Numbered Account (12 page)

The drinking came later, and it was the worst. His mother wasn’t a loud drunk. She was the other kind. The teary-eyed lush content to sip one cocktail after the other. By nine in the evening she’d have a dozen stiff ones under her belt, maybe more. He’d need a crane to get her out of the
Barca Lounger and into bed. Even now Nick wondered how many teenagers had put their mother naked under a cold shower. How many had made sure she had two aspirins each morning with her coffee? And how many had tucked a fresh bottle of Visine into her handbag before she went off to work so that maybe she’d last another day without being fired?

The Internal Account Surveillance List was his chance, then. A skeleton key to the unlit corridors of the bank. The question was how to use it.

The elevator jostled unevenly on its run between floors, and Nick’s mind confronted another issue. What about Thorne? asked a crusading voice he thought long dead. What about his mission to arrest the major players in the international drug trade?

Screw Thorne, he answered. Let him pursue his rogues’ gallery of drug
supremos
and
narcotraficantes
, but goddamn it, not on my watch. As far as Nick was concerned all government agencies — the CIA, the FBI, the DEA, the whole rotten bunch — operated on some hopelessly stilted agenda. They were motivated as much by the self-serving and entirely human aspirations of their leaders as by a legitimate desire to remedy societal ills. To hell with them all.

Nick returned to his desk at five minutes before three o’clock. The office seemed unnaturally quiet. Sprecher’s desk was empty, as was Cerruti’s — a desolate stretch of banking highway. He had five minutes to decide how to handle the Pasha, true identity unknown, this day at odds with the laws of at least one Western nation.

Nick tapped his pen on the Internal Account Surveillance List. He had been neglecting his duties for most of the day. To divert his thoughts, or maybe to focus them more clearly, he took out the two modification of account information forms he had filled out that morning and began making the necessary additions. A valiant trumpet sounded the charge from an imaginary battlefield. He recognized the Chairman’s air. A call to arms.

Nick hazarded a weak smile and glanced up to the clock. 14:59. And then it was done . . . 15:00. He slid open his top drawer and withdrew a green transfer of funds sheet and a black pen. He laid down both in front of him, sure to cover Schweitzer’s surveillance list, and began counting. One . . . two . . . three. He could practically feel the pulses of compressed light firing through the fiber-optic cables. Four . . . five . . . six.

The phone jumped in front of him. Nick stared at the flashing light. The phone rang again. He picked up the receiver and placed it firmly against his ear.

“United Swiss Bank, Mr. Neumann, good afternoon.”

Nick leaned back in his chair and repeated himself. “United Swiss Bank, Mr. Neumann speaking. How may I be of service?”

A brusque hissing erupted from the line.

“Good afternoon. Is anyone there?” His stomach felt empty. A streak of anxiety sparked in his lower abdomen and rose unchecked into his throat.

“Please come to my desert kingdom,” said a scratchy voice. “The pleasures of Allah await. I have heard you are a handsome and virile young man. We have many beautiful women, some very, very young. But for you I have reserved something special, something infinitely more pleasurable.”

“Excuse me,” Nick said. This didn’t sound like the man he had listened to on Monday.

“The pleasures of the desert are legion,” the voice rumbled on. “But for you, my young friend, I reserve my precious Fatima. Such softness you do not know. Like the down from a thousand pillows. And gentle . . . ahh, Fatima is a kind and loving beast. The queen of all my camels.” The voice broke down, trading its shaky Arabic accent for one of English origin. “Please you may fuck her as often as you like,” Peter Sprecher blurted out, before bursting into laughter, no longer able to continue his charade. “Am I keeping you from something more important, young Nick?”

“Bastard! You’ll pay!” Nick railed.

Sprecher laughed louder.

“Isn’t Konig keeping you busy enough? Or are you already buying shares for him? Is he going to make a bid for the entire bank?”

“Sorry, chum, I couldn’t tell you. But if I were a betting man, I wouldn’t count him out.”

“Always full of positive news . . .” Nick halted in mid-sentence. A new light on his telephone had begun blinking. “Gotta run. Our friend is here. By the way, his account is on Schweitzer’s surveillance list.” He caught the beginning of a loud exclamation before he stabbed the flashing extension. “United Swiss Bank, Mr. Neumann, good afternoon.”

“Mr. Sprecher, please.” It was him.

“This is Mr. Neumann speaking. Unfortunately Mr. Sprecher is away from the office today, but I am his assistant. May I help you, sir?”

“What is your bank reference?” the gravelly voice demanded. “I know Mr. Sprecher well. I do not know you. Please be so kind as to provide me your full name and bank reference.”

“Sir, I would be more than happy to provide you with information legitimizing my employ at the bank; however, first, I need to have either your name or your account number.”

The line faded for a second. The quietest of hums cut out, and then was back.

“Very well. My account number is” — he pronounced the numbers slowly and deliberately—”five four nine, six one seven. R. R.”

“Thank you. Now I require your code word for this account.”

Nick felt oddly empowered by the strict procedure set forth to control the identity of the anonymous individuals holding numbered accounts. For decades all that had been required to open an account at any Swiss bank was a check drawn on an internationally active bank, or for more discreet individuals, a stack of currency freely convertible against the Swiss franc. Proof of identity was welcome but by no means obligatory.

In 1990, Switzerland’s banking authorities, no longer willing to advocate a policy that could be viewed as favorable to the desperadoes who used banks as blind coconspirators, passed legislation calling for legitimate proof of a client’s identity and country of origin, in the form of a valid passport, to be noted as a vital part of the client’s records.

Peter Sprecher claimed that prior to implementation of the “draconian” legislation, many of banking’s wiser heads had set aside several thousand numbered accounts to be held in the names of their favored
Treuhander
, or financial middlemen. These accounts were made available to special clients of the bank interested in keeping their identity a secret—”grandfathered,” as it were. The minimum deposit required to obtain such a numbered account, no meddlesome questions asked, was five million dollars. One had to keep the riffraff out.

“The code word?” Nick repeated.

“Ciragan Palace,” said client 549.617 RR.

Nick smiled to himself. The Ciragan Palace in Istanbul had been home to the latter Turkish viziers in the nineteenth century. Clearly, Marco Cerruti had been pointing a finger at his client’s nationality when christening him the Pasha.

“I confirm, sir, Ciragan Palace,” Nick stated. “My bank reference is NXM, the family name is Neumann.” He spelled it, then asked his client if he had understood. There was an extended silence punctuated only by a rhythmic liquid clicking. Nick brought his chair closer to his desk and leaned over the Pasha’s file, as if physical proximity to his client’s paperwork would hasten the response.

“Loud and clear, Mr. Neumann,” the Pasha said with renewed vigor. “Now may we proceed to business? Please tell me the current balance of my account, 549.617 RR.”

Nick entered the account number into Cerberus, followed by the coded instructions AB30A to request the account’s balance. A microsecond later, the display spit forth the results of his inquiry. His eyes widened. The balance had never been this high. “Your account holds forty-seven million U.S. dollars.”

“Forty-seven million,” the Pasha repeated slowly. If there was any pleasure to be had in finding such an astronomical sum in one’s account, the gruff voice did not betray it. “Mr. Neumann, you have all my transfer instructions, yes? Please look at transfer matrix six.”

Nick withdrew the sheet from the file on his desk. Matrix six detailed specific instructions to transfer a given sum, today the tidy amount of forty-seven million U.S. dollars, to banks in Austria, Germany, Norway, Singapore, Hong Kong, and the Cayman Islands.

“Matrix six involves the transfer of the entire amount to a total of twenty-two banks,” said Nick.

“That is correct, Mr. Neumann,” the Pasha answered. “You sound hesitant. Is there any problem? Would you like to review the banks to whom you must wire these funds?”

“No, sir,” Nick said. “No problem.” His eye caught the corner of the account surveillance list peeking from under the Pasha’s file. He did not consider telling the client about the existence of the list or that his account was on it. The bank’s cooperation with the authorities was voluntary. And confidential. “But I would like to review the names of the correspondent banks. To ensure we are one hundred percent correct.” He began with the first bank on the list. “Deutsche Bank, Frankfurt Head Office.”

“Correct.”

“South West Landesbank, Munich.”

“Correct.”

“Norske Bank, Oslo,” Nick droned, waiting for the impatient grunt that confirmed each name. “Kreditanstalt of Austria, Vienna . . .” His eyes darted around the office. Peter Sprecher, absent. Marco Cerruti, absent. A quote he’d memorized during an endless Pacific float came to mind. “
Isolation is the sole crucible in which man’s character may be forged
.” He had forgotten who had written the words, but at this instant, he fully understood their meaning.

“Bank Negara, Hong Kong branch office. Bank Sanwa, Singapore . . .” Nick continued reading the list of banks while the memory of Sterling Thorne’s short speech made a surprise entrance onto the stage.
Elephant hunting, rogue males, game wardens
. The words provoked an almost physical revulsion in him. He had met one of Thorne’s kind before. Mr. Jack Keely of the Central Intelligence Agency — like Thorne, an overzealous caretaker of his government’s sacred rules and regulations, eager to co-opt others into his service. Nick had responded to the call of Keely’s bugle. He had stepped forward of his own volition, and he had paid the price for his naive pursuit of glory. Never again, he had sworn when the affair was finally over. Not for Keely. Not for Thorne. Not for anyone.

“I confirm a total of twenty-two institutions,” Nick said, in conclusion.

“Thank you, Mr. Neumann. Be sure these funds are transferred by the end of your business day. I am not tolerant of errors.”

The Pasha rang off.

Nick replaced the receiver in its cradle. He was on his own now, and a stern voice reminded him that was how he liked it. The decision was his. The clock above Sprecher’s desk read 15:06. He moved the transfer of funds form closer, noting the time of the order, then began filling out the necessary details. In the upper left-hand corner, he inscribed the six-digit and two-letter account number. Below it, in a rectangular space requesting the client’s name, he wrote “N.A.,” not available. Under “wire instructions,” he penned “matrix six (per client instructions), see screen CC21B.” And in the box marked “value,” he wrote a forty-seven followed by six zeros. Two boxes remained to be filled in: “validity date” — when the instructions should be executed — and “initials of responsible employee.” He wrote his three-letter employee identification in one box. He left the other box empty.

Nick rolled his chair back from his desk, slid open the top drawer, and laid the transfer of funds form at the far back corner. He had settled on a course of action.

For the next two hours, he busied himself checking and double-checking numbered accounts 220.000 AA through 230.999 ZZ for all bonds due to mature in the next thirty days. At 5:30, he refolded the last of the portfolios and stacked them in the cabinet behind him. He collected the remaining papers on his desk and arranged them in some logical order before placing them in the second drawer. All confidential documents were filed away and locked under key for the night. His desk was spotless. Armin Schweitzer rejoiced in patrolling the offices after hours, scouring the deserted building for stray papers carelessly left unfiled or unprotected. Offending parties were sure to catch hell the next morning.

Just prior to leaving the office, Nick opened his top drawer and withdrew the transfer of funds sheet bearing the Pasha’s account number and wire instructions. He guided his pen to the single box yet to be filled in, that for validity date, and scribbled the next day’s date. His scrawl was unreadable so as to ensure a delay of two to three hours before Pietro in Payments Traffic telephoned for clarification. Given the usual Friday logjam, the transfer would never be made before Monday morning. Satisfied, he walked down the hallway to the department’s mail nook and picked up an intrabank envelope. He addressed it to
Zahlungs Verkehr Ausland
, International Payments Traffic, then slipped the sheet inside and carefully secured the figure-eight clasp. He took a last look at the envelope, then dropped it into the cotton gunnysack that held the bank’s internal mail.

It was done.

Having willfully disobeyed the clearest instructions of his superiors and defied the orders of a major Western law-enforcement agency to protect a man he had never met and uphold a policy he did not believe in, Nick extinguished the Hothouse’s nagging lights, certain that he had taken his first step toward the dark heart of the bank and the secrets that lay behind his father’s death.

Ali Mevlevi never tired of watching the sun set over the Mediterranean Sea. In summer, he would take his place in one of the rattan chairs set upon the veranda and let his thoughts drift out across the shimmering water as he kept careful watch of the fiery orb’s descent. In winter, on evenings such as this, he had but a few minutes to enjoy the passing of day through dusk and into night. Looking out over the westernmost edge of the Arab Middle East, he followed the sun as it sank deeper into a nest of billowy clouds huddled close to the horizon. A breeze skittered across the terrace and in its wake spread hints of eucalyptus and cedar.