Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where is he, Sylvia? Where is Soufi?”
Sylvia rubbed his back. “He’ll be here, sweetheart. Be patient. We’re almost finished with this month’s report.”
They returned to the section highlighting new business. Sylvia ran her finger down the list of names listed as new clients. A Mr. Alphons Knups, a Max Keller, a Mrs. Ethel Ward. Suddenly, she shouted, “Look, there it is.” She pointed to the last name on the list.
Nick pulled the file closer. Sure enough, there it was.Mr. A. Soufi. A star had been placed next to his name. Nick found the star at the bottom of the page and read that Soufi was a referral from Mr. C. Burki (VP) in USB’s London branch office.
“Bingo,” said Nick. “We found him.” He flipped to the back of the report for the supporting documentation that accompanied every new account. A sheet topped by Allen Soufi’s name was attached. However, neither occupation, business, nor home address was provided. At least there was a signature. Soufi had signed the sheet in an expansive looping script. Under “Comments” was written:“Cash deposit $250K.”
Nick checked the client profile sheets filled out by other new customers. Each one had given full biographical information: name, address, date of birth, passport number. Only Soufi had left his sheet blank. He nudged her shoulder. “My question is, who is C. Burki in London?”
Sylvia removed her glasses and wiped them on the hem of her shirt. “If he was in London, it’s more likely than not that he was a member of the finance department. Offhand, I can’t say I remember the name. I’ll check our personnel records. Maybe something will turn up.”
“Maybe.” Nick kept his doubt to himself. He’d looked up Soufi first on Cerberus and then Medusa, and found nothing.
For the next two hours, Nick and Sylvia read through the remaining reports and cross-checked the agenda. Numerous references were made to budgetary matters: actual versus projected revenues, a running tab of selling, general and administrative expenses. A steady stream of new corporate clients appeared each month. And, of course, there was mention of new private banking clients, always by name, always accompanied by a meticulously completed client information sheet. Nick asked himself again why Soufi hadn’t filled his out.
Nick finished reading the report for May and looked over at Sylvia. Her eyes were closed and her head was bobbing unsteadily. He felt as tired as she looked.
“Sylvia,” he whispered. “Time to call it quits.” He closed the binders as quietly as possible, then took his father’s agenda and shuffled into the corridor to place it in his briefcase.
“Don’t go,” came a weak voice. “You can stay here.”
“You don’t know how much I want to, but I have a big day tomorrow. I can’t.” He thought about how good it would feel to fall asleep with her back nestled close to his chest. He considered changing his mind but held firm. At eleven A.M. tomorrow, he’d be shaking hands with Ali Mevlevi, the Pasha, and extending the fullest courtesies of the bank to an international drug trafficker—sorry, to a “well-respected businessman.” He intended on getting a solid night’s rest. “I have to run if I’m going to make the last tram.”
“Nick . . .” she protested sleepily.
“I’ll call you in the morning. Can you return the binders and get the next six months of reports?”
“I’ll try. Should I set a place for you tomorrow night?”
“I don’t think that’ll work. Kaiser has a full day and night planned for me.”
“Call me if you change your mind. Remember Saturday, I’m going to my father’s.”
Nick knelt beside her and placed a strand of hair behind her ear. “And Sylvia . . . thanks.”
“For what?”
He looked at her a few seconds longer, wanting desperately to spend the night. He kissed her lightly. She reached an arm up and tried to bring him close for another kiss. He moved her arm gently back to her side. One more kiss would doom him. “Just thanks.”
CHAPTER
42
Wolfgang Kaiser gunned the twelve-cylinder engine of his BMW 850i along the expanse of the General Guisan Quai. To his right, lights burned from the windows of Zurich’s century-old concerthaus, the Tonhalle. To his left, a skirt of ice extended thirty meters from the lake’s shore. Past it, the surface of the lake was ruffled by a strong north wind.
Kaiser shivered involuntarily, glad he was warm and dry inside the automobile with the heater roaring. Things were looking up. Thanks to the rapid implementation of Maeder’s share accumulation plan, the bank had picked up three percent of its outstanding votes today. Young Neumann had added another one percent to the kitty, sweet-talking Hambros into committing their shares to current USB management. Perhaps most encouraging, the Adler Bank had been silent the entire day. Their traders had stood by passively as USB snapped up all available shares of its own stock: a packet valued by market’s close at over one hundred million Swiss francs. Maybe Konig was finally tapped out. Was it too much to hope for? Poor Klaus. An auction’s really no place to be without a checkbook in hand.
Kaiser allowed himself a moment of silent elation. He turned onto the Seestrasse, accelerating down the two-lane straightaway that would carry him to Thalwil, fifteen kilometers along the lake’s western shore. He checked the car’s digital clock. It read 9:08. He was late.
And now a chore. A task. A wayward baron’s final errand to secure his fiefdom.
Once completed, there was no reason Mevlevi shouldn’t turn over the two hundred million francs Kaiser required. The funds would guarantee his continued stewardship of the bank and doom Klaus Konig’s gamble to ignominious defeat.
First, one chore.
Kaiser appraised the clumpy object wrapped in oilskin that sat on the passenger seat. He had been surprised at its weight when he withdrew it from his private vault. It seemed much heavier than when he had last used it. But he had been a younger man then.
One task.
Kaiser checked the rearview mirror for traffic and found another man staring back at him. A man with dead eyes. His elation smoldered. Self-loathing replaced self-congratulation. How did this come to pass? he asked the unfeeling man. Why am I driving to Thalwil with a loaded pistol in the seat next to me? Why am I going to the home of a man who has worked by my side for thirty years, my only intention to fire a bullet into his skull?
Kaiser returned his gaze to the road. The automobile whisked past the turnoff to Wollishofen. He shrugged, disposing of his self-pity. The answer’s simple, he said, explaining his predicament to the weaker man. My life belongs to Mr. Ali Mevlevi, the distinguished trader from Beirut. I handed it to him years ago.
# # #
“I require the services of a Swiss bank.”
Patrolling the night, Kaiser hears the words as clearly as if they were spoken by an invisible passenger. They are words from another era, another lifetime. Days long past when he was a free man. He recalls the dashing figure of Ali Mevlevi, some twenty years ago. And instead of negotiating the final stretch of the slick road that leads to murder, he is at its beginning, and the road, like the weather, is dry. For no longer is he in Switzerland, but Beirut, and the year is 1978.I require the services of a Swiss bank,” says the dapper client, dressed like a British gentleman in a navy blazer, cream slacks, and rep striped tie. He is a youngish man, no more than forty, with thick black hair and a razor-sharp nose. Only his skin betrays him as a native.
“At your disposal,” answers the newly arrived branch manager, eager to be of service.
“I would like to open an account.”
“Of course.” A smile now. Show the client he has been wise to follow his instincts by choosing the United Swiss Bank as his financial partner, by entrusting the young and not yet altogether polished Wolfgang Kaiser to safeguard his money. “Will you be wiring funds to the account or making deposit by means of a check?”
“Neither, I’m afraid.”
A frown. But only fleeting. After all, there are many w
ays to begin a business relationship, and the new manager is the model of ambition. “Did you wish to make a cash deposit?”
“Precisely.”
A problem. Cash deposits to foreign institutions are not permitted in Lebanon. “To our office in Switzerland, perhaps?”
“To your office at 17 Al Muteeba Street, Beirut.”
“I see.” The branch manager informs his fastidiously groomed client that he cannot accept a cash deposit. Such an act would put his company’s banking license in jeopardy.
“I will be depositing a trifle over twenty million dollars.”
“Well, that is a large sum.” Kaiser smiles. He clears his throat but stands firm. “Alas, my hands are tied.”
The client continues as if he hasn’t heard. “The entire amount is in American banknotes. Primarily hundred-dollar bills. I am sorry but you will find some fifties and some twenties. Nothing smaller. I promise.”
What a reasonable man, this client, this Mr. . . . Kaiser consults the silver tray that bears the prospective client’scarte de visite, thisMr. Ali Mevlevi. No tens. No fives. He is a saint.”Should you wish to deposit this amount in Switzerland, I’m sure arrangements could be made. Unfortunately . . .” The manager motions with his good arm that he appreciates the opportunity but in this instance must let it fly away.
Mr. Mevlevi is undaunted. “Did I mention the fee I am willing to pay for you to accept this deposit? Is four percent adequate?”
Kaiser cannot hide his astonishment. Four percent? Eight hundred thousand dollars. Double his projected profit for the entire operating year! What is he to do? Pack it in his suitcase and transport it to Switzerland himself. The thought crosses his mind, lingering a moment longer than wise. His throat has dried and he requires some water. He forgets to offer a glass to his fabulously wealthy client.
Mevlevi pays the faux pas no heed. “Perhaps you should discuss how you wish to treat the deposit with your superiors. Will you join me this evening for a late supper? Mr. Rothstein, a close friend, manages a charming establishment. Little Maxim’s. Do you know it?”
Kaiser smiles graciously. Does he know it? Every man in Beirut short of the hundred-dollar entry fee and the clout to gain admittance knows Little Maxim’s. An invitation? The branch manager does not hesitate. The bank would insist he accept. “It would be a pleasure.”
“I hope to have a favorable response by then.” Mevlevi offers a soft handshake and departs.
Little Maxim’s at the height of the Lebanese civil war. A sultry Friday evening. Wolfgang Kaiser is wearing his favorite garment, a tailored silk dinner jacket, its ivory color chosen to offset his burnished skin, suitably darkened by the Levantine sun. A burgundy kerchief flares from his breast pocket. His hair is rich with brilliantine, his mustache impeccably groomed. He waits at the side entrance. His appointment is for ten P.M. He is twelve minutes early. Timeliness outranks godliness on the banker’s list of virtues.
At the appointed hour he mounts the stairs. The club is dimly lit, some corners nearly obscure. His eyes swallow a dozen objects at once. The voluptuous blonde on stage twirling quite naked around a ceiling-high silver pole. The hostess walking to greet him whose scant silver tunic covers only one breast. The tuxedoed gentleman drawing deeply from a hookah of gigantic proportions. He stares until a rough hand lands on his shoulder and guides him to a smoky corner of the club. Ali Mevlevi remains seated, gesturing to an unoccupied chair across the table.
“Have you spoken to your colleagues in Zurich? Mr. Gautschi, I believe.”
The young branch manager smiles nervously and unbuttons his jacket. Mevlevi is well informed. “Yes, I reached them late this afternoon. I am sorry to say that we cannot help you in this instance. The risk of losing our banking license is simply too great. Believe me, it is painful for us to pass up the opportunity to initiate a business relationship with an eminent businessman such as yourself. Should you, however, wish to deposit your funds in Switzerland, we would be more than happy to assist your banking needs.”
Kaiser fears his host’s response. He has asked around about Mevlevi. It seems he is involved in all manner of activities, some of them even legitimate: money brokering, real estate, textiles. But rumor suggests his primary means of income derives from the international transport of heroin. In no uncertain terms, he is a dangerous man.
“The money is here!” Mevlevi brings a hand down on the table, upsetting a glass of Scotch. “Not in Switzerland. How am I to take my money to your bank? Do you think your customs officials welcome a Turk from Lebanon with open arms?” He scoffs. “You think we are all members of the Black September. I am an honest businessman. Why do you not wish to help us?”
Kaiser has delivered his canned response. He is at a loss for words. Mevlevi’s unflinching gaze tears into him. He fumbles for something to say, and when he speaks his tongue has reacquired the clumsy accent of his country. “We must follow regulations. There are so few alternatives.”
“You meanno alternatives. Do you expect me to leave my money with this bunch of thieves?”
Kaiser shakes his head no, confused. It is his first lesson in the topsy-turvy calculus of Middle Eastern business practice.
Mevlevi leans across the table and grabs Kaiser’s withered arm. “I can see that you wish to help me.”
Kaiser is shocked at the affront to his deformity. But it is his eyes, not his arm, that feel Mevlevi’s grasp, and as if hypnotized, he nods yes.
Mevlevi calls for a waiter and orders a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label. The Scotch arrives. He proposes a toast. “To the spirit of enterprise. The world belongs to those who fashion it in their image!”
# # #
An hour or two or three later, Kaiser enjoys the attentions of a slim young woman. A waif, he would call her. Long black hair frames a sensuous face. Frail dark eyes flash from under thick lashes. Another drink and the strap of a sequined cocktail dress dangles off a soft but well-muscled shoulder. Her English is impeccable. She asks in a throaty voice for him to move closer. He cannot draw himself away from her probing fingers and her sweet breath. She insists on saying the nastiest things.
Mevlevi is smoking another of his filthy Turkish cigarettes. Black tobacco bombs expelling rivers of blue smoke. His glass is full. Isn’t it always?
# # #
The raven-haired waif has insisted that Kaiser accompany her to her apartment. Who is he to deny? After all, it is only three blocks from the club, and the grand Mevlevi has given his benediction, a fraternal pat on the back and a sly wink that all would be taken care of at Little Maxim’s. The girl asks for a drink and points to the bar. Kaiser splashes liberal helpings of Scotch into two glasses. He knows he has drunk too much but is not sure if he cares. Perhaps recklessness becomes him. She puts the glass to his lips and he takes a sip. She swallows the rest in one fearsome gulp. She staggers and searches the folds of her handbag. Something is awry. An unpleasant cast crosses her features. Suddenly, she is smiling. The problem is resolved. An immaculate pile of white powder sits on the underside of a perfectly manicured fingernail. She sniffs and then offers the like to her evening’s companion. He shakes his head, but she insists. He bends forward and sniffs. “The white pony,” she giggles and offers him another pile.
The banker from Zurich is growing disoriented. He has never felt such a roar of blood through his veins. The pressure builds in his head, only to be replaced a moment later by relief. His chest tingles. Warmth suffuses his entire body. He wants only to sleep, but a greedy hand rouses him, its kneading grip drawing the heat from his chest to his loins. Through glazed eyes, he sees the lovely woman from Little Maxim’s undoing his pants and taking him into her mouth. He has never been harder. His vision blurs and he realizes he has forgotten her name. He opens his eyes to ask. She is before him, her dress peeled down to her waist. Her chest is flat, her nipples too small and pale and surrounded by tufts of black hair. Kaiser sits up, yells for this woman . . . forthis man to stop, but another pair of hands holds
him back. He struggles drunkenly, vainly. He neither sees nor feels the needle that enters the prominent blue vein running across the top of his shrunken left hand.
# # #
“If you’ll sign at the bottom of the paper, we can put this messy situation behind us.”
Ali Mevlevi hands Wolfgang Kaiser a receipt issued by the Beirut representative office of the United Swiss Bank for the sum of twenty million U.S. dollars. Where he has procured the official paper is a mystery. As is so much else.
Kaiser meticulously refolds his handkerchief and places it in his pocket before reaching forward to accept the document. He places the receipt on top of a stack of color photographs, eight by tens. Photographs of which he, Wolfgang Andreas Kaiser, is a prominent subject, one might even say the star. He and a horribly mutilated transvestite he has learned carried the name Rio.
Kaiser signs his name to the document, knowing with each loop of the pen that this “messy situation” will never be behind him. Mevlevi watches with detached interest. He points to three worn duffel bags stuffed to bursting slumped in the entryway. “Either you discover a way to deposit the money within three days or I will report it stolen. Your country looks rather harshly upon bank fraud, does it not? Lebanon is no different. But I fear her jails are not so comfortable as your own.”
Kaiser straightens his back. His eyes are puffy and his nose stuffed. He tears off the top copy of the receipt, places it in an empty plastic tray, then gives the yellow copy to Mevlevi. The Swiss banker’s refuge is order; procedure, his sanctuary. The pink copy, he says, will stay in this office. The white copy will go to Switzerland. “With the money,” he adds, managing a smile.
“You are a remarkable man,” says Mevlevi. “I see I have chosen the proper partner.”
Kaiser nods perfunctorily. Now they are partners. What torture will this relationship hold in store for him?
Numbered Account Page 37
