Numbered Account

CHAPTER 38

Nick planned his excursion for ten A.M. sharp, at the height of the morning rush. Throughout the bank it was a time of rehearsed chaos. Secretaries hurried from one office to another on missions of dubious importance. Apprentices filed back to their posts after a mandated fifteen-minute break. Reptilian executives conspired in ill-lit corridors. The bank bustled with activity, and he would lose himself in it.

Nick left his office one minute early. He strode past the entrance to the Chairman’s anteroom and continued down the corridor until he reached the entry to the interior stairwell. Careful not to show the least hesitation, he swept open the door and stepped inside. He descended the stairs, head lowered, hugging the outside wall. Several people passed him, but he didn’t notice them. He wasn’t making this trip. At least not officially.

Nick slowed his pace as he neared the first-floor landing. He stopped next to the unmarked iron door and gathered his breath, steeling himself for the task ahead. When he was ready, he tucked his chin into his neck, cast his eyes downward, then pulled open the heavy door and stepped into the corridor. The hallway was as endless as he remembered. He walked quickly toward his destination—one more harried worker on his daily rounds. His footsteps echoed off the walls. The numbers inscribed on the small metal plates beside every door declined. Finally, he passed a series of unmarked entries. He was there. Room 103. Dokumentation Zentrale.

He opened the door and stepped inside. The office was full of people. Two neat lines were formed in front of a Formica counter behind which stood a twisted old man with a shock of white hair. The famous Karl, dungeon master of DZ.

Waiting in line, Nick thought of his father working in this same office forty years ago. The place looked as if it hadn’t changed an iota. Metal desks of prewar vintage were arranged in twin columns of four behind the counter. Scuffed linoleum flooring peeled near the walls and under the radiators. Maybe the lighting had improved—if you could call fluorescent bulbs an improvement. The room smelled of decay, and Nick was sure it had smelled no different in 1956 when Alex Neumann had begun his career here. He pictured his father hefting files to the highest shelves, scooping up request forms and patrolling the miles of stacks in search of one document or another. Two years he’d spent working for Karl. Two years in this dustbin. Step one of his education. The first rung up the ladder.

The woman in front of Nick received her files and left the office. Nick stepped forward and handed Karl the account request form. He stared at the old man and began counting down from ten, waiting for the bomb to go off.

“You don’t say please?” Karl barked as he slipped on a pair of bifocals hanging from a tarnished iron chain around his neck.

“Please,” said Nick. Seven, six, five…

Karl brought the request to his eyes. He sniffed.

Four, three, two…

Karl dropped the form on the counter as if it were worthless currency. “Young man,” he huffed, “this request has no personal reference. It does not show who wants the files. No reference, no file. I am sorry.”

Nick had prepared an explanation, though it was weak and had not been tested under live fire. He checked over his shoulder, then leaned across the counter and whispered, “These forms were generated by a new computer system. It isn’t initialized yet. Only on the Fourth Floor. I’m sure you know about it. The Medusa system.”

Karl stared at the paper. His bushy eyebrows bunched together. He looked unconvinced. “No reference, no files. I am so sorry.”

Nick pushed the request form under Karl’s eyes. Time to up the stakes. “If you have a problem, call Herr Kaiser immediately. I just left his office. His extension is—”

“I know his extension,” declared the dungeon master. “No reference, no file. I am so—”

“So sorry,” Nick said in unison. He had expected such obstinacy. He had known a few master sergeants in the Corps who made Karl look like a pussycat, and he had learned through trial and error that the only way to make them circumvent sacred routine was to use a technique he had developed named the shove and hug. A discreet but firm hint of a threat, followed by a show of respect for their position and a heightened appreciation for the favor they were about to grant. At best, it worked half the time.

“Listen to me carefully,” Nick began. “Do you know what we’re doing upstairs? We’re working night and day to save this bank from a little man down the street who has every intention of buying us. Do you know what will happen if he takes us over?”

Karl didn’t seem to care.

“No more papers. Every file in here will be scanned, digitized, and saved on a computer disk. They’ll cart off all your precious documents, all this-” Nick gave a wide sweeping gesture to encompass the entire room, “and store them in a warehouse in Ebmatingen. We’ll never see them again. If I need to access a document, I’ll sit at my desk on the Fourth Floor and call it up on my own monitor.”

The shove rendered, Nick kept a sharp eye on Karl, watching the old man absorb the information. Before long his wrinkled face fell. “And what about me?”

Gotcha, thought Nick. “I’m sure Klaus Konig would find a position for you. If, that is, he values experience and loyalty as much as Herr Kaiser. But all this will be gone.” Onto the hug. “I apologize for not having put the proper reference. But Herr Kaiser is waiting for the information in this file. I know he would greatly appreciate your help.”

Karl straightened out the request form and picked up a pen off of the green countertop. “Your three-letter reference?”

“S… P… R,” said Nick, enunciating each letter as if it were its own word. If there were ever an inquiry, using Peter Sprecher’s personal reference would gain him two, maybe three hours. At that point, who knew? It might be enough time to get him off the premises. Then again, it might not. Regardless, there was no way he was going to leave his own fingerprints all over this file.

Karl wrote the three letters on the request form. “Your identification, please?”

“Of course.” Smiling, Nick reached into his coat pocket. His smile turned to surprise, then dismay. His hands rummaged through his pants and again in his jacket. He frowned apologetically, at once angry and contrite. “Looks like I made the mistake this time. I must have left my I.D. upstairs. Get that file for me while I run and get it.”

Nick hesitated a moment, then turned and made his way to the door. All the while, he shook his head vigorously, as if chastising himself for his forgetfulness.

“No, no,” said Karl. “Stay. Client dossiers belonging to a numbered account may not be removed from this room anyhow. Sit over there and wait where I can keep an eye on you. For the Chairman, I make an exception.” He stared past Nick and pointed to a small table with two chairs on each side of it. “Over there. Go and sit. You will be called when it is retrieved.”

Nick breathed easier and did as he was told. He walked sheepishly to the table, still shaking his head at his careless behavior. He was probably overacting.

The activity in the office had increased. Eight or nine people waited in line. Still, the room was absolutely silent. “Church mice,” Nick would have said to his infantry platoon when silent running was an operational necessity. Only the shuffling of paper and one secretary’s itchy throat marred the calm.

“Herr Sprecher?”

Nick jumped to his feet, fearful that someone might recognize him. He scanned the room. No one looked at him oddly.

Karl held a sepia folder in both his hands. “Here is your file. You may not remove any of its contents. You may not leave it unattended, even if you have to go to the toilet. Bring it directly to me when you are finished. Understood?”

Nick said he understood. He took the file from Karl and started back to the reading table.

“Herr Sprecher?” Karl asked unsurely. “That is correct, isn’t it?”

Nick turned. “Yes,” he answered confidently, waiting for someone to call him an impostor.

“You remind me of a boy I used to know a long time ago. He worked with me. Name wasn’t Sprecher, though.” Karl shrugged his shoulders and went back to work.

It was a thick file, as big as a textbook and twice as heavy. Nick turned the folder horizontally to check the tab. 549.617 RR was typed in heavy black script. He relaxed and opened the cover. Signature sheets were stapled to the left-hand side. The sheets listed the names of the bank executives who had previously requested the file. Cerruti’s name was written on ten or eleven lines, interrupted once by Peter Sprecher’s. The name Becker popped up half a dozen times all within a six-month period. Then Cerruti again and before him, something illegible. Lift the sheet and go back in time, mid-eighties. Another page, more names. Back again. And finally, at the top of the first page, a signature he knew well. The date: 1980. He traced the bold curves of the signature with his pen. Wolfgang Kaiser. Chalk up another run in Sterling Thorne’s column, thought Nick. Irrefutable proof the Chairman knew Mr. Ali Mevlevi.

Nick turned his attention to the manila folder marked “client mail” sitting loose on top of the right-hand page. The folder held a pile of unclaimed correspondence: official confirmations of every transaction completed for benefit of the Pasha’s account. As was common for numbered accounts, all mail was held at the bank until such time as the account holder wanted to review it. The stack wasn’t very thick. Marco Cerruti must have delivered a bundle during his most recent visit. Nick counted approximately thirty envelopes. One corresponding for each incoming and outgoing wire transfer plus two month-end statements, the one for February dated only yesterday.

Nick closed the manila folder and slid it onto the signature sheet. A sheaf of transaction confirmations two fingers in height was attached to the right outermost cover of the file. Perusing them, he saw that the stack contained a record of all confirmations sent to the holder of account 549.617 RR. Every incoming wire, every outgoing wire since the account was opened. At the bottom of the stack was a copy of each of the seven matrices listing the name of every bank and every account number to which the Pasha’s funds were to be wired. To Sterling Thorne, the matrices would prove more valuable than any treasure map, more inculpatory than any confession. With them, he could trace the flow of funds from USB to fifty or sixty banks around the world. Sure it was only one step in what was no doubt a circuitous route. But it was the first step, and as such, the most important.

Nick studied the incoming wire transfers for the final three months of the previous year. Rules forbade the copying of any information in the files. It was strictly “for his eyes only.” As well as he could, he memorized the amounts that arrived on each Monday and Thursday. He totaled the dollar value of the transactions for each week and set them in a column inside his head. When he got as far back as October, his mind failed him. It was as if a screen went blank, a momentary short circuit. He began again, reading in reverse chronological order the transfers made from December 31 back through September 30, totaling the figures weekly. Thirteen numbers stood out clearly in his mind. He ran his mind’s eye down the column, summing the eight-digit figures. Finished, he memorized the sum. In three months, $678 million had passed through the Pasha’s account.

Nick raised his head and found Karl staring unabashedly at him. “Who are you, really?” he seemed to be asking.

Nick returned his attention to the folder. He had come to steal the unclaimed transaction confirmations. The envelopes held hard-copy proof that the client was violating the rules against money laundering as prescribed by the DEA. They also proved that USB knowingly facilitated such contraventions. In his jacket pocket were a dozen envelopes identical to those in the file below him. He had typed the Pasha’s account number on every envelope and placed a folded sheet of blank paper inside. Keeping his eyes glued to the papers below him, he slid the phony confirmations out of his pocket and tucked them under his leg. Now he had to wait for a person to enter and divert Karl’s attention.

Nick checked the time. It was 10:35. He should be at his desk selling off shares. Feller would have noticed his absence by now. The little zealot had adopted the habit of phoning every fifteen minutes to keep a running tally of the dollar value of shares Nick had sold. Just this morning, Nick had generated sell orders for over eight million dollars and had issued buy orders for a corresponding amount of USB shares. Maeder’s plan was going off without a hitch.

Time passed slowly. DZ was deserted. Ten minutes ago, the room had been packed. Now it was empty. Where in the hell had everybody gone? He couldn’t wait here forever. Nick snuck a glance at Karl. The old coot was still staring right at him.

A few minutes later, the door creaked halfway open and then closed. False alarm. Nick blew out his breath anxiously. The last thing he needed was for Feller to start searching all over the place for him. He had to get back to the Fourth Floor. A single bead of sweat formed at the top of his spine. He could feel it roll the length of his back. He lifted his hand from the desk and saw that he had left a moist imprint. He wiped his palm on the seam of his pants.

At 11:05, a dark-haired man walked into the room. He was a clerk returning from the lavatory. Nick waited until he approached the service counter, then counted to three and extracted the transaction confirmations from the Pasha’s dossier. Sure not to raise his head, he brushed the unmailed letters into his lap. With his right hand, he removed the dozen surrogate confirmations from under his thigh and placed them into the dossier. Still keeping his head immobile above the dossier, he arranged the stolen letters into a neat stack and in one assured motion deposited them in the inside pocket of his jacket. Every letter slid in smoothly. Except one. One envelope protruded from his jacket for all the world to see. Nick flung his elbow in a wide arc and repeatedly jammed the envelope into his jacket. Three times he tried to stuff it into his jacket. On the fourth try the letter slipped in.

Nick waited for the alarm to sound. Karl must have noticed. One of the secretaries had to have seen his bungled burglary. Nothing happened. Daring a glance toward the counter, Nick saw that Karl was staring directly at him. Why hadn’t the old codger spotted his brazen theft?

Nick rearranged the Pasha’s dossier so that all was neat and orderly. As he approached the counter, he looked past Karl and saw that the young secretaries behind him were laughing. Nick returned his eyes to the keeper of Dokumentation Zentrale. He was leaning over the counter, his chin resting comfortably on his palm. His bifocals sat precariously at the end of his nose, and his eyes were closed.

Karl was snoring.

Nick left the office that evening at seven on the dot. He hurried up the Bahnhofstrasse to the Paradeplatz, hoping to catch the next tram. A light snow was falling, and tonight it made Zurich the prettiest city in the world. His step was light and energetic, buoyed by a sense of purpose he hadn’t known since his first day at the bank eight weeks ago. He passed the tram stop that would take him to his grim apartment in the USB Personalhaus and crossed the square, arriving just in time to board the number two, heading in the opposite direction.

Nick chose a seat near the doorway and settled in for the short ride. He repeated Sylvia’s address in his head as the tram bucked and jostled its way up the Universitatstrasse. He hoped she wouldn’t mind his showing up unannounced—if she was even home. He had tried to call her earlier, but her assistant had said she would be out for the day. A rush of well-being came over him, and he smiled. He didn’t know why he felt so exhilarated. Maybe part of it was because he had pulled off his petty theft; maybe part because he was keeping his word, taking concrete steps to make amends for his poor conduct. Whatever the reason, he felt alive and vital—full of piss and vinegar, his father would have said—and he needed to see Sylvia. He needed to see someone who understood the foreign world into which he had delivered himself.

Nick arrived at the top of Frohburgstrasse twenty minutes later and caught his first glimpse of Sylvia’s apartment. A light was burning in her window. He had a hard time keeping himself from running the short distance to her doorway. Two weeks ago, he’d asked himself what it was about her that he found so attractive and he hadn’t been able to fashion an answer. Yet tonight, he knew it without thinking. She was the first person he’d ever met who kept a tighter rein on her life than he kept on his. For once, he could be the one to let go, to be a little crazy, even whimsical, and relax doing it, knowing that she was in control. It was a role he’d never played before, and he liked it. Then, of course, there was the sex. He didn’t like to admit it, but at first he had enjoyed the taboo implicit in seducing his older female superior. And he thought she did, too. When he was with her, the whole world stopped turning. Everything beyond their immediate periphery ceased to exist. She made him feel complete.

Nick reached the entry to her apartment and pressed the call button. He prayed Sylvia would be at home. He felt too good to be left alone on a Friday night. He tapped his foot nervously. Come on, answer, he said to himself. Open the goddamned door. He pressed the buzzer again, and his spirits began to fade. He took a step back. A voice came from the intercom. “Who is it?”

Nick felt his heart skip a beat. He was nervous and excited at the same time. “It’s Nick. Let me in.”

“Nick? Are you all right?”

He laughed. She was probably wondering if he was as frazzled as he’d been that Friday night not so long past. “Yes, of course.”

The door buzzed and he rushed inside the apartment. He took the stairs two at a time, forgetting all about his sore knee. He just wanted to see Sylvia. She was waiting for him at the door as he came down the final few stairs. She was wearing a white terry-cloth bathrobe, toweling her hair dry. He stopped for a second to stare at her. Her skin was flushed from hot water. Her face was damp and moist. He walked slowly the last few steps, feeling like he needed her more than he’d needed anyone else before in his life. Not knowing why and not caring.

“I was just in the bath. You sur—”

Nick slid an arm inside her bathrobe and drew her toward him. He kissed her firm and hard on the lips. She resisted, trying to wedge a hand in between them. He wrapped his other arm around her back and held her tighter. She relaxed, allowing her head to fall back and opening her mouth to taste him. She moaned. He closed his eyes and drifted to a warm place.

Nick released her and they stepped into the apartment. He shut the door and pulled back to stare into her soft brown eyes. He saw a flicker somewhere inside them, and he knew she was asking herself what he was doing there, why he had kissed her like that. He expected her to speak, maybe even to tell him to get out, but instead she remained silent, standing inches away from him. He could feel the warmth of her body and her slow, heavy breathing. She raised a finger to his lips and brushed it slowly across them. He grew aroused. She turned and led him by the hand down the corridor and into her bedroom. She pushed him down onto the bed and peeled the bathrobe back from her shoulders, allowing it to drop to the floor. He looked at her nude body. He longed to run his hand along every curve, wanted to brush his lips across her stomach and then lower. He lifted his hands and cupped her breasts, running a thumb around her nipples until they hardened. Her breathing slowed and grew shallow. She reached down and touched him, rubbing her hand back and forth over the swelling in his trousers. Then she lowered herself to her knees, and ran her face back and forth across him. She pushed his jacket from his shoulders, then anxiously unbuckled his belt and pulled down his trousers. She caressed him for a moment, her tongue tasting him, then took him into her mouth.

Nick watched her, his pleasure forcing his hips off the bed. He wanted her to take more of him, all of him. He wanted to be inside her, to hold her next to him, to share the same breath.

Sylvia released him and climbed onto the bed. She straddled him, guiding him slowly into her, taking him out, then bringing him in deeper. Her eyes were closed and she moaned each time he touched her. Nick held on to the bed, balling up the sheets in the palms of his hands. He struggled to breathe slower, to feel less. Finally, she lowered herself onto him and shuddered. Nick sat up and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her ravenously. Her mouth was hot and wet with desire. His entire body stiffened, and when he could hold back no longer, he let himself go, arching his back and thrusting himself deep into her. She lowered her head to her chest and her body quaked, an uneven humming drifting from her mouth. Her tremors increased and she laid both hands on his chest, breathing heavily. Then suddenly her body relaxed. She exhaled loudly, then fell onto the bed.

Sylvia lay down beside him. After a while her breathing calmed and she laughed huskily. She raised herself on an elbow and ran a cool nail down his chest. “Better get some rest, Tiger. We have the whole weekend to get through.”