Suter Montecristo

1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-1-84344-823-5
Verlag: No Exit Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 288 Seiten

Video journalist Jonas Brand is on a rail journey from Zurich to Basel when stock trader Paolo Contini appears to throw himself from the train to his death. Brand sets his footage of the aftermath of the incident aside to investigate a strange coincidence: two 100-Swiss-franc banknotes bearing the same serial number have come into his possession. Sensing an opportunity to graduate from celebrity journalism to serious investigation, he has the banknotes analysed, with bizarrely contradictory... and fatal results. Set in the tangled world of finance, politics and the media, Montecristo is a pacy conspiracy thriller full of betrayal and underhand tactics - a sharp and entertaining demonstration of the topical maxim that some banks are simply 'too big to fail'.

Martin Suter is a writer, columnist and screenwriter. Until 1991 he worked as a creative director in advertising, before deciding to focus exclusively on writing. His novels have enjoyed huge international success. He has also written screenplays for film and television, and several of his novels have been made into films. Martin lives in Zurich with his family.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Suter, Martin

Weitere Mitwirkende

Bulloch, Jamie

Leseproben

2 Herr Weber had been Jonas’s account manager ever since he’d transferred his account from the Swiss International Bank to the General Confederate Bank of Switzerland over fifteen years ago. The reason for having changed banks was his private account manager at SIB, who one day had blocked his credit and cash cards without warning, merely because Brand was eighty francs overdrawn. This wouldn’t have been quite so bad, save for the fact that he was in Morocco at the time and his boat and train tickets for the journey home had been stolen. His parents obtained the satisfaction of his having to ask them to help him out of this mess, and he had to spend three nights in Casablanca’s worst doss house before they’d finally managed to transfer the money via Western Union. On the day he arrived back in Zürich, a furious Jonas went to his manager at SIB, handed him the eighty francs he was in debt and closed the account on the spot. Then he crossed the road to GCBS and opened an account with the penultimate hundred note his parents had transferred. This marked the beginning of his business relationship with Herr Weber. At the time Herr Weber was in his late thirties and hadn’t yet given up hope of making it far up the career ladder. He was a short, thin man with a hairline set low on his forehead, making him look faintly apelike. During the first few years Herr Weber behaved like a banker, trotting out the same clichés and attempting to fob investments and services onto Jonas, which he referred to as ‘products’ as if they were tangible. When, years later, his business card still read ‘Private Account Manager / Cashier’, he must have realised that he was at the end of his career progression, and he started siding with his customers. Turning his nose up at the bank’s internal bureaucracy, he would never talk about his superiors without a hint of irony. He reminded Jonas of his corporal in military training school, who bullied the recruits until the day he found out he wouldn’t be recommended for a commission, after which he fraternised with the young trainees. But unlike Herr Weber, who even in his most ambitious phases Jonas had never seriously been at the mercy of, he hadn’t forgiven the corporal. To the present day. Herr Weber, whose hairline was still in close proximity to the bridge of his nose, carefully scrutinised the banknotes and explained to Jonas the eighteen security features: the shimmering, transparent magic number, the translucent crosses, the watermark portrait, the line structures that change colour, the fading copperplate digits, the dancing number on the shining foil, the perforated number indicating the note’s value, the two micro texts illegible to the naked eye, the chameleon number that changes colour according to the light, the digits only visible in UV light, the letter ‘G’ that glints when you move the note, the ‘tilt’ number that can only be read from a very oblique angle, the tactile symbol for blind people, the metallic security strip and the two serial numbers. All were present and all in order. ‘As far as I’m concerned they’re both genuine,’ Herr Weber said finally. ‘So how’s it possible that they’ve both got the same serial number?’ ‘It isn’t possible. Have you got a moment? I’d like to consult a colleague.’ Jonas watched Herr Weber go up to a colleague’s desk in the office behind the counters, where the two men pored over the banknotes. They were joined by a woman who’d been serving at a neighbouring counter, and soon a little group of bank employees had gathered to marvel at the phenomenon. Jonas was feeling a little impatient by the time Herr Weber finally came back. ‘Strange. All of us think that both notes are genuine. Do you mind if I make a photocopy?’ ‘I thought that was illegal.’ ‘It wouldn’t be the first time that something illegal’s been done in this place,’ Herr Weber admitted with his ironic smile. He vanished with the notes. When he returned and gave the money back to Jonas, he advised him, ‘Make sure you look after these – they’re collector’s items.’ Jonas took out some cash for Frau Knezevic and his day-to-day expenses, then left. Back in the flat he tucked the two collector’s items into the back of the mysterious Vietnamese deity. * The following evening they met up again. Jonas had waited until ten o’clock before calling her. She must have stored his number in her contact list because she answered, ‘How did you sleep, Jonas?’ ‘All alone,’ he replied. Then, without beating about the bush, they arranged to have dinner together. This time he listened, gazing spellbound into her eyes. They were oriental eyes, almond-shaped with a double crease below the lids, but the colour was a European green. Her straight, shoulder-length hair, with the fringe cut just above the eyebrows, had a brown sheen. She had prominent cheekbones and full lips, which were redder than yesterday. ‘Most people think I’m the daughter of a Swiss bloke who couldn’t find a wife here so bagged himself one in Thailand.’ ‘But?’ ‘But I’m the daughter of a Filipino dad who bagged a Swiss woman here.’ She laughed as if having offered up a joke she’d told many times before. ‘My father was awarded a fellowship to study agronomy in Switzerland. When he finished he went back to the Philippines with my mother. I was born there.’ ‘Do you speak Filipino?’ ‘Oh, only a few words. My parents separated when I was six. My mum came back to Switzerland with me and married again.’ ‘A Spaniard?’ ‘Because of the Ruiz, you mean? No, the name comes from my real father. Many Filipinos have Spanish names. My stepfather is Swiss.’ Marina told him about her life as if she were applying for a position in his. She answered his questions too, even those that he didn’t pose. ‘Why haven’t you asked me if there’s someone in my life?’ ‘Well, you didn’t ask me that either.’ ‘What would your answer have been?’ ‘Occasionally. How about you?’ ‘Occasionally. And years ago something more serious.’ Jonas smiled. ‘Same with me. I’ve even been married.’ ‘With me it was just a close shave.’ With that the subject was ticked off. Later, Jonas asked, ‘How on earth did you end up in event management?’ ‘Maybe in a similar way to you and lifestyle journalism.’ ‘So it’s a temporary thing?’ She laughed. ‘No, I mean by chance. I temped for an event agency during student holidays.’ ‘And you found you liked it?’ ‘Better than law.’ ‘Did you want to become a lawyer?’ ‘My mother wanted me to.’ ‘What about now? Do you still like event management?’ Marina stroked the hair from her face and pondered. ‘It’s OK. There’s variety to the work; I do many different things. If you like communicating with people and don’t mind the irregular hours, then it’s not a bad job. The pay’s decent too. And you get to meet a lot of people – sometimes even interesting ones.’ She gave the same conspiratorial laugh she had from behind the back of Melinda Trueheart. And just as that laugh had led to an immediate dinner date, so this one sped up the course of things too. ‘So what now?’ Jonas asked. ‘Your place,’ Marina replied. * It was only ten o’clock in the evening when Jonas unlocked his front door – they were in a real hurry. It started with a lengthy kiss in the hallway and, when they finally broke off from the embrace to remove their coats, Marina asked, ‘Have you got anything to drink?’ Jonas went into the kitchen and found a bottle of Nero d’Avola that he’d recently been given by an ex-Mr Switzerland after interviewing him at the opening of his new boutique. He filled two glasses and took them into the hall. But Marina wasn’t there any more. She wasn’t in his studio or sitting room either. Eventually he found her in the bedroom, lying on the duvet with her arms and legs stretched out like a dog that wants to be tickled. She was naked. Her small breasts rose barely higher than her smooth pubic mound. He put the wine glasses down on a bedside table and undressed beneath her provocative gaze. Later, when he was sitting up at the head of the bed, and she sipped the heavy wine with her head nestled into his right shoulder, she made a vague movement with her glass in the direction of the butterfly collection, which he’d bought on a lucky day as a job lot from a second-hand shop, and said, ‘All those butterflies.’ ‘There are more – in my tummy,’ he replied. She laughed. ‘Is that what you tell all the girls after the first time?’ He pulled her closer and kissed her forehead, but didn’t reply. She wouldn’t have believed him if he’d told the truth. Which was that the comment had only just occurred to him. * ‘Which one is the half room?’ Jonas asked the following evening at Marina’s flat. ‘Where the dining table is. The sitting room is a whole one, the dining room a half room. Hence sitting–dining room.’ He was standing with Marina by the counter that divided the kitchen from the sitting–dining room, watching her chop coriander with a large knife. On the cooker, chicken was simmering in a sauce of soy, vinegar, garlic, bay and chilli. ‘Adobo: national dish of the Philippines,’ she’d said when he asked her what smelled so fantastic. ‘You’re cooking me a memory from your...