Thorne picked up the white envelope and looked at it. He knew what the letter would say. Take a step down the ladder. Do as we tell you and keep your big yap closed. He slid his thumb under the flap and tore it open. A fax from the director’s office. Shit, not even a letter. He read the text. It confirmed what he suspected, what he should have guessed the second he saw Strait’s grinning mug. Demotion to second banana.
Thorne tossed the letter into the trash. “So this is how it’s going to be?”
“No,” answered Strait.“This is how it is.”
“Congratulations, Terry. Welcome back to the field.” Thorne offered his hand. “Or have you ever been out of admin before?”
Strait waved away the hand. “Clear out ofmy office now. Get your crap and move. There’s a desk for you across the hall. The one next to the trash can.”
“Terry, you can be a real s.o.b.,” Thorne said mockingly.
“It’ll do you good to take orders again. And believe me, I have plenty for you. Tomorrow, I’m seeing Franz Studer to go over how we might patch up the mess you’ve made.”
“Be sure to give him your bank account in case any of his buddies want to give you an early Christmas present.”
“Fuck you, Thorne.”
“Careful now, Terry. God won’t let you into heaven if you use theF word.”
Strait stalked out of the office.
Sterling Thorne placed his hands behind his head and looked out the window. Snow fell, dusting the cars parked along the street. A low cloud cover gave the night a downy softness. For a moment, he considered packing it in. Strait wanted Eastern Lightning, let him have it.
“No, goddammit!” Thorne said out loud, crashing his fist onto the desktop in booming punctuation. “The Pasha is mine.”
Thorne watched as the good reverend shuffled down the pathway, afraid to lift a foot too high off the walk for fear he’d discover a hidden sheet of ice. Slow and cautious. Mr. Routine. Move him to Zurich, give him responsibility for the operation, what’s that going to get you? A surefire recipe for disaster. If Jester wasn’t in danger before, he sure as hell was now.
One thing was for certain. He would not work under Terry Strait. No sir-fuckin’-ree Bob!
So deep was he in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the telephone in the other room until it had rung a second time. He walked into Wadkins’s office and picked up the phone.
“Yeah,” he answered, too tired to wonder who the hell was calling at one in the morning.
“Sterling Thorne, please.”
“This is Thorne.” He heard money being added to a pay phone.
“Agent Thorne, this is Joe Habib.”
Thorne felt as though he’d been struck by lightning.“Jester? That you? You’re alive?” Thought Mevlevi had taken care of you, he almost added. “Why the hell haven’t you checked in? You’ve missed two call-ins.”
“I don’t have enough coins to talk for a long time, so listen. I am in Brindisi, Italy. We’re unloading over two tons of product. It’s been secreted into a shipment of cedar paneling. We are bringing it over the border in two or three days’ time. Through Chiasso and then to Zurich.”
“Slow down, boy.” Thorne checked the window again. Strait rounded the corner and disappeared from view. “Joe, take this number. It’s for my private phone. Don’t call the main number again. Ever. The line may not be secure. We have to chance it with a cellular. Contact me directly. Is that clear?” Thorne read off the number to his cellular.
“Why? I was told in case of emerg—”
“Don’t argue with me, Joe. Do as you’re told.”
“Yes sir, I understand.”
A bell bleated repeatedly in Thorne’s earpiece. Jester was running out of change. “Now tell me again about this shipment. What are you doing in Italy?”
“It’s Mevlevi. He doesn’t trust the Makdisis anymore. I’m supposed to be his watchdog. Thorne, we finally got our break. The shipment is coming to Zurich.”
“Where is he?” Thorne asked, unable to keep the desperation from his voice. “Where is Mevlevi? What about his army?”
“Mevlevi is—”
“Joe?” The line was dead.
Thorne put the phone down. And though he hadn’t been able to question Jester about Mevlevi or the arms, he felt as if God had just whispered in his ear. A shipment was coming into Zurich. Hallelujah!
Thorne ran to his office and set to work with a determined glee. Working methodically, he gathered all the papers he would need. Transcripts of Jester’s messages, historical files on Mevlevi, “top secret” intercepts from the Defense Intelligence Agency confirming wire transfers, both incoming and outgoing, to and from Mevlevi’s accounts at USB. Anything and everything that might be useful in the coming days was crammed into his worn briefcase. This done, he scribbled a note to Strait stating his decision to voluntarily retire from the case. “Adios, Terry,” he wrote. “She’s all yours.”
Thorne threw on his overcoat, grabbed his tired briefcase, and marched down the narrow path leading from Wildbachstrasse 58. As he walked, one word buzzed and crackled in his head. It rang sweet and clear in his ears, and tasted even better on his lips. It promised him the world. It gave him another chance at Neumann and a final shot at Mevlevi. Oh, God, how he loved that word!
Redemption.
CHAPTER
40
Nick had been seated at his desk exactly three minutes when Reto Feller telephoned.
“The Adler Bank has crossed over thirty percent,” came the frantic voice.
“I hadn’t heard.”
“Get in at a decent hour. Everyone knows.”
Nick checked his watch. It was five minutes past seven. The bank was deserted. “Bad news.”
“A disaster. Konig needs three percent to get his seats. We have to stop the bastard. Have you started selling?”
“I’m starting now.”
“Get to it. Call me at ten. Let me know how many orders you have on the floor.”
Feller hung up before Nick could answer.
# # #
Three hours later, Nick’s eyes were burning from the glare of the computer screen. One stack of portfolio printouts sat on the floor, rising as high as his desktop. Another stack sat directly in front of him. Each portfolio belonged to an investor who had given the bank discretionary power to trade his account. Nick’s job was to sell fifty percent of the Swiss franc value of the equities in each of these portfolios and issue an order to buy USB shares for the equivalent amount. So far that morning he’d “liberated”—as Martin Maeder encouraged him to think of his task—over twenty-seven million Swiss francs from seventy numbered accounts. That came out to twenty-three accounts an hour, or one every two minutes forty-five seconds. Essentially, it was piecework once you got the hang of it.
Nick reached across his desk and picked off the next portfolio. This one had a name. Surprise, surprise. An Italian, one Renato Castilli. Nick flipped the pages. He would sell off Metallgesellschaft, Morgan Stanley, Nestle, and Lonrho. Two of them were dogs. No harm done. He typed the sell orders into Medusa and passed them to the floor. In two minutes he had liberated over Sfr. 400,000 from Signor Castilli’s portfolio. An order to purchase a corresponding amount of USB shares was duly entered.Finito!
Nick pushed back his chair and stretched his frame. He needed a break. His eyes were watery and his back was stiff. Five minutes. Visit the bathroom, get a drink of water. Then back to the mill. He was a machine.
A conference call with Hambros Bank in London was set for eleven. Hambros held roughly ten million pounds’ worth of USB stock. Nick had the spiel memorized cold by now. USB would cut costs by offering early retirement and firing nonessential staff, up efficiency through increased computerization, create a merchant banking division, and expand its trading operations. The result: an increase of between two and four percent to their operating ratios within twelve months. After that, who knew? Bankruptcy or a banner year.
At twelve, he had a
lunch date with Sylvia. She had promised to bring more monthly activity reports filed by his father from the Los Angeles office. The first binder she had supplied had been a bust. Nineteen seventy-five was too long ago. He needed everything she could find for the period from January 1978 through January 1980. She seemed to be having no problems getting ahold of the reports. If she was scared about being asked why she needed them, she hadn’t told him.
Nick closed his eyes and for a second was blessed with the scent of her skin. He returned his gaze to the monitor in front of him, but instead of perusing the holdings of a numbered account, he was watching Sylvia all over again, replaying the golden moments of their weekend together, already three days and half a century past. He saw her reflection in the Chronometrie Beyer as she pointed to an obscenely expensive diamond-encrusted wristwatch and raised her eyebrows in comic disbelief, though he was sure he spotted a glimmer of envy, too; he was standing next to her in Teuscher as she popped apetite gourmandise into her mouth and proclaimed itwunderbar; he was lying against her warm body among the tousled sheets of her bed after they’d made love, counting the shades of blond in her hair.He was staring transfixed at the perfect curve of her naked breasts as she writhed and whispered, and then collapsed onto him, suddenly silent.
Nick had been seeing Sylvia for two weeks now. He kept expecting his infatuation with her to die down. But that hadn’t happened. Each time he saw her, he suffered a moment of sheer anxiety, scared that she might inform him that their relationship was over. Then she would smile and kiss him on the cheek, and his fears would subside. She was constantly on his mind. If he heard something funny, he wanted to share it with her; if he read an interesting article, he wanted to call her and tell her to read it, too. But despite their intimacy, he was often unable to figure how she looked at things. Like him, Sylvia guarded a part of herself hidden, a part he knew he’d never discover.
The phone rang. It was Felix Bernath from the floor of the exchange. “You have a fill on five thousand shares of USB at three seventy,” he said. Nick thanked him and picked up another portfolio. He flipped back the cover page and began looking for likely sales candidates, category Q-Z. The phone rang again and he answered it immediately.
“Another fill for me, Felix?” he said sarcastically.
“What’s that, Nick? Filling sandbags, are you?”
Nick recognized the insouciant patter. “Hello, Peter. What do you want? I’m busy.”
“Expiation, chum. I’m calling to make up. I was dead wrong to ask you what I did. I knew it then and I know it now. I’m sorry.”
Nick had lost his capacity for forgiveness. “That’s nice, Peter. Maybe we can get together when this contest is over. Until then, forget it. Keep your distance, okay?”
“Such the hard-liner. I expected as much. I didn’t call just to chat. I have something for you. I’m sitting here enjoying a double espresso at Sprungli, second floor. Why not come and join me?”
“What, are you kidding? You expect me to skip out of here because you havesomething for me ?”
“I’m not really asking. I’m telling you. This time you have to trust me. I assure you it’s in your best interest. And the bank’s, for that matter—Kaiser’s, not Konig’s. Meet me here as quickly as possible. It took me three minutes to walk here; it will take you four. On your mark. Get set. Go.”
# # #
Four minutes later, Nick’s snow-capped head mounted the stairs leading to Sprungli’s main dining hall. The room was filled with midday habitues, mainly women of a certain age, impeccably dressed and bored to distraction. An old rumor suggested that women breakfasting alone on Sprungli’s second floor between the hours of nine and eleven were seeking the company of gentlemen for pursuits rather less genteel than shopping.
Sprecher signaled to Nick from a corner table. An empty demitasse sat in front of him. “Espresso?”
Nick remained standing. “What’s on your mind? I can’t be away from my desk for long.”
“First, I’m sorry. I want you to forget that I ever asked about those blasted shares. Konig said you were too good a target to pass up. He hit on me to give you a call. Point me in the right direction and I march. That’s me. The loyal soldier.”
“That’s a pathetic excuse.”
“Come on, Nick. First couple of days on the job. Eager to do anything to please the wallahs upstairs. Surely, you know what I’m talking about. Christ, you practically did the same thing yourself.”
“I didn’t try to betray a friend.”
“Look, it was a vulgar proposition. Case closed. Won’t happen again.”
Nick pulled out a chair and sat down. He ran a hand through his hair, and flakes of snow tumbled onto the table. “Let’s get to it. What do you have for me?”
Sprecher pushed a white sheet of paper toward him. “Read this. I found it on my desk this morning. I’d say it evens the score between us.”
Nick pulled the sheet closer. It was a photocopy and not a very good one. The sheet listed the names of five institutional shareholders of USB stock, their approximate holdings, the portfolio manager, and his telephone number. He raised his head abruptly. “I typed this sheet.”
Sprecher smiled, victorious. “Bingo. Your initials are at the top. “NXM.’Whoever copied this did a shoddy job. You can see half of the USB logo.”
Nick looked at Peter skeptically. “Where did you get this?”
“Like I said, it fell on my desk.” Sprecher fumbled for a cigarette. Something in his face weakened. “If you must know, George von Graffenried threw it at me. He’s Konig’s right-hand man at the bank. George mumbled something about an investment finally yielding a dividend. It seems, chum, you have a very naughty mole in your organization.”
“Jesus Christ,” Nick muttered under his breath. “This sheet is from my desk. Only a few people have seen it.”
“Only takes one.”
Nick counted off the names of those he knew had copies of the sheet: Feller, Maeder, Rita Sutter, and of course, Wolfgang Kaiser. Who else might have seen it? Immediately, Nick recalled the guilty expression of a lumbering prowler caughtin flagrante stealing a glance at his papers. Armin Schweitzer had been so emboldened—or so desperate—as to even request a copy of this very sheet. Nick’s cheeks colored with anger and embarrassment.
Peter took back the sheet, folded it neatly, and replaced it in his jacket pocket. “I’ll have to contact these investors. No way around that, is there? But, I’ve got a feeling a few of these chaps may be tied up this morning. Best wait until later this afternoon or early tomorrow. You know these intercontinental connections. Devilishly poor at times.”
Nick stood and put out his hand. “Thanks, Peter. I’d say this evens the score.”
Sprecher shook it uneasily, an odd expression straining his features. “Still haven’t figured out whether I’m a hero or a whore.”
# # #
Nick rushed back to the bank, his mind boiling with conspiracy. He passed Hugo Brunner without so much as a hello and took an elevator reserved for clients directly to the Fourth Floor. “Two can play at this game,” he whispered to himself.
Inside his office, Nick made a beeline for his desk. He shoved the endless stack of client portfolios to one side and positioned himself squarely before the computer. He exited Medusa and logged on to Cerberus, where he accessed the word-processing software. The noble struggle to “repatriate” shares of USB would have to wait a few minutes. He had a more urgent calling: ferreting out a traitor.
First he accessed the list of institutional shareholders holding blocks of USB shares. It was the same list now in Peter Sprecher’s possession—the list that he was certain had been taken from his desk. Once it was on the screen, he erased the date and all pertinent shareholder information: name, phone number, address, and finally contact person. He typed in today’s date and moved to the area reserved for shareholder information. In this space, he added the name of a heretofore unknown shareholder—a group Martin Maeder, Re
to Feller, and he had failed to locate during their initial screening. He chewed on his pen, trying hard to recollect the institution’s name. Ah, yes, he had it.The Widows and Orphans Fund of Zurich. He typed in the name and next to it wrote “140,000 shares held in trust at J. P. Morgan, Zurich. Contact Edith Emmenegger.”
Happy with this piece of fiction, Nick inserted a piece of USB stationery into his laser printer and printed the document. He took it in his hands and reviewing the information, saw that he had forgotten to list the phone number of the good Mrs. Emmenegger. Whose number could he use? His own was out of the question. The prefix for the USBPersonalhaus was the same as the bank’s. Only one other number came to mind. He called it and waited for the answer. As he hoped, a machine picked up. A woman’s voice said, “You have reached 555-3131. No one can take your call at this time. Please leave your name, phone number, and any message after the tone. Thank you.”
“Thank you,Sylvia,” Nick whispered. “Or should I say “Frau Emmenegger’?” He typed in her phone number and reprinted the document. Once more he held it up for examination. Everything was in place. To authenticate it, he jotted some notes in the margin. “Called at 10 and 12.” He added yesterday’s date and “No answer. Message left.” It was complete. He marched around his desk paper in hand, surveying where to put it for best effect. Somewhere obvious, but not out of place. He settled on tucking the document under the bottom left side of the telephone so that only the U and the S of the letterhead were visible. He stepped away from the desk and admired hispetit chef-d’oeuvre, his little masterpiece. His gem of misinformation.
# # #
Wolfgang Kaiser circled his office, enjoying a Cuban cigar while listening to Nicholas Neumann relate how he had convinced Hambros Bank to vote with the USB slate of directors at the general assembly. “That is wonderful news,” he said when his assistant had finished. “Where does that leave us, then?”
Neumann’s voice blurted from the speakerphone. “At around forty-five percent. Feller will have the exact tally. Adler passed thirty percent this morning, but it looks like their purchasing power has begun to dryup.”
Numbered Account Page 35
