Feller froze where he was, back turned to Nick.
Nick grabbed the edge of the Pasha’s file and freed it from its bin. He opened its cover and took out the pile of fake correspondence he had made up a few days before. Then, he rammed the file—which was much thicker than he had remembered—into the back of his pants, pulling his jacket down to cover the bulge. Christ, it felt like he had an anvil strapped to his waist.
The guard called once again across the room. “Hurry up and come back here. What are you doing?”
Feller answered with an irreverence Nick hadn’t known he possessed. “We’re climbing the walls, what do you think?” He looked over his shoulder at Nick and winked.
“Hurry up, then,” replied the guard. “Zurich Grasshopper is playing Neuchatel Xamax. You damn suits will make me miss the kickoff.”
Nick tapped Feller on the leg and handed him the surrogate file. “Put that back for me, will you. You can reach the bin from where you are.”
The security guard popped his head around the corner. His regard went from Nick to Feller.
Feller replaced the dossier and dropped to the ground. “Looks like our race will have to be rescheduled. Got everything you need?”
Nick held up the counterfeit bundle of the Pasha’s correspondence. “Everything.”
CHAPTER
54
Nick walked into the Keller Stubli that evening at a few minutes past nine. His neck and shoulders bristled with tension, but it was a tension born of impatience, not desperation. For once, he was acting instead of reacting. His plan to steal the Pasha’s file had come off brilliantly. A quick glance at the file’s contents proved that everything was still in its place: the bank’s copies of every transfer confirmation, the matrices specifying the name and accounts where his funds were wired every Monday and Thursday, the names of the portfolio managers who had so modestly administered his account. And along with the file, he had managed to bring something of his own out of the bank. A scheme to nail both Mevlevi and Kaiser. The knowledge that he might be able to regain control of his future sent a current through his system, fueling the tightness that had settled around his shoulders. Good news from Sprecher and the day would be complete.
Nick let his eyes wander the room. He didn’t believe he’d been followed at any time that day, but he couldn’t be certain. Walking to the bar, he had kept an eye behind him, stopping frequently at shop windows and searching their reflections for the shadow of a man or woman moving a shade too slowly. That he had neither seen nor felt another’s presence was no guarantee of his security. A team of professionally trained surveillance artists could shadow him for days without his knowing it. And so, he could not afford to let his guard down.
The bar was filling up rapidly. Customers crowded the score of wooden tables that lined the walls. A jazzy backbeat pounded from the loudspeakers. Sprecher, lit cigarette in hand, occupied his usual place at the far end of the bar.
“Any luck?” Nick asked. “Could you pull up any data on the Ciragan Trading account?”
“The place was a zoo,” said Sprecher. “Konig handed down a case of Dom Perignon to the traders to celebrate our victory. Manna from heaven.”
“A little early, isn’t it?”
“Konig’s pulled out all the stops. He’s had a secret weapon all along. Seems that conditional on his passing the thirty-three-percent barrier, a couple of big American banks had agreed to provide him bridge financing to make a cash bid for all the shares of USB he doesn’t own. Monday morning at eight o’clock, he’ll announce an offer to pay five hundred francs for every share not in his possession. That’s a twenty-five-percent premium to yesterday’s close.”
“That’s three billion francs.” Nick closed his eyes for a second. Talk about overkill! “Kaiser will fight it.”
“He’ll try, but so what? How many of the shares you’re counting on to vote with current management do you actually own? Twenty-five, thirty percent?”
Nick did his sums. Even after Maeder’s liberation plan, USB owned only about forty percent of its shares outright. The other shares belonged to institutions they’d convinced to stick with Kaiser. “A little more than that,” he said.
“No matter,” replied Sprecher. “By Tuesday at one P.M., Konig will have over sixty-six percent of the bank in his pocket. Who can turn down that kind of premium?”
“Kaiser will find a white knight.”
“He won’t have the chance.”
Nick realized Sprecher was right. The assembly had attracted so much publicity that portfolio managers from New York, Paris, and London were flying in to attend. One whiff of the price Konig was offering and they’d jump ship. Hambros, Banker’s Trust—all the groups Nick had spent so much time wooing would vote their shares with the Adler Bank. And why not? Just two months ago, USB shares were trading at three hundred francs. No one could resist that kind of return.
“You can imagine the frenzy,” Sprecher went on. “Everyone at the Adler Bank has been working a long time toward this moment. It was near to chaos. A man couldn’t move in there, let alone try and steal something. And it’s going to be the same tomorrow. Konig ordered all the troops back at ten A.M.—a last push before the assembly Tuesday.”
Nick raised his eyes dejectedly. “So you’re telling me you couldn’t get the info on Ciragan Trading?”
Sprecher patted him grimly on the shoulder as if to offer his condolences. Suddenly, he grinned. “I never said any such thing.” He drew an envelope from his jacket and ran it under Nick’s nose. “Every last detail your little heart desires. Uncle Peter wouldn’t let his—”
“Oh, shut up, Peter, and give me that thing.” Nick ripped the envelope out of Sprecher’s hand and they both began laughing.
“Go ahead. Open it. Unless you feel the forces of darkness have us in their sights.”
Reflexively, Nick checked over his shoulders. The crowd hadn’t grown in the last ten minutes. He spotted no one paying him undue attention. Meanwhile, the envelope was burning the flesh of his fingertips. He glanced once at Sprecher, then slid a thumb under the fold and tore open the envelope. On the Adler Bank’s engraved stationery was printed a weekly accounting of shares of the United Swiss Bank purchased for benefit of account E1931.DC—Ciragan Trading. Purchase date, settlement date, price, commission, number of shares—it was all there.
“You didn’t just type this up, did you?” Nick asked, joking.
“Couldn’t if I wanted to. See there at the lower left-hand corner. Those four numbers followed by the letters AB. That’s our internal reference for the operation I requested to print out these shares. Somewhere in our database there is a record of my little theft.”
Nick finished for his friend. “So if we call up that record, we’ll get the exact same info as you have.”
“Natch,” said Sprecher, and then he winked. “It was too damned easy. Like I said, the place was bloody chaotic. Faris, our equities guru, sits with his back to me at the next station over. I knew where to look, I just needed the opportunity. Filled the good man’s glass with bubbly, Uncle Peter did, and voila, presto magico. Off he went for a pit stop and off I went to his desk. It’s not as if he logs into and out of his computer each time he gets up. I sat my bottom down as if I ruddy well belonged there. Didn’t look over my shoulder once. Just tapped in the account name, requested a historical record of all movements into and out of the account for the last eighteen months, and hit “Print.’ And don’t worry, Nick, I returned the computer to the screen it was on when I sat down—currency cross rates or some such. He never knew I was there. And you, Nick. How did thee fare?”
Nick knew he’d have a hard time matching Sprecher’s joyous recitation, so he decided on a low-key performance. “The Pasha’s file in its entirety.” He tapped the briefcase at his side. “With what’s inside and the list you gave me, we can check if Mevlevi’s transfers match Konig’s purchases.”
“Good boy. Of course, you I never doubted.”
&nbs
p; “For now, I’m turning the file over to you. Too dangerous to keep it at my place.”
Sprecher eyed the briefcase, then said gravely, “Do not fold, spindle, or mutilate.”
“And besides that, keep it in good condition.”
Nick had tried to reach Sylvia twice prior to leaving the bank, hoping to wangle an invitation to spend the night at her place. She hadn’t been home either time and only belatedly had he remembered a mention of her visiting her father in Sargans. He wondered if the Pasha’s file would be any safer at Sylvia’s than at his place. He’d assembled a list of questions for her, and now as he reviewed them his stomach burned with a sour fury. Who had told Kaiser about the theft of the shareholder lists and their delivery to Klaus Konig? Who had informed him that Armin Schweitzer was the man behind their theft? How had Kaiser known about their lunch date Thursday? Who had left the message on her machine last night? Had it been the Chairman’s voice he’d heard?
He wanted desperately to assure himself that there was no chance that Sylvia was the responsible party. He wished he knew her so well that he could answer his own misgivings with an unequivocal no. But she had always kept a part of herself hidden from him. He knew it was true, because he had done the same. Until today he had enjoyed exploring the limits of their relationship, never knowing what he might find behind a veiled glance or a furtive sigh. Now he had to ask himself if her diffidence had merely been obfuscation.
Nick turned his attention toward the hopping establishment. “Any sign of our man?”
Sprecher stood and scanned the entire room. “Don’t see him.”
“I’ll check the floor. Maybe I can spot him. You keep your eye on that briefcase.” Nick left his stool and walked a few steps into the crowded room. He remembered Yogi Bauer as a hunched gray man in a dark suit. So far he didn’t see anyone who matched that description. Clusters of men and women stood drink in hand, every last one smoking a cigarette. He moved through their ranks searching the tables that ran along each wall. No luck. After a few minutes he returned to the bar and found Sprecher nursing a beer.
“Didn’t see him?” Sprecher asked, lighting another cigarette.
Nick said no and ordered a beer for himself.
Sprecher leaned back on his stool, grinning sardonically. “What did you say you did in the marines?”
“Recon.”
“That’s what I thought. Must’ve been one sad unit.” He laid his cigarette in the ashtray and swung around on his stool, lifting a casual finger toward the darkest corner of the bar. “Next to the potted palm, far corner. You might consider investing in a good pair of specs.”
Nick looked to where Sprecher was pointing. As if on cue, a clutch of attractive women parted company offering him a clear view of a small man, beer stein in hand, dressed in a wrinkled three-piece charcoal suit. It was Yogi Bauer. Just one problem. Ten empty mugs littered the table in front of him. “He’s legless.”
Sprecher was signaling the bartender. “Barman, give us another round and whatever Mr. Bauer over there is drinking.”
The bartender looked over Sprecher’s shoulder.“Mr. Bauer? You mean Yogi. Beer or schnapps should do the trick.”
“One of each,” volunteered Sprecher.
The bartender left to pour their beers and when he returned, said, “Go easy on him. He’s been in since noon. He may be a little surly, but remember, he’s a paying customer.”
Nick picked up two beers and followed his colleague through the crowd. He doubted they’d get anything out of this guy. When they reached Bauer’s table, Sprecher pulled out a chair and sat down. “Mind if we join you for a pint? Name’s Peter Sprecher and this is my pal, Nick.”
Yogi Bauer straightened his arms and adjusted his frayed cuffs. “Nice to see our young ones still have manners,” he said, lifting the stein to his lips. His dyed black hair was matted and in need of a trim. His maroon tie sported a stain the size and shape of a small African country. His eyes were rheumy. Bauer was the textbook definition of an aging alcoholic.
He finished off half of his beer, then said, “Sprecher, I know you. Did a little time in Blighty, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Exactly. I did my schooling at Carne in Sussex. In fact, we wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your time in England, when you were with USB.”
“When I was with USB?” Bauer asked. “Whenwasn’t I with USB? When weren’tall of us with USB? I’ve already told you Schweitzer’s story. What else do you want to know?”
Nick leaned forward ready to fire away, but Sprecher placed a calming hand on his shoulder, so he eased back and let his colleague bait the lure.
Sprecher waited until Bauer set down the beer. “You were at USB London for how long? Two years?”
“Two years?” said Bauer, as if shortchanged for time spent before the mast. “More like seven. We opened her up in seventy-three and I left in seventy-nine. Got the heave-ho back to the main office. That was a black day, I can tell you.”
“So it was a small branch?”
“Small enough, at least early on. Armin Schweitzer was the branch manager. I was his assistant. Why the interest? You heading back?”
“Heading back?”asked Sprecher, caught off guard momentarily. “Yes, yes, in fact I was thinking of transferring there. London’s the place these days. By the way, how many staffers were you?”
“Started with three of us. When I left we were thirty.”
“Must’ve known everyone?”
Bauer shrugged and grunted in a single well-choreographed movement, as if to say “Of course, you stupid fucking idiot.” “We were a family. Of sorts, that is.”
“There was a man named Burki there at the same time, wasn’t there? Vice president. I believe his name was Caspar. Surely, you must have known him.”
Yogi Bauer’s eyes darted from the empty beer mug to the full glass of schnapps.
“Caspar Burki?” Sprecher repeated.
“Of course, I remember Cappy,” blurted Yogi Bauer, more forced confession than idle reminiscence. “Hard not to know a man when you work in the same office for five years.”
Nick said, “Burki was a portfolio manager, right? You were a trader?”
Bauer shifted his attention to Nick. “Cappy was on the client side of the firm. What about it?”
Sprecher touched Bauer’s arm and inclined his head toward Nick. “My pal’s father knew Burki, too. We wanted to find him, you know, say hello, shoot the shit, catch up on old times.” He slid the schnapps across the table.
Yogi Bauer grimaced, not liking what he heard. He picked up the schnapps and polished it off in one messy gulp.
“He is still alive, isn’t he?” asked Nick.
“Hell yes,” gasped Bauer, eyes watering at the burn of the peppermint liqueur. “Cappy’s still kicking.”
“And what does he do these days? Enjoying his retirement like you?”
Bauer shot Nick a dirty glance. “Yes, he’s enjoying himself fine. Just like me. We’re making the most of our golden years. Sitting in front of roaring fires with grandkids on our knees. Vacations to the South of France. Wonderful existence.” He lifted an empty stein. “Cheers. What did you say your name was again?”
“Neumann. My father was Alex Neumann. Worked out of the L.A. branch office.”
“I knew him,” said Bauer. “Piece of bad luck, that. Condolences.”
“It’s been a long time,” said Nick.
Bauer eyed him warily, then asked in a newly sympathetic voice, “So you’re looking for Caspar Burki? Not a good idea. Listen to Yogi. Forget about him. Anyway, I haven’t seen him in months. Don’t know where to set eyes on the man.”
“But he still lives in Zurich?” Nick asked.
Bauer laughed, sounding like a horse whinnying. “Where else would he go? Has to stay near the source, doesn’t he?”
Nick sagged.The Source? Was that the name of a bar? Was Burki another geriatric alky? “Know where we can find him?” he pressed. “He doesn’t live at t
he address he had given to the bank.”
“He moved a while back. I don’t know where to reach him, so don’t ask me. It’s not a good idea, anyway. He’s down on his luck. A pension’s not what it used to be.”
Nick looked at Bauer’s exhausted suit and the grimy ring circling his collar. Not if you spend it all on booze, it isn’t. He placed his hand on Yogi’s arm. “It would mean a lot to me if you could tell me where I could see him. Sure you don’t know where he is?”
Bauer shook his arm loose. “Calling me a liar, are you? Caspar Burki is gone. Doesn’t exist anymore. At least not the man your father might have known. He’s vanished. Leave him alone. And while you’re at it, leave me alone.” He shifted his unsteady gaze between Nick and Peter as if by sheer brunt of his will he could force them to leave the table. But like most drunks, he grew tired of his efforts in a hurry and instead, belched loudly.
Nick walked round the table and kneeling, spoke in Bauer’s ear. “We’re leaving now. Don’t want to wear out our welcome. When you see Burki, tell him I’m looking for him. And that I won’t quit until I find him. Tell him it’s about Allen Soufi. He’ll know who I mean.”
Nick and Peter returned to the bar and struggled to clear a hole in the crowd to ask for a beer. A pair of stools opened up next to them, and Sprecher hopped aboard one with a cheerfulness Nick could not fathom.
“He was lying,” said Sprecher, once Nick had taken his seat. “He knows where Burki is. They’re probably drinking pals. Just didn’t fancy telling us.”
“Why?” asked Nick. “Why try to discourage us from finding him? And what the hell did he mean by “the source’?
“Only the guilty have something to hide. Seems we ruffled his feathers. I’d call it a success.”
Nick wasn’t so sure. So what if they knew that Burki was alive? So what if Bauer was a friend of his? They possessed neither the time nor the resources to keep an eye on Bauer with the hopes that one day he might lead them to Burki. As far as Nick was concerned, it was a failure. Allen Soufi was as far away as ever.
Numbered Account Page 47
