“You hold tight and give me some time to set something up. We have to arrange a welcoming committee on this end.”
“Hurry it up. I can’t call every hour. I got one more chance before we move out of here.”
The gate clanged, stopping at its fully opened position. The limousine advanced into the courtyard of the bank.
“Stay calm, Joe. You give me until Sunday and we’ll set up a nice reception. Take you out of the fire without getting you burned. I have to figure some way to take that product off the streets and still nail Mevlevi. You call me Sunday.”
“Yeah, all right. If that’s the way it’s gotta be.” Jester hung up.
“Hang in there,” Thorne said to the dead line. He exhaled and dropped the phone to his side. “You’re almost home, kid.”
Inside the courtyard of the United Swiss Bank, the taillights of the Mercedes flashed red as the limousine drew to a halt. Thorne looked on as the rear door of the automobile swung open and the top of a head emerged. The gate began closing: a long curtain of black metal rolling along a steel track. He recalled Jester’s words.He and Kaiser are tight. Keep your eye on the bank.
The first man out of the limousine was the chauffeur. He adjusted his jacket, then put on his cap. The back left door opened on its own. A head of black hair peeked out, then dipped back below the smoked glass.
Thorne dipped his head, trying to see past the moving screen. A pair of shiny loafers hit the pavement. He could hear the brush of the heels on the cement. Again the head popped up. The man was turning toward him.
Just a second longer,he begged.Please!
The gate crashed into place.
Thorne jogged toward the bank, curious to learn who had been inside the limousine. A laugh drifted over the wall. A voice said in English, “I haven’t been back for ages. Let’s have a look at the place.” Funny accent. Italian maybe. He stared at the gate for another minute and wondered,What if . . . ? Then he smiled and turned away. No way. Couldn’t be. He had never believed in coincidence. The world’s small. But not that small.
CHAPTER
46
“I purchased this piece thinking of you, Wolfgang,” said Ali Mevlevi as he stepped into Wolfgang Kaiser’s office. His arm was pointing at the fabulous mosaic of the mounted Saracen brandishing his sword above a one-armed moneylender. “I don’t get to see it often enough.”
Wolfgang Kaiser strolled to the door of his private elevator, his broad smile bursting with all the bonhomie in the world. “You must make it a habit to stop in more often. It has been a while since your last visit. Three years?”
“Nearly four.” Mevlevi grasped the outstretched hand and drew Kaiser in for a hug. “It’s more difficult to travel these days.”
“Not for much longer. I’m pleased to say that a meeting has been arranged on Monday morning with a colleague of mine, a man well placed in the naturalization department.”
“A civil servant?”
Kaiser raised his shoulders as if to say “Who else?” “One more who never quite got accustomed to living on his salary.”
“Doing your bit for privatization, are you?”
“Unfortunately, the fellow is located in the Tessin, in Lugano. Neumann scheduled the meeting for ten A.M. It will mean an early start.”
“You will be joining me, Mr. Neumann?”
Nick said yes and added that they would be departing at seven Monday morning.
He had just presided over the counting of twenty million dollars in cash. For two and a half hours, he had stood in a small, antiseptic room two floors underground helping break the seals on slim packets of one-hundred-dollar bills and handing the money to a portly clerk for the counting. At first, the sight of so much cash had left him giddy. But as time passed and his fingers grew smudged with the U.S. Treasury’s ink, his giddiness grew to boredom and then to anger. He could not continue the charade much longer.
Mevlevi had watched it all, never once growing restless. Funny thing, Nick thought, the only ones who didn’t trust the Swiss banks were the crooks who used them.
Kaiser took his favorite seat under the Renoir. “If a Swiss passport is strong enough to protect Marc Rich against the wrath of the United States government, I’m sure it will do for you.”
Mevlevi sat on the couch, dapperly pinching the knees of his trousers. “I must accept your word on this.”
“Rich hasn’t been bothered by the American authorities since he set up his domicile in Zug,” enthused Kaiser.
Before becoming a fugitive from justice, Marc Rich had been president of Phillipp Bros., the world’s largest commodities trading corporation. In 1980, he had found the submarket oil prices offered by the newly installed fundamentalist government of Iran irresistible, and despite the American government’s strict embargo on trading with the Ayatollah Khomeini, had bought as much of the stuff as he could. He sold the lot to the Seven Sisters’ traditional customers at one dollar below the OPEC floor and made a killing.
Soon afterward, the U.S. Treasury Department traced the orders to buy the restricted oil back to New York and from there to the offices of one Marc Rich. Rich’s lawyers kept the government at bay for over two years, agreeing to fines as high as fifty thousand dollars a day to keep their client out of jail. But soon it became clear that the government’s case was rock solid, and that if tried, Rich would take an extended vacation behind the bars of a federal country club. Discretion, and in this instance, self-preservation, being the better part of valor, Rich skedaddled to Switzerland, a country holding no extradition treaty with the United States for crimes of a fiscal or tax-oriented nature. He set up his new company’s headquarters in the canton Zug, where he hired a dozen traders, put some local big shots on the board, and made several generous donations to the local community. Soon afterward, Rich was awarded a Swiss passport.
Kaiser explained that Mevlevi suffered from a similar problem. Sterling Thorne was attempting to have his accounts frozen on grounds that he had violated statutes prohibiting money laundering, an act that Switzerland had only recently declared illegal. Generally speaking, no Swiss prosecutor would freeze the account of a wealthy citizen based solely on charges of money laundering brought by a foreign authority, however well supported by hard evidence. First, the suspect had to be tried and convicted. And lest any rash measures be taken, an appeal granted. Holding a Swiss passport would thus effectively prevent the U.S. DEA from obtaining a warrant to freeze Ali Mevlevi’s accounts. In one week, Sterling Thorne would be just a bad memory.
“And our other problem?” Mevlevi asked. “The nagging one that threatened to do us so much harm.”
Kaiser glanced at Nick. “Effectively resolved.”
Mevlevi relaxed. “So much the better. This trip has already freed me of a great many worries. Onward then? Do we have some time to review my account?”
“Of course.” Wolfgang Kaiser turned to his assistant. “Nicholas, would you mind running down to DZ and picking up Mr. Mevlevi’s mail. I’m sure he would like to take it with him.” He picked up the phone sitting on the coffee table and dialed a four-digit extension. “Karl? I am sending down a Mr. Neumann to pick up the file for numbered account 549.617 RR. Yes, I know one isn’t allowed to remove it from DZ. Indulge me this one time, Karl. What’s that? The second favor this week. Really?” Kaiser paused and looked directly at Nick. Nick could tell he was wondering what in the world the first favor had been. But this was no time for dawdling and in a second Kaiser continued his conversation. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you. His name is Neumann, Karl. He may look familiar to you. Call me if you recognize him.”
# # #
Nick was worried. Yes, he had anticipated that Mevlevi might want to review his file. Yes, he had been sure to bring back all the transaction confirmations he’d stolen from Mevlevi’s file three days ago. But, like a fool, he’d left them in his office, taped to the underside of the top drawer of his desk. Now he had one chance to replace the transaction confirmations in the f
ile before the Pasha discovered them missing. His only hope was to return to his office after retrieving the file and exchange the dummy envelopes for the real ones.
And therein lay his problem.
To retrieve the letters, he would have to pass the entrance to Kaiser’s outer offices with Mevlevi’s compendious file in hand. Rita Sutter might see him. Or Ott or Maeder, or any one of the executives who frequented the Chairman’s antechamber. Of course that wasn’t the only problem. During his call to Karl, Kaiser had referred to Nick twice specifically by name. The Chairman had even served up a riddle as to his identity.“Call me if you recognize him,” he’d said. Only three days ago, Nick had presented himself to Karl as Peter Sprecher. Now what would the old geezer think?
Nick waited for the elevator, frustrated at his lack of alternatives. He was scared. If Mevlevi discovered that his mail was missing, his crime would be discovered in a second. And then? Immediate dismissal if he was lucky. And if he wasn’t? Better not to think of it.
Nick decided that speed would be his only ally. He’d rush into DZ, grab the dossier, and rush out. Similarly, when he returned to the Fourth Floor, he would dash past the Emperor’s Lair and replace the stolen letters before anyone saw him. Carl Lewis was better suited to run this errand.
# # #
On the first floor, Nick strode briskly through the hallway until he reached the entry to DZ. He placed his back against the steel door, drew in three deep breaths, then opened it and marched to Karl’s counter.
“I’m here to pick up the file for account 549.617 RR for Herr Kaiser.”
Karl responded to the commanding edge of Nick’s voice. He spun, picked up the thick dossier, and handed it to the Chairman’s assistant in one fluid motion. Nick placed the dossier under his arm and turned to leave the office.
“Wait,” cried Karl. “The Chairman asked if I could recognize you. Give me a minute!”
Nick rotated his shoulders to the left and gave Karl his profile. “I’m sorry. We’re very busy. The Chairman expects to receive this dossier right away.” With that he exited the office as quickly as he had entered. The entire visit had lasted fifteen seconds.
He hit the stairwell running, taking the steps two by two. He held the dossier in his left hand and the banister in his right. After five upward strides, his knee gave out. He could raise the leg, but only if he was willing to endure a severe lick of pain. So much for speed. Now he had to make sure he suppressed a limp.
Nick rested when he reached the entry to the Fourth Floor. He could not imagine walking into Wolfgang Kaiser’s office and handing Ali Mevlevi a dossier from which privately addressed mail had been stolen. What would the man do when he opened up letters supposedly containing confirmations of his many deposits and transfers only to find blank paper?
The consequences were unthinkable. Yet only seconds from happening.
Nick opened the door that led to the Fourth Floor hallway and walked directly into Rudolf Ott.
“Excuse me,” said Ott, eyes wide with shock.
“I’m in a hurry to see the Chairman,” Nick blurted without thinking. As Ott was directly facing him, there was no way to judge in which direction the man was heading. If he was going to see Mrs. Sutter, Nick would have no choice but to accompany him.
Ott blinked anxiously through his thick glasses. “I thought you were with him right now. Well, what are you waiting for? Get moving.”
Nick sighed with relief and set off down the hallway. He could already see the wide entryway leading to the Chairman’s anteroom. Rita Sutter sat just inside and to the right. She would be expecting his return any minute and unless he practically ran by, she would see him. He had no choice but to lower his head and walk past the entryway. He told himself to disregard any remark he might hear. His own office was down the corridor and to the left. Fifteen seconds, twenty max, were all he needed to replace the Pasha’s correspondence.
Nick walked down the hallway, conscious of keeping an even gait. He was in a great deal of pain. Three steps and he would be in Rita Sutter’s view. Two steps. The double doors were wide open, just as they’d been when he had left a few minutes ago. His peripheral vision told him that Kaiser’s doors were shut and that the red light above them was illuminated. Do not disturb. Period!
Nick kept his head down and powered past the entryway. He thought he saw someone speaking with Rita Sutter but he couldn’t be sure. Anyway, it didn’t matter now. Another few steps and he would be around the corner, out of her sight. He slowed his pace and straightened his back. His worry had been for naught.
“Neumann,” a deep voice yelled.
Nick kept walking. One more stride and he was around the corner. If necessary he could lock his office door.
“Goddammit, Neumann, I called for you,” Armin Schweitzer boomed. “Stop this second.”
Nick slowed. He hesitated.
Schweitzer lumbered down the hall after him. “My God, man, are you deaf? I called your name twice.”
Nick turned on his heel. “The Chairman is expecting me. I need to get a few papers out of my office.”
“Bullshit,” said Schweitzer. “Rita told me where you’ve been. I see you have what you were sent for. Now get in there. You probably wanted to call a girlfriend, right? Make plans for a Friday night. It doesn’t do to keep the Chairman waiting.”
Nick looked down the corridor toward his office and then toward Schweitzer, who was extending an eager hand, ready to personally drag him back to the Chairman’s office. The choice between Ali Mevlevi and Armin Schweitzer was easy to make. “I said I have to get something out of my office. I’ll be with Herr Kaiser in a minute.”
Schweitzer was taken aback. He took a step toward Nick, then stopped. “Suit yourself. I’ll be sure to inform the Chairman later.”
Nick turned his back and continued to his office. Inside, he locked the door behind him and bustled to his desk. He opened the top drawer and felt under it for the Pasha’s correspondence. Nothing was there. Had he forgotten where he had taped the letters? He opened the drawers on his right, first one, then the second, even the third, though he knew he hadn’t hidden the letters there. Nothing was under any of the drawers. Someone had found the stolen correspondence.
# # #
Entering the Chairman’s anteroom, Nick saw that Rita Sutter was engaged on the telephone.
“I’m sorry, Karl, but the Chairman cannot be disturbed.” She punched a button, disconnecting the call, then motioned for him to stop at her desk. “Karl just asked me if a Mr. Sprecher had come down to DZ in your place.”
“Really?” Nick pried open a brittle smile. He had been sure he’d escaped scot-free.
“I don’t know how he confused you with Mr. Sprecher. You two don’t look anything alike. Poor Karl. I don’t like to see him getting older. We’re following close behind.” She dialed a two-digit number and after a moment said, “Mr. Neumann is back fromDokumentation Zentrale.”
“Send him in,” barked Kaiser, loud enough for Nick to hear.
Nick waited for Rita Sutter to pass on Karl’s quip to the Chairman, but she hung up the phone, then inclined her head toward the double doors.
Nick walked into the Chairman’s office. He was struck once again by its overwhelming size. The massive mahogany desk beckoned like a medieval altar. Dim light filtered in through the grand arched window. He looked through it, surveying the busy scene below. Trams passed one another. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. A large square flag bearing the blue and white shield of Zurich was strung above the street. He hadn’t noticed it before. He looked closer at the flag. Suddenly, it struck him that he knew this view. It was the one vivid memory from his father’s last visit to the bank, seventeen years ago. He imagined himself as a child, nose pressed to the window, marveling at the busy street scene below. Nick had been in the Emperor’s Lair when he was ten years old.
Kaiser and Mevlevi were still seated around the long coffee table. They paid no attention to his slow approach.
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br /> “How have my investments fared of late?” demanded the Pasha.
“Rather well,” said Kaiser. “As of yesterday afternoon’s close, your investment has earned twenty-seven percent in the last ten months.”
Nick listened, wondering what Kaiser had put the Pasha’s money into.
Mevlevi asked Kaiser, “And if this Adler Bank gains seats on your board?”
“We will not allow that to happen.”
“They’re close, no?”
Kaiser looked up at Nick, only now registering his return to the office. “Neumann, what’s the official tally? Take a seat. Here, give me that dossier.”
Reluctantly, Nick handed Mevlevi’s file to Wolfgang Kaiser. “The Adler Bank has stalled at thirty-one percent of outstanding votes. We are holding fifty-two percent. The rest are uncommitted.”
Mevlevi pointed to the dossier sitting on Kaiser’s lap. “And what percentage of the votes do I control?”
“You hold exactly two percent of our shares,” said Kaiser.
“But animportant two percent. Now I understand why you need my loan so badly.”
“Think of it as a guaranteed private placement.”
“Loan, placement, call it what you like. The terms you are offering still stand? Ten percent net after ninety days?”
“For the full two hundred million,” Kaiser confirmed. “The offer still stands.”
Nick grimaced at the usurious terms the Chairman so blithely offered.
Mevlevi asked, “Would this loan be used to buy shares?”
“Naturally,” said Kaiser. “It will raise our holdings to sixty percent. Konig’s bid will be effectively blocked.”
Mevlevi crinkled his brow, as if he had been misinformed. “But should the Adler Bank’s offer unravel, the price of your shares would plummet. I may stand to earn the ten percent you are offering on the two hundred million, but the value of my shares will decrease. We both stand to lose a good deal of money.”
“Only temporarily. We’ve taken steps to drastically improve our operating ratios and lift the year-end net profit. As soon as they’re in place, the price of our shares will far surpass their current level.”
Numbered Account Page 40
