Intrigue in Geneva Episode Two

 

 

A sheet of the report fluttered onto the plush red carpet. His shadow appeared over her.

“Excuse me, Fraulein. I think you may have dropped this.”

He spoke in hesitant German and handed her the paper. Hadn’t anyone informed him that women found it rude and patronising to be addressed by this old-fashioned title? The West German government had banned the use of “Fraulein” in 1972.

“Thank you,” she said. Dvora peered over the top of her spectacles, appraising him.

The photos had not done him justice – they had been taken by a surveillance team hidden inside a VW station wagon with its German number plates obscured by snow, and showed a man running down a flight of steps. In the flesh, standing at her table, he looked younger than his thirty years, with his boyish, slender good looks. He wore his jet black hair in the style of John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. His generous mouth would have been more suited to a woman, as would his long eyelashes and his liquid brown eyes. He reminded Dvora of a gauche foal.

Dvora arranged the papers neatly on the table and replied in rapid German.

“You’ve saved my life. I’d be in a mess if I lost this. It sums up the main points of my presentation tomorrow.”

Looking puzzled, he replied in English.

“I’m sorry, but my German isn’t good.”

Dvora ran a hand through her long raven-black hair, smiled and repeated her thanks in English. She wore a black business suit and a transparent ivory silk blouse underneath her tailored jacket. Her skirt had ridden up her thighs as she crossed her legs. Three-inch black stilettos completed her outfit.

The man held out his hand, and she shook it. His eyes lingered momentarily on her legs.

“I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Omar Rashid. May I join you?”

Dvora hesitated and checked her watch.

“I don’t know. It’s getting rather late.”

“Let me buy you dinner – I’d enjoy the company. Please,” he added.

“No thanks,” she said briskly. “I don’t usually eat with men I’ve just met in a bar.” She scooped up her papers and placed them in an expensive black leather briefcase.

He smiled shyly. “Please – it’s only dinner. I’d enjoy the company,” he said again.

With his well-cut dark suit, conservative grey tie and crisp white shirt, he could pass as a lawyer or a banker, but Dvora knew he was neither. She shrugged her shoulders with resignation.

“OK. Why not? As you said, it’s only dinner.”

Rashid grinned. “I’ve a table booked here every night. I’m sorry, but I didn’t get your name?”

“Elsa Freud.”

“May I?” Rashid indicated the vacant chair opposite Dvora.

“Yes, of course. You must live in Geneva?”

He sat down. “Yes, I do. Would you like a drink?”

Dvora laughed. “I’d thought you’d never ask.”

Rashid raised his hand and clicked his fingers to summon a passing waiter. “I’ll have another double whisky, and…” He looked at Dvora, raising his eyebrows.

“Same again, please.” The order completed, Dvora turned to him. “What line of business are you in?”

“Nothing very exciting I’m afraid,” he replied. “I work in a bank. I’m just a number cruncher.” He leaned his elbows on the table and scrutinised her features. “And Elsa – Freud, did you say? Isn’t that a Jewish name?”

Her pulse quickened, and a stab of fear caught her unawares. “It can be, but it’s also German.”

Rashid watched her carefully. “And are you Jewish, Elsa?”