Numbered Account (21 page)

But Ott was too busy glaring at Dr. Schon to respond.

“I asked you, Rudy, if you agreed with me?”

Ott said, “Of course,” and breaking off his stare, scurried to the door.

Kaiser stepped closer to Sylvia Schon. “By the way,” he asked, as if an odd idea had just popped into his mind, “do you think you could get to know him better?”

“Excuse me?”

“Neumann,” Kaiser whispered. “If
urgently
required?”

Sylvia Schon glowered at the Chairman.

Kaiser looked away. Yes, perhaps that was pushing things too far. Best to go slowly. He wanted Neumann around for a long time. “Forget I asked,” he said. “One last thing, though. About you telling Neumann — better wait until Monday. Clear?” He wanted Nicholas to sweat over the weekend. He didn’t like his subordinates making important decisions without first consulting him. Even if their instincts were correct.

Sylvia Schon nodded.

Rudolf Ott returned from the tall double doors and taking hold of the Chairman’s arm, led him from the room. “Good morning, Dr. Schon. Thank you for coming,” he muttered.

“We’re off, Ott,” said Kaiser, as if embarking on a jaunty morning cruise. “Who did you say is on the agenda? The Hausammanns? Slumlords. Amazing who we have to work with to keep Konig at bay.”

Sylvia Schon was left standing alone in the empty boardroom. For a long while she stood motionless, staring at the empty space where the Chairman had been. Finally, as if having struggled with a difficult decision, she took a deep breath, buttoned her blazer, and walked briskly out of the room.

Upon entering the Keller Stubli, Nick was assaulted by the usual mixture of hot air, stagnant smoke, and stale beer. The small bar was crowded beyond its capacity. A sartorially diverse assortment of men and women were packed together tighter than a stack of new hundreds, waiting for a table to clear. Asshole to belly button, they would say in the Corps.

“You’re late,” Peter Sprecher barked over the maddening roar. “Fifteen minutes and then I’m gone. Nastassia’s waiting at the Brasserie Lipp.”

“Nastassia?” Nick asked, reaching the far end of the bar, where his friend sat with a stein of beer in his hand.

“Fogal,” Peter explained, referring to the pricey hosiery emporium situated two doors down from USB. “The gorgeous bird behind the counter. I’m giving you fifteen minutes of
her
precious lunch break.”

“You’re a generous man.”

“Least I can do. Now, what’s the trouble? Spill your guts to Uncle Peter.”

Nick wanted to ask him a hundred questions about his second day at the Adler Bank. Had he met Konig? What had he heard about the takeover? Was it simply a bid to drive up the share price and exact greenmail from Kaiser? Or would Konig unleash a full-scale attack? But those questions would have to wait for another time.

“The Pasha,” Nick said simply.

“Our most reliable client?”

Nick nodded and for the next ten minutes explained his decision to delay the Pasha’s transfer.

“Probably a wise move,” said Peter afterward. “What’s the problem?”

Nick leaned closer. “I got a call at six this morning from Martin Maeder. He dragged me into his office and asked me one too many questions about why I did it. Did I know the Pasha? How dare I disobey the bank? Regular drill.”

“Go on.”

“I was ready for the questions. Not quite so soon, to be honest, but that didn’t faze me. When it was over, Maeder sent me home. Told me not to go back to the office; that I shouldn’t contact you. ’The verdict will be delivered Monday,’ he said.” Nick rubbed the back of his neck and scowled in self-doubt. “Yesterday I was sure I had done the right thing. Now I’m not so sure.”

Sprecher laughed raucously. “Worst you can expect is a transfer to logistics in Alstetten or the new office in Latvia.” He slapped Nick’s knee. “Just joking, chum. Don’t sweat it. Come Monday, all will be status quo ante.”

“This isn’t funny,” Nick protested. “I don’t think for a second that anything will be the same as before.”

Sprecher straightened his shoulders and spun on his stool so that he faced his colleague. “Listen, Nick. You didn’t lose any money, you steered a client out of trouble, and in doing so, you kept the bank’s nose a damn sight cleaner. I’d be surprised if you didn’t get the Victoria Cross for bravery under fire.”

Nick didn’t share his friend’s jovial mood. If he was fired, or even transferred to a less important post, his ability to effect any type of meaningful investigation into his father’s death would be hindered greatly, if not destroyed.

“And then yesterday,” Nick continued, “I was walking toward the lake when Agent Sterling Thorne stopped me.”

Sprecher appeared amused. “I take it he wasn’t inviting you to happy hour at the American Club?”

“Hardly. He asked me if I had seen anything “interesting’ at the bank, anything illegal.”

Sprecher feigned shock. “Good gracious. What else? Did he ask if you were working for the Cali Cartel? Bribing the whole of the Italian Senate? Don’t look so surprised, it’s been done. Promise me, Nick, that you didn’t confess.” He lit a cigarette. “The man is pathetic. The DEA has a mandate to get some arrests, to force our banks to cooperate. I’ll bet he didn’t say anything specific about the Pasha. Right?”

“Nothing specific. But he mentioned Cerruti.”

“Did he now? So what? That clown tried to come down on me two weeks ago. I said, “
Sorree, no speakee Ingrish
.’ He got bloody pissed at that, I can promise you.”

“If he came after you, Peter, and then tried to speak with me, it has to mean he’s after the Pasha. No other client in our section came up on the surveillance list.”

“Thorne can lick my silver bells.” Sprecher raised his mug of beer. “I hope you told him to get stuffed.”

“More or less, yeah.”

Sprecher nodded his head once. “No worries, mate. Cheers.” He drained his stein, lifted his pack of cigarettes from the bar, and threw down a ten-franc note. “Say five Our Fathers, five Hail Marys, and you will be absolved of all sins.”

Nick put his hand on Sprecher’s shoulder and indicated he should retake his seat on the wobbly stool.

“You mean there’s more?” Sprecher slumped against the bar’s railing. “Nastassia is going to be very cross with me.”

“Tell her that if she wants you, she’ll have to fight me first,” Nick said sarcastically.

“Go on then, boy. But make it snappy.”

Nick hesitated before diving in. He’d told himself before coming to Switzerland that the bank was only a means to an end. That he would do whatever was necessary to dig up any available information about his father and to hell with the rest of it. But today he needed some answers. The events of the past twenty-four hours had stirred up too much in him. The agonizing decision to shield the Pasha, the visit from Thorne, the call from Maeder. He was taking fire from too many angles. He was on the run. From the bank, from his father, and most surprisingly, from himself.

“After my meeting with Maeder, I went back to the office anyway. I had to check out the account, you know, 549.617 RR. Just to see. All the money had been transferred out. No initials anywhere on the computer as to who ordered it done. Aren’t you curious to know who this guy is?”

“Keeps me from sleeping.”

“Ask yourself what client can rouse an executive vice president of the bank at six in the morning. What client traces his money from bank to bank and doesn’t sleep until it arrives? What client has Maeder’s private phone number? He might have even called the Chairman.”

Sprecher shot off his stool and pointed a finger at Nick. “Only God has a direct line to Kaiser. Remember that.”

Nick tapped the bar with his thumb and forefinger pinched together. “The Pasha’s number is on the surveillance list. The DEA is interested in him. He calls Maeder directly. Fuck, Peter, we are dealing with a major personality.”

“I applaud your choice of moniker, young Nick. Yes, I am in full agreement. No doubt the Pasha is a “major personality.’ The bank needs as many major personalities as it can find. It’s our bloody business, remember.”

“Who is he?” Nick demanded. “How can you explain what’s going on with that account?”

“Weren’t you the one defending him the other night?”

“Your fit of curiosity took me by surprise. Today it’s my turn to ask the questions.”

Sprecher shook his head in exasperation. “You do
not
question,” he said. “You do
not
explain. You close your eyes and count the money. You perform your duties in a professional manner, you take your handsome fee, and you sleep soundly each and every night. Once or twice a year you jump on a plane and fly to a beach where the sun shines more than in this miserable hole and sip a pina colada. Peter Sprecher’s recipe for long life, brilliant success, and unsurpassed happiness. A thick billfold and two tickets to St.-Tropez, first class.”

“I’m glad you can live with it.”

Sprecher rolled his eyes and he grew angry. “Saint bloody Nicholas seated right here beside me. Another American ready to save the world from itself. Why is it that Switzerland is the only country that has ever learned to mind its own business? The world would be a damned sight better off if more countries followed our example. Butt the fuck out!” He sighed loudly, then signaled for the barman. “Two beers. My friend here plans to cure civilization of its evils. The very thought makes a chap parched.”

Neither man spoke until the bartender returned with the two beers.

Sprecher touched Nick’s arm. “Look, chum, if you’re so bent on discovering who the Pasha is you needn’t go any further than Marco Cerruti. If I’m not mistaken, Cerruti paid a courtesy visit to our Pasha during his last trip to the Middle East. ’Course, he’s gone round the bend since then. But take my advice. Leave well enough alone.”

Nick squinted his eyes in frustration. “The sum total of your years of experience is to close my eyes and do exactly as I am told.”

“Precisely.”

“Close my eyes and ride headlong into disaster?”

“Not disaster, dear boy. Glory!”

Nick left the Keller Stubli and headed to the nearest post office, where he tucked himself into a phone booth and began checking local directories for the name of Marco Cerruti. His curiosity was quickly rewarded.
Cerruti, M. Seestrasse 78. Thalwil. Banker
. His profession was listed next to his name — another one of this country’s neat quirks Nick had only just discovered.

He took a tram to the Burkliplatz and transferred there to a bus for the quarter-hour ride to Thalwil. Seestrasse 78 was easy to find. A pretty yellow stucco apartment building sitting on the main road, running parallel to the lake.

Nick found the name he was looking for at the top of a list of six. He pressed the buzzer next to it and waited. Not a soul stirred. He wondered if he should have phoned in advance, then decided that he’d been correct to come unannounced. This was not an official visit. He rang the buzzer again and a clipped voice spurted from the grate.

“Who is it?”

Nick jumped toward the speaker. “Neumann, USB.”

“USB?” asked the garbled voice.

“Yes,” said Nick, then he repeated his name. A moment later he heard a soft metallic click as the entry’s lock was released. He pushed open the glass door and entered the foyer, which smelled strongly of pine antiseptic. He crossed to the elevator and pressed the call button. Next to the elevator door was a small mirror. He leaned down and checked his appearance. Dark circles under his eyes broadcast a lack of sleep. Why are you here? he asked himself. To spite Maeder? To prove wrong Sprecher’s amoral drivel? Or was it to honor the unsubstantiated image he held of his father? Wouldn’t Alex Neumann have done the same thing?

Nick opened the elevator door and pushed the top button. Several announcements were posted on the wall. One read: “
Please respect your assigned laundry day. No laundry may be done on Sundays. By Federal Ordinance
.” Written in pen, under the declaration, was “
No switching of assigned laundry days permitted
.” And under that, “
especially Frau Brunner
!!”

The elevator buffeted lightly as it reached the top floor. Before Nick realized that it had stopped, the door was flung open and a short man, impeccably dressed in a double-breasted gray suit, fresh carnation pinned to the lapel, was grasping his hand and ushering him into the living room.

“Cerruti,
es freut mich
. Pleased to meet you. Come in, sit down.”

Nick allowed himself to be steered through a narrow corridor and into a spacious living room. A firm hand in the lee of his back gave him a polite shove toward the couch.

“Please have a seat. Good Lord, it’s about time you arrived. I’ve been calling the bank for weeks.”

Nick opened his mouth to explain.

“Don’t apologize,” said Marco Cerruti. “We both know Herr Kaiser wouldn’t permit it. I can imagine the bank is in an uproar. Konig, that devil. I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new on the Fourth Floor?”

So this was the mysterious Marco Cerruti. He was an excitable man, mid-fifties by the look of him. His bristly gray hair was cut short. His eyes were neither blue nor gray. Pale washed-out skin hung on his face like a badly done job of wallpapering — tight here, sagging there.

“I don’t work on the Fourth Floor,” said Nick. “I’m sorry if you misunderstood me.”

Cerruti pulled up. “My mistake, I’m sure. You are . . . ?”

“Neumann. Nicholas Neumann. I work in your section. FKB4. I began shortly after you became ill.”

Cerruti looked at Nick oddly. He bent his knees and inspected him carefully, like a critic would examine a particularly frantic work of Picasso or Braque. Finally, he placed his hands on Nick’s shoulders and stared directly into his eyes. “I don’t know how I could have missed it when you walked in. I heard your name but it just didn’t register. Yes, of course. Nicholas Neumann. My God, you look so like your father. I knew him. Worked under him for five years. Best time of my life. Sit still and let me fetch my papers. There are so many things we have to talk about. Look, eh? Fit as a fiddle and raring to go.” He turned a full circle, then dashed out of the room.