Numbered Account (61 page)

“Why?” asked Nick. “Why try to discourage us from finding him? And what the hell did he mean by “the source’?

“Only the guilty have something to hide. Seems we ruffled his feathers. I’d call it a success.”

Nick wasn’t so sure. So what if they knew that Burki was alive? So what if Bauer was a friend of his? They possessed neither the time nor the resources to keep an eye on Bauer with the hopes that one day he might lead them to Burki. As far as Nick was concerned, it was a failure. Allen Soufi was as far away as ever.

Sprecher nudged him in the ribs. “Over yon shoulder, chum. Like I said, we ruffled his feathers. Now let’s see where he flies.”

Not three stools down from where they sat, Yogi Bauer poked his head through the wall of patrons and yelled at the bartender for change of a ten-franc note that he waved in his right hand. The bartender flicked the note from his hand and poured a few coins into his palm. Bauer looked to his right, then to his left. Oblivious of Nick’s inquisitive regard, he retreated.

Nick told Sprecher to wait at the bar and hold on to the briefcase, then eased himself off the stool and followed Bauer toward the bathroom. The older man weaved his way through the crowd, careering into unsuspecting parties. He left two spilled beers in his wake and for his troubles received a deftly administered cigarette burn in the seat of his trousers. Finally, he made it to the rear of the Keller Stubli, disappearing down a flight of stairs that led to
the rest rooms. Nick peeked his head round the corner before descending. Bauer was halfway down the staircase, both hands wrapped around the wooden banister. He took the stairs one at a time and when he reached the bottom, paused to root in his pocket for a piece of change, then stepped to his left out of sight. Nick flew down the stairs. He stopped at their base and leaned forward to see around the wall. Bauer was on the telephone. He stood with his head lowered and the receiver pressed against his face.

Nick waited for what seemed like an eternity but was probably no more than fifteen seconds. Suddenly, Bauer lifted his head. “
Hoi. Bisch-du daheim
? Hey, you at home? I’m coming over in fifteen minutes. Too bad. Then get your ass out of bed. They’ve finally come for you.”

Nick and Peter stood hidden in a dark corner across the street from the Keller Stubli waiting for Yogi Bauer to come out. The usual Saturday-night parade of unfortunates rambled along the Niederdorf, vocally denouncing the status quo while swilling every imaginable brand of beer and wine. Ten minutes passed. And then another ten. So much for Yogi keeping to his schedule, thought Nick.

Sprecher huddled in his trench coat, guarding the briefcase under one arm. “If you want to play your hunch that Yogi Bauer is going to walk out of the Keller Stubli and lead you right to Caspar Burki, that’s fine,” he said. “He may have said he was leaving right away, but my money says he stays in there until closing, then goes home to his dirty little bed and passes out. It’s past eleven. I’m tapped out.”

“Go home,” said Nick. “No reason for both of us to wait. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, say Sprungli, nine o’clock? If you get up early, check those numbers. And bring the briefcase. I’ve got some ideas to run by you.”

“I’ll be there at nine,” said Sprecher. “But about those ideas, Nick? Leave them at home.”

Yogi Bauer emerged from the Keller Stubli a few minutes after Peter Sprecher had left. He walked pretty well for a man who’d been drinking since noon that day. Occasionally, he teetered this way and lurched that, but his determined posture and forward motion combined to right his listing. Nick followed at a prudent distance, praying that Bauer was going directly to Caspar Burki’s.

Bauer scuttled down the Niederdorf hugging the buildings that ran to his right. He turned left at the Brungasse and disappeared from view. Nick hurried to catch up and when he turned the corner, nearly stumbled onto him. The Brungasse was a steep alley paved with slick cobblestones. Even the soberest pedestrian would have trouble walking up it. Bauer kept one hand on the building to his left, the other flailing the air, and managed to climb the hill, step by painful step. Nick waited until he had disappeared over the crest, then entered the alley and walked briskly up the incline. He paused at the top of the hill and tucked his head around the corner. He was rewarded with a perfect view of Yogi Bauer jamming his finger into the doorbell of a building a little ways down the left-hand side of the street.

Nick held his position and kept watch. Bauer attacked the buzzer while muttering a string of obscenities. When no one answered, he turned his attentions to a shuttered window on the second or third floor. He leaned his shaggy head back and entreated Caspar Burki to come out this instant. It was important, he was saying. They’re after you, Cappy.
Sie sind endlich hier
. They’ve finally come.

Suddenly, a window flew open and a gray head popped out. “Damn you, Bauer. It’s midnight. You said you’d be here an hour ago.” The door buzzed and the man in the window yelled, “Come in, then.”

Bauer shuffled up the steps and into the apartment house.

Nick let a minute pass, then walked to the doorway. He studied the names of the tenants, each posted in perfect script next to a black doorbell. The name
C. Burki
was taped next to the button for apartment 3B. Gotcha, thought Nick. He acknowledged a tremor of genuine elation, then noted the street and the address. Seidlergasse 7. He would come back tomorrow. He would speak to the man who lived in apartment 3B. He would meet Caspar Burki and he would find out just who Allen Soufi really was.

As the tempo of their lovemaking quickened, the bed began to rock in a steady rhythm. The wooden headboard slapped the wall. The Victorian mattress heaved and sighed. A man moaned, his throaty voice rising in counterpoint to the bed’s increasingly violent motions. A woman cried out, her rhapsodic pleasures serenading them. The tempo grew more frenzied, less rhythmic. The man arched his back as the woman’s hair cascaded onto his chest like a cool summer shower. He expelled a hot breath into the dark, listening room, then lay still.

A clock in a far part of the house tolled the midnight hour.

Sylvia Schon raised her head from Wolfgang Kaiser’s heaving chest. “How can you sleep with that ringing all night long?”

“I’ve grown to like it. It reminds me I’m not alone.”

She ran an ivory hand across his chest. “You’re definitely not alone right now.”

“Not tonight, at least.” Kaiser placed his hand behind her head and guided her down to kiss him. “I haven’t thanked you yet for the news about Armin Schweitzer.”

“Did he confess?”

“Armin?
Never. Denied everything. Held his ground to the end.”

“Did you believe him?”

“How could I? Everything you told me made perfect sense. I fired him on the spot.”

“He should count himself lucky to get away with such a light punishment. You could have had him thrown in jail.”

Kaiser grunted. Doubtful, he thought, but let her be content with her victory. “We were together thirty years.”

“You talk about him as if he were a woman,” she said, teasing him.

“True, but then thirty years is a long time. You’ve been with us what, nine years? Your entire life is in front of you. I don’t know what Armin has left.” Kaiser pulled the sheet over his chest. For a moment he felt a pang of remorse.

“He brought it on himself,” said Sylvia. “No one forced him to give our secrets to Klaus Konig. Nothing is lower than spying on your own.”

Kaiser laughed. “Do you believe Neumann holds a similar view?”

She stared at him harshly, then turned away. “He arrived two months ago. That hardly makes him one of our own. Besides, I’m spying for you.”

“You are spying for the bank.” Kaiser fondled her buttocks while silently explaining to her that if she had known Nicholas’s father, if she could see how alike the two were, in appearance and in manner, she’d know that Nicholas was definitely one of their own. “You haven’t finished telling me what you’ve learned.”

Sylvia lifted herself on an elbow and brushed the hair from her face. “Nick wants to find a Caspar Burki. Burki was a portfolio manager in our London branch who recommended a man named Allen Soufi as a client to Nick’s father. Did you know him?”

“Who, Burki? Of course, I knew him. I hired the man. He was an odd type. Kept to himself, as I remember. He retired a while ago. Disappeared from sight.”

“I meant Allen Soufi.”

Kaiser shook his head, feigning ignorance, though his heart had jumped at the name. “Soufi? Can’t recall. How do you spell it?”

Sylvia spelled the name and Kaiser denied having ever heard of it. Soufi was a ghost from the past — a man whom everyone would prefer to remain dead.

“Burki still lives in Zurich,” Sylvia pointed out. “Nick has a hunch he knows who this Soufi is. He’s sure that Burki can tell him if he’s right or wrong.”

“You didn’t give him the address?”

“I did,” she said defiantly.

Damn! thought Kaiser. He felt like slapping her across the face, but he was careful to control his raging emotions. His anger subsided, and he realized that his first concern had been about losing young Neumann, not about the unmasking of Allen Soufi.
Strange
. When Sylvia had come to him three weeks ago with news that Nicholas was interested in checking the bank’s archive for clues about his father’s killer, he had felt that no harm could come from letting the boy have a look at his father’s moldy reports. If Nicholas were to assume a position of importance on the Fourth Floor, any questions about the bank’s role in his father’s death had to be put to rest.

“Alex Neumann was scared that someone was after him,” Sylvia said, apparently anxious to make up for her error in judgment. “He looked into getting a bodyguard.”

“A bodyguard?”

“Yes. He even called the FBI.”

Good Lord, this was getting worse by the minute! Kaiser sat up in bed. “How do you know all this?”

Sylvia pushed herself away from him. “Nick told me.”

“But who told him? His father died when the boy was ten years old.”

“I’m not sure. I can’t remember exactly what Nick said.”

Kaiser grabbed her shoulder and shook her once. “Tell me the truth. It’s obvious you’re hiding something. If you want to help me keep the bank free from Konig, you’ll tell me at once.”

“You don’t have to worry. You’re not involved in this.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Tell me this instant how Neumann found out this nonsense about Allen Soufi and about the FBI.”

Sylvia lowered her head. “I can’t.”

“You can and you will. Or maybe you’d prefer that I follow Rudy Ott’s advice and cancel your trip to the States. I’ll make damn sure you spend the rest of your career where you are now — a lousy vice president. You and a hundred fifty other losers.”

Sylvia stared at him hatefully. Her cheeks were flushed, and he noticed that a tear had fallen from one eye. “You’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you?”

“Of course not.” She sniffled, blinking back a few tears, then took a deep breath and said, “Alex Neumann kept a daily agenda. Nick found two of them when he cleaned up his mother’s affairs after her death. For 1978 and 1979. That’s how he knew about Soufi and the FBI.”

Kaiser massaged his neck in a futile attempt to lessen his growing anxiety. Why was he learning about an agenda only now?

“The FBI?” he asked. “Sounds like the man really was in trouble. What exactly did he write in this agenda of his?”

“Just the name of a special agent and the telephone number. Nick was never able to get any information out of them.”

Thank God for that. “My name wasn’t anywhere, was it?”

“Only on the activity reports.”

“Naturally. I was head of the international division. I was copied on every report submitted by all of our representative branches. It’s the agenda I’m interested in. You’re sure my name was not in it?”

She wiped her cheek with the bed sheet. She was looking better now. The girl had obviously realized where her priorities lay. “Maybe a few times,” she said. ““Call Wolfgang Kaiser.” “Dinner Wolfgang Kaiser.” That’s all. Nothing to worry about. If you weren’t involved with this Mr. Soufi, it doesn’t matter what Nick finds out.”

Kaiser gritted his teeth. “I’m only worried for the bank,” he said in his most professional voice. But inside his head another voice chided young Neumann. Damn you, Nicholas! I wanted you at my side. Seeing you walk into my office that day was like seeing your father all over again. If I could have convinced you to stay at my side, then I would have known that the course I set for the bank, the actions I undertook to ensure we reached our destination, however extreme, were correct. It was your father who was mistaken, not me. The bank is bigger than one man. Bigger than a friendship. I thought surely you would have recognized that. Now, what am I going to do with you?

“Nicholas doesn’t know the half of his father’s death,” he said, inventing wildly. “Alex Neumann was responsible for his own murder. He had been involved in drugs. Using cocaine on a daily basis. We were about to fire him for embezzling from the Los Angeles office.”

Sylvia sat up straighter, letting the sheet fall from her chest. “You never said anything about this before. Why haven’t you told him these things?”

“We kept it from the family. It was Gerhard Gautschi’s decision at the time. We felt it was the least we could do to comfort them. I don’t want Nicholas to find out. It would open too many wounds.”

“I think Nick should know. It would give him a reason to end this silly search. He won’t stop until he finds out something. I know him. Even if it is bad news, he’ll want to know. It’s only fair. It was his father, after all.”

Christ, now the girl had a conscience. “You will not repeat a word of what I’ve told you to Neumann.”

“But it would mean so much to Nick to know. We can’t hide this from—”

“Not a word,” Kaiser shouted, unable to master his mounting anxiety. “If I learn you’ve told him, you won’t have to worry about Konig eliminating your post. I’ll fire you myself. Is that clear?”