Numbered Account

by Christopher Reich

  Or at least a direct route to the Fourth Floor, thought Nick.

  # # #

  After lunch, Nick and Sylvia joined the throngs of men and women strolling up and down the Bahnhofstrasse. Saturday was shopping day and no amount of rain, sleet, or snow could deter the stalwart Swiss consumer from completing his rounds. Exotic foodstuffs could be had at Globus, finer clothing from PKZ, and pastries, of course, from Sprungli. While Sylvia kept her trained eye on the latest offerings from the fashion houses of Chanel and Rena Lange, Nick examined the opportunities his promotion to the Emperor’s Lair might bring. A position as Kaiser’s assistant would give him the authority he needed to gain access to the archives. He’d have no problem getting his hands on page after page of reports written by his father those many years ago.

  Or would he?

  Suddenly, Nick wasn’t so sure. Just as Cerberus made careful note of every numbered account accessed by a portfolio manager, so too would it note every file requested by a bank executive. And more menacing than Cerberus’s silicon eye were the all too human attentions of Armin Schweitzer and Martin Maeder. Sylvia had made it clear that he would be watched closely. What room Nick might have had for maneuver under Peter Sprecher’s lackadaisical supervision had disappeared. His every step would be scrutinized by anxious men who lived and died for the United Swiss Bank; men who would view any question about the bank’s integrity as a question about their own—and who would act accordingly.

  Nick waited until the two of them were examining a racy gown in the Celine Boutique before broaching the subject of his father’s monthly reports.

  “Sylvia,” he began cautiously, “ever since I got here I’ve been curious as to the work my father did at the bank. Last week I was talking with some of my colleagues and I learned that as director of the L.A. branch office, he would have sent reports to the bank on a monthly basis.”

  “Monthly Activity Reports. I receive copies of them whenever one of our foreign branches requests personnel to be sent from Switzerland.”

  “I’d love to see what kind of matters my father handled. It would be like getting to know him as a business colleague. Kind of man to man.”

  “I don’t see any problem. Go down to DZ and ask Karl to help you find your father’s monthly activity reports. Those files are long since inactive. No one will mind.”

  Nick shook his head gravely. “I thought about doing that, but I don’t want Herr Kaiser or Armin Schweitzer to think I’m ignoring my duties just to root around in the past. Who knows how they would interpret my actions?”

  “Why should they care?” Sylvia asked playfully. “It’s history.”

  “They might. That’s all. They just might.”

  Nick looked through the store window at a woman struggling to open a stubborn umbrella. This is where Anna had balked, he reminded himself. She had called him selfish and obsessed. Your father’s death ruined your life once, she’d said. Don’t let it happen again.

  He took Sylvia’s hand and led her to a quiet corner of the clothing store where he motioned for her to sit beside him on a soft beige ottoman. “No one ever found my father’s murderer. He’d been staying at a friend’s house when he was killed. He was hiding from someone or some people. The police never even arrested a suspect.”

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “Me? No. But I want to find out.”

  “Is that why you want the reports? You think his murder was tied to the bank?”

  “In all honesty, I don’t know the first thing about why my father was killed. But it may have had something to do with his work. Don’t you think his monthly activity reports might provide a hint if something was wrong?”

  “Perhaps. They certainly would tell you what business he was conduct—” Suddenly, Sylvia stood from the ottoman. A curtain fell over her features. Her caged eyes promised anger where an instant before they had offered sympathy. “You’re not saying that the bank was involved in the murder of your father?”

  Nick stood. “I don’t think it was the bank, itself. More likely, it was someone he knew through work: a client; someone at another company.”

  “I don’t like where this conversation is going,” she said coldly.

  Nick could feel her pulling back from him, could sense her own private cast of demons yanking her from his confidences. Still, he didn’t give up. “I was hoping those reports might be of some use. There has to be some information in there that will cast a clearer light on just what my father was doing at the time of his death.”

  Sylvia reddened at his every word. “My God, that’s a cheap way to manipulate me. You should be ashamed. If I had any guts, I’d slap you right here in the store. Don’t you think I see what you’re trying to get me to do? You want me to put my fingerprints over information you’re too scared to get for yourself.”

  Nick placed his hands on Sylvia’s arms. “Calm down. You’re taking this too far.”

  Or was it he who had taken things too far? In an instant, he realized he had been foolish to trust her. He had been scared that alone he couldn’t come up with a way to get the activity reports. He’d looked into her eyes and mistaken his own affection for hers. Why should she be willing to help? Why should she risk harming her own career for the sake of someone she barely knew? Christ, he was a rube.

  Sylvia bristled at his touch, violently shaking off his hands. “Is that why you showed up at my door last night? Were you trying to win my sympathy? Hoping to soften me up so that you could convince me to help you with your wild goose chase?”

  “Of course not. I needed to see someone. I wanted to seeyou.” He took a breath, hoping a pause would impose some order on things. “Forget I even asked you about the files. I was too presumptuous. I can get them myself.”

  Sylvia scowled at him. “I don’t give a damn what you do about those files, but I’ll keep myself well out of any intrigue you may be up to, thank you very much. I can see it was a mistake to extend our relationship outside working hours. I’ll never learn, will I?”

  She stalked from the showroom, stopping at the entry and calling over her shoulder, “Good luck on Monday, Mr. Neumann. Remember one thing: You’re not the only one on the Fourth Floor with his own private agenda.”

  CHAPTER

  24

  Early Monday morning, Nick found himself seated next to Wolfgang Kaiser on a leather couch that ran along the right-hand wall of the Chairman’s office. Two demitasses of espresso sat untouched on the table before them. The red light above the Chairman’s door was illuminated, indicating he was not to be disturbed. Rita Sutter had been informed to hold all calls, and Kaiser meant all of them, no exceptions. “I have important business with young Neumann,” he had explained to his secretary of eighteen years. “The future of the bank, no less.”

  Kaiser had embarked on a lecture decrying the loss of the well-rounded banker. “Today it’s all specialization,” he said disparagingly, flicking up the horns of his mustache. “Take Bauer in risk arbitrage. Try asking him about the current mortgage rate and the man will look at you as if you had asked directions to the moon. Or Leuenberger in derivatives. The man’s brilliant. He can talk until Christ’s second coming about index options, interest rate swaps, the like. But if I had to ask him whether we should loan two hundred million to Asea Brown Boveri, he would panic. Probably shrivel up and die. The United Swiss Bank requires managers who can grasp the finer points of all our bank’s activities and fashion a coherent strategic vision from them. Men not afraid to make the difficult decision.”

  Kaiser reached for the cup of espresso and raising it to his lips, sought Nick’s eyes. He took a brief sip, then asked, “Would you like to be part of that management, Neumann?”

  Nick paused long enough to dignify the moment. He sat upright, his back as rigid as if he’d been called onto the carpet by the commandant of the Corps himself. He’d been up since five making sure his clothing was spiffed up, his shoes shined, and his trousers properly creased. The invitation to the
Chairman’s office was a surprise, he reminded himself, his elevation to the Fourth Floor a shock that hadn’t worn off yet. And in truth, it hadn’t.

  He looked the Chairman in the eye and said, “Absolutely, sir.”

  “Outstanding,” said Kaiser, as a preface to slapping Nick on the leg. “If we had the time, I would turn you right around and send you down to Karl in DZ. That’s where all our apprentices started. Me. Your father.Dokumentation Zentrale. Down there you learned how the bank was structured, who worked where, who did what. You saw it all.”

  Nick nodded appreciatively. DZ was just the place he needed to be. Cerruti had said the bank hadn’t thrown away a paper in over a hundred years. He could only assume that more of his father’s memorandums sat on some forgotten aisle gathering dust.

  “After those two years, you received your first assignment,” said Kaiser. “To be given a posting in private banking was the Golden Fleece. Your father was assigned to me for his first stint. I believe it was in domestic portfolio management. Alex and I took to each other like brothers—which wasn’t always easy with your father. He was a feisty one. Spirited, they would say today. Then we called it insubordinate. He was never the type to unquestioningly do what he was told.” Kaiser inhaled sharply. “It seems that his blood flows in your veins.”

  Nick made the appropriate sentimental noises while wondering what Kaiser knew about his father’s death, if anything.

  “Alex’s curiosity made me sharper,” continued Kaiser, his far-off gaze betraying a keen interest in his own past. “He helped me get where I am today. His death was a great loss to the bank. And to your family, of course. It must have been difficult to lose your father under such terrible circumstances. But you’re a fighter. I can see it in your eyes. You have your father’s eyes.” The Chairman smiled wanly. After a moment’s reflection, he rose and walked to his desk. “That’s enough reminiscing for now. We’ll all be teary-eyed before long, God help us.”

  Nick stood from the couch. As he walked the few steps to the Chairman’s desk, he marveled at Kaiser’s skills as a thespian. There sat a man who’d probably cried once in his life, and that had been when his bonus failed to meet his expectations.

  Wolfgang Kaiser surveyed the stacks of memos, company reports, and phone messages that formed a paper amphitheater around his work space. “Ah! Here’s what I was looking for.” He picked up a black leather folder and handed it to Nick. “It doesn’t do for the Chairman of arelatively important Swiss bank to have trainees working for him. No one has thanked you for the actions you took Thursday afternoon. Most men I know would have relied on procedure to absolve themselves of the responsibility you took on your shoulders. Your decision was made for the bank, not for yourself. It required foresight and courage. We need that kind of clear vision, especially in these times.”

  Nick accepted the padded folder and opened its cover. Inside, on the finest crushed velvet, lay a single sheet of ivory vellum. Hand-painted letters styled in an ornate Gothic script proclaimed that Nicholas A. Neumann was, as of this date, an assistant vice president of the United Swiss Bank, and entitled to all rights and privileges that that position carried.

  Kaiser extended his hand across the desk. “I’m extremely proud of your conduct during your brief employment with us. If my own son were here, he could not have done any better.”

  Nick found it difficult to remove his eyes from the proclamation. He read the words again: “Assistant Vice President.” In six weeks, he had achieved a grade not normally assigned for four years. Think of it as a battlefield promotion, he told himself. Konig is attacking on one flank, Thorne on the other. By repelling one, you ended up repelling both.

  Nick shook Kaiser’s hand. “I’m sure my father would have done the same,” he said, once more the investigator.

  Kaiser raised an eyebrow. “Possibly.”

  Before Nick could ask him what he meant, Kaiser was motioning to the chairs facing his desk and talking loudly. “You are now an officer of the bank. Dr. Schon will contact you regarding an augmentation of your salary. Taking good care of you, is she?”

  “We had dinner last Thursday.” Nick imagined for the first time that she might have reason to be upset that he had been boosted so far, so fast. She’d worked at the bank nine years and stood only a single rank higher than he. Small wonder she’d been so testy about getting the monthly activity reports. It would be difficult to put their relationship back on track. He should never have asked her for the files.

  “We’ll have to get you out of the bank’sPersonalhaus,” said Kaiser. “Normally you should go to our educational compound at Wolfschranz for an introductory seminar, but given the circumstances, I believe that can wait.”

  The mention of thePersonalhaus jolted Nick in another direction. Not a minute passed when he didn’t think about who had been in his apartment Friday afternoon. Maybe having your personal belongings searched was the price of admission to the Emperor’s Lair.

  A light on Kaiser’s telephone began blinking. Nick looked on as Kaiser considered answering. It was like watching an alcoholic consider his first drink of the day. Kaiser looked at Nick, then at the phone, then back again. “Now the work begins,” he sighed, then stabbed the flickering button and picked up the phone.“Jawohl? Send him in.”

  The door flew open before Kaiser had replaced the phone in its cradle.

  “Klaus Konig has issued a buy order for one and a half million shares of our stock,” shouted a disheveled little man far along the path to losing his composure. “The Adler Bank has an open order to buy a full fifteen percent of our shares. On top of the five percent they already own, the purchase will bring their stake to twenty percent. Once Konig is on our board, nothing we do or say will remain private. It will be like the States. Total chaos!”

  Kaiser responded calmly. “Mr. Feller, you may rest assured we shall never allow the Adler Bank to reach a position where they will be entitled to even a single seat on our board. We have underestimated Mr. Konig’s intentions. That shall no longer be the case. Part of our efforts will be aimed at winning over our institutional shareholders, many of whom reside in North America. Mr. Neumann, here, will be in charge of contacting those shareholders and convincing them to vote with reigning management at our general assembly in four weeks.”

  Feller took a step back and looked down at Nick. “Excuse me,” he muttered. “The name is Feller. Reto Feller. Glad to meet you.” He was short and dumpy and not much older than Nick. He wore thick horn-rimmed glasses that made his dark eyes look like moist, ill-focused marbles. He had a halo of curly red hair on an otherwise bald pate.

  Nick stood and introduced himself, then made the mistake of saying that he hoped they would enjoy working together.

  “Enjoy?” barked Feller. “We’re at war. There’ll be no enjoyment until Konig is dead and the Adler Bank gone to perdition.” He turned to Kaiser. “What shall I tell Dr. Ott? He’s waiting with Sepp Zwicki on the trading floor. Shall we begin our program of share accumulation?”

  “Not so quickly,” said Kaiser. “Once we start buying, the share price will skyrocket. First we line up as many votes as possible. Then we commit the bank’s capital to fight Konig.”

  Feller bowed his head and scurried from the office without a further word.

  Kaiser picked up the telephone and phoned Sepp Zwicki, the bank’s chief of equity trading. He relayed his orders to delay commencement of their share accumulation plan, then asked who could be counted on to sell the Adler Bank large blocks of shares. When talk turned to the effect of Konig’s bid on the prices of USB mutual funds, Nick’s attention wandered. He swiveled in his chair and for the first time took a thorough look at Wolfgang Kaiser’s office.

  In size and form, the office resembled the transept of a medieval cathedral. The ceiling was high and vaulted. Four rafters ran its width, their purpose more decorative than structural. Entry was gained through two sets of double wooden doors, which ran from floor to ceiling. The status of the
doors mirrored that of the business being conducted within. Open doors allowed all members of the bank’s executive board free access without need for advance notice. Should the inner doors be closed, the Chairman could be interrupted, but only by Rita Sutter. She had explained the system to Nick herself, earlier this morning. Should both sets of doors be closed, and the admonition “Do not disturb” given, only a man “desirous of immediate defenestration” would dare venture in. Her words. Presuming, Nick added, he had been capable of bypassing Rita Sutter.

  She was hardly the party queen he’d seen in the photograph at Marco Cerruti’s apartment. Her hair was a sober blond cut to fall shy of her shoulders. Her figure appeared trim beneath an elegant taupe ensemble, but her blue eyes no longer sparkled as innocently as they had in the photograph. Instead they appraised from a distance. She exuded an unimpeachable sense of control—more a top executive than the Chairman’s secretary. Nick thought she probably knew more about what went on inside the bank than Kaiser. He made a point to talk to her about his father.

  Visitors to the imperial den had to walk ten paces across a blue carpet to reach the Chairman’s desk, which stood directly facing the entryway. The desk was the room’s centerpiece, an immovable mahogany altar, and on it sat the objects required for the worship of the Gods of International Business: two computer monitors, two telephones, a desktop speaker, and a Rolodex the size of an impoverished village’s water mill.

  The desk was framed by a grand arched window that ran from floor to ceiling. Four steel rods vertically intersected the window giving the visitor, in most instances, a secure sense of confinement inside the world’s most opulent vault. Or, to those with a guiltier conscience, the dread of being held prisoner inside the barbican of a central European fortress.