Book VIII The Grand Master

Chapter 1 

Guntram de Lisle's diary

May 26^th, 2014

I'm still in shock. I don't know how this happened. I mean, this isn't the first time it happens. In fact, it happens daily. Rich people hide their riches from the tax office and we aren’t responsible for that. Half of Switzerland lives from that. Why going against Konrad if there are bigger fishes (sharks) in the pond? 

The police took him directly to the prison in Zurich and placed him in an isolation regime to keep him free from other prisoners' harassment (and from doing any financial harm). That place is for people awaiting trial. It's nonsense what this idiot of a prosecutor is doing. Even if Konrad were guilty, he wouldn't go to prison if convicted. Michel says that he's there because the prosecutor wants to keep an eye on him while they do their searches on Monday but he will be released soon (on bail) and that all of this trouble is unheard of. 

For once, my father has been helpful. I think he does it because he wants to keep me out of trouble. He fears that I'm mentioned in one of Konrad's companies and therefore accused of I don't know what. He spoke with councillor Gandini and both went on early Monday afternoon to the General prosecutor's office. 

As I didn't know what to tell the boys, I said that Konrad is away on a business trip. The hardest thing was to tell it to Friederich when he returned home that night. He turned very pale and yellowish but said nothing to me. I think he went to the chapel while I phoned with the lawyers that still remained standing. 

The first thing that Pedro Lanusse told me was to keep my mouth shut in front of the press, the judge and friends. “You have no friends here any longer, Guntram. This is going to be hell.” 

I didn't believe him till I read this morning's press. Well, at one in the morning because the mess started with the Aussie newspapers. I had to run to the bank, with my father in tow. 

There was a police car in front of the bank but the two officers standing there only looked at me in shock as I waited for the old Jürgen to open the door. The man was quite shocked that someone was there so early. He didn't have to wait for too long before many account officers decided that it was a good time to start reviewing their own customers' status. 

I entered in Konrad's office and needed to sit on his chair. The Aussies overdid themselves today or yesterday night with all the rubbish they published.  

Their two main newspapers, as part of something called the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists (ICIJ) published that the Lintorff Privatbank had helped customers in the USA to hide (therefore evade taxes) assets for over 75 billion dollars, implementing a large tax fraud scheme directed by our own lawyers, managers and probably the office boy too. There were some celebrities’ names included on the list of “customers” to make the whole thing more spicy. 

I can't believe that Konrad would be so stupid as to do something like this. 

The blow came from the second article which accused him (without any real evidence) of laundering over 100 billion dollars from drug dealers in Europe and Latin America, arms dealers in Russia and who knows who else. 

And then, as if it’s nothing out of the normal, there was a small piece regarding “The Lost Order” where the Wall Street Journal named and described Konrad as the head of a “mafia like” organization of European industrial tycoons and bankers colluding to their best to obtain huge profits and privileges for their companies, based in their good relations with the political spheres. 

I had to read those pieces several times before I could believe that we, as in “the Order” were wide in the open; exposed to anyone who wanted to see it. Michel was telling me insistently to leave the bank as I could be accused of being an accessory to something if any of Konrad's papers went missing. I only took from his safe the documents regarding the attorney powers he had granted me over all of his companies when we married and the “doomsday” memory card as he calls it. 

I had just closed the darn thing when the police and a few people more busted into the office. The older man came to me and identified himself as being part of the General Prosecutor's office. The two other guys were from FIMNA.

“You're not allowed to take any documents outside this building,” the oldest guy told me.

“These are private documents addressed under my name,” I replied. “They're out of your jurisdiction as my lawyer can tell you,” and I stuffed them inside the leather folder right up his face. I guess I rocked his glasses a bit. The man buffed like a bull and I put on my best contrite dork face and handed the documents to him.

While he was busy reading and reading the papers, I slid the memory card right under my cuff and nobody noticed it. 

“Do you swear that you have taken nothing that could hinder in any way this investigation?” he told me and I replied “of course”. After all, I'm nothing more than Konrad's “perverted” toy. Who's going to distrust me? Nobody outside our circle takes me seriously and it's time to cash in something from that reputation.

The men from FINMA informed me that they were there to start an audit and that I should get my people out before the police would do it. 

“They have to work today.” I protested. 

“Any commercial activity from this institution is suspended until further notice.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“All the accounts are frozen until further notice too. The Commission will inform you of any changes in this policy.” 

I blinked several times because that was our death sentence. We just got trapped inside a “corralito” if nobody can get a dime out of the accounts. It felt like being transported back in time to 2001. 

“Who ordered this?” I asked. 

“You really don't want to face a bank run today.” One of the younger officers from the FINMA told me and his face looked familiar to me. “Guntram, the moment people read the New York Times, this institution is finished.” 

I looked at him and remembered him. I think we were together in Analysis or something like this. “What New York Times?” 

“Somebody, maybe the Americans leaked all this mess to them and you're in all mayor newspapers. We are forced to do this. So please, move aside and let us do our best to protect us all.”

His idea of protection is quite different from mine but Michel nodded at him and took me by the arm and walked me out of the office. I think he broke the Olympic games record for Elevator Reaching in his haste to pass through a group of disoriented young traders standing in front of Monika's desk. 

The lobby was filled with policemen and people from the Justice department moving boxes out. It was just 7 a.m. 

My father's Maybach was standing there and Thabo's face was enough deterrent to stop any traffic officer's early morning efforts. Michel pushed me inside when I blinked at the flashes of three or four journalists standing there. 

“The vultures are early birds,” he told me and I realized that that guy -Martin, that was his name- had nailed it. I phoned Ratko and asked him to keep the boys at home today just to avoid a bigger problem.

“If the accounts are frozen, some parents might be upset with us.” I said. “Money, people and good manners don't mix well together.” 

“Lintorff shouldn't complain so much,” Michel told me dryly. “Our own bank's bankruptcy was a hundred times worse, with poor people ruined overnight, unlike in this case.” 

“I don't think this is the time, Michel.” I retorted sharply and he shrugged. 

“Speaking from my own experience, this could take a while.” 

“What could take a while?” 

“The investigation, the process, the trial and then, it will depend on how many years Lintorff gets.” 

“You already assume that he's guilty of what we still don't know what he's accused of. Where are we going?” 

“Home.” 

“It's in the other direction,” I huffed. 

“Your house must be bugged up to the mouse's lair,” he told me. “Fairuza must have the breakfast ready and...” 

“I don't want breakfast!”

“We can read the press, if you're still interested in measuring how big the hole is. I'm afraid we might need an elevator to get out of it.” 

I chose to ignore him and began to think but no ideas were coming to my mind. “Did they say the accounts were frozen?” I asked again as I truly began to get an idea of the true extent of the mess we were in. 

“It's logical.” 

“But the bank stands fine. Konrad never took any risks.” 

“In the most optimistic scenario, good old Konrad will have to pay a very large settlement to keep the judge away from his business. As he's the single owner of everything, something like a little bank run could break him and the state would never get the money due. If he's found guilty, he's bankrupt anyway, so the best is to preserve as much money as they can to pay the people that will be ruined in the process. Don't worry, the judge will inform you of how much is left for you.” 

“How Am I going to pay all the staff?” I realized suddenly. “If I fire them, it will be more expensive. I'm not sure if I can bring money from other countries.” 

“A few delayed wages are the least of your problems, Guntram.” I looked at him puzzled. “Pray that that scum of a husband of yours didn't involve you in one of his financial schemes.” 

“What?” I croaked. We keep separates accounts for everything.

“You'd get up to five years for conspiracy or ten for money laundering. That is, if they don't extradite you to the States, my dear American son.” 

Fuck! I had forgotten my useless second passport! “Shit!” 

“The only ones who can be at ease here are the children because they're minors. Well, in the worst scenario, they'd go with their grandmother and she'd hand Kurt over me without any delays.”

“Would you shut up?” I roared and he looked at me with a complete and utter indifference. 

“Before you ask, I will not defend Lintorff under any circumstance. You, it's a different matter. I told you, right before your marriage, that this man wasn't good for you. As usual, you ignored all my warnings.” 

“Look, the last thing I need right now is you starting a war.” 

“I won't start a war. I will help you to get out of the mess Lintorff got you into.” 

“If he goes down I go down with him. Can't you see it?” 

“Unlikely but we will see.” 

“Which side are you?” My father's loyalties leave a lot to be desired. 

“Yours not his. Gandini is good. He knows what he does, so his people. It's a pity this feud he has with Merenghetti over something.” 

“But you're better.” 

“If he would have used Wolfensohn and Partners' services more, Lintorff wouldn't be in such a position, that is true, but all this endogamy of being “brothers in Christ” has been your downfall. Always hiring brothers and doing business with your associates and see what happens. The Americans wiped you out in one single night.” 

Michel has a crude way of telling you things but it doesn't make him less right. Something or someone wiped us out without firing a single bullet... or disturbing the markets.  

“I would appreciate very much if you could help me to read the indictment or whatever they have against Konrad.” I said the words slowly because, somehow I just felt like I was petting a hungry tiger. “Legal language is like Chinese to me.” 

“You know that I will do anything for you. Lintorff...” he trailed.  

“For Kurt, father,” I said. “He loves Konrad very much... and I don't want that he loses his other father.” 

I can't have my baby crying again because he missed... Constantin like as it happened during our first summer here. He was all the time trying to catch Alexei because he heard him speaking in Russian over the phone. Some days, I fear he hasn't forgotten Constantin at all and waits for him to come back. 

We arrived at my father's house and we went straight to his library. He was kind enough as to move his papers to make room for me. 

“Here is safe. We can speak,” he told me even before I could sit. “What did you take from that office?” 

“A memory card,” I confessed because you don’t lie to your lawyer. 

“That was utterly stupid, Guntram. You could have been arrested.” 

“I know but I needed it.” 

“What's inside?” 

“I don't know. Konrad told me to get it if something happened to him.” 

“Then it must be material worth of a nuclear war,” Michel smirked. “What are you going to do?” 

“I need to know what's going on. May I borrow your newspapers, please?” 

Without saying a single word, Michel went for the press and Fairuza brought me a tray with tea and toasts while I began to read. 

* * * 

My reading was cut short. At nine o'clock, I got a frantic call from a trader in the bank called Meyers. The guy was the “highest ranking officer” (more like a corporal turned into a general) alive and was on the brink of a collapse. As the regulators literally threw the traders out, at eight, they had no way to close the pending transactions. 

“Mr. de Lisle, there's no one here whom I can ask what to do. We're highly short in the gold market and the price is going up.” 

“Can't you close it?” 

“No, all our systems are locked down by the justice department clerks.” 

“Are we speaking of contracts or of physical gold?” The guy seemed fazed that I was asking that. 

“Comex, sir.” 

“Let it open,” I said. 

“But...” 

“It's FINMA's mess now. It's their duty to preserve the public's money in case of bankruptcy. Go and tell that to the idiot who's sitting at the duke's office. It's clear that they're going against us.” If they want a market war, they'll have it. 

“Will you do nothing?” 

“Exactly.” I hung up. If I know a little these guys, they will call me back in less than five minutes. With everything frozen, Comex guys will get no guarantees on whatever Konrad's boys have been doing and you know how it is, somebody shakes the tree to get one naughty child down… and five or six more fall down in the process. 

It took three minutes for Meyers to call me back telling me that they were allowed back in their computers to close all pending deals and that if we hurried we would only lose about 500. I think he was very happy that all high frequency trade is closed within the day and that front was quiet. I'm sure they plugged the cable off.

“Do nothing of the sort.” I said. “Place an order for selling five tons of physical gold at bullion.com at 2% over the spot. Then continue to occupy all the steps above that price with as much gold as you need.” 

“Sir?” The guy was breathing like a bull after a marathon. 

“We need cash immediately,” I said secretively. If I know these guys, he will call his friends and tell we're selling all and the bull market will be over for the day. From there, it will be a sauve qui peut in the best market way. And all our reliable, good computer systems will go mad when they “see” all that physical gold for sale. 

It took no more than two minutes after I hang up for the prices to plummet. Why does my father have a Bloomberg terminal at home? He's not Konrad; he doesn't need one. That's something I need to ask him. 

Five minutes later and 3.7% down from closing price, I phoned Meyers to tell him that he could start closing things without rushing or stressing himself. Contrary to my first impression, the guy knew what he was doing and by lunchtime, we were out of dark waters. 

“Try to recover the five hundred kilos we lost.” I told him. “And see if you can divert the profits to Singapore. I want nothing here.” 

“All right, sir.” 

“Thank you, Meyers.” I hung up before he would ask me if I knew something about what's going on. 

I poured myself some more mint tea and at that time, I would have loved to inject it into my veins. I was beaten from what I've done and how much money we (I) had played. I squeezed my eyes shut. 

“You have inherited your grandfather's cold nature, Guntram.” Michel told me. 

Really? I felt like dying from the nerves and it was just lunchtime. How can Konrad do this daily? I wouldn't last two weeks in the trading floor. And this was the most pressing mess; we were getting “the bird” from our fellow banker friends. Why attacking us in the gold flank? There were other things to go against us but everything else was left untouched. 

This is getting curiouser and curiouser. 

Then I remembered to phone Lavrov in systems to tell him to get rid of the codes that Michael Dähler and several of his astrophysics friends created for the HFT section, but the guy had already done it two seconds after Michael was arrested in his house. God bless Twitter fans and the cloud or whatever this computers mumbo-jumbo is called. I guess many of the problems our “traditional” traders had today were because Lavrov (or the computer) had “deleted” everything before FINMA people set a foot in the bank. 

If the courts want to check our operations, their officers can sit down with a pencil and start ticking several thousands of them per day. Only the booking remains and that's all what we are forced by law to give away. These algorithms are our life and the least I need is that somebody sells them to the competition. And certainly, I don't want anyone from the FINMA or the SEC taking a look at them.  

* * *

May 28^th 2014,

Maldonado, Uruguay

Repin had certainly not been lying when he said that life would be boring to tears. From an existence spent on a roller-coaster; from being chased by Russian soldiers to Serbian executioners, Dima Klatschko was now spending his days in the flat countryside, looking after a baby and a man who didn't need anyone to protect him. His own daughter and wife were enjoying the fun of shopping in Dubai while he was stuck with the cows and ostriches. The male ñandúes were quite hostile because they were looking after their new-born chickens but nothing else happened.  

His boss’ passivity infuriated Dima but he would have never said it aloud; he loved his head too much to lose it so stupidly. Repin only played with the baby in the early morning and spent the rest of the day in his studio, writing all the time. Alone. Some days Repin would go to Montevideo by car, alone too, leaving Dima at home -as if he were a housewife- and sometimes he would fly to New York or Washington, alone in his plane. 

The staff, -two maids, the French nanny, the cook, the henchman, three or four workers-, couldn't speak a word of English and Dima missed the years spent in the camaraderie of his fellow soldier friends. Even Paraguay had been funnier with all the crazy Serbs hot on their tail. 

There was nothing to do but to gape at the sunset, avoid the tourists in the high season, and keep distance from the nasty, evil ostriches. 

Dima had started the habit of driving every day to Punta del Este to buy the international newspapers, telling that the boss wanted to read them -but Constantin wouldn't bother to open them, so busy he was with his own business-. Dima could have read the internet news, but then, he would have felt utterly useless. 

At least, this way, he had an excuse to justify his presence in the house. He knew what the boss liked best.

Putting down from his shoulders the blond giggling baby, Dima nodded at the nanny and frowned when the woman began to speak at full speed in French with the child. She could had been nicer and speak a word or two in English to him, but the tramp only spoke French as per Constantin's orders. The man was decided that little Kostya would speak French at all costs and it was a miracle that the baby was so clever that he could understand three languages at the time, alas English wasn't included among them and his Russian wasn't so advanced that he could say anything else more than baby things or clap his hands in front of Masha and the Bear. 

Dima took the Mercedes and drove to the luxurious, small holiday city. Small but overcrowded with rich people, a combination Dima hated with passion. He wanted to be back in his mountains but he was stranded on plain lands; The only good thing was to live next to the seaside and how easy it was to obtain all the things rich crackpots always craved for. 

The nice girl at the tobacconist store smiled at him and quickly began to pile up the five newspapers usually bought along with two packs of Black Russians and an almonds Cadbury chocolate bar. Dima thought for a second that if he continued to eat like that, he was going to roll down the streets. The girl folded and put the newspapers in a bag before she charged him. 

Bored, and as the weather was too rainy to go for a coffee, Dima walked towards the car, grudgingly getting used to the idea that he had no further excuses to be out for so long. Perhaps he could take a stroll and see for the hundredth time the same luxury shops as yesterday. 

'One look won't kill me,' he thought as he took the thick roll of newspapers out of the bag. 'Boss really doesn't mind.' 

'At all.' 

'Mother of all whores...' Dima blinked several times when he saw the headlines in the New York Tribune and then, he checked with the two photos included in the articles. 'What the hell?' 

“Swiss Banker Arrested in Connection with Billionaire Tax-Evasion,” Dima read the headline aloud, just to convince himself that he wasn't dreaming. 

“By Charlotte Johnson. The General Prosecutor in Zurich issued a warrant arrest for Konrad von Lintorff zu Löwenstein, on charges of being the mastermind behind a billionaire tax-evasion scheme created for the benefit of American taxpayers who were clients of the Lintorff Privatbank, one of the last family owned banking institutions in Switzerland. 

The IRS   -----

“Fuck,” mumbled Dima when he finished reading the piece. He looked at the other newspapers and the same news were printed there too. His heart skipped a bit or two when he read the “The Lost Order” headline standing in another newspaper. 

“Lintorff is as good as dead,” Dima told the rear view mirror and started the engine to drive home as fast as he could, breaking the institutionalized 

 of the siesta. 

Dima parked -left the car standing in the middle of the yard- and dashed to Constantin's studio. He knocked on the door and burst it open without waiting for an answer. 

Only Constantin's finger, arisen in mid-air, made him stop dead on his tracks. Boss was writing and interruptions were the cause of that bad-sour mood that was the logical preamble to a bigger disaster. Contritely, Dima stood there, fidgeting a bit, fixing his eyes on the front of the large desk as his hands squeezed the bundle of newspapers, his fingers getting dirty from the ink, while he patiently waited for Constantin to be finished with his typing. 

“So, what's so important that it can't wait, Klatschko?” Constantin asked, once he was satisfied with his last paragraph. 

“Lintorff is in the slammer.” Dima brutally announced and dropped the newspapers on top of Constantin's keyboard. 

“Is that all?” Constantin asked with a bored expression and Dima gaped at him. Boss seemed to be more upset at the fact that Dima had had the audacity to interrupt him for something so trivial. 

“I mean, he's down. In jail... with the baddies,” Dima gulped and his saliva tasted metal. 

“It's a Swiss prison. It must be like a three stars hotel.” 

“It's jail, boss.” Dima insisted weakly and frowned. “Do you know something about this, boss?”

“Outsourcing, Klatschko. Outsourcing is the key word here. This Manhattan prosecutor is doing the CIA's dirty job... and mine too.” 

“Americans never messed with him before... And we're speaking of over a hundred billion dollars here. That won't be easy to explain.” 

“That serves Lintorff well for touching the Americans'... morals with the TTIP.” Dima looked clueless at the mention of the name and Constantin had to suppress a sigh of exasperation before he began to explain things in a slow way. 

“Officially, it's a trade agreement between Europe and the States. In reality, international large companies will gain a legal status superior to countries, meaning that the likes of Google will have the Europeans for lunch. For example, if, let's say if Glaxo thinks that some generic drugs are harming its profits, it can sue the states in a special court and that court's decision will overrule the national laws and countries will have to pay them a hefty sum of money. As you can see, many European small labs who live on generic drugs will be closed and gone forever. Lintorff was playing the rebel heart with some of his industrial friends and bribing -well, supporting it's the correct word- the opposition to the treaty in the European Parliament. Hence, he was becoming an unbeknownst stone in Obama's shoes. I just helped our American friends to call the pedicure before the ingrown toenail became infected.” 

“If you get him out of the picture, then the Americans will have the Europeans for lunch. How can that be good for us, Russians?” 

“Let Putin be concerned about that. He still owes me one or two.” 

“Boss, you can't be still sore about that. It's been years.” Dima whined. “It was 1997.” 

“Maybe, but I still remember it and this time, it's more than personal.” 

Dima thought for a long time as Constantin cast a distracted glance over the scattered newspapers. “Guntram might have a hard time with all this,” he said. “The boy was only crazy but never did anything against you.” 

Constantin fixed his eyes upon Dima and the man coughed nervously. He had overstepped a large boundary and not even more than twenty years working together could save his skin. Look at Oblomov, now well six feet under. 

“By the end of this exercise, you will find out that Guntram isn't the frail, little angel we all think he is. I'd love to see him playing a real game.” 

“Boss, with all due respect, we both know that he isn't well in the head. Massaiev was sure that he was a... schizophrenic. He swallowed all the pills he got and still was crazy as a cuckoo.” 

“Now you see how good he’s at playing if he could delude Massaiev. Guntram is patient, bids his time well and believes he's always the helpless victim, so anything goes in order to defend himself. That’s the most dangerous combination in an enemy.” 

“Honestly, I don't follow you this time. I understand that you want to crush Lintorff. I'm for it. But Guntram? If you kill him, there will be nothing for you left. And if he's so problematic as you say, and we know how much trouble he can cause, why do you want him back?” 

Constantin chuckled and Dima knew he was out of the danger zone. Speaking bluntly to his boss had saved his skin more than once as Repin loved to “teach a lesson” to a brute or to a traitor. Fortunately, Dima was considered to be in the first category. 

“Because he's a perfect match for me. I've been thinking that angels are nice if they're nineteen, but as they grow old, they start to look boring, corny and pathetic. A thirty-something with brains and decision is a hundred times more stimulating than a dove faced Adonis. I can handle him, unlike Lintorff who's terrified of anything that goes outside of his comfort zone.” 

“Boss, you're playing with fire.” 

“When have I not?” Constantin smirked. “We started a game, let's see how they play it. You're more bored than me; read the news and enjoy the show. This is my time to get back at them. Before, I was being nice in my quest to recover what was mine. I did everything in my hands to keep Guntram away from harm and happy. Nicety didn't bring anything back to me.” 

“Being nice never brings anything back to anyone, boss.” 

“Precisely.”