you. He had made the same point with some success in his prepared speech in reply to old Westerheim.
And as a veteran of such cock-ups, Brue over the years had developed two distinct responses to the moment of impact. If he was in a board meeting with the eyes of the world on him, he would rise to his feet, shove his thumbs into his waistband and meander round the room wearing an expression of exemplary calm.
Unobserved, he was more likely to favor his second option, which was to freeze in the position in which the news had hit him, flicking at his lower lip with his forefinger, which was what he did now while he played the message a second time and then a third, starting with the initial beep.
“Good evening. My name is Annabel Richter, I am a lawyer, and I wish to speak personally to Mr. Tommy Brue as soon as possible on behalf of a client I represent.”
Represent but do not name, Brue methodically notes for the third time. A crisp, but southerly German tone, educated and impatient of circumlocution.
“My client has instructed me to pass his best wishes to a Mr.”—she pauses, as if consulting a script—“to a Mr. Lipizzaner. I repeat that. The name is Lipizzaner. Like the horses, yes, Mr. Brue? Those famous white horses of the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, where your bank was formerly situated? I think your bank knows Lipizzaners very well.”
Her tone lifts. A factual message about white horses becomes a choirboy in distress.
“Mr. Brue, my client has very little time at his disposal. I naturally do not wish to say more on the telephone. It is also possible you are more familiar with his position than I am, which will expedite matters. I would therefore be grateful if you would call me back on my cell phone on receipt of this message so that we can make an appointment to meet.”
She could have stopped there, but she doesn’t. The choirboy’s song takes on a sharper edge:
“If it’s late at night, that’s acceptable, Mr. Brue. Even very late. I saw a light just now as I went past your office. Maybe you personally are no longer at work, but someone else is. If so, please will that person kindly pass this message to Mr. Tommy Brue as a matter of urgency, because nobody but Mr. Tommy Brue is empowered to act in the matter. Thank you for your time.”
And thank you for your time, Frau Annabel Richter, thought Brue, rising to his feet and, with thumb and finger still fastened on his lower lip, heading for the bay window as if it were the nearest means of escape.
Yes indeed, my bank knows Lipizzaners very well, madam, if by bank you mean myself and my one confidante, Frau Elli, and not another living soul. My bank would pay top dollar to see the last of its surviving Lipizzaners gallop over the horizon, back to Vienna where they came from, never to return. Perhaps you know that too.
A sickening thought came at him. Or perhaps it had been with him these seven years, and only now decided to step out of the shadows. Would top dollar actually be what you’re after, Frau Annabel Richter—you and your sainted client who is so short of time?
Is this a blackmail job you’re pulling, by any remote chance?
And are you perhaps, with your choirboy purity, and your air of professional high purpose, dropping a hint to me—you and your accomplice, sorry, client —that Lipizzaner horses possess the curious property of being born jet black and only turning white with age—which was how they came to lend their name to a certain type of exotic bank account inspired by the eminent Edward Amadeus Brue, OBE, my beloved late father whom in all other respects I continue to revere as the very pillar of banking probity, during his final salad days in Vienna when black money from the collapsing Evil Empire was hemorrhaging through the fast-fraying Iron Curtain by the truckload?
Brue took a slow tour round the room.
But why on earth did you do it, dear father of mine?
Why, when all your life you traded on your
And as a veteran of such cock-ups, Brue over the years had developed two distinct responses to the moment of impact. If he was in a board meeting with the eyes of the world on him, he would rise to his feet, shove his thumbs into his waistband and meander round the room wearing an expression of exemplary calm.
Unobserved, he was more likely to favor his second option, which was to freeze in the position in which the news had hit him, flicking at his lower lip with his forefinger, which was what he did now while he played the message a second time and then a third, starting with the initial beep.
“Good evening. My name is Annabel Richter, I am a lawyer, and I wish to speak personally to Mr. Tommy Brue as soon as possible on behalf of a client I represent.”
Represent but do not name, Brue methodically notes for the third time. A crisp, but southerly German tone, educated and impatient of circumlocution.
“My client has instructed me to pass his best wishes to a Mr.”—she pauses, as if consulting a script—“to a Mr. Lipizzaner. I repeat that. The name is Lipizzaner. Like the horses, yes, Mr. Brue? Those famous white horses of the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, where your bank was formerly situated? I think your bank knows Lipizzaners very well.”
Her tone lifts. A factual message about white horses becomes a choirboy in distress.
“Mr. Brue, my client has very little time at his disposal. I naturally do not wish to say more on the telephone. It is also possible you are more familiar with his position than I am, which will expedite matters. I would therefore be grateful if you would call me back on my cell phone on receipt of this message so that we can make an appointment to meet.”
She could have stopped there, but she doesn’t. The choirboy’s song takes on a sharper edge:
“If it’s late at night, that’s acceptable, Mr. Brue. Even very late. I saw a light just now as I went past your office. Maybe you personally are no longer at work, but someone else is. If so, please will that person kindly pass this message to Mr. Tommy Brue as a matter of urgency, because nobody but Mr. Tommy Brue is empowered to act in the matter. Thank you for your time.”
And thank you for your time, Frau Annabel Richter, thought Brue, rising to his feet and, with thumb and finger still fastened on his lower lip, heading for the bay window as if it were the nearest means of escape.
Yes indeed, my bank knows Lipizzaners very well, madam, if by bank you mean myself and my one confidante, Frau Elli, and not another living soul. My bank would pay top dollar to see the last of its surviving Lipizzaners gallop over the horizon, back to Vienna where they came from, never to return. Perhaps you know that too.
A sickening thought came at him. Or perhaps it had been with him these seven years, and only now decided to step out of the shadows. Would top dollar actually be what you’re after, Frau Annabel Richter—you and your sainted client who is so short of time?
Is this a blackmail job you’re pulling, by any remote chance?
And are you perhaps, with your choirboy purity, and your air of professional high purpose, dropping a hint to me—you and your accomplice, sorry, client —that Lipizzaner horses possess the curious property of being born jet black and only turning white with age—which was how they came to lend their name to a certain type of exotic bank account inspired by the eminent Edward Amadeus Brue, OBE, my beloved late father whom in all other respects I continue to revere as the very pillar of banking probity, during his final salad days in Vienna when black money from the collapsing Evil Empire was hemorrhaging through the fast-fraying Iron Curtain by the truckload?
Brue took a slow tour round the room.
But why on earth did you do it, dear father of mine?
Why, when all your life you traded on your
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