The Adjuster E-Book

Peter Alfred Schneider

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 424

Beschreibung

The Adjuster takes us on a captivating journey through Europe, immersing us in the era of the eastern bloc before the fall of the Berlin wall. Paul Winter's journey encompasses an impressive Swiss education, military service and a distinguished formation at a renowned bank. His career skyrockets, excelling in global finance and private stock trading. Yet, driven by greed, he ventures into crime. With his friend Tin, he robs a cash transport van and executes a Cartier Zurich heist. Despite a life of luxury, romance and success, he struggles to resist criminal temptations. A lucrative offer to assassinate a German politician becomes irresistible. The plot succeeds, but danger forces Paul to vanish, taking the proceeds of his crimes and continuing his criminal escapades in South America.

Leseprobe

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2023 novum publishing

ISBN print edition:978-3-99131-987-0

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99131-988-7

Editor:Yarach Atarah

Cover images:Bowie15, Martingraf, Rudi1976, Bjorn Hovdal, Skrypko Ievgen, Tomas1111 | Dreamstime.com

Cover design, layout & typesetting: novum publishing

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

Dedication

To Marlon

THE ADJUSTER STARTS.

A Novel by Peter A. Schneider.

Chapter 1

Paul Winter sat in his favourite chair, a coffee brown leather swivel chair, doing what he liked most: watching out of the window.

He looked out and enjoyed the panoramic view from the large bifold windows. They faced northeast, towards the tall buildings and trees, which were now almost leafless. It was early September, around nine o’clock, and the temperature was already at 30°C. It was a desert climate, and he hated that sort of heat. It made breathing and sleeping difficult. As a matter of fact, almost everything was made difficult.

Next year, in February, it would be 20 years since his arrival in Brazil. It felt like an eternity. He would also be turning 60 in February, although most people said he looked closer to 50. He was tall, standing at 1.80 m without any boots, and weighed 79 kilos, with little fat but a rather muscular body – not like a security guard, more like a runner. His face was well defined: a good nose; thin lips; dark blond hair, with streaks of grey beginning to show; blue-greenish eyes, that started to fade a bit. Things had gone reasonably well in those 20 years; raising a family, doing lucrative business…

He had arrived at the airport with two large suitcases and $5,000 in cash. In one of the suitcases, he had brought a drill, a German model. He liked that one and would not leave it behind. The customs officer had mistaken it for a gun . drew his pistol, told him to back off, while he examined it. That was his first impression of the new land: nervous people with a big imagination, something that could come in handy later when dealing with the locals.

Helen, his second wife, had picked him up at the airport.

They stayed a night in Sao Paulo, and on the next day, took a bus to Curitiba, the Capital of the State of Paraná, to the south. He had read that the climate there was more European-like, with clearly defined seasons and acceptable, not too high temperatures.

However, upon arriving it was raining hard, with the temperature at around 14°C, staying that way for a whole ten days. “Too cold, too wet,” he thought, “for that kind of climate, I could just as well have stayed in my home country.” So, he asked his wife to pack the bags, and they made it to Goiania, Capital of Goiás, which was to the north, much closer to the equator, with a hot climate throughout the year.

Thinking back now, sitting in his chair, he made the correct decision. Goiania, in the early 2000s, was a so-called developing state, with a strongly growing economy, mainly based on agriculture. The prices for food, land, apartments, and services were still low and very attractive. When he had left Switzerland, in the early 2000s, he was exactly 40, with a solid 24-year banking career to show for it. He had started out at 16 as an apprentice, and they had taught him most of the tasks a bank would perform in the mid-70s. He completed his training and education with the second best score of his year. For this achievement, his employer gave him an extra Fr. 50 per month, bringing his initial salary to Fr. 1,950 – not bad for a young fellow of just 19, with ambitions and good looks, and a very keen interest in girls.

He started to work right away, in the letters of credit department – an activity that would later open the doors to international finance, travel, substantially more money, and women, he hoped. He worked hard and fucked any female that crossed paths with him in the department. He even had an affair with the personal secretary of Director Brunner Elisabeth, Beth, as he called her. She would phone him from her internal phone, just across a few other desks, in the very department, in plain sight of everybody else, telling him to visit her tonight, after work. She would cook dinner, and do everything he and, most importantly, she had in mind.

This charade went on for a few months until he got tired of her. It also became more complicated and dangerous to hide their affair from their other colleagues in the department, let alone Brunner, who started to look ever more suspiciously at his personal secretary, who arrived in the morning with black circles under her eyes, making ever more mistakes in the letters he dictated to her.

Then, on the verge of his 20th birthday, Paul was drafted into the Army.

Chapter 2

Paul never took any women too seriously, at least in the beginning, and he also did not take his drafting into the army too seriously. Besides, he knew it was coming; it was scheduled long ago; so he went to the medical military examiner’s test, passed with flying colours, and was assigned to the 37th Regiment of Infantry Mountaineers, based in Chur, capital of the state of Graubünden.

He packed a bag, said goodbye to Beth and all the others, and took the train to Chur. The bank, though, was obliged to pay him his full salary during army service. In addition, the military service would render SFr. 3.50 a day to begin with.

Arriving in Chur shortly after 1 p.m. the shouting began. On that day, some 20,000 young men arrived at more or less the same hour. It was chaotic to run to that barrack, wait, then go to yet another barrack, and so on and so on. He learned on that first day that shouting was more important than thinking, and that it was better to follow instructions than have an opinion, at least officially. By midnight, all the new soldiers had been given three different sets of uniforms, two pairs of walking boots, a backpack, tools, gasmask, and helmet, etc. The weapons would only be handed out the next day. So his first day in the army ended. Exhausted, he dropped into his bunk and fell asleep immediately.

The 37th regiment was a Zürich based regiment, so the bulk of his fellow soldiers were from that region. There was, though, one battalion from the canton of Tessin in the south of the country. They spoke Italian, rather than German, and some of these recruits were allocated to his company, which was Company C. One of those recruits was even an Italian native, who somehow made it into the Swiss Army. He must have been given citizenship, so he was drafted.

The next day, everybody was handed his weapon over the flag of the Swiss Confederation, at the time a 59 SIG semi-automatic assault rifle. This was a very heavy weapon, weighing over 8 kilos, with a large 7.8 mm calibre, perfect for battle and long range, precise shooting, but heavy to carry and difficult to service.

So the days went by, shooting, running, fighting, marching, theoretical enemy reconnaissance – it was unclear who the enemy in the eyes of the Swiss army was, so the high command created some fictitious army name from the east to concentrate on.

Paul was not too bothered with all of that army business; he was strong, healthy, fast, and a good observer. The endurance marches of 40 km plus did not give him any trouble. He liked the shooting exercises, and always scored high, a quality that would later in life become useful to him.

The weeks and months went on, and his superiors became ever more aware of him, until, during the 3. last week of his basic army training, came the proposal. The proposal was a letter signed by the regiment’s colonel and his captain, proposing that Paul become a Swiss Army officer, a lieutenant. None of his friends in the company had received the proposal; in fact, nobody knew he had received it. The proposal suggested that he underwent the two-and-a-half-year officer’s course, beginning next year, here in Chur. They gave him 24 hours to accept or, very unlikely in his superiors’ minds, decline.

Now, for Paul, the fun was gone. He considered it carefully, had a sleepless night, and early the next morning walked into the captains and higher officers’ card room and politely declined the offer, alleging that he was being sent abroad to London by his employer to study international trade – a brave lie. What Paul wanted was to get back to normal civilian life as quickly as possible, making money and a career and, most of all, being with the ladies. He could not see himself wasting two and a half of his best years in that dreadful old casern of Chur, learning how to soldier professionally. His captain looked at him and the written, signed denial of the proposal, very awkwardly and angrily, if not disappointedly, and dismissed him. From that moment on, for the last three weeks of his service, his superiors looked at him with disgust and ignored him. He had become the odd bird.

Two weeks later, he got his discharge papers – 20,000 hip hip hurrahs, and off he went, together with his pal Morelli, to Grauboden. It was a 15-minute walk away from the barracks, towards the car park, with a full backpack, his rifle, and his army bag containing his personal belongings. Paul walked fast, almost running, trying to avoid the massive traffic jam that would no doubt build up with all these men and their cars more than keen to leave the place as fast as possible.

Opening the boot of his dark blue ’73 Alfa Romeo 1750 GTV, Morelli put all their belongs in there, while Paul started the powerful engine. It came to life immediately with a loud roar. Morelli got into the passenger seat with a jump. His main task was to provide the ice cold Hürlimann beers and Marlboro reds, which he did. Paul headed north through the suburbs and took the A1 east and then north. The Alfa Romeo would easily go over 200 km/hour, so it would take Paul about 70 minutes to get to Zürich and civilian life. On this cold Saturday morning, traffic was light. They made it to Zürich just before 11 o’clock and said goodbye.

Paul and Morelli would stay friends over the next 12 years; the yearly one-month army repetition course and their common interest in girls and hanging out would tie them together.

Chapter 3

Half an hour later, Paul arrived at his good-sized, one-bedroom apartment. It had a balcony, a dining area, a living room with two good windows, and one bathroom. He had rented it just before being drafted, so Paul had looked forward to enjoying his home. It was situated in a good neighbourhood, a bit up from the city centre, on the slopes of the local mountain. He took a shower, stored his army items, and phoned Susi, his current girlfriend, to advise her that he would be arriving to pick her up. It was a sheer delight; dinner, a few bars, and then they went to Paul’s flat to do what they liked best – fucking. Susi was an easy-going girl, with brown hair, big tits, a round arse, and not too bright or ambitious. She was very happy that they were finally together again. The eight months of separation due to Paul’s army service had driven her crazy. More than once, when Paul was on guard duty during the weekend, she had driven down to Chur to see him while he was making his guard rounds outside the casern. They would sneak into some abandoned barn and do it right there. In this regard, Susi was a no-nonsense girl, with no time to waste.

Lying in bed with him now, she was hoping that he would stay now, for a good time, if not forever. She loved him and had plans for the two of them.

Paul, though, had quite different plans. These did not include Susi.

On Monday morning, he shaved, put on one of his better suits, a white shirt and dark blue tie, and went off to work in his old department at the bank after more than eight months. Throughout these months, his employer had deposited his full salary, and by law they were obliged to guarantee his job on his return.

His old desk was almost the way he had left it. The colleagues were all there to greet him, the men more reservedly, and the women more warmly. Beth had, in the meantime been sacked by her boss Brunner. Rumour had it that the old bastard had made advances, which she refused; so she was sacked and had to go.

He settled in to work, read all the new information and instructions, and had lunch in the intern canteen with his colleagues.

After work, he went for a beer or two, in one of his favourite bars downtown. After a few rounds, Daniel, one of his old pals from the bank, walked into the bar. They hugged each other and sat down at a small round table in the far corner from the bar, starting to talk.

They had not seen each other in almost a year, so there was lots of ground to cover. Daniel told him all the latest gossip, rumours, internal intrigues, undeserved promotions, and so on. He was a good seven years older than Paul and knew the internal machinations of the bank better than anybody else. Although it was interesting news, somehow it left Paul strangely detached, unimpressed and not really interested.

Somehow, after Daniel had left, Paul felt that maybe it was time for him to move on to more exciting jobs. A smaller outfit, foreign perhaps; more challenging, faster promotion, more cash. He paid for the beers and walked out of the bar. By now it was almost midnight, raining hard, and utterly cold. He had brought no overcoat, so he hurried to the tram station nearby, took one of the last connections, and arrived home, going straight to bed. Tomorrow was another day, but still he was thinking; leaving his present employer now was out of the question. He had to stay at least a year, but nothing could prevent him from starting to look around.

Chapter 4

The High Life was a night club, ducked under a 20-metre-high express motorway built right above the river, with its immense concrete pillars standing right in the water of the river. Every time Paul looked at this marvellous piece of Swiss engineering he was stunned. Why pay for and buy expensive land, or dis-appropriate landowners if you could build the expressway right above the river, following its natural course?

The club was in an old residential building, built some 80 years ago. There were no neighbouring buildings, and nobody would ever go near the club if it was not for dog walkers during the day. One reached the building by a service road, no cars allowed, so Paul had parked his car some 300 metres away and walked at a leisurely pace, up to the bouncer at the entrance. A tall, bald Serbian with shoulders as broad as a garage door, and arms as thick as a car tyre. When he spotted Paul, he waved. Paul approached him, ignoring the queue that had already built, gave Tito a tenner when they shook hands, and in he was. He went straight to the cashier’s booth, where a woman in her forties with short bleach blonde hair and glasses accepted his SFr. 20 note and gave him a rubber stamp on his right wrist. Tonight’s stamp was a blue dragon in a green circle.

The club consisted of three different set-ups. The ground floor housed the dance floor, with the DJ and his equipment in the right corner. It was huge, with a state-of-the-art sound system and strobe lights shining from the ceiling. The windows were blacked out with thick black paint and could not be opened. There were four doors leading to the toilets. Walking up the narrow staircase, fitted with dark red carpet and golden hand railings, there was the first floor, with the main bar. A huge counter, with at least 30 chairs in front of it.

There were three barmen working nonstop. Scattered around the bar were round, black wooden tables with either two or four chairs. He ordered a gin and tonic, sat down at the bar, and relaxed. Saturday night was the best night of the week, with money in his pocket, and him keen to have a good time.

Shortly after 12:30 am, Martin Affolter walked in. They had agreed earlier to meet in the club. Paul waved to Martin, who sat next to him at the bar.

“You look like a man with pussy on his mind. See anything interesting?” Paul greeted him. Martin said nothing, just grinned. In any case, he was not much of a talker. He was slightly taller than Paul, maybe 1.82 metres tall, with dark, full hair, sad brown eyes, and a thin moustache. Paul liked his quiet ways. They had met downtown shortly before he went off to the Army, and had stayed in touch ever since. Martin ordered his usual vodka on ice. He said vodka would smell less on his breath if the police stopped him to look at his registration papers, and his old, worn down Toyota Corolla.

They sat down on the smaller round chairs, starting to look around. By now, the high life night club was already packed, the action in full swing.

The music pumped loud from downstairs. Lots of girls were at the bar by now, working hard to have fun. Tall, short, fat, slim, beautiful, acceptable, and straight out ugly, with the assorted guys around them, like flies on dog shit. A mixed bag of young people from all walks of life; employees, waitresses, bus drivers, clerks, salesmen, public service assholes, hookers and whores, and the local dealer, a short, skinny man by the name of Mouse. He was accepted by the club owner, as long as he was discreet. His role was an additional feature to the club. Paul looked at the girls, and saw one that interested him: a medium-sized dark brunette in a short red skirt, a yellow blouse with no bra and very open in the front, and high heels. She had a good-sized, round arse. He would try to talk to her later, but right now he gestured to Mouse to follow him. They finished their drinks, heading upstairs to the second floor, Mouse following right behind. Paul gave Tin a 100 Franc note and told him to get 1g of blow. Tin entered the male bathroom, Mouse following. After two minutes they both came out, deal done. They were to have a good time tonight; coke was for strictly recreational purposes, never during the week. The second floor also had a bar, a smaller one though, with round tables. Its main feature was the large comfortable sofas and couches where one could chill out and relax, have a private conversation, and become more friendly with your chosen one for the night. Paul ordered another round of drinks, the usual. The room was very dark, dimly lit by small lights set into the walls; cosy and relaxing, you could barely see your hand in front of your face. They did a few rounds of coke, good stuff, and chatted about nothing in particular: football, places to go, maybe a trip together to Frankfurt, and so on and so forth. Then the brunette, out of nowhere, sat down on one of the bar chairs. She ordered a whisky on ice and lit a cigarette.

“Here we go,” thought Paul, a man who wouldn’t waste time if he could avoid it. He told Tin to sit tight and approached the brunette. Paul was wearing a light blue shirt, open in the front, and a lightweight, dark blue Italian suit, despite the cold weather of January. He sat down next to her and introduced himself.

She said her name was Tania, and by her accent he could immediately tell that she was Yugoslavian. He liked that, and always took what he could get. She had a lovely face, brown eyes, full lips; she was also slightly drunk. By that time, Tin had chatted up some blonde, probably a whore judging by the loud, too-short dress she was wearing, but he was occupied, so Paul could concentrate on Tania.

Tania said she was a waitress in one of the large restaurants in the city centre. He thought he had heard of it, but he wasn’t too sure. She said she had a younger brother and a sister almost her age, and that she was here with a female friend who was drinking downstairs. She then asked Paul if he wanted to go down to dance. Paul told the waiter, Bruno, to keep their drinks, and off they went to shake their bodies.

It was good American disco music, the latest hits. They had danced two songs, starting to sweat, when the DJ put on a slow Scorpions song. Paul liked that song. He pulled Tania tight to his chest. She was a good dancer, smooth. They kissed long and intensely, and he touched her arse, which she did not mind. When the music stopped, they went back upstairs for a few more drinks and two lines of coke, which Tania gladly accepted. She said she didn’t do drugs, that this was her first time, but watching her snort the lines up like a vacuum cleaner it was clear to Paul that she was no beginner.

By now, Tin and the whore were nowhere in sight – they had probably already gone to some sleazy fleabag place to get down to it. No problem, Paul would call tomorrow night. By now, it was almost 6 a.m. and the club was about to close. They left, walking, if not stumbling towards the car, entering it immediately. They started kissing again, Paul caressing her breasts. She was squeezing his dick, which was hard by now, eager for action. The Alfa Romeo was a two-seater sports car, no way to fuck in there, not enough room, and it was too cold and risky to fuck her outside the car, with the sun coming up already. She pulled her skirt up to her belly, showing a full black bush, no panties. She blew him right then, and he came in her mouth. Opening the door, she spat the cum out and took a Kleenex from her purse to wipe the excess cum off her lips. They held each other for a while, then drove off to the outskirts of town where Tania lived. Tania said she wanted to see Paul again and gave him her telephone number, written on one of her tissues. Paul said yes, he wanted to, took her number, and kissed her goodbye. She stood there in the cold morning light and waved. Paul accelerated the car, turned round a bend and, out of her sight, threw the Kleenex with her telephone number out of the window.

Tomorrow would be another day. He drove home, took a shower, and went straight to bed.

Chapter 5

Paul Winter sat at his desk in the office, analysing the letters of credit in front of him.

Mueller, his direct supervisor, had dumped them on his desk early this morning, saying it had to be concluded by 4 p.m. today. Arrogant, shitfaced asshole, this Mueller, but Paul had to play ball. He wanted to impress Director Brunner, so he would sign the authorisation papers to send Paul on a four-month intensive course at the University of Cambridge, England, fully paid by the Bank, in order for him to get his proficiency certificate in English. The first certificate in English was already his. He needed that certificate if he was to work for a foreign institution, which he intended to be able to achieve in the next seven months. The LC papers and the freight documents in front of him on his desk were written in some Creole French and poor English, dealing with an export of high value timber from Mozambique to the importer in Germany. The German company paid a very good fee to the Swiss bank for them to check and make sure all the papers were in order. It was a nightmare, but Paul had almost concluded his analysis and was ready to sign them off when his phone rang. lt was Martin Affolter.

“What’s up, man?” Paul asked.

Tin mumbled, “I’m gone, gone.”

He wasn’t making sense. “Talk straight, and speak into the phone set,” Paul said. Tin’s voice was strangely muffled, as if he was talking through a piece of cloth. “Talk, and tell me what’s going on.”

“They sacked me this morning, gave me 30 minutes to clear my desk and take my shit. No compensation, nothing, just fuck off. I’m done, finished.”

“Why would these fuckers do that? What happened, Tin?”

“I felt down this morning, hungover, needed a drink, so I took one of those big brown internal envelopes for distributing mail, stuffed it with some newspaper cuttings, said I had to deliver this, and left the building by the service lift. I went straight to Joe’s Bar and Restaurant, had a few beers, I swear nothing more, and after roughly an hour and a half, left the bar and went back to the bank.”

“An hour and a half?” Paul asked.

“Yes, not more, but I was perhaps a little bit tipsy. When I was about to enter the service lift, who stood there was Selig, my supervisor. He took me straight to Bemmer, the department head, and on the way up he said, ‘Beers any good?’ Bemmer sat me down in front of him, opened the envelope, seeing it contained shit, and said, ‘Affolter, you are fired with immediate effect. Leaving the premises during duty is unacceptable. Don’t expect any recommendation letter. You don’t want to know what I have to say about you, you lousy, lazy, cheating drunk. Get out of here now.’ And that was that. Now I’m back at Joe’s,” Tin said.

Paul thought long and hard, letting Tin hang on the line. Finally, he said, “Pay and go home straight away – and stay home. I will call in two days, see what I can set up for you. Don’t get your hopes up too high. You fucked up real good this time,” and hung up.

Paul finished the LC docs, signed them off, handed them to Mueller without a word, not even looking at the slimy shitter, and called it a day. He walked to his car, smoking a cigarette. Shit. He had to help Tin, the guy would go under, no chance.

It would not be easy, though. Tin had no credits or referrals to speak of. “All he has is his loyalty,” Paul thought, entering the car. He already had an idea of how to sort his friend out. He drove off, heading straight to his flat. No drinking tonight, he had some thinking to do.

After two days, he called Tin, giving him a telephone number, name, and address, and told him to present himself the next day at nine o’clock sharp. If he didn’t act too dumb, he might get himself a new job. He also said to call after the meeting. On Friday morning at 10:15, Tin called, saying they had given him the job. He would like to thank Paul and buy the drinks and food. Paul said good, and that was that. Paul felt that Tin would remain very grateful to him for a long time to come, and continue to do what he always did; distributing and despatching the mail to the various internal departments of his new employer.

After he called Paul, he was not keen on going home to his shitty little one-bedroom apartment in the working-class suburb of Urdorf. He had parked his car in the public garage at Sihlstrasse. It was a beautiful late summer day. Later today they would have drinks and dinner, so he had a few hours to walk around, getting his feelings and thoughts organised. When he reached a public phone booth, he entered and called his mother. When he went home on the dreadful day he was sacked, he had stopped at his mother’s house. She lived in the same small town, a few blocks down the road. She had cried and almost collapsed; her only child without a job, and her being over seventy, in poor health, living off the small social benefits the city council would pay her. She was a frail woman suffering from a bad heart, with grey hair combed back into a tight knot, always in that greyish long dress and sandals. She would rarely go out, only to do the groceries.

She spent most of her time cleaning that small social project flat and waiting for Tin to pay her a visit. When he called, giving her the good news, she started crying again, this time for joy, and said to invite Paul to visit, as she knew what they both liked to eat.

Tin said OK, hung up and stepped out of the telephone booth. Gripping an envelope under his arm, this time containing his new job contract, he walked up Bahnhofstrasse just to ease his mind, looking at the expensive shop windows; Rolex, Tissot, Omega, Breitling, and the like, some of those costing more than he earned in a full year. He also watched the high-class ladies with their expensive Chanel and Gucci dresses, sunglasses and pearls, golden necklaces and designer shoes. A beautiful sight, way out of his league, though. Walking up the beautiful, tree-lined street, he had arrived at the upper end, where the street ended in a large square just before the lake, shimmering in the sun, a light blue, reflective mass of light. He had a beer and a sausage in one of the stalls in front of the lake. The next boat would leave in 25 minutes, doing the grand lake tour of four hours. That sounded just right. It would bring him back in time to meet Paul later in the afternoon. He paid for his ticket and stepped onboard. He chose a seat outside, at the edge of the great ship’s hull, giving him a good position to watch the lake and the villages they would pass on their journey. For the first time in many days, he felt at ease, looking more positively to the future, and being very grateful to Paul.

After he had had lunch, the daily special, he sat outside again on one of the many wooden chairs, this time at the rear end of the vessel. They were by now already approaching Rapperswil, the city that lay on the far south side of the lake, where the long bridge connecting the west and east sides divided the main lake from its smaller section, the Obersee. Some ten thousand years ago, all this water had been a huge glacier coming right down from the Alps, brushing aside all the earth and stones, forming the two hilly slopes facing each other that now housed some of the best and most expensive villas, overlooking the lake from their respective sides.

Contemplating the view and the big Swiss flag fluttering on its mast at the starboard, he thought of his poor mother and his father. He had few memories of his father, a steel worker at Brown Boveri who had died when Tin was just ten. He also thought of Anton Meier, Hunchback Tony, as he was known, due to his curved back. Tony and Tin had grown up together and had attended the same elementary school. He had bumped into Tony on the main street the day after he was sacked. They went for a coffee, and Tin told him about his misfortune, having no job and no money. As a matter of fact, he said he was broke. Tony listened to his friend’s litany, and then said money was short for a lot of people, but not for Migros, the largest supermarket in the country. Tony worked for them, not in one of their many branches, but in the huge distribution centre, right here in Urdorf.

Tin asked, “Why do you say money isn’t short for Migros?”

Tony bragged, “l myself see lots of cash every month, since it is me who delivers it to the personnel department at the distribution centre.”

Tin tried not to look surprísed, although he almost fell off his chair, hearing that piece of information. He only said, “Some people have it, and most don’t,” and said goodbye, though not without mentioning, that he would like to see Tony for a beer next week, talking about old times.

The hunchback said “Great,” and walked out, happy and cheerful about meeting his friend soon again.

The vessel now approached Buerkliplatz, where it had started out, ending the grand tour. Tin was still deep in thought about the hunchback’s info, but he could not piece it together. It was almost six now, time to meet Paul. If Tin knew one thing about Paul, it was that he indeed understood money. He would tell him everything he had learned straight away.

Stepping off the boat, Tin would slowly walk over the bridge that led to Bellevue Square, still clinching the envelope tightly under his arm. They had agreed to meet at Kronenhalle Bar, an elegant, trendy place Tin had chosen to thank Paul. He had borrowed SFr. 200 from his mother, who had reluctantly given it to him when Tin explained what he needed it for.

He walked into the bar, which had begun to fill up already. The headwaiter of the bar, in his immaculate white apron, greeted him. The room was fitted with dark wood panels on the walls, going way up to the high ceiling with its huge golden chandelier. Golden rails were fitted around the walls, the small tables being covered with white tablecloths. The huge bar itself was one big piece of blue Brazilian marble, with small lamps on it and dark wooden bar chairs scattered around it; a classy place. Paul had not arrived yet, so Tin choose a table to the far end of the bar, enabling them to talk while watching the sexy female secretaries chatting to each other.

Paul entered ten minutes later in one of his black Italian business suits, a white shirt, and a grey and black tie, carrying a leather briefcase, looking like a thousand Francs. An elegant figure indeed; tall, with his full blond hair combed back in a leisurely fashion, looking like nothing could bother him, and he would care for nothing. Tin had a feeling that what he was going to tell him would bother him a lot.

They ordered the drinks; the waiter bringing them in no time, along with some almonds, peanuts, and pretzels.

Tin showed him the new contract, taking it out from the now-crumpled envelope. Paul read it and said, “Good, well done,” and changed the subject. After a while, talking about the girls chatting away at the bar in front of them, Tin could not control himself any longer, and started to tell the hunchback’s story.

At first Paul did not pay too much attention, until the part about the cash delivery. All of a sudden, Tin had his full attention.

Paul squinted, saying, “Are you sure he does the delivery by himself? No one else riding with him?”

Tin said, “Yes.”

After a long silence, Paul looked at him again, this time hard, no fun in his eyes, and said, “I want you to meet Tony next week, invent something. I need the date he delivers. You get that, maybe I can work something out.” Tin agreed to work on the hunchback to get the date. “Work on him. It costs what it costs. Anything else?” Paul responded.

“No, nothing, that’s all for the time being. Let’s get out of here. I’m hungry.”

Tin settled the bill, paying with his mother’s cash, and they walked to Paul’s car, parked a few blocks away. They entered it, and Paul started the engine. They shot off, roaring down the street north. They had agreed to have dinner at La Rocca. Paul turned on the radio, which played some silly sentimental music. They drove in silence until they reached the restaurant.

Paul parked nearby. It was by now eight o’clock, perfect timing. Salvatore, the owner, stood at the door, greeting them both warmly and showing them to a good-sized table. He said fresh vongole clams had been delivered this morning. Paul loved that; Tin wasn’t too sure about it. He would go along with Paul’s choice.

The waitress, a good-looking brunette in her early twenties, brought them two chilled glasses of Prosecco to kick it off.

They looked at the menu. La Rocca specialised in northern Italy’s regional cuisine, so for starters they ordered a mixed primo piatto of ham, cheese, and two types of salami. The segundo dish would be the spaghetti alle vongole. They choose ossobuco with polenta and assorted vegetables for their main dish, and to drink, a nice cold bottle of white Pinot Grigio from the Veneto. For the main course, Paul also chose a Brunello de Montalcino. After all, they had something to celebrate.

When the waitress brought the spaghetti, the whole restaurant seemed to smell of garlic, parsley, olive oil, and white wine; delicious. They dug in and drank the wine. Paul could not help looking at the waitress. Good body, medium height, nice face, and long straight hair. When they left the restaurant, Paul slipped his phone number into her hand, whispering he had something to show her. Once again, Tin settled the bill, and they drove off to the public parking garage where Tin had left his car early that morning. What a day! When they hugged each other goodbye, Paul asked Tin to call him as soon as he got the information requested. Tin said he would call immediately.

Paul drove off, his mind going at a 100 km per hour. This Sunday morning, all being quiet, he would go on a recon tour to Urdorf, alone. He knew more or less where the distribution centre was, but he needed to check the surrounding roads, buildings, and the vegetation along the road, for size and distance. He was getting excited.

Chapter 6

At 8:30 on Sunday morning, Paul drove the Alfa Romeo to Urdorf. On the motorway, heading southwest, it would take 14 minutes to reach the village. Everybody asleep, no sound but the church bells ringing, he drove down the main street, where the banks were.

One of these banks would hand the money out to the hunchback.

He then drove towards the intersection on the outskirts, where the town’s roads connected to the motorway in both directions. Somewhere before the intersection must be the road that connected to the distribution centre. When he slowly approached the intersection, he saw it, about 40 metres off the crossing. It was not prohibited to drive down that road, there not being a no entry sign, but there was a sign saying dead end road. Few cars would take a road leading to nowhere and a dead end. Paul, however, did. It was narrow, just barely allowing a big lorry to pass through. On the left side was the motorway, going north, fenced off by a steel fence. To the right were fields with fruit trees and grass. No buildings. Good.

Paul put the car in second gear, driving slowly. The road was lined on both sides with big trees, with small bushes, about 1.20 metres high, between the trees. Good again.

As Paul reached a curve, he slowed down even more. After the curve, the distribution centre came into sight. A huge, low-lying greyish building, with big ramps for the lorries to make deliveries.

It had to be done just before the curve. No other spot possible. Slowly, a plan began to take shape in his head. He turned the car around and headed back, at normal speed now, took the highway and sped off. He had to wait for the call.

Wednesday morning, nine o’clock, the phone rang. It was Tin, alright. “I met with Tony last night,” Tin said.

“Not a word on the phone,” Paul snapped, “meet me at the Zeughauskeller at noon today,” and hung up.

Paul had arrived 15 minutes early. He wanted a quiet table, almost impossible in that huge room that must hold more than 200 tables. The place was already busy. Zeughauskeller, or Arsenal Cave, had been operating at the same place for over 150 years straight. It was one of the oldest and most traditional places. The walls were adorned with weapons dating back to the 15th century and through to the present day. Spears and lances, full armours, Hellebarden. The spiked lead balls on metal chains, to smash the skull of the enemy. Swords, daggers of all sizes and shapes. A cannon hung from the high ceiling; suspended in mid-air were the Swiss regiments’ original banners and colours, all of them; the more modern weaponry, a complete heavy machine gun, up to assault rifles, from the early versions to the one Paul kept in his wardrobe at his flat, like any other Swiss army member did. The sight of all this weaponry brought him into just the right combat mood.

He saw his pal Tin entering one of the heavy wooden doors and waved. They shook hands.

Tin said, “I met the hunchback last night for beers. He will ride alone in the truck, definitely. Only when he’s sick or on leave would Martin, his substitute, come in … never together.”

“What about the date of delivery?” Paul asked.

“Well, I had to get him quite a few drinks, but in the end he said cash delivery, always on the 22nd of the month. No exceptions. If the 22nd falls on a weekend or holiday, they move it up one day, but never after.”

“Good,” said Paul. “Let’s have lunch.”

They both ordered the roasted sausage with potato salad house special and two large beers. When they finished, Paul consulted the small calendar he had brought along. The 22nd fell on a Thursday, today being the fifth of the month. That would give them about three weeks to plan the heist. He would call it the Migros job.

“Did he say how much is in the case?” Paul asked.

“No, he does not know, but says it s heavy,” Tin replied.

“OK,” Paul said. “I don’t want you to go near the distribution centre. Stay away. They know you in Urdor.I check out the flow of lorries, their timetables. What I need from you is your bicycle. From today on, leave it outside your house, near the garbage bins, under that tree, unlocked. I will use it. I can’t drive around in the Alfa Romeo, draws too much attention. You will have to hire a car, I will tell you one day before. Pay cash and get it in a different town, not Urdorf – most probably Spreitenbach. I will check and let you know. You will have to stay low. Just get a piece of sewer pipe about 40cm long and 5cm thick. The rest I will provide. And Tin, not a word to anyone, I mean anyone, not even your mother’s dog. I will call.”

Paul paid the bill, and they said goodbye and walked off in different directions. Paul headed back to work, and Tin to the nearby quarter of Niederdorf, just to wash the excitement down a bit.

On Saturday morning at nine o’clock, Paul, having had his first coffee, was sitting at his dining table and thinking hard. He knew that the distribution centre operated 24/6, the only day off being Sunday. They operated three shifts, each eight hours long. When Tin had asked Tony about the workers, he said they were mostly Yugoslavians and Albanians. The workers loaded and unloaded the heavy crates and packages on the lorries. It was unskilled work but demanded good physical condition. Hunchback had said each shift had roughly 50 workers, because the bus that collected them at the train station had a maximum seating capacity of 52, including the driver, giving a total of 150 workers, plus three foremen.

Paul knew that most of the Yugoslavs and Albanians did not speak proper German, even after many years in Switzerland. Many of them could not read and could only write their own names. They were not well educated, and highly suspicious of anything official, like governments and banks. Most of them did not even have a bank account. If at least half of them had no bank account, that would make about 75 people getting cash. An average of SFr. 2,000 a month per head meant that in the hunchback’s delivery bag was, in any given month, a clean SFr. 150,000, Paul figured. Not bad, and very tempting.

Yesterday he had told that asshole Mueller that he would take a week off. That would give him six full days to check the road movement – the times of the comings and goings and the number of cars. Thinking now, he decided he was going to buy two black ski masks. The plan was taking shape. Timing was of the essence. They had to watch the banks, making sure the hunchback came out with the bag, speed ahead, set up the trap and wait. They could not be early and wait too long – they would risk being seen by somebody walking his dog – or arrive late, with Tony having passed already. It was tricky, all depending on time and a bit of luck. He would start early Monday morning, around 3:30 a.m., when it was still dark. He had to get this right. He also hoped Tin had left the bicycle where he needed it to be. That was all for today; any further action had to wait until Monday morning.

The weather was still good and warm. He would go to one of the lidos on the lake, take a swim, and watch the bikini girls – check whether there was anything worth grabbing.

Monday morning, 2:40 a.m., the alarm rang. Paul put on some dark-coloured jeans, boots, and an AC/DC world tour ’80 T-shirt. He poured his hot coffee into a thermos, then wrapped the sandwich he had prepared in tin foil. All this went into his backpack, together with a pair of binoculars, a bottle of water, and a book. He closed the door, locked it, and went down the stairs and out into the fresh cool night.

Strolling around the block to where he had parked the car, he got in, put the backpack behind his seat, and turned the ignition key. The engine did not start. “Shit, don’t let me down now,” Paul thought, and turned the key again. On the third try, the engine sputtered to life.

Once the job was done, he would change cars, buy the newer model, the Alfa GTV 2 litre engine. He would also rent a bigger, better apartment in one of the classy Zürichberg locations overlooking the lake. Yes, that was a thought, but first he had to get this heist done. He drove through the dark streets, heading to Escher-Wyss-Platz, where he’d take the motorway, strictly sticking to the speed limit. He did not want to get stopped and searched by a police patrol.

He entered the motorway with almost no traffic. It was 3:40 now; he would hit Urdorf around 4 a.m.

He parked the car in a public car park about two blocks from Tin’s apartment, far away from the entrance behind a large black Buick. The Alfa tucked away, out of sight behind the big car. Paul took his backpack and walked quickly towards Tin’s place; he could only pray that the bicycle was where it should be.

There it was. He mounted it and pedalled away, first through smaller streets and then to the main road leading to the intersection roundabout. He reached it in 20 minutes and took the road that led to the distribution centre. Just after the curve, he ditched the bike in a bush and crept up the slope leading to the open field. He chose a big apple tree to lay down under in the soft grass. It was 4:30 now, still dark, with orange light coming up on the eastern horizon. He lay very still, took out his notebook and binoculars, and started watching the centre.

Nothing. Not a sound. Then, at exactly 5 a.m., four of the big ramp doors opened almost simultaneously. Out came the first lorry, the Migros sign on both sides, headlights on, slowly heading towards his hideaway post. Minutes later the second lorry came into sight, and a few minutes later the third and finally the fourth. All of them in one unique procession, surely a routine they would not break.