Numbered Account

by Christopher Reich

  “You did,” said Ott, at once incredulous and supremely certain. “I can see it in your eyes. How quaint!” He walked from the office, calling over his shoulder, “Have that letter ready for me by five o’clock this afternoon without fail, Fraulein. We must have our votes.”

  Sylvia waited a few minutes after Ott had left, then walked to the ladies’ rest room. She made her way to the farthest stall, and after shutting the door, collapsed against the tile wall. Ott’s words burned like acid in the space behind her eyes. He had won. He had broken her. Another soul vanquished so that he could strengthen his alliance with Wolfgang Kaiser.

  Ott was such a bastard!she thought, and then a fresh wave of self-pity swept over her and she cried. She lamented her short affair with Wolfgang Kaiser even as she remembered the day they had met. It had been at the bank’s annual picnic on a warm July afternoon almost two years ago. She had never expected to speak with him, let alone flirt. No one at her level even knew the Chairman. There was no telling where the discussion might lead. The chances for disaster were simply too high. So when he drew her aside and asked if she was enjoying herself, she had been reticent, even afraid to meet him in conversation. But instead of hearing some dry rot regarding the bank’s newest hiring policies, she had listened as he enthused over the visiting Giacometti exhibition at the Kunsthaus. Instead of a dreaded “do tell” about her colleagues, he had asked if she had ever rafted down the Saanen River, and then related his own trip two weeks before. She had expected a severe but polite functionary but had met a warm and effusive man.

  Two weekends at his summer home in Gstaad, that had been the extent of their liaison. He had treated her like a princess. Dinners on the veranda of the Palace Hotel; long walks roaming the grassy hills; romantic and, she still had to admit, passionate evenings drinking exquisite wine and making love. She had never been so blind to think it would continue forever, but neither had she dreamed it might be used against her.

  Fifteen minutes later, a becalmed Sylvia ran cold water over her face. She kept her head near the sink and ladled handful after handful of water onto her swollen cheeks. She looked into the mirror for a long time. Trust. Dedication. Effort. She had given her whole being to the bank. Why would they choose to treat her this way?

  The United Swiss Bank was an internationally active bank. Should anyone hope to rise to the directorship of the bank’s personnel division,he— Sylvia wouldn’t waste another breath considering herself—would be required to supervise hiring not only in Switzerland but in New York, in Hong Kong, in Dubai. Should that person be blocked by the Chairman’s eminence grise from representing the bank abroad, his career would be at an end. That was that.

  Sylvia straightened herself up and dried her face. She needed to unburden herself of the grief that sat on her chest robbing her of oxygen. She needed to escape the confines of her office. But that was impossible. Activity in the bank was running at a fever pitch: every department gearing up for presentations to be made at the general assembly; managers nervous to learn the annual operating results; the Adler Bank hovering ever closer. She couldn’t consider taking a day off for at least a month.

  Sylvia chided herself for her misplaced loyalties. The avenue leading to a successful future at the United Swiss Bank had been blocked, perhaps permanently, yet she continued to think of nothing but her duty to the bank. She slipped her hand into her pocket and discovered that at some point during her discussion with Ott she had jammed Nick’s messages into it. She uncrumpled the papers and memorized his extension. Was she so alone that the only person she could turn to was a younger man she barely knew?

  Sylvia looked in the mirror. She was a mess. Eyes swollen, makeup smeared, cheeks redder than a baby’s. You’re pathetic, she told herself. Allowing the decision of one man to tear apart your dreams; letting a lieutenant tell you the captain’s orders. Go to Wolfgang Kaiser. Present your case directly. Convince him that you can represent the bank overseas. Fight back!

  She replayed the meeting with Kaiser Friday morning. She recalled the callused grip of the Chairman’s hand. His lingering touch. Instead of desire, she saw in it hunger. Instead of strength, weakness. Weakness of a variety she knew well. Weakness she would exploit to her own advantage.

  Sylvia took a tissue from her purse to wipe away a trail of mascara. She dabbed it in cold water and raised it to her face. Halfway to her cheek, she paused and stepped away from the mirror. Something was wrong. She looked at her hand and saw that it was shaking uncontrollably.

  CHAPTER

  26

  Nick spotted Sterling Thorne loitering under a blinking street-lamp twenty yards from the entrance to the bank’sPersonalhaus. The federal agent was wearing a tan trenchcoat over a dark suit. For once, he looked like part of the landscape rather than a blight on it. When he saw Nick, he raised his hand and offered a faint salute.

  Nick had half a mind to take off in the other direction. But it was after ten and he was exhausted. And this, after only his second day working with the Chairman. From eight in the morning until ten at night, Wolfgang Kaiser was on the move. And his newest aide-de-camp, assistant vice president Nicholas A. Neumann, was always somewhere close behind.

  The day had begun on the trading floor with Sepp Zwicki, a visit to the front lines for a briefing on Konig’s latest sorties. Mid-morning took them to the Emperor’s Lair, where Kaiser dished out instructions on what line to give dissenting shareholders, then placed a few calls himself to show how to charm the greedy bastards. Lunch was spent in one of the bank’s private dining rooms, veal chops, a ’79 Chateau Petrus and Cohibas all around for the jolly good fellows from Bank Vontobel and Julius Baer. Both banks held large blocks of USB. During the afternoon, rolls of USB shareholders were reviewed and telephoning chores divvied up between Nick and Reto Feller. At seven, dinner was sent in from Kropf Bierhalle.Bratwurst mit Zwiebeln. The three hours since had passed in a flurry of calls to stock analysts in Manhattan. Go, go, go.

  And now Thorne. Nick’s first instinct was to throw him against a wall and demand whether he’d been the asshole who’d broken into his apartment on Friday.

  “Working late, are you, Neumann?” Thorne asked, hand extended in welcome.

  Nick kept his hands buried in his pockets. “There’s a lot to do these days. The general assembly is coming up soon.”

  Thorne lowered his hand. “You gentlemen announcing another year of record profits?”

  “Are you angling for some inside information? Trying to beef up that government paycheck? I remember how skimpy Uncle Sam can be.”

  Thorne tried to smile affably but wound up looking like he’d bitten into a rotten apple. Something had soured on his end. Nick was sure of it. Why else the strained courtesy? “How can I be of service to my country this fine evening?”

  “Why don’t we take it inside, Nick? Get out of the cold.”

  Nick considered the request. Like it or not, Thorne was an officer of the United States government. He deserved some respect. For now. Nick showed Thorne into the apartment’s alcove and led the way up the single flight of stairs to the second floor. He unlocked the door to his apartment and nodded for the agent to go in.

  Thorne stepped inside the apartment and looked around. “I thought bankers lived a little better than this.”

  Nick took off his coat and hung it over the chair. “I’ve been in worse.”

  “So have I. You been mulling over our conversation? Been keeping your eyes open?”

  “I’ve been keeping my eyes where they belong. On my work. Can’t say I’ve come across anything that might interest you.”

  Nick sat down on the bed. He glared at Thorne, waiting. It was his show. Finally, the lanky agent unbuttoned his jacket and took a seat across the room. “I’m letting down my guard tonight because we need your help,” he said. “It doesn’t happen often, so you’d stand well advised to take advantage of my kind disposition. Won’t last long.”

  “Noted.”

  “Numbered acco
unt 549.617 RR ring a bell to you?”

  Nick didn’t answer right away. He kept his face passive, while inside him Thorne’s bell clanged mercilessly. Account 549.617 RR. The Pasha.

  “It does, doesn’t it?” continued Thorne. “Has to be hard for a poor city boy to forget seeing so much money being moved around.”

  Impossible, if you really want to know, Nick replied silently. “I can’t comment on either a client’s identity or account activity. You know that. It’s confidential information. Bank secrecy and all that.”

  “Account 549.617 RR,” Thorne repeated. “I believe you fellas call him the Pasha.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Not so quick, Neumann. I’m asking you a favor. I’m as close to falling onto my knees as I’m ever going to get. I’d like to give you a chance to do some good.”

  Nick smiled inadvertently. He couldn’t help it. A government agent doing good was in his experience the most fundamental of oxymorons. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

  “The Pasha is a bad man, Nick. His name is Ali Mevlevi. He’s a Turk by birth but lives in a monumental private compound just outside of Beirut. He’s an important player in the world’s heroin trade. We estimate he’s responsible for the importation into Europe and the former Soviet Union of about twenty tons of refined number four heroin—China White, in our lingo—each and every year. Twenty tons, Nick. This is no dilettante we’re talking about. Mevlevi is the real thing.”

  Nick put up both hands in front of him, signaling Thorne to stop. “And so? If he is, what about it? How does that concern me or the bank? Haven’t you gotten it through your skull that I am prohibited by law to discuss anything I do for USB with you, or with anybody else for that matter? I’m not admitting that this Pasha fellow is my client. I’m not saying he is, or he isn’t. Doesn’t matter. I could have Satan calling me twice a day and still I couldn’t tell you.”

  Thorne just nodded his head and kept talking as if the sheer brunt of his evidence would eventually win over Nick’s essentially good soul. It was a good strategy.

  “Mevlevi’s got himself a private army of about five hundred souls in his backyard. Trains them morning, noon, and night. And he’s got a mountain of materiel on top of that. Russian T-72s, a few Hinds, plenty of rockets, mortars, you name it. A ready mobile battalion of mechanized infantry. That’s what’s got us worried. You remember what happened to our boys at the marine barracks in Beirut. Several hundred good men had their lives taken by a lone suicide bomber. Imagine what five hundred of them could do.”

  Nick leaned closer, the infantry officer in him cognizant of the havoc to be wreaked by such a force. Still, he did not speak.

  “We have hard-copy proof of the transfers Mevlevi’s been making to and from your bank for the last eighteen months. Irrefutable evidence that your bank is laundering his dough. Our problem, Nick, is that the Pasha has gone under. Three days after we put his name on your bank’s internal account surveillance list, Mr. Ali Mevlevi has stopped making his weekly payments. We were expecting about forty-seven million dollars to hit his account on Thursday. Did it?”

  Nick kept his mouth closed. There it was. No more whacking around whether the DEA had the right man or not. They even knew how much he was transferring day in, day out. Mr. Ali Mevlevi—the Pasha—was squarely in their sights. Time to line up the crosshairs. Time for First Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann to help them pull the trigger.

  As if sensing Nick’s impending acquiescence, Thorne leaned closer, and when he spoke his voice acquired a conspiratorial edge. “There’s a human aspect to this case also. We have an agent on the inside. Someone we planted a long time ago. You know the trick?”

  Nick nodded, seeing where Thorne was going. He could feel the mantle of responsibility the agent wanted to lay on his shoulders. A second ago he had been ready to sympathize with Thorne, maybe even help him. Now he hated him.

  “Our man—let’s call him Jester—has also disappeared. He used to call us twice a week to give us Mevlevi’s weekly take. I’ll let you guess which days. Yep. Monday and Thursday. Jester hasn’t called, Nick. E.T. did not phone home. Hear what I’m saying?”

  “I understand your dilemma,” said Nick. “You’ve put a man into a hot situation. You’re scared he may be compromised and now you can’t get him out. In short, you’ve left him hanging on a two-penny string in a shitstorm and you want me to salvage your operation and save your man.”

  “That’s about right.”

  “I appreciate the situation”—Nick paused for effect—”but I am not going to spend the next couple of years in a Swiss jail so that you can get your next promotion and maybe, just maybe, save the skin of your man.”

  “We will get you out of here. I give you my word.”

  There it was. The lie Nick had been expecting. He was just surprised that it took so long to come. The anger inside him crested. “Your word doesn’t mean spit to me. You’ve got no say over who the Swiss jail or who they release. You almost had me there for a second. Sound the bugle and the loyal marine comes running. I know you guys. Out there playing God, thinking you’re doing some good. You’re just getting your rocks off, seeing how much power you can exercise over your little slice of the world. Well, forget it. You’ll have to count me out. That’s not my game.”

  “You got it all wrong, brother,” Thorne shouted. “You can’t use me as an excuse to pretend Mevlevi doesn’t exist or that you, as his banker, as the man who day in, day out, helps him hide the fruits of his illegal labors, are not responsible. You two are on the same goddamned team. In my world, Nick, there’s us and there’s them. If you’re not one of us, you’re one of them. So where do you stand?”

  Nick took a while to answer the question. “I guess I’m one of them.”

  Oddly, Thorne seemed pleased by the answer. “That’s too bad. I told you to take advantage of my kindly disposition. Now you’ve gone and pissed me off. I know about your old friend Jack Keely. What went wrong down there in the P.I. must have been something powerful bad for you to fly off the handle like that. You’re lucky you didn’t kill that man. So you think long and hard about helping me out, or others will know about your escapade, too. I don’t think Kaiser would be too happy to learn that you left the Corps with a dishonorable discharge. I don’t think he’d be too keen to learn that you’re a convicted felon—maybe in a private military court, but convicted just the same. Hell, maybe I should be afraid of you, too. But, I’m not. I’m too busy worrying about Mevlevi. And about Jester. You may want to piss on guys like me, but I crush guys like you. That’s not my job—it’s my reason for living. You hear me?”

  “Loud and clear,” Nick said. “Do what you have to do. Just stay the hell away from me. I don’t have anything to say to you. Not now. Not ever.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  Rattling into the Paradeplatz early Thursday morning, Nick was greeted everywhere by headlines trumpeting the improprieties of a major bank. The central kiosk was festooned with flyers from every major daily.Blick, Zurich’s low-rent scandal sheet, proclaimed,“Schmiergeld bei Gotthardo Bank,” Bribe Money at Gotthardo Bank. TheNZZ, the oldest and most conservative of the city’s three daily papers, was equally accusatory: “Shame on Gotthardo.” TheTages Anzeiger took a more global view: “Swiss Banks in League with Drug Mafia.”

  Nick hurried from the tram to purchase a newspaper. What had started as a rotten day showed no sign of changing course. His alarm clock had failed to go off at the proper time; the hot water in his building had been turned off, so he’d been forced to endure a full two minutes—not the usual fifteen seconds—under an ice-cold shower; and the 7:01 tram had left at 6:59. Without him! Not that yesterday had been much better, cursed Nick, as he jogged paper in hand down the Bahnhofstrasse.

  Klaus Konig had completed his purchase of over 1.7 million shares of USB stock at eleven A.M. and had followed it with a second order to gobble up an additional two hundred thousand shares at market price. By
day’s end, the price of USB shares had skyrocketed fifteen percent and Konig held a twenty-one percent stake in the bank, all too near the thirty-three percent threshold that would grant him his coveted seats on the board.

  The precipitous rise in share price combined with the Adler Bank’s growing stake left the United Swiss Bank more vulnerable than ever. And no one knew that better, or had responded more vigorously, than Wolfgang Kaiser. At noon, the Chairman had descended to the floor of the Borse and personally ordered Sepp Zwicki to buy, buy, buy USB shares at whatever the cost. Kaiser had drawn his line in the sand. In three hours, the bank had picked up a couple hundred thousand shares, and war had been openly declared between the United Swiss Bank and the Adler Bank. Arbitrageurs in New York and in Tokyo, in Sydney and in Singapore, were licking their chops, buying up shares of USB in hopes of a continuing escalation in price.

  Nick took a last look at the newspaper in his hand before entering the Emperor’s Lair. Scanning the inflammatory headlines, he thought, “Holy shit. Now this.”

  Kaiser was on the telephone.“Gottfurdeckel, Armin,” he yelled, “you told me that Gotthardo would wait at least another two weeks before folding. They’ve known about that drunk Rey for years. Why go public now? This does not put us in a strong position. And Armin”—Kaiser paused, and his eyes found Nick— “this time ensure that your facts are correct.This is the second time in the last week that you’ve disappointed me. Consider this your last reprieve.” He slammed down the phone and turned to his newest assistant. “Sit down, be quiet, and I will be with you in a few minutes.”

  Nick took a seat on the couch and opened his briefcase. The honeymoon is now officially over, he mused. He placed his copy of theNZZ on the table before him and reviewed the facts as reported.