The revelry faded as he thought about it. No . . . he didn’t command their respect. She did. These men were here because of Shakira Azzam. They thought of Drexler as a necessary evil. A cutout between her dirty money and their sanitized and perfect lives in Switzerland.
The man at the head of the table was forty-year-old Stefan Meier, the great-grandson of Aldous Meier, the bank’s founder. Stefan was vice president, behind his older brother, Rolf, in the company and familial pecking order, but he was the only Meier who ever got his hands remotely dirty, which meant he was the only family member involved with the institution Drexler had ever met.
Meier said, “We know you are here on an important assignment for our client in Damascus. Is everything on track with that?”
Drexler assumed Meier didn’t want to know any details about the work he was here to do. The vice president would only know that Shakira had demanded he fulfill an obligation to her, and if he completed the obligation to her satisfaction, she would reward the bank with more deposits and more business. If he failed to do the work, she could pull her accounts from the bank.
Drexler said, “I expect to have the job completed this evening.”
“Excellent,” Meier replied. “I know our client is rewarding you handsomely for going above and beyond your duties to her accounts, and our client’s husband has been pleased with your work in maintaining his foreign interests, as well.”
“I’m gratified to hear that.”
Stefan Meier said, “The bank is more than satisfied with your work.”
The words coming from the vice president were flattering, but none of the four men across the table were smiling. Drexler knew they were all here waiting for the other shoe to drop, to learn why their agent in Syria had demanded a meeting with them right in the middle of an operation.
Enough of the bullshit, Drexler thought. He’d just tell them. “I asked you all here because I would like to request immediate reassignment.”
In the silence that ensued he scanned all four faces. There was no surprise, no alarm, no discernible emotion.
Drexler continued. “I’ve spent over two years in Syria. I’ve done everything asked of me. It’s time for me to move on.”
“I don’t understand,” Meier said. “We positioned you in Syria because it was the safest place for you due to your . . . legal troubles. I am certain Interpol hasn’t lost interest in you in two years, and there aren’t many locales like Syria that offer both freedom of movement for you and a crucial business need for us.”
“Syria has simply become too dangerous an environment for me.”
“Hogwash,” said Ian Pleasance, the thick-jowled English director of bank operations. “The civil war is being won by the regime, and won handily. ISIS is on its last legs, ditto the Kurds and the FSA. Russia will protect Azzam, and by extension, it will protect you.”
Drexler acknowledged Pleasance with a nod but said, “I’m not worried about ISIS or the FSA. I’m worried about Shakira and Ahmed. My work has positioned me directly between them.”
Meier pursed his lips. “In what way?”
“It’s about the job I am here to do in Paris. If I do it correctly, and Ahmed finds out . . . I will be killed when I return to Syria.”
Stefan Meier flashed a glance to the director of operations. A look of annoyance that something so crass as murder would come up in this meeting. Stefan leaned back in his chair now, and Ian leaned forward.
“Perhaps this is something you and I should discuss in—”
“I have protected billions of dollars of assets at Meier in the past several years, and the bank knew of my, as you call them, legal troubles, the day I was hired. I only ask to be brought in from the cold, taken out of imminent danger, and set up somewhere secure. I will continue to work ceaselessly for the bank, just not in between the president and first lady of Syria.”
The oldest man in the room, Bruno Olvetti, was the vice director of finance. He was there only because he served as the older Meier brother’s eyes and ears. Bruno came to meetings like this to watch over Stefan and to report back to Rolf. He said, “This perilous position you speak of, how much of it is your own doing?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Are you having an affair with Shakira Azzam?”
Drexler could not possibly imagine how Bruno could know about that. He thought it possible, likely even, that the old man was just bluffing. Assuming a relationship because he knew Drexler worked closely with Shakira on discreet matters. Shakira was an attractive woman, and Drexler considered himself a very desirable man.
He said, “Nice try, Bruno, but there is no affair.”
To his surprise, Stefan Meier spoke up now. “You wouldn’t be calling our client’s word into question, would you?”
Drexler said nothing.
“She told my brother herself that the two of you are involved.” Stefan laughed a little. “According to Rolf, she genuinely seems fond of you. Well done. You’ve somehow melted the heart of the First Lady of Hell.”
Drexler recovered quickly. “All the more reason, gentlemen, to pull me out. There has been certain . . . pressure . . . placed on me by the first lady over the past year or so. It has put me at odds with the president and—”
Ian Pleasance took off his glasses and rubbed his drooping eyes. “Oh, come now, man. Are you here to tell us you are being sexually harassed by your client?”
Stefan and the others chuckled now.
The muscles in Sebastian Drexler’s neck flexed, but he kept his composure. “I have told you what I’ve come to tell you. If I return to Syria, it is likely I will be killed, and it is likely the president will hold my employers . . . yourselves, that is, responsible for actions taken against him and his interests. He does still hold sway over his wife, you know. He could simply coerce her into moving assets from your bank.”
Meier replied, “Shakira is free to remove her assets at any time, irrespective of what her husband knows, or suspects, or insists upon. Even if we comply with your request. If we simply recall you from Damascus, or never send you back there, then what is to keep her from getting angry with us and making other arrangements with her money?”
“That is a fair question. The bank will be safe when I don’t return, because Shakira will be convinced that I died here in France. I don’t need your help to do that; I just need your help after the fact. Shakira will learn of my demise only after learning of the success of my operation, and she will be indebted to Meier Privatbank.”
“Such subterfuge,” Stefan said with a smile. “You certainly have a flair for the dramatic, don’t you? Sleeping with the Syrian president’s wife, and devising a plan to simulate your own death.”
Drexler did not bat an eyelash. “Herr Meier, in the employ of your firm I have killed or ordered the deaths of more than two dozen men and women. There is drama here that is not of my doing, as well.”
Meier glowered at Drexler, but he made no immediate reply. Pleasance was about to speak when Drexler held up a hand.
“Gentlemen, I only ask for a way out of this posting. You need someone to do the work I do. Allow me to do it in Hong Kong, in Rio, in the Caymans. Just don’t send me back to Damascus.”
Stefan Meier continued his hard stare for several seconds, then nodded slowly. He said, “All right, Sebastian. You are a key element of the success of our bank. Accomplish your mission in France. Save Shakira’s place in the palace. Then . . . only then, we will get you out of there.”
“So I don’t have to go back to Damascus?”
Stefan said, “You don’t want to go and wish your lover adieu and bon chance?”
Drexler knew the bankers were toying with him. He was a fascinating character in their boring lives, exactly the man any one of these fat, weak men would love to be for just one day, so of course they would mock him, pretend his actions were beneath their station.
Drexler said, “I have no need to see her ever again.”