The Tears of Autumn - Charles McCarry [35]
Death fell breathless behind us in our war-struck youth, and winning that race, we lost our chance at truth.
Below this, Patchen had typed: “PSRunner/22XI63/UBS (G).”
The note was unsigned. Christopher put it in his pocket, lifted the phone, and made a reservation on the noon plane to Geneva.
Christopher was not known at the Union de Banques Suisses in Geneva, but they were used to strangers there. He told a clerk that he wished to discuss a numbered account, and he was taken into an office where a bald Swiss sat behind a bare desk. Swiss banks have a churchly atmosphere; Christopher judged from the furnishings in the bald man’s office that he was the equivalent of a bishop. The man rose from a chair with a high carved back and shook hands, but did not smile.
“There is a numbered account here for me, recently opened, I believe,” Christopher said.
“Will you state the number and the name, please?”
“It is 22X163,” Christopher said, “and the name is P. S. Runner.”
“One moment.” The bald man unlocked a file and extracted a large card; he centered it on the polished surface of the desk before him and looked expectantly at Christopher.
“Do you require a signature?” Christopher asked.
“No, monsieur. Our instructions are to pay on demand, but you must furnish the second of two lines of verse.”
Christopher quoted the line from Patchen’s letter.
“It’s in order,” the bald banker said. “Do you wish to make a withdrawal?”
“What is the current balance?”
“A deposit of $100,000 has been made—that is, Swiss francs 432,512.65. You may have any amount, in either currency.”
“Please give me twenty-five thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills, and five thousand Swiss francs in hundred-franc notes.”
The banker wrote on a form and pressed a bell. In a moment, a messenger returned with two long buff envelopes. The banker counted the money rapidly, sealed the envelopes, and handed them to Christopher. “Your balance is now $73,865.74,” he said. “When you call for more funds, you may come directly to this office without asking the huissier. It’s more discreet.”
Christopher nodded and put the envelopes in his breast pocket. Outside in the rue du Rhone he saw a man in a tweed Brooks Brothers overcoat limping through the crowd and thought for an instant that it might be Patchen. His letter bore a Swiss postmark, so he might have carried the cash to Geneva himself. Christopher followed the limping man for a block or two before he got a clear glimpse of his face, which was whole and handsome.
At a garage near the railroad station, Christopher rented a car with French license plates. There were no identity controls at the French frontier for motor traffic. The weather in northern Europe was already turning bad, and he drove over the Jura through fog and sleet. He did not want to leave any traces of himself on paper in France, so he did not stop at a hotel. He drove all night and arrived in Paris before the morning traffic had begun to move. He parked the car behind the horse barns at Longchamps and slept for three hours in the back seat. When he awoke, he touched the envelopes with Patchen’s money in them.
3
It took Christopher half the day to learn the telephone number of Nguyen Kim.
“Are you still bumming meals?” Christopher asked, when Kim came on the noisy line.
They arranged to meet at Fouquet’s. Christopher filled the gas tank and spent three hours circling the block until he found a parking place on the Champs-Elysées in front of the cafe.
Kim drank two large bourbons at Fouquet’s and two more at La Coupole after they had driven through Montmartre and doubled back across the Seine bridges. Kim did not know the city, and the long ride with many detours down side streets did not surprise him. When they reached the restaurant, they were alone; as they pulled away from Fouquet’s, Christopher had seen, in the rear-view mirror, the two men who were following Kim. One hurried