Numbered Account

CHAPTER 22

The time was eleven P.M. and for the second time that day, Nick stood in front of an unfamiliar apartment, waiting for the buzzer to sound that would grant him admittance. He had called ahead and was expected—if that’s how you could term a halfhearted response to a plea for company late on a Friday night. He pulled his overcoat close around his neck, fending off the insistent cold. Open the door, Sylvia. You know it’s me. The poor slob who called an hour ago saying that if he didn’t get out of his grim apartment and see a friendly face he’d go crazy.

The buzzer rang and he was inside, tripping over himself to get down the stairs leading to her doorway. The door was ajar. He could see the outline of her face checking if he was shit-face drunk or hopped up on drugs. But it was only him. Nicholas Neumann, eager bank trainee, feeling more tired, more uncertain, and more alone than he could remember.

The light went on inside the hallway, and the door swung open. Sylvia Schon stood back and with a wag of her head motioned for him to enter. She was wearing a red flannel bathrobe and heavy woolen socks that drooped low around her ankles, as if ashamed to cover up such gorgeous territory. Her hair was loose around her face, and she had on the heavy eyeglasses that he hadn’t seen since his first day at work. The look on her face said she was not amused.

“Mr. Neumann, I am hoping you have something very important to discuss. When I said I’d be happy to do anything for you, it was in reference to…”

“Nick,” he said softly. “My name is Nick. And you said that if I ever needed anything, to give you a call. I realize this is an odd time to visit and right now I’m standing here asking myself why exactly I’m here, but if we go inside and have a cup of coffee or something, I’m sure we can get this straightened out.”

Nick stopped speaking. He had stunned himself. He’d never strung together so many words in a single sentence and not had the slightest idea what he’d said. He stammered, wanting to explain, but a firm hand on his jacket stopped him dead.

“All right, Nick, come in. And since it is eleven-oh-five and I am wearing my most flattering pajamas, I imagine you’d better call me Sylvia.”

She turned and walked down a short corridor that gave onto a cozy living room. A brown sofa ran the length of one wall and half of another. A glass coffee table sat in front of it. Bookshelves adorned the other walls, the spaces between hardcover titles filled by framed photographs. “Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

She returned with two mugs of coffee and handed him one. Nick took a sip and relaxed. A fire burned in the grate. Soft music played from the stereo. He inclined his head toward the speakers. “Who is that?”

“Tchaikovsky. Violin Concerto in D minor. Are you familiar with it?”

He listened for a moment longer. “No, but I like it. It has passion.”

Sylvia sat away from him on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her. She stared at him for a minute, giving him some time to loosen up, letting him know that she was interested in him but that the clock was ticking. Finally, she said, “You seem upset. What’s going on?”

Nick looked into the cup of coffee, shaking his head. “The bank’s an exciting place. More than most people imagine. Certainly, more than I imagined.” And with that introduction he recounted to Sylvia the events that had led to his decision to shield the holder of numbered account 549.617 RR, an anonymous client known only as the Pasha, from the scrutiny of the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. His rationale, he explained, was to keep the bank out of trouble and to deny the DEA access to confidential client information. He kept his private reasons to himself, as he did any mention of his gentleman stalker, or of Sterling Thorne’s perfectly timed visit. He ended by recounting Maeder’s ominous warning that the “verdict would be delivered Monday.”

“He wasn’t too happy with me,” said Nick. “I may have helped the bank in the short run, but I broke some very important rules. I can imagine that Monday morning I may find a note on my desk informing me oh-so-politely that I’ve been transferred to some squalid little department in charge of counting paper clips.”

“So, that’s what happened,” Sylvia said. “I should have known.” Before Nick could question her omniscience, she went on. “Oh, you’ll have a transfer. That much I can promise you.”

Nick felt the bottom fall out of his stomach. So much for Sprecher’s soothing words. Status quo ante, my ass. “Shit.”

“You’re being transferred to Wolfgang Kaiser’s office. You’re to be his new executive assistant.”

Nick started to mouth a sarcastic aside but the no-nonsense cast to her voice stopped him.

“I wasn’t supposed to tell you until Monday,” she said. “Now I see why. The Chairman wanted you to stew in your juices for a while. He’d probably be happy if he saw how worked up you’ve become over this. First thing Monday morning, you’ll receive a summons asking you to report to the Emperor’s Lair. Ott called me today wanting to see your papers. Seems you’ve stirred some feathers. The big boys want you upstairs with them. Obviously by protecting this ‘Pasha’ fellow, you’ve endeared yourself to Kaiser.”

An odd sensation of complete disorientation swept over Nick. All through the day, he’d been preparing himself for a severe reprimand. Even dismissal. Now this! “That’s not possible. Why do they want me upstairs?”

“They have their reasons: Konig; the takeover. Kaiser needs someone able to do battle with unsatisfied American shareholders. That’s you. You’ve passed some sort of test in their eyes. I imagine they think they can trust you. But be careful up there. A lot of fat egos walk those halls. Stay close to the Chairman. Do exactly as he says.”

“I’ve heard that advice before,” Nick said skeptically.

“And not a word about this,” Sylvia ordered. “You’re to act surprised.”

“I am surprised. I’m shocked.”

“I thought you’d be happier,” said Sylvia disappointedly. “Isn’t that what every Harvard M.B.A. wants? A seat at the right hand of God?”

Nick tried to smile, but inside him, too many rivers had flooded their borders. Relief that he wouldn’t be fired. Expectation over the discovery of his father’s memorandums. Anxiety over whether he’d be able to live up to the Chairman’s expectations. Somehow he managed to say he was thrilled.

Sylvia appeared drained by her revelation. “Is that all, then? I’m glad I was able to put you at ease. You didn’t look too good when you walked in here.” She stood and walked lazily toward the corridor. Time to go.

Nick jumped to his feet and followed her down the hallway. She opened the door and leaned against it. “Good night, Mr. Neumann. I’m afraid to repeat what I said last night at dinner.”

“About calling if I need anything?”

She raised her eyebrows as if to say “Bingo.”

Nick looked at Sylvia long and hard. Her cheeks were pale, streaked with a hint of color up high under her eyes. Her lips were pink and full and he wanted to kiss them. His anxiety disappeared. Replacing it was the same rush of attraction, the same nervous jingle in his stomach coupled with the desire to smile like an idiot that had struck him last night.

“Have lunch with me tomorrow,” he said. Standing so close to her he felt faintly giddy, as if right now he could do anything and it would be all right.

“I think that might be pushing our luck a bit too far, don’t you?”

“No. In fact, I’m sure it wouldn’t. Let me thank you for listening to me tonight. Say one o’clock. The Zeughauskeller.”

“Mr. Neumann…”

Nick leaned closer to her and kissed her. He allowed his lips to linger only a second, just long enough to feel her against him and know that she did not for a moment recoil.

“Thank you very much for tonight.” He stepped across the threshold. “I’ll be waiting tomorrow at one. Please come.”