money found?’

  ‘Al-Bader was scheduled to meet Kaddour, the number two at Orafin. On July the twenty-sixth, Kaddour was killed by a car bomb in Cairo.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ For a second or two Hansen forgot to eat.

  Too many dead clients spoil your appetite, Winter thought. Then he said, ‘I’ll bet you that greed is behind it. Al-Bader and Kaddour are dead. So be careful.’

  ‘Listen, Winter. There’s often a bit of showmanship in our business. We’re operating on a public stage. Why did someone choose to kill Al-Bader in this particular way? He could have been poisoned silently and without fuss. I’m sure it would have been simpler.’ Hansen poked around his almost empty plate a little sheepishly. ‘I think that the method of the killing – if that’s what it was – is a message too. The explosion of a helicopter in safe Switzerland is a sensational act and thus a particular sign.’

  ‘From whom to whom? A deterrent? I’m inclined to think they meant to disguise the attack as an accident.’

  Hansen pulled his vibrating mobile from his pocket, glanced at the screen, declined the call and said, ‘I don’t know, but if I can help you, I will. I have contacts. I’ll lend you my jet if you like. Tell the hotel you’re my guest. But find the murderer.’ His plate empty, Hansen looked at his watch and shook Winter’s hand. ‘Best of luck!’ he said and then he was gone.

  Winter remained sitting there, digesting both his breakfast and what he’d
heard. He was still lost in the view and his thoughts when a waitress approached him and said in a tone that wouldn’t allow for any buts, ‘Please leave the dining room at once and go straight to the car park!’

  JULY 30 – 07:14

  When Winter raised his eyebrows at the waitress, she explained, ‘We’ve had a bomb alert and we’re evacuating the hotel. Please go quickly.’

  He nodded and thought of Fatima. His heart tightened.

  Winter knew the drill and got up. Statistically most bomb threats were false alarms. But he also knew the dilemma of the person in charge. In a very short time they had to decide whether to take the threat seriously or not. If you evacuated and nothing happened, there would be trouble with the guests. If you didn’t evacuate and there was an explosion, you were responsible. This risk meant that in most cases the building would be evacuated, sealed off and searched.

  After the events of the last few days Winter didn’t want to rely on statistics. Probabilities were helpful, but sometimes deadly too.

  He left the dining hall and jogged towards his bungalow, meeting hotel guests coming the other way, most of whom had been startled out of their sleep. Many of the guests were still in pyjamas or they’d quickly put something on. A few Arabs in white robes with wives, aunts, cousins and lots of children in tow came rushing past. The children were shrieking with excitement, but otherwise nobody seemed to be in a panic.

  Winter saw three security guards dressed in black, directing the guests to the car park that was set some way back from the hotel. The hotel’s evacuation plan earmarked the car park as the assembly point.

  Hopefully not another car bomb, Winter thought. That would be a catastrophe. First lure all the guests to the car park and then detonate the bomb. In Iraq and Afghanistan insurgents had refined this tactic to perfection over the years.

  As he passed the conference building he saw Hansen and a similar-looking, but younger man hectically collecting up all the documents that were lying around. Both men had red faces and looked stressed. What had Hansen said? Two birds with one stone. If the hotel were blown sky-high it would affect the guests and investors. Winter felt behind him for the documents that were still stuffed into his trousers. Nobody would notice that anything was missing.