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Authors: Avraham Azrieli
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thin, boyish voice, his eyes peeked out through crude holes in the black fabric, blinking nervously.
The group sang Hatikvah in voices so off the mark that it bore little resemblance to the national anthem.
At the end, the leader raised a fist and declared, “We are the warriors of Torah! We will enforce the law of Rodef! Death to the pursuers of Jews! Death to the traitors!”
*
Monday, October 16, 1995
The first business day of the week was always busy at the Hoffgeitz Bank, as clients sent in transaction instructions after a weekend of deal making. This Monday was no exception. Lemmy lingered in the trading room, which the account managers shared. Phones rang, telex printers buzzed, and fax machines hummed. He stopped to greet each man. They ranged in age from forty to seventy, and he inquired about their children, wives, or an ailing parent. He had worked for years to earn their respect and loyalty, making sure none of them begrudged his early seniority. They knew it had not been only marital patronage that had propelled him upward in the bank. He had a gift for cultivating foreign clients whose cultures were vastly different from the Swiss. Oil-rich Arabs and African strongmen needed a safe place for their money, away from the political instability of their region, and they expected a level of personal service that few bankers in Zurich were capable of providing. Herr Wilhelm Horch often visited Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and the Gulf states to spend leisure time with his clients. He marveled at their oasis compounds, rode their camels, and raced their Ferraris. And they trusted him with their money and secrets.
Christopher was at his desk outside Lemmy’s office. “Good morning, Herr Horch!”
“And to you. Any news?”
“Prince Abusalim’s account just received a deposit of two-and-a-half million dollars from the Wall Street branch of Citibank.”
“Nice. Total account balance?”
“Almost seventy-seven million U.S. dollars.” Christopher followed him into his office. “All from undisclosed depositors.”
“He needs money, but receives none from his father.” During a visit to their desert oasis, Lemmy had met Sheik Da’ood Ibn Hisham az-Zubayr, a cousin of King Fahd. The sheik was a powerful tribal leader, who earned fat commissions on food and equipment purchases for the kingdom. His son, Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr, at thirty-eight was continuously travelling around the world to close huge deals, but his only personal asset was the secret account at the Hoffgeitz Bank.
“What about the prince’s own family?”
“His two wives and nine children live with the rest of the extended family back in Saudi Arabia. When I first met Prince Abusalim last year, I told him that a man without money is a man without power, and hidden money is hidden power, which is tenfold mightier.” Lemmy pointed downward in the direction of the bank’s subterranean vaults. “And I told him that, when it comes to secret money, Zurich is the Haram El-Sharif.”
“The what? ”
Lemmy pulled a book from a shelf above his desk. He opened it to a page flagged with a blue sticker and showed Christopher a full-page photograph of a walled city crowned by two domes—one silver, one gold.
“That’s Jerusalem.” Christopher pointed to the golden dome. “I was a volunteer at a kibbutz once, and they took us to all the tourist attractions.”
“Really?” Lemmy was alarmed. His assistant had never mentioned it before. “What made you go to Israel, of all places?”
“You know,” Christopher blushed, “I was a bit rebellious, wanted to piss off my parents. They were old-fashioned Germans, hated Jews, so that’s why I went there.”
Lemmy examined his assistant’s face, but saw no signs of deceit.
“Didn’t Mohammed ascend to heaven from this location?”
“For us Christians, it’s the biblical holy temple of the ancient Israelites, where Elijah’s carriage took off in an explosion of fire
The group sang Hatikvah in voices so off the mark that it bore little resemblance to the national anthem.
At the end, the leader raised a fist and declared, “We are the warriors of Torah! We will enforce the law of Rodef! Death to the pursuers of Jews! Death to the traitors!”
*
Monday, October 16, 1995
The first business day of the week was always busy at the Hoffgeitz Bank, as clients sent in transaction instructions after a weekend of deal making. This Monday was no exception. Lemmy lingered in the trading room, which the account managers shared. Phones rang, telex printers buzzed, and fax machines hummed. He stopped to greet each man. They ranged in age from forty to seventy, and he inquired about their children, wives, or an ailing parent. He had worked for years to earn their respect and loyalty, making sure none of them begrudged his early seniority. They knew it had not been only marital patronage that had propelled him upward in the bank. He had a gift for cultivating foreign clients whose cultures were vastly different from the Swiss. Oil-rich Arabs and African strongmen needed a safe place for their money, away from the political instability of their region, and they expected a level of personal service that few bankers in Zurich were capable of providing. Herr Wilhelm Horch often visited Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and the Gulf states to spend leisure time with his clients. He marveled at their oasis compounds, rode their camels, and raced their Ferraris. And they trusted him with their money and secrets.
Christopher was at his desk outside Lemmy’s office. “Good morning, Herr Horch!”
“And to you. Any news?”
“Prince Abusalim’s account just received a deposit of two-and-a-half million dollars from the Wall Street branch of Citibank.”
“Nice. Total account balance?”
“Almost seventy-seven million U.S. dollars.” Christopher followed him into his office. “All from undisclosed depositors.”
“He needs money, but receives none from his father.” During a visit to their desert oasis, Lemmy had met Sheik Da’ood Ibn Hisham az-Zubayr, a cousin of King Fahd. The sheik was a powerful tribal leader, who earned fat commissions on food and equipment purchases for the kingdom. His son, Prince Abusalim az-Zubayr, at thirty-eight was continuously travelling around the world to close huge deals, but his only personal asset was the secret account at the Hoffgeitz Bank.
“What about the prince’s own family?”
“His two wives and nine children live with the rest of the extended family back in Saudi Arabia. When I first met Prince Abusalim last year, I told him that a man without money is a man without power, and hidden money is hidden power, which is tenfold mightier.” Lemmy pointed downward in the direction of the bank’s subterranean vaults. “And I told him that, when it comes to secret money, Zurich is the Haram El-Sharif.”
“The what? ”
Lemmy pulled a book from a shelf above his desk. He opened it to a page flagged with a blue sticker and showed Christopher a full-page photograph of a walled city crowned by two domes—one silver, one gold.
“That’s Jerusalem.” Christopher pointed to the golden dome. “I was a volunteer at a kibbutz once, and they took us to all the tourist attractions.”
“Really?” Lemmy was alarmed. His assistant had never mentioned it before. “What made you go to Israel, of all places?”
“You know,” Christopher blushed, “I was a bit rebellious, wanted to piss off my parents. They were old-fashioned Germans, hated Jews, so that’s why I went there.”
Lemmy examined his assistant’s face, but saw no signs of deceit.
“Didn’t Mohammed ascend to heaven from this location?”
“For us Christians, it’s the biblical holy temple of the ancient Israelites, where Elijah’s carriage took off in an explosion of fire
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