During the long walk home, Nick told himself his disillusion was temporary and come tomorrow he would regain his appetite for work. But five minutes after setting foot inside his apartment, he found himself pasted to his desk scrabbling through his father’s agendas, and he knew he’d been lying to himself. The world, or at least his view of it, had changed.
Nick went back to work the next day, and the day after that. He managed to keep up an eager facade, to pay attention in class and to laugh when required, but inside him a new plan was taking shape. He would resign from the firm, he would fly to Switzerland, and he would take the job Wolfgang Kaiser had offered him.
Friday night, he broke the news to his fiancee. Anna Fontaine was a senior at Harvard, a dark-haired Brahmin from the crustiest section of Boston with an irreverent wit and the kindest eyes he’d ever seen. He’d met her a month after beginning his studies. And a month after that they were joined at the hip. Before moving to Manhattan, he asked her to marry him and she’d said yes, without hesitation. “Yes, Nicholas, I want to be your wife.”
Anna listened without speaking as he laid out his argument. He explained that he had to go to Switzerland to find out what his father had been involved in when he was killed. He didn’t know how long he would be away—a month, a year, maybe longer—he only knew that he had to give his father’s life an ending. He handed her the agendas to read, and when she had finished, he asked her to go with him.
She said no. Without hesitation. And then she told him why he, too, could not go. First off, there was his job. It was what he’d been slaving for his entire life. No one passed up a slot at Morgan Stanley. One in seventy. Those were the odds of nabbing a slot as an executive trainee at Morgan Stanley, and that was after you’d made it through college and business school. “You did it, Nick,” Anna said, and even now, he could hear the pride in her voice.
But all he had to do was look at the agendas to know he hadn’t done anything at all.
What about her family? she asked, her delicate fingers interlaced with his. Her father had taken to Nick like a second son. Her mother couldn’t go a day without asking how he was and cooing about his latest successes. They would be crushed. “You are a part of us, Nick. You can’t leave.”
But Nick could not become part of another family until the mystery of his own was solved.
“And what about you and me?” she asked him finally, and he could see how much she hated to resort to her own attachment to convince him to stay. She reminded him of all the things they’d said to each other: that they were in it for the long haul; that they were the ones who really loved each other; friends forever, lovers who would die in each other’s arms. Together they’d take Manhattan. And he’d believed her. Hell, he’d believed all of it because it was true. As true as anything he’d ever known.
But that was before his mother died. Before he found the agendas.
In the end, Anna couldn’t understand. Or she just refused to. She broke off their engagement a week later, and he had not spoken to her since.
A sharp wind blew, mussing Nick’s hair and bringing tears to his eyes. He had given up his job. Shit, he’d even returned his seven-thousand-dollar signing bonus. He had cut off his fiancee, the one woman he’d ever really loved. He had turned his back on his entire world to track down a phantom lying hidden almost twenty years. For what?
It was at this moment that for the first time Nick felt the unalloyed impact of his decision. And it hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.
The number thirteen tram pulled into the Paradeplatz, metal wheels groaning as the brakes were applied. Nick climbed aboard and had the pick of the entire car. He slid into a seat halfway back. The tram started forward with a jolt, and the abrupt movement refocused his attentions on the memories of the day. The moment of utter panic when for one life-ending second he’d truly believed that in a matter of hours Peter Sprecher was going to stick him in front of the paying public; his being found in front ofDokumentation Zentrale, ostensibly lost; and worst, his unforgivable faux pas when addressing Wolfgang Kaiser informally in Swiss-German.
He pressed his cheek to the window and kept his eye on the brooding gray buildings that lined both sides of the Stockerstrasse. Zurich was not a friendly town. He was a stranger here and he’d better remember it. The jar and rustle of the tram, the empty cabin, the unfamiliar environs, all of it only bolstered his uncertainty while amplifying his loneliness. What could he have been thinking, giving up so much to come on this wild goose chase?
Soon the tram slowed and Nick heard the driver’s gruff voice announce his stop.Utobrucke. He lifted his cheek from the window and stood up, grabbing the overhead safety rail for balance. The tram stopped and he stepped outside, happy to be wrapped in the night’s cold embrace. His worries had bound themselves together into a prickly ball and taken refuge in a hollow basin deep inside his stomach. He recognized the feeling. Fear.
It was the feeling he’d had before walking into his first high school dance when he was thirteen, the dread that came from knowing that once you stepped into the auditorium you were putting yourself on display, and one way or the other you had to ask a girl to dance and just pray you wouldn’t be rejected.
It was the feeling he’d had the day he’d reported to officer candidate school in Quantico, Virginia. There was a moment when all the recruits were gathered in the processing hall. The paperwork was finished, the physical exams were completed; suddenly, the hall became very quiet. Every man in the room knew that on the other side of the steel fire doors, ten rabid drill instructors were waiting for them, and that in three months they’d either be a second lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps or a washout standing on a street corner somewhere with a couple of dollars in their pocket and a label that they’d never be able to erase.
Nick watched the tram recede into the darkness. He breathed in the pure air and relaxed, if only a little. He had given a name to his uncertainty and its recognition strengthened him. As he walked, he consoled himself. He was on an upward track. College at Cal State Northridge, the Corps, Harvard B-School. He had made something of his life. As far back as he could remember he had promised to pull himself out of the slime into which he’d been thrust. He had sworn to reclaim the birthright his father had worked so hard to give him.
For seventeen years these had been his guiding lights. And on this winter’s night, with a new challenge before him, he saw them more clearly than ever.
CHAPTER
4
One week later, Marco Cerruti had still not returned to his desk in the Hothouse. No further word regarding his condition had been passed along. Only an ominous memo from Sylvia Schon that no personal calls should be made to the sick portfolio manager and the firm instructions that Mr. Peter Sprecher should assume all his superior’s responsibilities, including the attendance of a biweekly investment allocation meeting from which he had just returned.
Talk at the meeting had not centered on the ailing Cerruti. In fact, his condition was never mentioned. Since nine o’clock that morning, those present at the meeting, as well as every other living, breathing employee of the bank, had been talking about one thing and one thing only: the shocking announcement that the Adler Bank, an outspoken rival whose headquarters sat no more than fifty yards down the Bahnhofstrasse, had purchased five percent of USB’s shares on the open market.
The United Swiss Bank was in play.
Nick read aloud from a Reuters financial bulletin that blinked across his monitor. “Klaus Konig, Chairman of the Adler Bank, today announced the purchase of a five percent stake in the United Swiss Bank. Citing USB’s “grossly insufficient return on assets,’ Konig vowed to take control of the board of directors and force a repositioning of the bank into more lucrative activities. The transaction is valued at over two hundred million Swiss francs. USB shares are up ten percent in heavy trading.”
““Grossly insufficient return,”’ said Sprecher indignantly, slamming a fist onto his desk. “Am I
losing my mind or did we not report record earnings last year, an increase in net profits of twenty-one percent?”
Nick peered over his shoulder. “Konig didn’t say there was anything wrong with our profits. Only with our return on assets. We’re not using our money aggressively enough.”
“We are a conservative Swiss bank,” Sprecher spat out. “We’re not supposed to be aggressive. Konig must think he’s in America. An unsolicited takeover bid in Switzerland. It’s never been done. Is he totally insane?”
“There’s no law against hostile takeovers,” said Nick, enjoying his role as devil’s advocate. “My question is, where is he getting the money? He’d need four or five billion francs before it’s all over. The Adler Bank doesn’t have that kind of cash.”
“Konig might not need it. He only needs thirty-three percent of USB’s shares to gain three seats on the board. In this country that’s a blocking stake. All decisions taken by the board of directors must carry by two thirds of those voting. You don’t know Konig. He’s a wily one. He’ll use his seats to foment a rebellion. Make everyone’s dick hard by bragging about Adler’s fantastic growth.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult. The Adler Bank’s profits have grown at something like forty percent per year since its founding. Last year Konig’s bank earned over three hundred million francs after tax. There’s a lot to be impressed about.”
Sprecher eyed Nick quizzically. “What are you? A walking financial encyclopedia?”
Nick shrugged. “I wrote my thesis on the Swiss banking industry. The Adler Bank is a new breed over here. Trading is their principal activity. Using their own capital to bet on stocks, bonds, options; anything whose price can go up or down.”
“Figures then that Konig would want USB. Get his greedy hands into the private banking side of things. He used to work here, you know—years ago. He’s a gambler. And a canny one at that. “A repositioning into more lucrative activities.’ I can just see what he means by that. It means betting the firm’s capital on the outcome of next week’s OPEC meeting or guessing the next actions of the United States Federal Reserve. It means risk spelled in capital letters. Konig wants to get his hands on our assets to increase the size of the Adler Bank’s bets.”
Nick studied the ceiling as if figuring a complex equation. “Strategically, it’s a sound move for him. But it won’t come easy. No Swiss bank will fund an attack on one of their own. You don’t invite the devil into the house of the Lord, not if you’re a priest. Konig would have to attract private investors, dilute his ownership. I wouldn’t worry yet. He only holds 5 percent of our shares. All he can do is scream a little louder at the general assembly.”
A sarcastic voice smirked from the entryway, “The future of the bank decided by two of its greatest minds. How reassuring.” Armin Schweitzer, the bank’s director of compliance, marched into the Hothouse, stopping before Nick’s desk. “Well, well, our newest recruit. Another American. They come and go once a year—like a bad case of the flu. Made the reservations for your return flight yet?” He was a bullet-shaped man of sixty, all hulking shoulders and gray flannel. He had steady dark eyes and a tight, pained mouth.
“I plan on a long stay in Zurich,” Nick said, after he had risen and introduced himself. “I’ll do my best to better your impression of American labor.”
Schweitzer’s meaty hand appraised the stubble of his scalp. “My impression of American labor was destroyed long ago, when as a young man I made the regrettable mistake of purchasing a Corvair.” He pointed a stubby finger at Peter Sprecher. “Some news regarding your esteemed superior. A private chat, if you please.”
Sprecher rose and followed Schweitzer from the room.
Five minutes later, he returned alone. “It’s Cerruti,” he said to Nick. “He’s out until further notice. A nervous breakdown.”
“From what?”
“That’s what I’m asking myself. Sure, Marco is high-strung, but with him it’s a permanent condition. Kind of like it is for Schweitzer to be an asshole. He can’t help it.”
“How long is he gone for?”
“Who knows? They want us to run this section as is. No replacement for Cerruti. The first fallout from the good Mr. Konig’s announcement: control rising costs.” Sprecher sat down at his desk and searched for his security blanket, the red and white pack of Marlboros. “Christ, first Becker, now Cerruti.”
And when areyou out of here? Nick asked silently.
Sprecher lit his cigarette, then pointed the burning embers at his colleague. “Any reason why Schweitzer should dislike you? I mean besides being a cocky American.”
Nick laughed uneasily. He didn’t like the question. “No.”
“Ever meet him before?”
“No,” Nick repeated louder. “Why?”
“He said he wants a sharp eye kept on you. He was serious.”
“He said what?”
“You heard me. I’ll tell you something—you do not want Schweitzer on your tail. He’s relentless.”
“Why should Schweitzer want you to look after me?” Had Kaiser given him those instructions?
“Probably just because’s he’s an anal retentive prick. No other reason.”
Nick sat forward, ready to protest. The phone rang on his desk. He picked it up on the first ring, happy to be saved from making a disparaging remark about the bank’s director of compliance. “Neumann,” he said.
“Good morning. Sylvia Schon speaking.”
“Good morning, Dr. Schon. How are you?”
“Well, thank you.” A dismissal—trainees had no business engaging in pleasantries with their superiors—but then the voice eased. “Your Swiss-German is sounding better already.”
“I still need a little time to get it back, but thanks.” He was surprised how good the compliment made him feel. He’d been spending an hour every evening reading aloud and having conversations with himself, yet until now no one had remarked on his improvement.
“And your work?” she asked. “Mr. Sprecher providing proper guidance?”
Nick eyed the pile of portfolios sitting on his desk. It was his job to make sure that the investments in each corresponded to the breakdown set forth by the investment allocation committee. Today that breakdown stipulated a mix of thirty percent stocks, forty percent bonds, and ten percent precious metals, with the rest to be kept in cash. “Yes, plenty to do up here. Mr. Sprecher is keeping me very busy.”
Across the desk, Sprecher tittered.
“It’s a shame about Mr. Cerruti. I suppose you’ve heard.”
“Just a few minutes ago, as a matter of fact. Armin Schweitzer informed us.”
“Under the circumstances, I wanted to schedule a time to meet with you to make sure you’re settling in all right. I’m holding you to your promise of fourteen months.” Nick thought he heard a smile in her voice. “I’d like to suggest a dinner, something a little more informal than usual. Let’s say February 6 at Emilio’s.”
“February 6 at Emilio’s,” Nick repeated. He asked her to wait one moment, then put the phone on his shoulder while he checked an invisible calendar. “That would be fine. Yes, perfect.”
“Seven o’clock, then. In the meantime I need to see you in my office. We have to cover some issues regarding our bank secrecy requirements. Do you think Mr. Sprecher could spare you tomorrow morning around ten?”
Nick glanced at Sprecher, who stared back, a bemused grin screwing up his face. “Yes, I’m sure Mr. Sprecher can do without me for a few minutes tomorrow morning.”
“Very good. I’ll see you then.” Instantly she was gone.
Nick hung up the phone and asked Sprecher, “What?”
Sprecher chuckled. “Emilio’s, eh? Can’t recall seeing any personnel files in there. But it’s bloody good grub and not cheap either.”
“It’s routine. She wants to make sure I’m not too worried about Cerruti.”
“Routine, Nick, is the cafeteria. Third floor, down the hallway to your left. Wiener sch
nitzel and chocolate pudding. Dr. Schon has something else in mind for you. Don’t think for a second she doesn’t know of our august chairman’s interest in you. She wants to make sure you’re well fed and comfortable. Can’t afford to lose you, can she?”
“You’ve got this all worked out, haven’t you?”
“Some things even Uncle Peter can figure out on his own.”
Nick shook his head in disbelief, laughing. He reached for his agenda and penciled in her name on the appropriate page. His date with Sylvia Schon—check that, hismeeting with her—would constitute its first entry. He raised his eyes and saw Sprecher typing a letter on his computer. Bastard still had a smirk on his face.She has something else in mind for you, he’d said.
Nick ran the words through his mind a second time, and then a third. What exactly had Sprecher meant? As he pondered his colleague’s comments, his unsupervised imagination wandered down to the first floor and tiptoed into Dr. Schon’s cozy office. He saw her working diligently behind her cluttered desk. Her glasses were pushed into her hair, her blouse unbuttoned a notch lower than perfectly decent. Her slim fingers massaged a chain that dangled from her neck and brushed the swell of her cleavage.
As if reading his thoughts, Sprecher said, “Watch yourself, Nick. They’re smarter than we are, you know.”
Nick looked up, startled. “Who?”
Sprecher winked. “Women.”
Nick averted his gaze, though if it was from guilt or embarrassment he didn’t know. The frank sexual nature of his daydream surprised him. He had no doubt where it would have led had Sprecher not interrupted him, and even now he found it difficult to clear his mind of the seductive images.
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