Nick stared across the room at Martin Maeder, executive vice president for private banking. Maeder’s head was lowered, his eyes riveted on two pieces of paper lying side by side on his desk—no doubt some report concerning Nick. He’d been sitting this way for the past ten minutes, not saying a word. Nick figured his silence to be a tactic designed to soften up his insides and make him ready to confess to a whole litany of crimes, one or two of which he just might have committed. Grudgingly, he admitted it was working.
Nick guarded his strict posture, determined not to appear nervous in any way. The peaks of his shoulder blades brushed the back of the chair. His elbows rested on the armrests and his hands were folded in his lap, thumbs raised to form a steeple. He examined his shoes, which were spit polished, and his trousers, which sported a razor crease. He studied his hands, which were immaculate and had been ever since the age of nine when his father had started a nightly homework review.
During the fall of Nick’s fifth-grade year, it became his father’s practice to meet with him every evening at six o’clock in the dining room to review his schoolwork. Nick would put on a fresh shirt and using a fingernail brush his father had given him, wash his hands and nails assiduously. Before presenting his homework for review, he’d show his father his hands—palm up, palm down—while answering the usual questions about how school had been that day. He could still remember the feel of his dad’s hands, so large and soft and strong, taking his own little ones into them, turning them over, checking for dirty nails. When the inspection was finished, they’d shake hands, interlocking their little fingers. It was their secret handshake. Then they would begin work. This went on for a year and a half, and during that time Nick convinced himself he hated it.
The first Monday after his father was killed, Nick came down to the dining room table exactly at six o’clock. He had done all his homework, then put on a clean shirt and washed his hands, using his dad’s fingernail brush. He waited at the table for an hour. He could hear his mother watching TV in the den, getting up every fifteen minutes to make herself a drink. He came down every evening for the rest of that week. Each night he hoped that she would take his father’s place. Each night he prayed that things would be like they’d been before.
But his mother never came to the table. After a week, Nick didn’t either.
Martin Maeder lifted his head from the documents. He cleared his throat, then leaned across the desk and drew a cigarette from a sterling silver mug. “So, Mr. Neumann,” he said in flawless English, “is Switzerland agreeing with you?”
“More or less,” Nick answered, trying hard to match Maeder’s easygoing tone. “The work more, the weather less.”
Maeder picked up a cylindrical lighter with both hands and lit his cigarette. “Let me rephrase that. Since you arrived, would you say your glass has been half-filled or half-emptied?”
“Maybe you should ask me that question after this meeting.”
“Maybe.” Maeder laughed and took a long drag. “You a tough guy, Neumann? You know, Sergeant Rock, the howling commandos, the whole nine yards. Oh yeah, I lived in the States. Little Rock, 1958 to 1962. The height of the cold war. We had to practice taking cover under our desks. You know the drill.” He clenched his cigarette between his front teeth and clasped his hands behind his head. “Put your head between your knees and kiss your ass good-bye.” He removed the cigarette, exhaled a thin stream of smoke, and continued smiling. “You’re an army man, you should know.”
Nick didn’t answer right away. He gazed at Maeder. His hair was slicked back off the forehead in a viscous wave. His complexion was chalky. Bifocals perched at the end of a suspicious nose partially hid his dark eyes while his mouth remained twisted in a kind of perpetual grin. Nick recognized that it was the grin that betrayed the solid jaw and the scholarly spectacles, the grin that gave him the irrevocable impression that Maeder was a trickster. A well-groomed one, to be sure; but a con, all the same.
“Marines,” said Nick. “Rock was army. We were more the Alvin York type.”
“Well, Nick, army, marines, Boy Scouts, whatever. We have one pissed-off client who doesn’t give a fuck if you’re the emperor Ming. Get my drift? Just what the hell did you think you were doing?”
Nick asked himself the same question. Any certainty that his actions on behalf of the Pasha would be appreciated had evaporated at 6:15 that morning, when Maeder woke him with an invitation to an informal meeting at 9:30 A.M. Since the summons, Nick’s mind had been racing.
How could anyone have learned so quickly of his failure to transfer the Pasha’s money? None of the European banks to which heshould have wired the funds could confirm their arrival or absence until this morning at ten the earliest. While the forty-seven million dollars should have exited USB’s accounts last night, the banks to which the funds were wired wouldn’t officially credit the money to their client’s account until sometime this morning, the overnight float being theirs to enjoy. As two hours were required for the bank to catalogue the past day’s transfers, no confirmation of Nick’s wire transfer could be given to even the most inquisitive client before 10:00.
But that applied only to Europe. The Far East was seven hours ahead of Zurich, and Nick recalled that matrix six included two banks in Singapore and one in Hong Kong. If he gave them until twelve P.M. local time to credit the funds to the Pasha’s account, the Pasha could only have discovered their absence at five A.M. Swiss time. One hour prior to Maeder’s call.
Confronted with Maeder’s Cheshire grin, he suddenly felt very naive.
“Tell me, Mr. Neumann,” asked Maeder, “what is the overnight carry on forty-seven million dollars?”
Nick took a deep breath and glanced at the ceiling. This kind of quick figuring was his specialty, so he decided to give Maeder a little show. “For the client, two thousand five hundred seventy-five dollars. That’s at yesterday’s rate of two and one half percent. But the bank would credit the money to its overnight money market fund and earn approximately five and one half percent or seven thousand and, um, eighty-two dollars. That would give the bank a positive carry of around forty-five hundred dollars.”
Maeder banged at his calculator like a nearsighted typist. Robbed of his thunder, he slid it across the desk and changed tack. “Unfortunately, our client is not concerned about several thousand dollars of accrued interest we failed to credit his account when we added his assets to our overnight float. What concerns our client is your failure to honor his transfer instructions. What concerns our client is the fact that sixteen hours after he gave you, and I quote, “bank reference, NXM,’ an order to wire transfer, sorry, tourgently wire transfer, his assets elsewhere, his money is still in Switzerland. Care to explain that?”
Nick unbuttoned his jacket and sat a little easier in his chair, pleased that he was to be given an opportunity to defend his actions. “I filled out a funds transfer form, as usual, but I specified the transaction time as today at three-thirty. I sent the form to payments traffic by internal mail. If the Friday logjam is as bad as usual, the funds should be transferred sometime Monday morning.”
“Is that right? Do you know who this client is?”
“No, sir. The account was opened by International Fiduciary Trust of Zug in 1985, prior to the current Form B regulations, which demand proof of an account holder’s identity. Of course, we treat all clients with the same respect, whether we know their names or not. They’re all equally important.”
“Though some more than others, eh?” Maeder suggested, sotto voce.
Nick shrugged. “Naturally.”
“I’ve been given to understand that yesterday was particularly calm in your neck of the woods. No one around to consult with. Sprecher ill, Cerruti out of commission.”
“Yes, it was very calm.”
“Tell me, Nick, if one of your superiorshad been with you, would you have consulted him? Better yet, if this Pasha fellow, if he were your own client—say you were Cerruti—would you have acted in a sim
ilar manner? I mean given the extraordinary circumstances and all.” Maeder held up a sheet of paper and gave it a shake: the Internal Account Surveillance sheet.
Nick looked his interrogator in the eye.Don’t waver. Show them you’re a true believer. Become one of them. “If anyone else were there, I would never have been presented with this dilemma. But to answer your question, yes, I would have acted in a similar manner. Our job is to ensure the safekeeping of our clients’ investments.”
“What about following your clients’ instructions?”
“Our job is also to faithfully execute instructions given by our clients. But . . .”
“But what?”
“But in this instance, execution of this particular set of instructions would have endangered the client’s assets and brought unwanted”—Nick paused, searching for the right word to tap-dance around the ugly facts—”’attention’ to the bank. I don’t feel qualified to make decisions that may have a damaging effect, not only on the client, but also on the bank.”
“But you do feel qualified enough to disobey the bank and ignore the commands of your section’s biggest client. Remarkable.”
Nick didn’t know whether this was a compliment or a condemnation. Probably a little of both.
Maeder stood up and strolled around the side of his desk. “Go home. Don’t go back to your office. Don’t speak with anyone in your department, including your buddy Sprecher—wherever the hell he is. Understood? The court shall deliver its verdict on Monday.” He patted Nick on the shoulder and grinned. “One last question. Why such an urge to protect our bank?”
Nick rose from his chair and reflected before answering. He had always known that his father’s past employ offered him a mantle of legitimacy. No matter his private suspicions, he was the bank’s kin. Not quite the dauphin returning to claim his throne, but not a wandering contract laborer—an auslander, to wit—either. Tradition. Heritage. Succession. These were the bank’s most hallowed grounds. And it was on these grounds that he would stake his claim.
“My father worked here for over twenty-four years,” he said. “His entire career. It’s in our family’s blood to be loyal to this bank.”
# # #
The job was done quickly enough. He had been given a key and it didn’t take more than thirty minutes to search such a small apartment. He had watched the man leave and before entering the building waited a quarter of an hour until he received confirmation that the mark had boarded a tram, direction Paradeplatz. He knew almost nothing about him, only that he worked at the United Swiss Bank and that he was an American.
He set to work immediately once inside the apartment. First he took instant photographs of the single bed and the night table, of the bookshelf and the desk, and of the bathroom. Everything must appear exactly as it had been left. He started at the doorway and worked his way clockwise around the one-room flat. The closet held no surprises. A few suits—two navy, one gray. Four ties. Several white shirts just back from the laundry. Some blue jeans and flannel shirts. A parka. A pair of dress shoes and two pairs of sneakers. All were neatly arranged: clothing hanging in the same direction, shoes aligned. The bathroom, though cramped, was immaculate. The American had few toiletries—only the necessities: toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, an obsolete double-edged razor, one bottle of American aftershave, and two combs. He found a plastic bottle of prescription medication: Percocet—a strong painkiller. Ten tablets were prescribed. He counted eight still in the container. The tub and shower were spotless, as if wiped down after every bath. Two white towels hung from the rack.
He backed out of the bathroom and continued his tour of the apartment. A pile of annual reports sat on top of the desk. Most were from the United Swiss Bank, but there were others—the Adler Bank, Senn Industries. He opened the top drawer. Several pens and a block of writing paper lay inside. He moved the writing paper to one side and found a letter from the bank. He opened it and read it. Nothing interesting—just a few words confirming the mark’s start date and his salary. He moved to the lower drawer. Finally, there was some trace that this guy was a human being. A stack of handwritten letters was bound by a thick rubber band. They were addressed to a Nick Neumann. He slipped one out of the bundle and flipped it over to see who had sent it. A Mrs. Vivien Neumann from Blythe, California. He considered opening one but saw that the postmark was ten years old and put it back.
There were thirty-seven books on the shelves. He counted them. He skimmed the titles, then removed each and skipped through the pages to see if any papers might be secreted inside. A couple of photographs fell from a thick paperback. One showed a group of soldiers in full jungle camouflage, faces painted green and brown and black, M-16s strapped across their chests. Another showed a man and a woman standing in front of a swimming pool. The man had black hair and was tall and skinny. The woman was brunet and a little chubby. Still, she wasn’t too bad. It was an old photograph. You could tell by the white borders. The last two books didn’t have a title written on the spine. He pulled them off the shelf and saw they were agendas, one for 1978, the other for 1979. He scanned the pages but saw only what he would consider routine entries. He looked at the date of Tuesday, October 16, 1979. Nine o’clock was circled, and next to it was the name Allen Soufi. Another circle at two P.M. and “Golf” written next to it. That made him laugh. He replaced the agendas as they were.
Finally, he moved to the chest of drawers near the bed. The top drawer was filled with socks and underwear, the second drawer with T-shirts and a couple of sweaters. Nothing was hidden in the corners or taped to its underside. The bottom drawer held a few more sweaters, a pair of ski gloves, and two baseball caps. His hands delved under the caps and came to rest upon a heavy leather object. Aha! He removed a well-oiled holster and stared at it for a few seconds. It held a Colt Commander .45-caliber pistol. He took the weapon out of the holster and saw that the gun was loaded and that a round was chambered, the safety on. He drew aim on an invisible adversary, then, ashamed of himself, holstered the pistol and slipped it back into its hiding place.
A glass of water and a few magazines sat on the nightstand.Der Spiegel, Sports Illustrated— the swimsuit edition—andInstitutional Investor, which had a mean-looking fellow with a brushy mustache on the cover. He probed the mattress, then lay on the floor and looked under it. Nothing. The flat was clean except for the pistol. That was hardly unusual. Every man in the Swiss Army kept a service revolver at his home. Of course, they probably didn’t keep it next to their bed with nine bullets in the butt and a round chambered. Still, he didn’t think it strange for the mark to have a gun. After all, Al-Makdisi had called him “the marine.”
CHAPTER
16
Wolfgang Kaiser slammed his hand onto the conference table. “It’s in his blood to be loyal. Did you hear him?”
Next to him stood Rudolf Ott and Armin Schweitzer. All three focused their attention on a beige speakerphone marooned in the mahogany sea.
“Knew it all along,” said Ott. “I could have told you five minutes into our first interview.”
Schweitzer muttered that he had heard him, too, but the tone of his voice said he didn’t believe a word.
Kaiser had reason to be content. He had kept an eye on Nicholas Neumann for years. Followed the boy’s difficult childhood, the mother’s peregrinations from one town to another, his stint in the Marine Corps. But only from a safe distance. Then three years ago, he’d lost Stefan, his only child; his beautiful, doomed dreamer. And soon afterward, he had found himself thinking of Nicholas more and more. He suggested that the boy enroll at Harvard Business School, and when Nicholas agreed, he said aloud what he’d been thinking for over a year: “Why not bring him to the bank?” He’d been disappointed when Nicholas chose a post on Wall Street. He hadn’t been surprised, though, when he called six months later, informing him he hated the place. Nicholas had too much European blood in his veins to fall into that go-go lifestyle. And hadn’t he just said it?It was in his bl
ood to be loyal to the bank.
Yet, despite his contacts over the years, Kaiser had had no idea what Neumann would really be like until just this moment. And by that he meant very specifically that he’d had no idea whether or not he would be like his father. Now he had his answer. And it pleased him enormously.
The speakerphone squawked.
“I hope you were able to follow our conversation,” said Martin Maeder. “I had the windows closed and the blinds lowered. It was like the tomb of Ramses. We scared the shit out of the kid.”
“He didn’t sound too scared, Marty,” said Armin Schweitzer, standing closest to the speakerphone, arms crossed over his barrel chest. “His math skills certainly didn’t suffer.”
“The kid’s a wizard,” gushed Maeder. “Arrogant as all hell, but a goddamned Einstein!”
“You’re right,” said Kaiser. “His father was the same way. Worked as my assistant for ten years. We practically grew up together. He was a bright man. Terrible end.”
“Gunned down in Los Angeles,” added Schweitzer, unable to disguise his glee in the misfortune of others. “The place is a war zone.”
“I won’t hear your ignorant accusations,” shouted Kaiser, his exuberant mood soured. “Alex Neumann was a good man. Maybe too good. We’re damned lucky to have his kid.”
“He’s one of us,” said Maeder. “Didn’t fidget once in that chair. A natural.”
“So it seems,” said Kaiser. “That’s all for now, Marty. Thank you.” He terminated the connection, then looked at Ott and Schweitzer. “He acquitted himself well, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would caution against reading too much into Neumann’s actions,” said Schweitzer. “I’m sure he was motivated more by fear than by any loyalty to the bank.”
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