Numbered Account (10 page)

For a moment, the room guarded a funereal silence. There seemed to be a sort of collective confusion, whether to stay or whether to go. But as long as Kaiser and Maeder remained no one left the room.

Finally, Wolfgang Kaiser drew a labored breath and rose to his feet. “Gentlemen, a word. If you please.”

The bankers drew themselves to attention.

“We are all hoping that our cooperation with the international authorities will be at once brief and uneventful. Mr. Thorne clearly has some unsavory characters in mind when he speaks of going elephant hunting. “Rogue males’ and all that.” Kaiser’s blue eyes smiled as if to say that he too had seen some interesting customers over the years. “But I am confident that none shall be counted among our esteemed clientele. The foundations of this bank were built upon fulfilling the commercial requirements of the honest businessmen of this country. Over the years, the services we offer to our countrymen, and to the international community, have grown more diverse, more complex, but our commitment to working exclusively with honorable individuals has never wavered.”

A collective nodding of heads. Nick’s fellow bankers appreciated their Chairman’s affirmation of the bank’s innocence in any unseemly matters.

Kaiser pounded his fist on the table. “We have no need now, nor shall we ever, to seek profit from the bitter fruit of illegal and immoral commerce. Please go back to your posts confident in the knowledge that while Mr. Thorne may search far and wide for his rogue males, he shall never find what he is looking for within the walls of the United Swiss Bank.”

And with that, Kaiser marched from the room. Maeder and Schweitzer followed on his heels like two overgrown acolytes. The assembled bankers milled around for a few minutes, either too shocked or too stunned to say much. Nick maneuvered through their ranks toward the tall doors. He walked out of the boardroom and down the hallway. He shared an elevator with two men he didn’t know. One was telling the other that the whole thing would blow over in a week. Nick was only half listening to them. He kept replaying Wolfgang Kaiser’s words over and over again. “
. . . while Mr. Thorne may search far and wide for his rogue males, he shall never find what he is looking for within the walls of the United Swiss Bank
.”

Were they a statement of fact or a call to arms?

“The terms of our surrender,” Peter Sprecher declared the following day as he threw a copy of a memorandum entitled “Internal Account Surveillance List” onto his desk. “Issued by Yankee Doodle Dandy, no less.”

“Well, we’re safe,” said Nick, after studying his own copy of the memorandum. “None of the accounts on this list belong to FKB4.”

“It’s not
us
I’m worried about,” said Sprecher, jamming a cigarette into the corner of his mouth. “It’s the bank. It’s the whole bloody industry.”

The list had arrived earlier that morning, delivered personally by a cheerful Armin Schweitzer. Despite the Chairman’s spirited defense of his customers’ good names, four numbered accounts belonging to clients of the United Swiss Bank had made their way onto the list.

““Any transactions made for benefit of an account listed above must be reported immediately to Compliance, extension 4571,”’ Nick read aloud. “This should keep Schweitzer busy.”

“Busy?” Sprecher rolled his eyes. “The man has died and gone to heaven. No more niggling over documents without the proper dual signature, no more quibbling over violation of margin requirements. Armin has hit the big time. A servant of
Honesty
and
Decency
, with capital letters. He’s answering the call of his nation’s government to ensure that our gentlemen’s agreement is honorably enforced. Am I the only one here who feels a dire urge to scream?”

“Calm down,” said Nick. He wondered if honesty and decency were resident members of the Swiss pantheon, or just visiting. “It certainly beats the alternative.”

“The alternative? What’s that? Self-immolation.”

“Federal legislation mandating cooperation. An act making our voluntary collaboration a matter of public record.”

Sprecher circled Nick’s desk like a predatory hawk. “Since 1933, we have managed to guard the integrity of our banks. Sixty-five years and now this. An abomination is what it is. A fucking disaster. Yesterday our bank’s position with regard to queries about a client’s identity and the activity in his account was unyielding. A brick wall. Without a formal federal warrant signed by the president, no information, not even the most inconsequential sliver, would be forwarded to an inquiring party. Not to General Ramos seeking restitution of the billions purloined by the Family Marcos, not to your Federal Bureau of Investigation looking to tamper with the working capital of a certain group of Colombian businessmen, and definitely not to a band of overzealous Zionists howling for the repatriation of funds deposited by their relatives prior to the Second World War.”

“It is exactly that intransigence that led to this situation,” argued Nick.

“Wrong,” shouted Sprecher. “It is that intransigence that built our reputation as the finest private bankers in the world.” He jabbed a finger in Nick’s direction. “And don’t you forget that. Granite, Neumann, not sandstone.”

Nick raised his hands above his head. He took no pleasure in defending Sterling Thorne’s point of view.

“Anyway, it’ll be your problem soon enough,” Sprecher said all too quietly. “I’ll be departing the premises in ten days.”

“Ten days? What about your quitting notice? You’re here at least until April 1.”

Sprecher shrugged. “Call it a divorce American style. I’m here until Wednesday next. Thursday and Friday, I’ll be taken ill. Nothing grave, thank you. Just a dizzy spell or a spot of flu. Feel free to take your pick if anyone should ask. Between you, me, and the fly on the wall, I’ll be at Konig’s place. Two-day seminar for new employees. I’m to start the following Monday.”

“Jesus Christ, Peter. Give me a break. The Indians are circling the fort and you’re tunneling out of here.”

“As I recall, the Alamo boasted a very low survival rate. Not a sound career move.”

Nick stood and looked Sprecher squarely in the eye. “And what if—”

“The Pasha? Won’t happen. I mean, how many clients does the bank have? And after all, according to you he’s just a successful international businessman with a crackerjack accounting department. Still, if ever such a situation did present itself, you’d be wise to consider the consequences before acting rashly.”

“Consequences?” Nick asked, as if he had never heard the word before.

“To the bank.
To yourself
.” Sprecher loped from the office. “I’m off to the tailor. New job, new suits. Back by eleven. You’re on duty this morning. If any new clients arrive, Hugo will phone from downstairs. Take good care of them.”

Nick waved good-bye distractedly.

Eight days later, Nicholas Neumann, only son of a slain Swiss banker, former marine lieutenant, unofficially promoted portfolio manager, and if his roster was correct, morning duty officer, arrived at his desk at five minutes past seven o’clock. The office was still dark, as were most of the offices on either side of the ambling corridor that cut a crooked swath through the center of the second floor. Closing his eyes, he flicked on the overhead lights. The intrusion of the fluorescent light never failed to bring back memories of a bad hangover. He walked to the employee pantry, where he hung up his damp overcoat, then laid a plastic bag carrying a freshly laundered dress shirt on top of the coat rack. The clean shirt was for that evening’s engagement: dinner with Sylvia Schon at Emilio’s Ristorante. Sprecher’s words about her plans for him had never really faded. He was looking forward to the dinner more than he cared to admit.

Nick made himself a cup of hot tea, then took a waxed paper sack out of his pocket: breakfast — a
pain au chocolat
fresh out of the oven from Sprungli. Cup in hand, he returned to his desk to study the
Neue Zurcher Zeitung
’s financial pages and check on the status of the stock markets in Tokyo, Hong Kong, and Singapore.

Once seated, he unlocked his desk and the credenza behind it. He opened his top right-hand drawer and took out his list of “action items,” which he updated twice a day. He read it.

“Item one: Review portfolios 222.000-230.999 for bonds that were due to expire before month’s end. Item two: Order printouts for accounts 231.000-239.999. Item three: Review preferred equities sheet [a list of stocks portfolio managers were allowed to purchase for the accounts of their discretionary clients]. Highlight companies seen as likely takeover candidates.” Item four said simply “15:00.”

He stared at the time indicated and wondered why he had written anything at all. Why not: “Item four: Make sure your ass is in your seat at three o’clock when the Pasha calls.” Or “Item four: Don’t screw the pooch the first day your superior is absent.” As if he even needed an “Item four” to remind him!

Nick opened the newspaper to the financial section and checked the daily market commentary. The Swiss Market Index had risen seventeen points to 4975.43. USB shares were up five francs to 338 on heavy buying — Klaus Konig stocking up his war chest in advance of the general assembly to be held in four weeks’ time. Nick decided to check on the stock’s daily volume since Konig’s announcement.

He slid his identification card into Cerberus’s access slot and waited for
the computer to power up. A stream of yellow words passed along the left side of
the screen as Cerberus ran its self-diagnostics. Moments later a brusque voice
said
“Wilkommen
,” and the screen blossomed into a dull shade of gray. Nick entered his three-digit identification code, and a rectangular box descended through the center of the screen. Four choices were offered him: Financial Market Information, Reuters News, USB Account Access, and Document Manager. He moved the cursor to Financial Market Information and hit enter. The screen blinked, then turned a lustrous blue. The same rectangular box appeared. New choices: Domestic or International. He chose domestic, and a yellow ribbon appeared at the bottom of the screen flashing yesterday’s closing prices at the Zurich stock exchange. He typed in the symbol for USB, added a “.Z” to indicate the Zurich exchange (prices of major Swiss stocks were also quoted by the Geneva and Basel exchange), and followed it by the coded instructions VV21. A daily summary of USB share price and volume traded for the past thirty days appeared on the screen. Graphical interpretations of the data were shown on the right side of the screen.

The price of USB shares was up eighteen percent since Konig’s announcement. Daily volume nearly double. The stock was definitely in play. Traders, brokers, arbitrageurs eager for a little action on the habitually calm Swiss market, had seized upon the United Swiss Bank as an interesting “story,” that is, a possible takeover candidate. Still, an increase of eighteen percent in the share price was small, given the higher daily volume, and reflected the unlikelihood of Konig’s actually making good on his promise. Then why
the rise? A certainty that USB would act decisively to improve its lagging return on assets, and thus profitability, be it through cost cutting or more aggressive trading.

Nick moved to the “Reuters News” section and tapped in USB’s symbol to see if any stories had been floated the night before about Konig’s foray. The screen blinked. Before he could read the first words, a firm hand was placed on his shoulder. He jolted upright in his chair.

“Guten Morgen, Herr Neumann,”
said Armin Schweitzer. “How is our resident American managing today?” He pronounced the word
American
as if it were a sour lemon. “Checking on the continued meltdown of your beloved dollar or just having a look at the all-important basketball scores?”

Nick spun in his chair to face the bank’s director of compliance, noticing the man’s scuffed brogues and his short white socks. “Good morning.”

Schweitzer waved a sheaf of papers. “I have the newest warrants from the American gestapo. Friends of yours, are they?”

“Hardly friends,” Nick answered, a shade louder than he would’ve liked. Schweitzer made him nervous. He emanated a kind of palpable instability. A toxic chemical best kept at room temperature.

“You’re sure?” asked Schweitzer.

“I resent the intrusion into our bank’s affairs as much as anyone. We should be fighting these requests for confidential information by all means possible.” Inside, Nick shuddered. A large part of him actually believed his own words.

““Our bank,’ is it, Mr. Neumann? Six weeks off the boat and already a claim of ownership. My, how they teach you to be ambitious in America.” Schweitzer smiled unevenly and leaned closer. His breath was bitter with the dregs of that morning’s coffee. “Unfortunately, it seems that your American friends have left us no alternative but to cooperate. What splendid consolation to know that your sentiments are in the correct place. Perhaps one day you will have a chance to prove such heartfelt loyalty. Until then, I advise you to keep your eyes open. Who knows? One of your clients may be on this list.”

Nick caught a glimmer of hope in Schweitzer’s voice. So far there had been no bites on the four accounts that had originally been listed; no activity that might fit Sterling Thorne’s strict criteria. Nick took the updated account surveillance list and laid it on his desk without glancing at it. “I’ll keep my eyes open,” he said.

“I expect no less,” called Schweitzer over his shoulder as he left the room. “
Schonen Tag, noch
.”

Nick watched him go before picking up the updated sheet. Six accounts were listed. The four from the previous week plus two new ones. Numbered accounts 411.968.OF and 549.617 RR.

Nick stared at the last number.

549.617 RR.

He knew it by heart. Every Monday and Thursday at three P.M. Set your clock to it. Six digits, two letters. Today they spelled the directions for the quickest route to hell. Ninth circle. First class. Nonstop. “The Pasha,” he whispered aloud.