Honor Among Thieves

that had been arranged that Tuesday at noon was scheduled to take place in the boardroom on the eleventh floor, the floor below the chairman’s office.

The chairman of the bank, Pierre Dummond, had held his present position for the past nineteen years, but even he had rarely experienced a more unlikely coupling than that between an educated Arab from Iraq and the son of a former Mafia lawyer from New York.

The boardroom table could seat sixteen, but on this occasion it was only occupied by four. Pierre Dummond sat in the center of one of the long sides under a portrait of his uncle, the former chairman, François Dummond. The present chairman wore a dark suit of elegant cut and style that would not have looked out of place had it been worn by any of the chairmen of the forty-eight banks located within a square mile of the building. His shirt was of a shade of blue that was not influenced by Milan fashions, and his tie was so discreet that, moments after leaving the room, only a remarkably observant client would have been able to recall its color or pattern.

On Monsieur Dummond’s right sat his client, Mr. Al Obaydi, whose dress, although slightly more fashionable, was nonetheless equally conservative.

Opposite Monsieur Dummond sat the chairman of Franchard et cie, who, any observer would have noticed, must have shared the same tailor as Monsieur Dummond. On Franchard’s left sat Antonio Cavalli, wearing a double-breasted Armani suit, making him look as if he had dropped in on the wrong meeting.

The little carriage clock that sat on the Louis-Philippe mantelpiece behind Monsieur Dummond completed twelve strokes. The chairman cleared his throat and began the proceedings.

“Gentlemen, the purpose of this meeting, which was called at our instigation but with your agreement, is to exchange a rare document for an agreed sum of money.” Monsieur Dummond pushed his half-moon spectacles further up his nose. “Naturally, I must begin, Mr. Cavalli, by asking if you are in possession of that document?”

“No, he is not, sir,” interjected Monsieur Franchard, as prearranged with Cavalli, “because he has entrusted the document’s safekeeping to our bank. But I can confirm that, as soon as the agreed sum has been transferred, I have been given power of attorney to release the document immediately.”

“But that is not what we agreed,” interrupted Dummond, who leaned forward, feigning shock, before adding, “My client’s government has no intention of paying another penny without full scrutiny of the document. You agreed to deliver it here by midday, and in any case we still have to be convinced of its authenticity.”

“That is understood by my client,” said Monsieur Franchard. “Indeed, you are most welcome to attend my office at any time convenient to you in order to carry out such an inspection. Following that inspection, the moment you have transferred the agreed amount the document will be released.”

“This is all very well,” countered Monsieur Dummond, pushing his half-moon spectacles back up his nose, “but your client has failed to keep to his original agreement, which in my view allows my client’s government”—he emphasized the word “government”—“to reconsider its position.”

“My client felt it prudent, under the circumstances, to protect his interest by depositing the document in his own bank for safekeeping,” came back the immediate reply from Monsieur Franchard.

Anyone watching the two bankers sparring with each other might have been surprised to learn that they played chess together every Saturday night, which Monsieur Franchard invariably won, and tennis after lunch on Sunday, which he regularly lost.

“I cannot accept this new arrangement,” said Al Obaydi, speaking for the first time. “My government has charged me to pay only a further forty million dollars if the original agreement is breached in any way.”

“But this is ridiculous!” said Cavalli, his voice rising with every word. “We are quibbling over a matter of a few hours at the most and a building less than half a mile away. And as you well know, the figure agreed on was ninety million.”

“But you have since broken our agreement,” said Al Obaydi, “so the original terms can no longer be considered valid by my government.”

“No ninety million, no document!” said Cavalli, banging his fist on the table.

“Let us be realistic, Mr. Cavalli,” said Al Obaydi. “The document is no longer of any use to you, and I have a feeling you would have settled for fifty million in the first place.”

“That is not the—”

Monsieur Franchard touched Cavalli’s arm. “I would like a few minutes alone with my client.”

“Of course,” said Monsieur Dummond, rising from his place. “We will leave you. Please press the button under the table the moment you wish us to return.”

Monsieur Dummond and his client left the room without another word.

“He’s bluffing,” said Cavalli. “He’ll pay. I know it.”

“I don’t think so,” said Franchard.

“What makes you say that?”

“The use of the words ‘my government.’”

“What does that tell us that we didn’t already know?”

“The expression was repeated four times,” said Franchard, “which suggests to me that the financial decision has been taken out of the hands of Mr. Al Obaydi, and only forty million has been deposited by his government with Dummond et cie.”

Cavalli began pacing round the room, but suddenly stopped by the phone which rested on a small side table.

“I presume that’s bugged,” said Cavalli, pointing at the phone.