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“The one Godwin met with?” I asked.
“Affirmative,” he repeated. “His name is Christian Meier.” We watched the man approach the locker, open it, remove the bag without checking to see if there was anything inside, then walk out of the building.
“Stand down,” said Zep. “We want to see where he takes it.”
Macht and Reaper followed in one vehicle; Zep and I in another. We tailed him directly to the bank, and right before he walked inside, the three of us intercepted him.
I was fluent enough in Swiss German to understand that when Macht approached, saying he needed to speak with him regarding his possession of stolen goods, the man agreed willingly. Then again, Macht’s six-feet-seven-inch and eighteen-stone frame likely scared the hell out of the guy, who didn’t look to be more than five feet ten and half the agent’s weight.
“Let us look in the bag,” Zeppelin said in English.
“This is private property,” Meier responded, clutching it closer to him.
Macht flashed his Swiss intelligence ID. “If you prefer, I can contact the cantonal police, or we can conduct this interview without involving local authorities.”
Meier studied him for a few seconds, then invited us to join him in his office.
“Open the bag, sir,” Macht said once the door was closed behind us.
“Who are they?” he asked in Swiss German.
I removed the ID Nem had given me, and Zeppelin did the same. Both were MI6 credentials. Mine read Elise Evans, and his was in the name of Jack Evans.
“What about him?” the banker said, looking at Macht and pointing at Reaper.
“He’s my bodyguard,” he told him. Apparently, the man bought it since Reaper was even bigger than Macht.
“We’re investigating individuals who were recent visitors to your financial institution,” Macht began.
“Under Swiss law?—”
“I am sure you’ll agree, with the safety and security of the residents of Switzerland on the line, the cantonal judges will grant a comprehensive warrant. You can tell us what you know about one of your customers or all. The choice is yours.”
The man hesitated a few seconds, but when Zeppelin pulled out his mobile, he raised a hand. “I’ll tell you as much as I know.”
“I’ve asked you to open the bag twice,” Zep added, leaning forward in one of the three chairs Meier had pointed to when we entered the office.
“My instructions were to place the bag in a safe-deposit box.”
“Who gave you those instructions?” Zeppelin asked while I studied the man’s reactions. He was uncomfortable but not fearful.
“The customer’s name?” Macht pressed.
The banker hesitated, then smoothed his hair. “Jacob Novak.”
Macht held up his mobile. “Is this Mr. Novak?”
Meier nodded, confirming it was Godwin.
“Who arranged for what is in the bag to be stolen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is this man?” Macht asked, swiping to an image of the bodyguard he and Schön said had accompanied Godwin to this bank and BJB.
“Mr. Novak’s bodyguard.”
“His name?” I asked.
