Numbered Account (42 page)

A woman rose from the bed and walked unclothed to the bathroom. He watched her go. After all this time, he still enjoyed her lush figure. The woman closed the door without a backward glance.

Kaiser said, “Ali, this is a crazy time to come to Zurich. Thorne and his team are sure to be maintaining surveillance on the bank.”

“Thorne is a nuisance easily disposed of. Surely you don’t view him as a threat?”

“The man is a representative of the United States government. Any other time, we could shoo him away. Today?” Kaiser sighed. “You know too well the situation we are in.”

“No matter. He must be neutralized.”

“You don’t mean . . .”

“Growing squeamish, are we?” Mevlevi asked. “Don’t lose the qualities I used to admire in you. Ruthless. Relentless. Remorseless. You were unstoppable.”

Kaiser wanted to say that he still possessed these qualities. But such a response would be construed as defensive and thus weak. So he said nothing.

“Get this man off of my back,” said Mevlevi. “I don’t care how you choose to do it. If you prefer a more genteel method, so be it. But make no mistake, he is your responsibility.”

Kaiser could imagine the Pasha sitting in his study at five in the morning, smoking his filthy Turkish cigarettes, musing about the future. “Understood. And regarding your arrival, I’ll have Armin Schweitzer meet you at the airport.”

“No. Send Mr. Neumann. I’m anxious to meet the young firebrand. Did you know that he has been seeing Thorne? Or, Thorne has been seeing him. I haven’t yet decided how to interpret the meetings.”

“He’s been seeing Thorne?” asked Kaiser, unable to mask his surprise.

“Three times by my count. But he is resisting. Nothing to worry about. Not yet, anyway. Send Neumann. I simply wish to ensure that he’s one of us.”

“I still need him,” said Kaiser firmly. “See that no harm comes to him.”

“That will be my decision. You must have plenty of other stallions in your stables.”

“I said I require Neumann. He’s instrumental in our drive to win over undecided shareholders.”

Mevlevi coughed. He said distractedly, “I repeat, that will be my decision.”

Kaiser responded angrily. “Sometimes you lead me to believe you welcome the bid from Adler Bank.”

“Be content that I’m concerned. Consider it a display of my respect for our long relationship.” Mevlevi cleared his throat and asked, “Other news?”

Kaiser rubbed his eyelids. How did the man know? How could he have learned so quickly — in the space of only minutes? “We have a problem. Cerruti has broken. You scared him witless. It seems that Thorne has been pressuring him.”

“Cerruti is weak,” said Mevlevi.

“True. But he is a trusted colleague. He has given his life to the bank.”

“And now? Does he wish to clear his conscience? Is he seeking absolution at the hands of the United States Drug Enforcement Administration?”

Kaiser said reasonably, “I thought we would send the poor fellow to Grand Canary. I have an apartment there. It is far away and my staff can keep an eye on him.”

“A short-term solution to a long-term problem. Not at all like you, friend.”

Kaiser looked toward the bathroom, listening for the muted gurgle of water running in the tub. What would she think of all this if she knew? After so long together, would she be surprised that he was beholden to another?

“What is the status of this renegade bank?” Mevlevi asked.

“Very tight. Adler has a limitless source of cash. Every dollar they receive goes toward buying USB shares. Have you considered my proposition?”

“Two hundred million Swiss francs certainly ranks as greater than a proposition.”

“A loan. We’d repay the full amount in ninety days. Interest at forty percent per annum. A ten percent gain on your outlay in three months.”

“I’m hardly the Federal Reserve.”

Kaiser had difficulty guarding an objective tone. “It is crucial we repel the Adler Bank.”

“Why?” asked Mevlevi playfully. “Isn’t that the natural scheme of affairs in your financial world? Engulf and devour? It’s hardly more civilized than mine.”

Kaiser exploded, the strain of the past days quivering in his voice. “This is my life’s work, dammit.”

“Calm yourself,” ordered Mevlevi. “I understand your predicament, Wolfgang. I’ve always understood it, haven’t I? Now listen to me carefully, and I’m sure we can find suitable accommodation for all.” The voice lowered a tone, losing all hint of humanity. “If you wish for me to consider extending to you a temporary credit facility of two hundred million francs, you will take care of Mr. Cerruti before my arrival. A long-term solution. You will also devise a plan to remove Thorne from my back for good. Understood?”

Kaiser closed his eyes tightly. He swallowed painfully. “Yes.”

“Good.” Mevlevi laughed, once again innocence and joy. “Do these small chores for me and we will discuss the loan when I arrive. And don’t forget Neumann. I’ll expect him at the airport.”

Christ, it was easy to take orders once you got used it, lamented Kaiser. “Yes, of course.”

“Good night, friend. You may ask your companion to rejoin you now. Sleep well.”

Nick planned his excursion for ten A.M. sharp, at the height of the morning rush. Throughout the bank it was a time of rehearsed chaos. Secretaries hurried from one office to another on missions of dubious importance. Apprentices filed back to their posts after a mandated fifteen-minute break. Reptilian executives conspired in ill-lit corridors. The bank bustled with activity, and he would lose himself in it.

Nick left his office one minute early. He strode past the entrance to the Chairman’s anteroom and continued down the corridor until he reached the entry to the interior stairwell. Careful not to show the least hesitation, he swept open the door and stepped inside. He descended the stairs, head lowered, hugging the outside wall. Several people passed him, but he didn’t notice them. He wasn’t making this trip. At least not officially.

Nick slowed his pace as he neared the first-floor landing. He stopped next to the unmarked iron door and gathered his breath, steeling himself for the task ahead. When he was ready, he tucked his chin into his neck, cast his eyes downward, then pulled open the heavy door and stepped into the corridor. The hallway was as endless as he remembered. He walked quickly toward his destination — one more harried worker on his daily rounds. His footsteps echoed off the walls. The numbers inscribed on the small metal plates beside every door declined. Finally, he passed a series of unmarked entries. He was there. Room 103.
Dokumentation Zentrale
.

He opened the door and stepped inside. The office was full of people. Two neat lines were formed in front of a Formica counter behind which stood a twisted old man with a shock of white hair. The famous Karl, dungeon master of DZ.

Waiting in line, Nick thought of his father working in this same office forty years ago. The place looked as if it hadn’t changed an iota. Metal desks of prewar vintage were arranged in twin columns of four behind the counter. Scuffed linoleum flooring peeled near the walls and under the radiators. Maybe the lighting had improved — if you could call fluorescent bulbs an improvement. The room smelled of decay, and Nick was sure it had smelled no different in 1956 when Alex Neumann had begun his career here. He pictured his father hefting files to the highest shelves, scooping up request forms and patrolling the miles of stacks in search of one document or another. Two years he’d spent working for Karl. Two years in this dustbin. Step one of his education. The first rung up the ladder.

The woman in front of Nick received her files and left the office. Nick stepped forward and handed Karl the account request form. He stared at the old man and began counting down from ten, waiting for the bomb to go off.

“You don’t say please?” Karl barked as he slipped on a pair of bifocals hanging from a tarnished iron chain around his neck.

“Please,” said Nick. Seven, six, five . . .

Karl brought the request to his eyes. He sniffed.

Four, three, two . . .

Karl dropped the form on the counter as if it were worthless currency. “Young man,” he huffed, “this request has no personal reference. It does not show
who
wants the files. No reference, no file. I am sorry.”

Nick had prepared an explanation, though it was weak and had not been tested under live fire. He checked over his shoulder, then leaned across the counter and whispered, “These forms were generated by a new computer system. It isn’t initialized yet. Only on the Fourth Floor. I’m sure
you
know about it.
The Medusa system
.”

Karl stared at the paper. His bushy eyebrows bunched together. He looked unconvinced. “No reference, no files. I am so sorry.”

Nick pushed the request form under Karl’s eyes. Time to up the stakes. “If you have a problem, call Herr Kaiser immediately. I just left his office. His extension is—”

“I know his extension,” declared the dungeon master. “No reference, no file. I am so—”

“So sorry,” Nick said in unison. He had expected such obstinacy. He had known a few master sergeants in the Corps who made Karl look like a pussycat, and he had learned through trial and error that the only way to make them circumvent sacred routine was to use a technique he had developed named the shove and hug. A discreet but firm hint of a threat, followed by a show of respect for their position and a heightened appreciation for the favor they were about to grant. At best, it worked half the time.

“Listen to me carefully,” Nick began. “Do you know what we’re doing upstairs? We’re working night and day to save this bank from a little man down the street who has every intention of buying us. Do you know what will happen if he takes us over?”

Karl didn’t seem to care.

“No more papers. Every file in here will be scanned, digitized, and saved on a computer disk. They’ll cart off all your precious documents, all this—” Nick gave a wide sweeping gesture to encompass the entire room, “and store them in a warehouse in Ebmatingen. We’ll never see them again. If I need to access a document, I’ll sit at my desk on the Fourth Floor and call it up on my own monitor.”

The shove rendered, Nick kept a sharp eye on Karl, watching the old man absorb the information. Before long his wrinkled face fell. “And what about me?”

Gotcha, thought Nick. “I’m sure Klaus Konig would find a position for you. If, that is, he values experience and loyalty as much as Herr Kaiser. But all this will be gone.” Onto the hug. “I apologize for not having put the proper reference. But Herr Kaiser is waiting for the information in this file. I know he would greatly appreciate your help.”

Karl straightened out the request form and picked up a pen off of the green countertop. “Your three-letter reference?”

“S . . . P . . . R,” said Nick, enunciating each letter as if it were its own word. If there were ever an inquiry, using Peter Sprecher’s personal reference would gain him two, maybe three hours. At that point, who knew? It might be enough time to get him off the premises. Then again, it might not. Regardless, there was no way he was going to leave his own fingerprints all over this file.

Karl wrote the three letters on the request form. “Your identification, please?”

“Of course.” Smiling, Nick reached into his coat pocket. His smile turned to surprise, then dismay. His hands rummaged through his pants and again in his jacket. He frowned apologetically, at once angry and contrite. “Looks like
I
made the mistake this time. I must have left my I.D. upstairs. Get that file for me while I run and get it.”

Nick hesitated a moment, then turned and made his way to the door. All the while, he shook his head vigorously, as if chastising himself for his forgetfulness.

“No, no,” said Karl. “Stay. Client dossiers belonging to a numbered account may not be removed from this room anyhow. Sit over there and wait where I can keep an eye on you. For the Chairman, I make an exception.” He stared past Nick and pointed to a small table with two chairs on each side of it. “Over there. Go and sit. You will be called when it is retrieved.”

Nick breathed easier and did as he was told. He walked sheepishly to the table, still shaking his head at his careless behavior. He was probably overacting.

The activity in the office had increased. Eight or nine people waited in line. Still, the room was absolutely silent. “Church mice,” Nick would have said to his infantry platoon when silent running was an operational necessity. Only the shuffling of paper and one secretary’s itchy throat marred the calm.

“Herr Sprecher?”

Nick jumped to his feet, fearful that someone might recognize him. He scanned the room. No one looked at him oddly.

Karl held a sepia folder in both his hands. “Here is your file. You may not remove any of its contents. You may not leave it unattended, even if you have to go to the toilet. Bring it directly to me when you are finished. Understood?”

Nick said he understood. He took the file from Karl and started back to the reading table.

“Herr Sprecher?” Karl asked unsurely. “That is correct, isn’t it?”

Nick turned. “Yes,” he answered confidently, waiting for someone to call him an impostor.

“You remind me of a boy I used to know a long time ago. He worked with me. Name wasn’t Sprecher, though.” Karl shrugged his shoulders and went back to work.

It was a thick file, as big as a textbook and twice as heavy. Nick turned the folder horizontally to check the tab. 549.617 RR was typed in heavy black script. He relaxed and opened the cover. Signature sheets were stapled to the left-hand side. The sheets listed the names of the bank executives who had previously requested the file. Cerruti’s name was written on ten or eleven lines, interrupted once by Peter Sprecher’s. The name Becker popped up half a dozen times all within a six-month period. Then Cerruti again and before him, something illegible. Lift the sheet and go back in time, mid-eighties. Another page, more names. Back again. And finally, at the top of the first page, a signature he knew well. The date: 1980. He traced the bold curves of the signature with his pen. Wolfgang Kaiser. Chalk up another run in Sterling Thorne’s column, thought Nick. Irrefutable proof the Chairman knew Mr. Ali Mevlevi.