Yesterday, the Gotthardo Bank, a universal bank of roughly USB’s size with its headquarters in Lugano, reported to the Swiss federal prosecutor, Franz Studer, that after a lengthy internal investigation, it had discovered evidence of gross impropriety on the part of one of its own executives. For the past seven years, one Lorenz Rey, a senior vice president, had been surreptitiously working for the Uribe family of Mexico to launder money and assist in the international transfer of funds emanating from the sale of illegal narcotics. Rey claimed that only he and two junior members of his department were privy to all details of the account, and thus fully cognizant of the criminality of the acts performed on behalf of their client. Documents given to the federal prosecutor’s office indicated that the bank had laundered over two billion U.S. dollars for the Uribes during the past seven years. Included were receipts given the Uribes for cash deposits, made at Gotthardo’s Lugano head office, totaling more than eighty-five million dollars, an average of one million dollars per month. Rey further admitted to willfully concealing evidence of the client’s activities from his superiors at the bank in exchange for lavish gifts from the Uribe family, including vacations to the Uribe family resort in Cala di Volpe, Sardinia, as well as to Acapulco, San Francisco, and Punta del Este.
A regular Marco Polo, thought Nick.
Franz Studer announced the immediate freezing of the Uribes’ accounts pending a full investigation and hailed the Gotthardo Bank as being at the forefront of Switzerland’s internal efforts to police the illegal activities perpetrated by foreign criminals. No criminal penalties would be sought against the bank, said Studer.
A front-page photograph showed Rey being led in handcuffs from the D.A.’s office. He had dressed well for his swan song. He wore a stylish three-piece suit and sported a gambler’s kerchief, which fell carelessly out of his breast pocket. Worse, the man was smiling.
Nick was hardly a seasoned expert on banking practice. He didn’t need to be to realize that if one client had made transfers and deposits totaling more than two billion dollars over a seven-year period, a lot more than three people were going to know about it.
First off, movements in the portfolios of larger clients were examined monthly. Banks liked to curry favor with their larger clients and were constantly on the lookout for increases in funds deposited, facilities granted, or transactions undertaken on their behalf. Letters of solicitation were sent regularly. Encouragement was given that the client’s funds would be well cared for, and so on and so forth. An entire protocol existed for the proper wooing and pampering of the wealthy client.
Second, even the humblest portfolio manager can’t help bragging about his client’s growing presence at the bank. Wasn’t he in some small way responsible for the growth in revenues stemming from his client’s increased deposits? Shouldn’t he benefit in some way? Lorenz Rey, a senior vice president of the Gotthardo Bank, aged thirty-eight, did not look like a selfless monk. Unless, of course, the Franciscan order had taken to wearing Brioni suits, solid gold Rolex wristwatches, and diamond pinkie rings.
Finally, just the act of depositing one million dollars in banknotes every month would beg the attention, if not inspire the conversation, of the bank’s sharp-eyed logistical staff. The same portfolio manager arriving at the cash window two, three, maybe four times each month with an armful of greenbacks, always on behalf of the same client, year after year, would be as conspicuous to any and all members of the bank as a woman walking stark naked into its lobby and asking directions to the Basel Zoo.
Nick had trouble suppressing a hoot of laughter as he studied the article. If nothing else, the Gotthardo Bank should be applauded for the brazenness of their claims. And as if to prove the sum total of Nick’s suspicions, the paper reported that at the time it was frozen, the Uribes’ account held seven million dollars. Here, observed Nick, is an account through which two billion dollars has been laundered, invested, transferred, what have you, and on the day it is closed, it holds what in the currency of the drug trade is pocket change. Chance? Luck? Coincidence? Hardly.
The Gotthardo Bank was buying its freedom from continuing inquiry. The price, seven million dollars and the careers of several replaceable flunkies. The Uribes would be upset; less so when the bank made good on their frozen deposits with a quiet deduction from the institution’s hidden reserves.
Nick shifted his gaze to the Chairman, who was engrossed in conversation with Sepp Zwicki. So, Kaiser was upset that the Gotthardo Bank had given up the Uribes so early. He had taken a sizable chunk out of Schweitzer’s ass for having passed on some faulty information. Twice, Schweitzer had screwed up, said Kaiser. Whatother error had recently drawn the Chairman’s wrath?
What interested Nick most was the reason for Kaiser’s rage. He wasn’t pissed off that the Gotthardo Bank had worked with the Uribes—a name that for decades had been linked to organized crime. He showed no concern that Gotthardo’s admission might damage Switzerland’s reputation for secrecy. His anger was fueled solely by the fact that they had done itnow. The Chairman was no fool. He knew damn well that the Gotthardo Bank’s admission would only increase the pressure on USB to fork over one of its own. In this game, no one was innocent. And no one guilty. But somewhere along the line you had to pay your dues to keep your place at the table. Gotthardo had paid and was now relatively safe from further prosecution. USB could afford no such luxury.
Wolfgang Kaiser hung up the telephone and motioned for Nick to join him. Nick quickly folded the newspaper and walked to the Chairman’s desk. On it lay copies of the three Swiss dailies, as well as theWall Street Journal, theFinancial Times, and theFrankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung. Each was opened to an article discussing the Gotthardo Bank investigation.
“A splendid mess, isn’t it?” asked Kaiser. “The timing couldn’t be worse.”
Nick didn’t have a chance to respond. Beyond the closed doors, Rita Sutter’s normally calm voice rose to a plaintive wail. A chair was overturned and a glass shattered. Nick sprang from his chair. Kaiser rounded his desk and made for the entryway. Before either could take more than three steps, the double doors were flung open.
Sterling Thorne marched into the office of the chairman of the United Swiss Bank. Rita Sutter followed, clutching at the American’s long arm and admonishing him to stop, repeating over and over again that no one was allowed into the Chairman’s office without an appointment. Hugo Brunner, the chief hall porter, trotted in behind them, head hanging low like a hound who had failed his master.
“Madam, you can let go of my shirtsleeve if you’d be so kind,” Thorne said to Rita Sutter.
“It’s all right, Rita,” soothed Wolfgang Kaiser, though his eyes conveyed a different message. “We mustn’t be impolite to our guests, even if they arrive without an appointment. You can go back to your desk. You too, Hugo. Thank you.”
“This man is a . . . a . . . barbarian,” shouted Rita Sutter. She relinquished her grasp on Thorne and, giving him a nasty scowl, stalked from the office. Hugo followed.
Thorne shook loose his sleeve. He walked to Wolfgang Kaiser and introduced himself as if the two had never met.
Kaiser shook his hand, wincing as if to say “Spare me this garbage.” “This is a bank, Mr. Thorne. Normally we expect even our most valued clients to schedule appointments. We’re not a fast-food establishment where one can simplydrive through.”
Thorne bowed in apology. “Sorry for not following your precious decorum. In America we are taught to take the bull by the horns, or as my daddy used to say, to grab the goat by the balls.”
“How charming. Please take a seat. Or would you prefer the floor?”
Thorne sat on the couch.
Kaiser took up position in a chair opposite. “Neumann, join us.”
“This is a private conversation,” objected Thorne. “I don’t know if you want one of your young pups to listen in.”
Nick stood and made it clear he was willing to leave the office. The less time spent in Thorne’s comp
any, the better.
“It’s all right, Nicholas,” said Kaiser. “Sit down. I welcome the input of our younger executives, Mr. Thorne. They are the future of the bank.”
“Some future,” said Thorne, looking at Nick and shaking his head. He redirected his attention at the Chairman. “Mr. Kaiser, I believe we have a mutual acquaintance. Someone we’ve both known for a long while.”
“I find that extremely doubtful,” said Kaiser with a polite smile.
“It’s not doubtful. It’s a fact.” Thorne looked at Nick and then back at Kaiser. “Mr. Ali Mevlevi.”
Kaiser appeared unfazed. “Never heard of him.”
“I’ll repeat the name for you. I know some gentlemen begin losing their hearing at your age.” Thorne cleared his throat noisily. “Ali Mevlevi.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Thorne. The name means nothing to me. I hope you didn’t make such a dramatic entrance on behalf of this friend of yours.”
“Mevlevi is no friend of mine and you know it. I believe you folks call him the Pasha. Mr. Neumann sure as hell knows him. Isn’t that right, Captain America?”
“I never said any such thing,” Nick answered calmly. “I thought I made it clear that I’m not allowed to comment on the identity of any of our clients.”
“Let me help jog your memory. Account 549.617 RR. Makes transfers every Monday and Thursday. Oh, he’s a client of yours. Of that, if nothing else, I’m sure.”
Nick, the casual spectator, the man who knew nothing, kept his face a stony blank. He had less success governing his stomach, which like his conscience was growing queasy and increasingly anxious. “I’m sorry. Like I said, no comment.”
Thorne reddened. “This isn’t a press conference, Neumann. No comment, you say. You, too, Kaiser? Well, I have some comments for you.” He withdrew a sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket and unfolded it. “July 11, 1996. A transfer incoming for sixteen million dollars, departs same day to twenty-four numbered accounts. July 15, incoming for ten million, outgoing same day to fifteen banks. August 1, 1997. Incoming thirty-one million, outgoing same day twenty-seven banks. This list goes on and on, like a bad case of gonorrhea.”
Kaiser leaned forward, extending one hand. “Did you obtain this information from an official source?” he asked. “If so, may I see it?”
Thorne refolded the papers and jammed them into his jacket. “The source for this information is classified.”
Kaiser frowned. “Classified or created from thin air? Neither the name you mentioned nor the figures in which you obviously have so much faith mean anything to me.”
Thorne turned again to Nick. “Those figures ring a bell, Neumann? This is your account, is it not? I wouldn’t recommend lying to an officer of the United States government. Money laundering is a serious offense. Ask your buddies at the Gotthardo Bank.”
Kaiser placed an iron hand on Nick’s leg. “I must interrupt you, Mr. Thorne,” he said. “Your zeal is commendable. We, too, share your enthusiasm for putting an end to the illegal practices for which the banks in our country are often used. Really, though, this Alfie Merlani, was it? The name doesn’t sound familiar.”
“Mevlevi,”said Thorne, who by now was growing agitated, shifting constantly in his chair. “Ali Mevlevi. Imports over a ton of refined heroin per month into Europe. Usually through Italy, then into Germany, France, Scandinavia. About a quarter of his stuff ends up right here in Zurich. Look, I’m trying to offer you a deal. A chance to make things right before we blow this case up in public.”
“I do not need a deal, Mr. Thorne. This bank has always prided itself on rigorously obeying the laws of this country. Our laws governing secrecy prevent me from disclosing any information about our clients. I am willing, however, to make an exception, just this once, so that we may demonstrate our goodwill. The account number you mentioned was in fact on our internal surveillance sheet last week. And, you are correct that the account was managed by Mr. Neumann, here. Nicholas, tell Mr. Thorne everything you know about this account. I’m absolving you of any responsibility you may have toward our bank under the Bank Secrecy Act of 1933. Go ahead, tell him.”
Nick stared into Kaiser’s eyes, all too mindful of the Chairman’s dissuasive clutch. Willful ignorance was one thing, premeditated obfuscation, quite another. But he was too far along his chosen path to change course now. “I recognize the number,” he said. “I remember seeing it on the surveillance list last Thursday. But I don’t recall any activity that day. I have no idea to whom it belongs.”
Thorne tossed his head back and gave an unpleasant laugh, a horse’s whinny. “Well, well. Who do we have here? Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy. I am going to give you one more chance to make a deal with us and spare your company the indignity of seeing its Chairman implicated in the business affairs of one of the world’s largest distributors of heroin. I would’ve thought that a man who had suffered like you—I mean your family’s tragedy and all—would besensitive to the efforts of the authorities to nail a parasite like Mevlevi. He’s a big fish for us. We are not going to stop until we’ve landed him, dead or alive. In fact, I found a snapshot that I thought might inspire you to give us a hand.”
Thorne threw a five-by-seven color photograph onto the coffee table.
It landed facing Nick. He looked down at it and grimaced. The photograph showed the corpse of a nude man lying on a silver table. The table was an autopsy platform in a morgue. The man’s eyes were open, shaded a translucent blue. Blood ran from his nose. His mouth was open, caked with a milky froth.
“Stefan,” gasped Wolfgang Kaiser. “This is my son.”
“’Course it’s your son. Wiped out on heroin. Looks like he chased the dragon one too many a time. They found him here in Zurich, didn’t they? That means the poison in his veins came from Ali Mevlevi. The Pasha. The holder of account 549.617 RR.” Thorne pounded the coffee table. “Your client.”
Kaiser scooped the photo off the table and stared at it silently.
Thorne continued, clearly unburdened by any sympathy for Kaiser. “Help me nail Mevlevi. Freeze the Pasha’s accounts!” He looked to Nick for support. “Stop his cash and we can stop the drugs. Isn’t that a simple suggestion? It’s time we protect kids from the same stuff that killed your boy. How old was he anyway? Nineteen? Twenty?”
Wolfgang Kaiser stood as if in a daze. “Please leave, Mr. Thorne. We have no information for you today. We do not know any Mevlevi. We do not work with heroin smugglers. That you would stoop so low as to bring my boy into this is beyond my understanding.”
“Oh, I don’t think it is, Mr. Kaiser. Allow me to light the last couple of candles on this cake before I leave. I want to make sure you have plenty to think about over the next few days. I know about your time in Beirut. Four years over there, eh? Mevlevi was there, too. Seems he was setting up his operations around the time you arrived. He was a big shot around town, if I’m not mistaken. What I find curious is how you could have lived in the same town for three yearsand never met the man. Not once, you say. Excuse me, Mr. Kaiser, but wasn’t it your job to beg for the scraps of the local gentry?”
Kaiser turned to Nick as if he hadn’t heard a word Thorne had said. “Please escort Mr. Thorne from the premises,” he said pleasantly. “I’m afraid we’ve run out of time.”
Nick admired Kaiser’s self-restraint. He placed a hand on Thorne’s back and said, “Let’s go.”
Thorne spun to knock the hand away. “I don’t need an escort, Neumann, thanks all the same.” He pointed his finger at Kaiser. “Don’t forget my offer. A little information on Mevlevi is all that’s required or else I’ll take your whole damned bank down with you standing at the wheel. Is that clear? We know all about you. Everything.”
He walked away from the Chairman, and as he passed Nick, he smiled and whispered, “I’m not through with you, young man. Check your mail.”
As soon as Thorne had gone, Rita Sutter swept into the office, her dignified bearing restored. “That man is a beast. Why, t
he nerve . . .”
“Everything is all right, Rita,” said Kaiser, who looked pale and shrunken. “Would you be so kind as to bring me a cup of coffee and aBasel Leckerei.”
Rita Sutter nodded in response to the command, but instead of leaving, came a step closer to the Chairman. She placed a hand on his shoulder and asked tenderly,“Gehts? Are you all right?”
Kaiser lifted his head and met her eyes. He shook his head slightly and he sighed. “Yes, yes, I’m fine. The man brought up Stefan.”
She scowled, patting Kaiser on the shoulder, then walked out of the room.
When she had left, Kaiser straightened his shoulders, regaining some of his martial bearing. “You mustn’t believe the lies Thorne is spreading,” he said to Nick. “He’s a desperate man. Clearly he’ll stop at nothing to capture this man, this Mevlevi. Is it our job to be a policeman? I hardly think so.”
Nick cringed at hearing Kaiser fall back to the Swiss banker’s standard defense. To his ears, it was a startling admission of the bank’s complicity with the heroin dealer, Ali Mevlevi.
“Thorne has nothing,” Kaiser was saying, his voice grown vigorous once again. “He’s flailing his sword in the wind, hoping to chop down anything he comes in contact with. The man is a menace to the civilized business world.”
Nick nodded his head in understanding, thinking how odd life’s random and symmetrical balance could be. He had lost his father. Kaiser had lost his only son. For a moment he wondered if Kaiser had desired his arrival in Zurich more than he himself had.
“I’m sorry about your son,” he said softly, before leaving the room.
Wolfgang Kaiser did not acknowledge the condolence.
CHAPTER
28
Alone in the corridor, Nick breathed a sigh of relief. He began the short walk back to his office confused at what exactly he had just witnessed. He needed to decide who had been telling the truth and who had been lying. Most of what Thorne had said made perfect sense. If Ali Mevlevi had been a big shot in Beirut, Kaiser would at the least have known of him. More likely, he would have actively solicited his business. It was a branch manager’s job to circulate among the city’s better crowds, insinuate himself in its loftier circles, and at the appropriate time, normally, Nick imagined, after a second martini, suggest that they trust him with a good portion of their assets. Similarly, if Ali Mevlevi was the Pasha—which certainly seemed the case—then Kaiser would also know him. No man became chairman of a major bank by ignoring his most important clients. Certainly not Wolfgang Kaiser.
Numbered Account Page 24
