Anyway . . . I saw this in Tiffany and thought of you.
Love forever,
Anna
Nick folded the letter. Running his fingers over its soft creases he could hear her whispering in his ear as they made love in his third-floor walk-up in Boston.“We’ll take Manhattan, Nick.” He could almost feel her legs wrapped around his back, her teeth biting down on his ear. He could see her under him.“Fuck me, Marine. We’re going to the top. You and me, together.”
And then the picture changed.
Nick is grasping Anna’s slender arms outside his apartment. It is the last time he will see her, and he is fighting to explain himself, frustrated at the insufficiency of words to translate his emotions. “Don’t you understand that I wanted everything as much as you, maybe more. I don’t have a choice. Can’t you see? This has to come first.”
Now as then, Anna stared back at him mutely, understanding but not comprehending. His memory faded and he wondered whether he had really said those words. Or if he had just wanted to.
Nick put the knife away and set it inside the shaving kit. Continuing on his tour of bittersweet memories, he left the bathroom and walked the few steps to the bookshelves. He’d only brought his favorites with him, books he’d had for a long time, stories he’d read four or five times. He selected his copy of Homer’sIliad, German text, and reading the title on its spine, smiled. Every time he picked up the book he had the same thought: What kind of asshole actually reads this crap? It was just that kind of thinking that had made him attack this book, and dozens of others like it, in the first place.
Nick turned the paperback upside down and shook it. A small photograph fell to the floor. He picked it up and stared into his past. Squad 3, Echo Company at Jungle Warfare school in Florida. He was standing on the far left, twenty pounds lighter, face greased with jungle cammie. Next to him, a head shorter, stood Gunny Ortiga, skin painted so dark you could only see his pearly whites. And next to him Sims, Medjuck, Illsey, Leonard, Edwards, and Yerkovic. They’d all been with him in the P.I. He wondered what sea they were floating on tonight.
Nick replaced the paperback and drew a volume from the shelf above it. It was a leather-bound book, taller and slimmer than the rest. His father’s agenda for 1978. Nick placed it gently on the desk, then went into the bathroom and found an unused double-edged razor blade. He returned to the desk, sat down, and opened the front cover of the agenda. He slid the razor under the upper left-hand corner of the yellow paper lining the inside cover and sawed it slowly back and forth. After three or four passes, the razor cut through the epoxy bond, and the yellow page came free. He folded it back and extracted a wrinkled piece of paper lying under it.
Nick held the police report concerning his father’s murder in one hand, the razor blade in the other, and sighed gratefully. His secret admirer hadn’t found the report. Thank God for that. He threw the razor blade in the wastebasket and laid the report down so he could take a good look at it. One ear was ripped and there was a perfect brown halo staining the lower half of the paper where a detective had rested his coffee mug. Still, all the facts were there, and Nick was reading them for the thousand and first time before he could even think of stopping himself.
Administrative facts were typed in a series of rectangular boxes across the top of the sheet. Date: January 31, 1980. Detective in charge: W. J. Lee, Lieutenant. Criminal Violation: Code 187—Homicide. Time of death: approx. 9:00 P.M. Cause of death: multiple gunshot wounds. The box marked “Suspects” held the initials N.S.A.—no suspect apprehended. Below these facts was a large blank area, about a quarter of a page in size, where Detective Lee provided a description of the events. At 9:05 P.M., Sergeants M. Holloway and B. Schiff responded to a call of shots fired at 10602 Stone Canyon Drive. Sergeants Holloway and Schiff found the victim, Alexander Neumann, age 40, lying prone in the entryway to the home. The victim had been shot three times in the upper abdomen by a high-caliber weapon at close range (powder marks visible). Victim was deceased at time of officers’ arrival. The front door to the residence was open. The lock was intact. No other individuals were present. No sign of struggle. No determination yet made as to the state of articles in the home. Call requesting immediate dispatch of homicide detectives was made to West Los Angeles police headquarters at 9:15 P.M. Case forwarded to above filing detective.
A red stamp bearing the letters N.F.A.—No further action—and the date July 31, 1980, was emblazoned across the report. Nick had found it among his mother’s possessions in Hannibal. He’d called the L.A.P.D. to request a copy of the investigating detective’s final report and the coroner’s inquest but learned that both had been destroyed in a fire at Parker Center ten years earlier. He even tried calling Detective Lee but found he’d retired and left no forwarding address, at least none for disgruntled relatives of unsolved murder victims.
Nick examined the page for a while longer, reading his father’s name over again and again, and the word that followed it: homicide. He recalled the picture of him at his going-away party in 1967, twenty-seven years old, happy as hell to be going to America. His first big step up. He could practically hear the laughter and the revelry. He could feel his father’s joy in his own heart. He thought back to those nightly homework reviews, his father cradling his hands. He saw himself hugging his father on that mountaintop in Arosa. He had never felt closer to him than at that moment.
A flashbulb burst and he was standing in the rain looking down at his father’s dead body, staring into the pool of blood.
Suddenly, Nick sobbed. A great choking explosion from deep in his gut. He slammed his hand on the desk and held his breath, hoping to rob himself of the very air he needed to give vent to his emotions. But after a moment, he relented, sucking in a deep breath and expelling it just as quickly. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he managed to whisper in a voice as wounded as his soul.
Tears fell from his eyes, and for the first time since his father died seventeen years ago, he cried.
CHAPTER
22
The time was eleven P.M. and for the second time that day, Nick stood in front of an unfamiliar apartment, waiting for the buzzer to sound that would grant him admittance. He had called ahead and was expected—if that’s how you could term a halfhearted response to a plea for company late on a Friday night. He pulled his overcoat close around his neck, fending off the insistent cold. Open the door, Sylvia. You know it’s me. The poor slob who called an hour ago saying that if he didn’t get out of his grim apartment and see a friendly face he’d go crazy.
The buzzer rang and he was inside, tripping over himself to get down the stairs leading to her doorway. The door was ajar. He could see the outline of her face checking if he was shit-face drunk or hopped up on drugs. But it was only him. Nicholas Neumann, eager bank trainee, feeling more tired, more uncertain, and more alone than he could remember.
The light went on inside the hallway, and the door swung open. Sylvia Schon stood back and with a wag of her head motioned for him to enter. She was wearing a red flannel bathrobe and heavy woolen socks that drooped low around her ankles, as if ashamed to cover up such gorgeous territory. Her hair was loose around her face, and she had on the heavy eyeglasses that he hadn’t seen since his first day at work. The look on her face said she was not amused.
“Mr. Neumann, I am hoping you have something very important to discuss. When I said I’d be happy to do anything for you, it was in reference to . . .”
“Nick,” he said softly. “My name is Nick. And you said that if I ever needed anything, to give you a call. I realize this is an odd time to visit and right now I’m standing here asking myself why exactly I’m here, but if we go inside and have a cup of coffee or something, I’m sure we can get this straightened out.”
Nick stopped speaking. He had stunned himself. He’d never strung together so many words in a single sentence and not had the slightest idea what he’d said. He stammered, wanting to explain, but a firm hand on his jacket stopped him dead
.
“All right, Nick, come in. And since it is eleven-oh-five and I am wearing my most flattering pajamas, I imagine you’d better call me Sylvia.”
She turned and walked down a short corridor that gave onto a cozy living room. A brown sofa ran the length of one wall and half of another. A glass coffee table sat in front of it. Bookshelves adorned the other walls, the spaces between hardcover titles filled by framed photographs. “Sit down. Make yourself at home.”
She returned with two mugs of coffee and handed him one. Nick took a sip and relaxed. A fire burned in the grate. Soft music played from the stereo. He inclined his head toward the speakers. “Who is that?”
“Tchaikovsky. Violin Concerto in D minor. Are you familiar with it?”
He listened for a moment longer. “No, but I like it. It has passion.”
Sylvia sat away from him on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her. She stared at him for a minute, giving him some time to loosen up, letting him know that she was interested in him but that the clock was ticking. Finally, she said, “You seem upset. What’s going on?”
Nick looked into the cup of coffee, shaking his head. “The bank’s an exciting place. More than most people imagine. Certainly, more thanI imagined.” And with that introduction he recounted to Sylvia the events that had led to his decision to shield the holder of numbered account 549.617 RR, an anonymous client known only as the Pasha, from the scrutiny of the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. His rationale, he explained, was to keep the bank out of trouble and to deny the DEA access to confidential client information. He kept his private reasons to himself, as he did any mention of his gentleman stalker, or of Sterling Thorne’s perfectly timed visit. He ended by recounting Maeder’s ominous warning that the “verdict would be delivered Monday.”
“He wasn’t too happy with me,” said Nick. “I may have helped the bank in the short run, but I broke some very important rules. I can imagine that Monday morning I may find a note on my desk informing me oh-so-politely that I’ve been transferred to some squalid little department in charge of counting paper clips.”
“So, that’s what happened,” Sylvia said. “I should have known.” Before Nick could question her omniscience, she went on. “Oh, you’ll have a transfer. That much I can promise you.”
Nick felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. So much for Sprecher’s soothing words. Status quo ante, my ass. “Shit.”
“You’re being transferred to Wolfgang Kaiser’s office. You’re to be his new executive assistant.”
Nick started to mouth a sarcastic aside but the no-nonsense cast to her voice stopped him.
“I wasn’t supposed to tell you until Monday,” she said. “Now I see why. The Chairman wanted you to stew in your juices for a while. He’d probably be happy if he saw how worked up you’ve become over this. First thing Monday morning, you’ll receive a summons asking you to report to the Emperor’s Lair. Ott called me today wanting to see your papers. Seems you’ve stirred some feathers. The big boys want you upstairs with them. Obviously by protecting this “Pasha’ fellow, you’ve endeared yourself to Kaiser.”
An odd sensation of complete disorientation swept over Nick. All through the day, he’d been preparing himself for a severe reprimand. Even dismissal. Now this! “That’s not possible. Why do they want me upstairs?”
“They have their reasons: Konig; the takeover. Kaiser needs someone able to do battle with unsatisfied American shareholders. That’s you. You’ve passed some sort of test in their eyes. I imagine they think they can trust you. But be careful up there. A lot of fat egos walk those halls. Stay close to the Chairman. Do exactly as he says.”
“I’ve heard that advice before,” Nick said skeptically.
“And not a word about this,” Sylvia ordered. “You’re to act surprised.”
“I am surprised. I’m shocked.”
“I thought you’d be happier,” said Sylvia disappointedly. “Isn’t that what every Harvard M.B.A. wants? A seat at the right hand of God?”
Nick tried to smile, but inside him, too many rivers had flooded their borders. Relief that he wouldn’t be fired. Expectation over the discovery of his father’s memorandums. Anxiety over whether he’d be able to live up to the Chairman’s expectations. Somehow he managed to say he was thrilled.
Sylvia appeared drained by her revelation. “Is that all, then? I’m glad I was able to put you at ease. You didn’t look too good when you walked in here.” She stood and walked lazily toward the corridor. Time to go.
Nick jumped to his feet and followed her down the hallway. She opened the door and leaned against it. “Good night, Mr. Neumann. I’m afraid to repeat what I said last night at dinner.”
“About calling if I need anything?”
She raised her eyebrows as if to say “Bingo.”
Nick looked at Sylvia long and hard. Her cheeks were pale, streaked with a hint of color up high under her eyes. Her lips were pink and full and he wanted to kiss them. His anxiety disappeared. Replacing it was the same rush of attraction, the same nervous jingle in his stomach coupled with the desire to smile like an idiot that had struck him last night.
“Have lunch with me tomorrow,” he said. Standing so close to her he felt faintly giddy, as if right now he could do anything and it would be all right.
“I think that might be pushing our luck a bit too far, don’t you?”
“No. In fact, I’m sure it wouldn’t. Let me thank you for listening to me tonight. Say one o’clock. The Zeughauskeller.”
“Mr. Neumann . . .”
Nick leaned closer to her and kissed her. He allowed his lips to linger only a second, just long enough to feel her against him and know that she did not for a moment recoil.
“Thank you very much for tonight.” He stepped across the threshold. “I’ll be waiting tomorrow at one. Please come.”
CHAPTER
23
The Zeughauskeller reverberated with the cacophony of two hundred patrons consuming their midday meal. In past days a repository for the military arsenal of the canton Zurich, the restaurant’s main hall retained the air of a well-kept warehouse. Its high ceiling was straddled by crossbeams of varnished oak and supported by eight grand pillars of cement and mortar. Its stone walls were adorned with the pike, crossbow, and lance. At one P.M. on this winter’s day, the place was full up.
Nick sat alone in the center of the room, defending his table against all comers. Every empty seat was fair game. No keeping a table just for yourself. Not in Switzerland. He checked his watch—five after one—then tapped his foot on the floor.She’ll be here, he told himself. He remembered the touch of her lips, and knowing that God frowned on the cocksure, added a note of prayer to his statement.
From his vantage point Nick could keep an alert eye on the entryways at each side of the restaurant. The door to his left opened. An elderly couple marched in, brushing a light sprinkling of snow from their shoulders. And then behind them a svelte form wrapped in a camel’s hair topcoat with a colorful scarf tied around her head. The person turned away from him and the coat came off. He saw a hand tug at the scarf and then a swirl of blond hair. Sylvia Schon scanned the room.
Nick stood from his chair and waved. She saw him and waved back.
Did she smile?
“You’re looking better today,” said Sylvia when she reached the table. “Get some rest last night?” She was wearing tight black slacks and a black turtleneck to match. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. A few strands hung loose to frame her face.
“I needed more than I thought.” He’d slept for seven hours without waking. Practically a record. “Thanks for opening your door. I guess I seemed pretty whacked-out.”
“New country, new job. I can see that at times it might be overwhelming. I’m glad I could be a friend. Besides, I owed you a favor.”
“How’s that?”
“Something I didn’t tell you last night. Kaiser was very pleased that I’d extended the bank’s
courtesies toward you.”
Nick didn’t understand her meaning. He proceeded with caution. “Was he?”
“You see, Mr. Neumann—” she caught herself and started again. “You see,Nick, I lied to you about it being a normal practice for me to take my trainees to dinner.” She raised her eyes and stared at him. “Just a white lie. I may take them to the bank’s dining room, buy them a Coke, but Emilio’s is a little out of the ordinary. Anyhow, the Chairman thought it wise of me to have taken you there. He said you were special and that I had an eye for nurturing talent. He ordered Rudy Ott to send me to the States to conclude our spring recruiting. I’ll be leaving in two weeks.”
Nick smiled inwardly. Sprecher had nailed her motivation dead on. Still, Nick understood her reasoning full well and he found her honesty disarming. “Congratulations,” he said. “I’m happy for you.”
She smiled broadly, barely able to contain her excitement. “It’s not the trip that’s so special, it’s the vote of confidence. I’ll be the first female personnel director permitted to conduct the recruitment of executives overseas. It’s as if the ceiling had been ripped off my office and the heavens revealed for the first time.”
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