NUMBERED
ACCOUNT
CHRISTOPHER
REICH
A Dell Book
For Sue,
yesterday, today, and tomorrow
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
PROLOGUE
Lights. Magnificent lights.
Martin Becker paused before descending the stairs of the bank and gloried in the sea of glowing pearls. The length of the Bahnhofstrasse was festooned with row upon row of Christmas lights, strands of yellow bulbs falling from the sky like warm, electric rain. He checked his watch and with dismay noted that only twenty minutes remained before the last train to the mountains left for the evening.
And still one errand to run. He would have to hurry.
Clutching his briefcase, Becker joined the bustling throng. His pace was brisk, fast even for the dourly efficient executives who, like him, called Zurich their home. Twice he stopped and looked over his shoulder. He felt certain no one was following him, yet he could not help himself. It was a reflex born more of guilt than any perceived threat. His eyes scanned the crowd for a flurry of activity that might justify his apprehension—a guard yelling for him to halt, a determined face forcing its way through the crowd—anything out of the ordinary. He saw nothing.
He had done it and now he was free.Yet already his exuberance was waning, the triumph of the moment replaced by a fear of the future.
Becker reached the silver doors at the entry to Cartier as the manager was locking up. Frowning good-naturedly, the handsome woman opened the door and ushered him into the store. One more harried banker buying his wife’s affection. Becker hurried to the counter. He had his receipt ready and accepted the elegantly wrapped box without ever losing hold of his briefcase. The diamond brooch was an extravagant gesture. A token of his fierce love. And a glittering reminder of the day he had decided to listen to his soul.
Becker slid the box into his pocket and, thanking the jeweler, left the store. Outside a light snow had begun to fall. He set off toward the railway station at an easier pace. Crossing the Bahnhofstrasse, he continued past the Chanel boutique and Bally, two of the city’s numberless shrines to luxury. The street was filled with last-minute shoppers like him: well-dressed men and women rushing home with presents for their loved ones. He tried to imagine his wife’s expression when she unwrapped the brooch. He could see her lips pursed in anticipation, her skeptical eyes squinting as she removed it from the box. She would mumble something about the cost and saving for the children’s education. Laughing, he would hug her and tell her not to worry. Only then would she put it on. Sooner or later, though, she would need a reason. Marty, why such an expensive gift? And he would have to tell her. But how could he reveal the extent of his treason?
He was pondering this question when a foreign hand found the lee of his back and gave him a violent shove. He stumbled forward a few steps, his knees buckling under him. At the last moment, his outstretched arm found a nearby streetlamp, and he averted a nasty spill. Just then a city tram rushed by, passing no more than two feet in front of him. A blast of wind tousled his hair and spit grit into his eyes.
Becker sucked in a lungful of cold air, calming himself, then spun to locate the culprit. He expected an apologetic face eager to lend him a hand or a leering maniac ready to toss him under the next tram. On both counts, he was disappointed. An attractive woman passing in the opposite direction smiled at him. A middle-aged man dressed in a loden coat and matching hat nodded sympathetically and walked by.
Standing straighter, Becker ran a hand over his jacket, feeling the bulge that was his wife’s present. He looked down at the pavement, then at his leather-soled shoes. He breathed easier. The snow. The ice. He’d slipped. No one had pushed him into the path of the tram. Then why could he still feel the imprint of another person’s palm scalding his lower back?
Becker looked into the stream of oncoming pedestrians. Frantically, he sifted their faces, not knowing what or whom he was looking for, only that a voice deep inside him, some primal instinct, was screaming at him that he was being followed. After a minute, he resumed his course. He had seen nothing, yet his anxiety remained.
As he walked he assured himself that no one could have discovered his theft. Not yet, anyway. He had, after all, taken measures to avoid detection. He had used his superior’s access code. To be safe he had waited until the imperious little man had left the office and used his computer as well. There would be no record of an unauthorized request. Finally, he had chosen the quietest day of the year, Christmas Eve. Those that weren’t already in the mountains skiing with their families had left the building by four. He’d been alone for hours. No one had seen him printing the files in his superior’s office. It was impossible!
Becker tucked the briefcase under his arm and lengthened his stride. Forty yards ahead the tram was slowing as it approached its next stop. A swarm of passengers pressed forward eager to board. He moved toward the gathering, attracted by its promise of anonymity. His walk turned to a trot, and then to a run. He had no idea from where this sense of desperation had sprung, only that he was full in its grip and had no choice but to obey its commands. He closed the distance quickly, sprinting the last few yards, and arrived as the tram groaned to a halt.
Air whooshed, the doors opened, and a pair of steps extended from the undercarriage of the car. Several passengers descended. He forced his way into the rear of the crowd, rejoicing in the crush of bodies against him. Step by step, he neared the tram. His heart rate slowed and his breathing calmed. Secure in the jostling mass, he managed a short dry chuckle. His worry had been for naught. He would make the last train to the mountains. By ten o’clock he would be in Davos, and for the next week there he would remain, safe in the bosom of his family.
The restless crowd climbed one by one into the tram. Soon it was his turn. He placed his right foot onto the metal step. He leaned forward and grasped the iron railing. Suddenly, a firm hand fell onto his shoulder and arrested his movement. He struggled against it, using the railing to pull himself into the tram. Another hand snatched a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back. A cool ball traversed his neck. He opened his mouth to protest, but no sound emerged. He had no air with which to cry. Blood sprayed from his throat, painting the passengers around him. A woman screamed, and then another. He stumbled backward, one hand groping at his ruined throat, the other mindful of its grip on the briefcase. His legs grew numb and he fell to his knees. It was all happening so slowly. He felt another hand on his, prying the briefcase from his grasp. Let go, he wanted to cry. He saw a flash of silver and acknowledged a tear in his stomach, something gnawing at a rib, then breaking free. His hands lost all feeling and the case dropped to the ground. He collapsed.
Martin Becker lay still on the cold pavement. His vision was blurry and he could no longer breathe. A stream of blood touched his cheek, warming him. The briefcase lay on its side a few feet away. He wanted desperately to retrieve it, but he could not will his arm to move.
Then he saw him. The man in the loden coat, the dapper fellow who’d been walking just behind him when he had stumbled. No, dammit, the man who had pushed him! His murderer bent over and picked up the briefcase. For a second their eyes met. The man smiled, then ran into the street, Becker couldn’t see where.
Stop, he yelled silently. But he knew it was too late. He rolled his head and stared above him. The lights were so beautiful. Magnificent, really.
CHAPTER
1
It was the coldest winter in memory. For the first time sinc
e 1962 the Lake of Zurich threatened a solid freeze. Already a shelf of blue ice clung to her shores. Farther out a transparent crust floated upon the surface. The stately paddle wheel steamships that called regularly on Zurich and her prosperous environs had taken refuge at their winter harbor in Kilchberg. At ports around the lake storm lamps burned red: danger, conditions hazardous.
The last snow had fallen only two days before, yet the city’s roads were immaculate. Muddy piles of frozen slush that might sully the sidewalks of other urban centers had been removed. Recalcitrant patches of ice likewise. Even the rock salt and gravel spread to hasten their decomposition had been neatly swept up.
In any other year, the continuing bout of record low temperatures and unending snowfall would be reason for spirited discussion. Many a newspaper column would be devoted to a thorough tallying of the economic gains and losses to the country. To her agriculture and livestock—losers, as thousands of cows had frozen to death in low-lying barns; to her many Alpine ski resorts—all winners, and about time, after consecutive seasons of insufficient snowfall; and to her precious water table—also a winner, as experts forecast a restoration of the national aquifer after a decade of depletion. More conservative rags might even include a spiteful article pronouncing the much-feared “greenhouse effect” dead and buried.
But not this year. On this first Monday in January, no mention of the severe weather could be found anywhere on the front pages of theNeue Zurcher Zeitung, theTages Anzeiger, or even the chronically mundaneZurcher Tagblatt. The country was struggling with something far rarer than a harsh winter: a crisis of conscience.
Signs of turmoil were not difficult to find. And Nicholas Neumann, stepping off the number thirteen tram at the Paradeplatz, immediately spotted the most prominent of them. Fifty yards ahead, along the east side of the Bahnhofstrasse, a band of men and women were gathered in front of a drab four-story building that was home to the United Swiss Bank. His destination. Most held signs, which Nick, as he preferred to be called, could read even at this distance: “Clean Up the Swiss Laundry.” “Drug Money Is Blood Money.” “Hitler’s Bankers.” Others stood with their hands shoved into their pockets, marching determinedly back and forth.
The past year had witnessed a parade of embarrassing revelations about the country’s banks. Complicity in the wartime arms trade with the Third Reich; hoarding of funds belonging to survivors of Hitler’s death camps; and the concealment of illicit profits deposited by the South American drug cartels. The local press had branded the banks “soulless instruments of financial chicanery” and “willing conspirators to the drug barons’ deadly trade.” The public had taken note. And now those accountable must be made to pay.
Worse storms had raged and passed, mused Nick, as he set off toward the bank. He didn’t share in the country’s self-inculpatory mood. Nor was he sure the nation’s banks were solely to blame. But that was as far as his interest went. His concern was focused elsewhere that morning: on a private matter that had haunted the darkest corners of his heart for as long as he could remember.
Nick moved easily through the crowd. He had broad shoulders and stood just over six feet tall. His step was confident and purposeful and, except for a faint limp, commanding. Veterans of the parade ground would note the curled hand laid along the rail of the trousers, the shoulders pushed back a breath more than was comfortable, and immediately recognize him as one of their own.
His face was cast from a serious mold, framed by a crop of straight black hair. His nose was prominent and spoke of a distinct, if unlanded, European heritage. His chin was sturdy rather than stubborn. But it was his eyes that caught people’s attention. They were a pale blue and surrounded by a network of fine lines unexpected in someone his age. They offered a furtive challenge. His fiancee said once that they were the eyes of another man, someone older, someone wearier than a twenty-eight-year-old had any right to be. Someone she no longer knew. She’d left him the next day.
Nick quickly covered the short distance to the bank. A freezing drizzle had begun to fall, whipped up by a stiff lake breeze. Flakes of snow darkened his trench coat, but the foul weather did not intrude on his thoughts. Threading his way through the crowd of demonstrators, he kept his eyes fixed on the twin revolving doors that sat before him at the top of a broad flight of granite stairs.
The United Swiss Bank.
Forty years ago his father had begun his employ here. Apprentice at sixteen, portfolio manager at twenty-five, vice president at thirty-three, Alexander Neumann had been on the fast track to the top. Executive vice president. Board of directors. Anything was possible. And everything expected.
Nick checked his wristwatch, then climbed the stairs and entered the lobby of the bank. Somewhere close by, a church bell tolled the hour. Nine o’clock. His stomach fluttered and he recognized the uneasy frisson of a mission at hand. He smiled inwardly, giving silent greeting to the once familiar sensation, then continued across the marble floor toward a lectern marked “Reception” in letters of gold relief.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Cerruti,” he said to the hall porter. “I’m to begin work today.”
“Your papers?” demanded the porter, an older man resplendent in a navy topcoat with braided silver epaulets.
Nick passed across the counter an envelope bearing the bank’s embossed logo.
The porter withdrew the letter of engagement and looked it over. “Identification?”
Nick presented two passports: one navy blue with a golden eagle emblazoned on its cover, the other a bold red with a prim white cross painted upon its face. The porter examined both, then returned them. “I’ll announce your arrival. Take a seat, please. Over there.” He motioned toward a grouping of leather chairs.
But Nick preferred to remain standing and walked slowly through the great hall. He took in the elegantly dressed customers waiting for their favorite tellers and the gray executives hurrying across the shiny floor. He listened to the stubble of hushed conversations and the whisper of computer-assisted commerce. His thoughts drifted to the flight over from New York two nights earlier, and then back further, to Cambridge, to Quantico, to California. He’d been headed this way for years, without even knowing it.
A telephone buzzed behind the porter’s lectern. The porter snapped the receiver to his ear and nodded crisply in time to his every grunted response. Moments later, Nick was being shown across the lobby to a bank of antiquated elevators. The porter walked ahead with perfectly measured strides, as if determined to establish the exact distance to the waiting elevator, and once there, made a show of sweeping open its smoked glass door.
“Second floor,” he said, in his clipped voice. “Someone will be waiting for you.”
Nick thanked him and stepped into the elevator. It was small with maroon carpeting, burled wood paneling, and a polished brass balustrade. Immediately, he caught scent of a medley of familiar fragrances: the blunt trail of stale cigar smoke; the nasal pinch of well-polished shoes, and most distinctly, the bracing note, at once sweet and antiseptic, of Kolnisches Wasser, his father’s favorite eau de cologne. The masculine odors assaulted his senses, conjuring up a fractured image of his dad: wine black hair cropped unfashionably short; unblinking blue eyes capped by unruly eyebrows; stern mouth locked in a downcast expression of disapproval.
The porter grew impatient. “You must go to the second floor. “Second floor,”’ he said, this time in English. “You’re expected. Please, sir.”
But Nick did not hear a word. His back remained to the open door, his eyes staring blindly ahead. He struggled to fit the separate images together, to bind them into a finished portrait. He recalled the powerful feelings of awe and pride and fear he’d experienced when in his father’s company, but nothing more. His memories remained incomplete and somehow disjointed, wanting for some essential fabric that he did not possess.
“Young man, are you all right?” the porter asked.
Nick spun to face him, banishing the disconcerting imag
es from his mind. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
The porter placed a foot into the elevator. “You’re sure you are ready to begin work today?”
Nick raised his chin and fought the porter’s inquisitive stare. “Yes,” he said gravely, giving an imperceptible nod of his head. “I’ve been ready for a long time.”
Offering an apologetic smile, he let the elevator door close and pressed the button for the second floor.
# # #
“Marco Cerruti is ill. Out with some virus or bug, who knows what,” explained a tall, sandy-haired executive well on the downslope to forty, who was waiting for Nick on the second-floor landing. “Probably the lousy water in that part of the world—Middle East, that is. The Fertile Crescent: that’s our territory. Believe it or not, webankers did not give it that name.”
Nick stepped out of the elevator and offering the required smile, introduced himself.
“Course, you’re Neumann. Who else would I be waiting for?” The sandy-haired man thrust out his hand and gave a vigorous shake. “I’m Peter Sprecher. Don’t let the accent fool you. I’m Swiss as William Tell. Did my schooling in England. Still know the words to “God Save the Queen.”’ He pulled at an expensive cuff and winked. “Old man Cerruti is just back from his Christmas run. I call it his yearly Crusade: Cairo, Riyadh, Dubai, and then off to points unknown—probably a sunny port where he can work on his tan while the rest of us back at head office wilt. Guess it didn’t work out as planned. Word’s come down he’ll be out at least a week. The bad news is you’re with me.”
Nick listened to the rambling outpouring of information, doing his best to digest it all. “And the good news?”
But Peter Sprecher had disappeared down a narrow corridor. “Ah, yes, the good news,” he called over his shoulder. “Well, the good news is that there is a mountain of work to be done. We’re a bit shorthanded at the moment, so you won’t be sitting on your duff reading a sackful of annual reports. We’re sending you out into the blue, pronto.”
Numbered Account Page 1
