TS 3 Chapter 9

Chapter 9

June 30^th, 2014

Zurich  

As usual, the round guard had brought him another book. Konrad did his best to suppress his sigh of annoyance. Maybe the man was a member, but he was not going to trust him if everything was so “in the open”. The many news articles the fat man had smuggled inside his cell drove Konrad very nervous. Almost everything about the Order had been exposed; meeting calendars, member names, some old operations dating from the nineties but nothing new. Somebody had been talking too much to that horrible newspaper which had made his life so hard in the past when journalists like that Trevor Jones were all the time trying to lure his impressionable young love into their traps. The cleaning had not been thoroughly enough and now, mainstream media was publishing their rants. 

All his days were spent in contemplation of who could be responsible for his predicament because Roger was well dead and he had been the press main source of information.  

Laying on top of the screwed to the wall desk there was a hardbound copy of “The Wealth of Nations”, once more left by his “contact” with the outside world. If the man was choosing such a large volume, it meant he had a lot to tell him. 

'Funny sense of humor. At least it’s a classic I haven't read in... forty years?'

The newspaper clip was hidden in the third chapter and Konrad debated with himself if he should read it or not. It was infuriating to feel so... vulnerable, useless, cut off from the world. Knowledge, in this case, was a curse. He had always been ahead of  events, carefully controlling the turmoil of his decisions, but now, he wasn't able to order somebody to bring him a glass of water. 

There would be dire consequences for many once he was out because he was sure he would be soon out. Nobody had told a thing more about the legal process but he was sure of that. Otherwise, they would have acted in some way against him but nothing had happened. He had not even been called again to make a new statement and the guard had said that nobody from his own entourage had made any kind of deals with the prosecutors or the judge. Ferdinand or Goran would kill themselves before breaking their vows and as for the others, they knew better than breaking the Code. 

All what his enemies had was very old data about transactions done in the nineties. Nobody was smuggling weapons through Marbella since 1996! The alleged “customers” with accounts opened in 2007 in a bank that had no links with him since 1998 were not even his people. Everything -with the exception of the Americans tax-evasion adventures- was a (not so well) fabricated scheme, good for a tabloid, but useless in any serious courtroom. 

There was no chance for an extradition to the States; the gates of hell would open right under Brussels' feet before any Swiss court magistrate would sign the order. The judge was Heiko Heinemann and he was the first person who wanted Konrad out of his courtroom. His seven hours long statement had been a show for the press and the Manhattan prosecutor.

It was simply unthinkable to send him to prison for money laundering in the middle of the negotiations for a new legal framework regarding tax havens between the Swiss and the American governments. 

Yet, here he was; in solitary confinement. Isolated to prevent him from showing how mean he could be.  

The folded paper looked like a crouched poisonous snake but if the “Bulle von Tölz” had deemed important to sneak it in, it could be useful to know its contents. 

Careful no to let the squares of the piece to protrude out of the book, Konrad unfolded the paper discreetly. 

He needed to read the piece several times before he could truly comprehend the printed words. Once more, his past failures were there; ready to bite him on the heart. Roger portrayed as the love of his life and Guntram as if he were nothing but a second best; a replacement. 

Konrad closed his eyes and sighed. All his body ached and it felt as he were on fire. 

'My poor Guntram never deserved this humiliation,” Konrad thought and his mind went blank. All his life was in shambles now. A filthy tabloid had dared to publish that he was having an affair with his “political” nephew. 

His children's lives were in shambles now. Everywhere they go, people would laugh at them. The boys would ask him questions he didn't want to answer. No money could buy their honour back and without it, they were nothing at all. 

The shame was unbearable for a man like him. He could live in poverty but not ashamed. He could not rob his boys of their honour and place in society. 

“Fucking with your own nephew,” that's what people would tell everywhere he'd go with Guntram, regardless they were not blood related. Guntram had reacted like this and it had taken him years to overcome the shock. 

Would he still want to be with him after this? 

Why should he? He was a broken man now. He had failed Guntram in every possible way while his kitten had done nothing wrong and given him everything he had. Look where he was now; in a cell, rotting away. 

Staring at a dirty grey sky through a small barred window. 

“Are you all right?” the round guard interrupted Konrad's musings as he left the tray with his dinner on top of the small desk, nearly pushing the book aside. “You don't look well.” 

“I'm perfectly all right,” Konrad answered dryly as he massaged his sleeping left arm. Nothing was wrong with him, with the exception of the public humiliation he was being subjected to. This was... too much. He had done nothing wrong! And here was this journalist woman implying that he was some kind of incestuous pedophile, running after his “nephew” after killing his uncle. 

“I'm perfectly well for someone who could have provided Shakespeare with a plot for his plays,” Konrad barked at the man now. 

“You look ashen and keep your voice down. Not all the guards are on your side,” the man whispered and snatched the paper from Konrad's desk and it was lost in the depths of his pockets. 

“Nobody I know believes it,” the guard whispered in the duke's ear. 

“Are you all right, really?” he asked again out loud. “You look like my cousin Bernhard when he had a heart attack last Christmas, but he shouldn't have eaten all that much. He just had the same face as you do and then, puff, fell dead on the Lebkuchen tray.” 

“A charming moment, indeed.” Konrad grimaced at the sudden electrical pain that roamed his chest and nearly took off his breath. “Any other stories you would like to share with me?” he asked. 

“No.” The man took two steps backwards and scratched his head. The duke was aloof all the time but polite, like a real gentleman. He had never thrown a fit because of the food or the confinement, unlike the other banker sissies he had to deal with now. 

“Maybe the doctor should see you,” the guard suggested the perfect excuse for people to leave their cells as the infirmary was a good place to stay. 

“I'm perfectly well!” roared Konrad and defiantly looked at the guard standing with his back glued to the metal door. The man knocked on the door and his companion opened it to let him out. 

“What a temper!” Konrad heard the other guard say and he snorted upset to be judged by the officers beating the bush around the Bulle von Tölz.  

“I'll get the doctor,” the Bulle said and his rhino footsteps resounded along the corridor. 

The smell of the food reached his nostrils and Konrad felt like vomiting but he controlled himself. He didn't need to offer that kind of show. Obviously, the persistent oppression he felt on his chest was a late heartburn from those rock-like buns from tea time. He didn't lift the aluminum lid covering the cheap metal dish on the tray. The smell was enough deterrent. 

The door opened again and the Bulle had a doctor with him, just as he had threatened some ten minutes ago. Konrad eyed the young man in whites skeptically; he didn't look a day older than someone who had just finished medical school and was still begging for an internship. 

“If you would allow me,” the doctor customary said and without waiting for Konrad's permission, he used his stethoscope on him. Konrad had to bite his lips to prevent himself from pushing the obtrusive physician away from him. 

“Don't squirm,” the doctor ordered him. “I can't hear well.” 

“Can you?” Konrad retorted but the doctor ignored him as he continued with his thorough examination. 

“To the infirmary with the inmate,” the doctor ordered the guards. “No, wait, ask for a stretcher. The patient shouldn't be walking.” The lower rank guard spoke briefly on his intercom and he rushed out of the cell. 

“I can perfectly well walk on my feet!” Konrad roared at the doctor but the man didn't flinch. 

“I assume so,” he answered coldly. “Your heart is under considerable stress and I'd like to make further tests. Maybe we can still stop it.” 

“Stop what?” 

“A heart attack. I hear a murmur...” 

“Don't be ridiculous! I can't be having a heart attack! I'm fifty-six.” 

“I've buried younger than that,” the doctor said laconically. “Type A personality, it seems.” 

“I'm not going to accept a diagnosis from a doctor who still hasn't left school!” Konrad roared again but an acute lightening of pain crossed his chest and he grimaced. “It's something the chef didn't get right,” he said more quietly. 

“Myocardial infarction is sometimes mistaken by heartburn. Only an electrocardiogram can tell us what's going on exactly.” 

“I'm perfectly well,” grunted Konrad but he needed to grip the table to keep himself sitting straight. Suddenly he urgently needed to lay down in bed. “I'm not having a heart attack,” he repeated feebly.