At Geneva's new air terminal, the scene is a recurrent attraction: a bald and stubby executive clad in a redlined cape and a Pierre Cardin jacket buttoned to the chin clambers from a custom-built black Lincoln Continental. With him comes an eyebrow-raising entourage: one male aide and four mini-skirted lasses of Playboy pulchritude. The normally expressionless Swiss faces at the ticket counter light up with half-amused, half-respectful recognition. "It's Bernie," whispers a Swissair hostess to a new colleague. Taking at least two of his curvaceous companions with him, Bernie quickly boards his private...
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