Numbered Account

CHAPTER 40

Nick had been seated at his desk exactly three minutes when Reto Feller telephoned.

“The Adler Bank has crossed over thirty percent,” came the frantic voice.

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Get in at a decent hour. Everyone knows.”

Nick checked his watch. It was five minutes past seven. The bank was deserted. “Bad news.”

“A disaster. Konig needs three percent to get his seats. We have to stop the bastard. Have you started selling?”

“I’m starting now.”

“Get to it. Call me at ten. Let me know how many orders you have on the floor.”

Feller hung up before Nick could answer.

Three hours later, Nick’s eyes were burning from the glare of the computer screen. One stack of portfolio printouts sat on the floor, rising as high as his desktop. Another stack sat directly in front of him. Each portfolio belonged to an investor who had given the bank discretionary power to trade his account. Nick’s job was to sell fifty percent of the Swiss franc value of the equities in each of these portfolios and issue an order to buy USB shares for the equivalent amount. So far that morning he’d “liberated”—as Martin Maeder encouraged him to think of his task—over twenty-seven million Swiss francs from seventy numbered accounts. That came out to twenty-three accounts an hour, or one every two minutes forty-five seconds. Essentially, it was piecework once you got the hang of it.

Nick reached across his desk and picked off the next portfolio. This one had a name. Surprise, surprise. An Italian, one Renato Castilli. Nick flipped the pages. He would sell off Metallgesellschaft, Morgan Stanley, Nestle, and Lonrho. Two of them were dogs. No harm done. He typed the sell orders into Medusa and passed them to the floor. In two minutes he had liberated over Sfr. 400,000 from Signor Castilli’s portfolio. An order to purchase a corresponding amount of USB shares was duly entered. Finito!

Nick pushed back his chair and stretched his frame. He needed a break. His eyes were watery and his back was stiff. Five minutes. Visit the bathroom, get a drink of water. Then back to the mill. He was a machine.

A conference call with Hambros Bank in London was set for eleven. Hambros held roughly ten million pounds’ worth of USB stock. Nick had the spiel memorized cold by now. USB would cut costs by offering early retirement and firing nonessential staff, up efficiency through increased computerization, create a merchant banking division, and expand its trading operations. The result: an increase of between two and four percent to their operating ratios within twelve months. After that, who knew? Bankruptcy or a banner year.

At twelve, he had a lunch date with Sylvia. She had promised to bring more monthly activity reports filed by his father from the Los Angeles office. The first binder she had supplied had been a bust. Nineteen seventy-five was too long ago. He needed everything she could find for the period from January 1978 through January 1980. She seemed to be having no problems getting ahold of the reports. If she was scared about being asked why she needed them, she hadn’t told him.

Nick closed his eyes and for a second was blessed with the scent of her skin. He returned his gaze to the monitor in front of him, but instead of perusing the holdings of a numbered account, he was watching Sylvia all over again, replaying the golden moments of their weekend together, already three days and half a century past. He saw her reflection in the Chronometrie Beyer as she pointed to an obscenely expensive diamond-encrusted wristwatch and raised her eyebrows in comic disbelief, though he was sure he spotted a glimmer of envy, too; he was standing next to her in Teuscher as she popped a petite gourmandise into her mouth and proclaimed it wunderbar; he was lying against her warm body among the tousled sheets of her bed after they’d made love, counting the shades of blond in her hair.He was staring transfixed at the perfect curve of her naked breasts as she writhed and whispered, and then collapsed onto him, suddenly silent.

Nick had been seeing Sylvia for two weeks now. He kept expecting his infatuation with her to die down. But that hadn’t happened. Each time he saw her, he suffered a moment of sheer anxiety, scared that she might inform him that their relationship was over. Then she would smile and kiss him on the cheek, and his fears would subside. She was constantly on his mind. If he heard something funny, he wanted to share it with her; if he read an interesting article, he wanted to call her and tell her to read it, too. But despite their intimacy, he was often unable to figure how she looked at things. Like him, Sylvia guarded a part of herself hidden, a part he knew he’d never discover.

The phone rang. It was Felix Bernath from the floor of the exchange. “You have a fill on five thousand shares of USB at three seventy,” he said. Nick thanked him and picked up another portfolio. He flipped back the cover page and began looking for likely sales candidates, category Q-Z. The phone rang again and he answered it immediately.

“Another fill for me, Felix?” he said sarcastically.

“What’s that, Nick? Filling sandbags, are you?”

Nick recognized the insouciant patter. “Hello, Peter. What do you want? I’m busy.”

“Expiation, chum. I’m calling to make up. I was dead wrong to ask you what I did. I knew it then and I know it now. I’m sorry.”

Nick had lost his capacity for forgiveness. “That’s nice, Peter. Maybe we can get together when this contest is over. Until then, forget it. Keep your distance, okay?”

“Such the hard-liner. I expected as much. I didn’t call just to chat. I have something for you. I’m sitting here enjoying a double espresso at Sprungli, second floor. Why not come and join me?”

“What, are you kidding? You expect me to skip out of here because you have something for me?”

“I’m not really asking. I’m telling you. This time you have to trust me. I assure you it’s in your best interest. And the bank’s, for that matter—Kaiser’s, not Konig’s. Meet me here as quickly as possible. It took me three minutes to walk here; it will take you four. On your mark. Get set. Go.”

Four minutes later, Nick’s snow-capped head mounted the stairs leading to Sprungli’s main dining hall. The room was filled with midday habitues, mainly women of a certain age, impeccably dressed and bored to distraction. An old rumor suggested that women breakfasting alone on Sprungli’s second floor between the hours of nine and eleven were seeking the company of gentlemen for pursuits rather less genteel than shopping.

Sprecher signaled to Nick from a corner table. An empty demitasse sat in front of him. “Espresso?”

Nick remained standing. “What’s on your mind? I can’t be away from my desk for long.”

“First, I’m sorry. I want you to forget that I ever asked about those blasted shares. Konig said you were too good a target to pass up. He hit on me to give you a call. Point me in the right direction and I march. That’s me. The loyal soldier.”

“That’s a pathetic excuse.”

“Come on, Nick. First couple of days on the job. Eager to do anything to please the wallahs upstairs. Surely, you know what I’m talking about. Christ, you practically did the same thing yourself.”

“I didn’t try to betray a friend.”

“Look, it was a vulgar proposition. Case closed. Won’t happen again.”

Nick pulled out a chair and sat down. He ran a hand through his hair, and flakes of snow tumbled onto the table. “Let’s get to it. What do you have for me?”

Sprecher pushed a white sheet of paper toward him. “Read this. I found it on my desk this morning. I’d say it evens the score between us.”

Nick pulled the sheet closer. It was a photocopy and not a very good one. The sheet listed the names of five institutional shareholders of USB stock, their approximate holdings, the portfolio manager, and his telephone number. He raised his head abruptly. “I typed this sheet.”

Sprecher smiled, victorious. “Bingo. Your initials are at the top. ‘NXM.’ Whoever copied this did a shoddy job. You can see half of the USB logo.”

Nick looked at Peter skeptically. “Where did you get this?”

“Like I said, it fell on my desk.” Sprecher fumbled for a cigarette. Something in his face weakened. “If you must know, George von Graffenried threw it at me. He’s Konig’s right-hand man at the bank. George mumbled something about an investment finally yielding a dividend. It seems, chum, you have a very naughty mole in your organization.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nick muttered under his breath. “This sheet is from my desk. Only a few people have seen it.”

“Only takes one.”

Nick counted off the names of those he knew had copies of the sheet: Feller, Maeder, Rita Sutter, and of course, Wolfgang Kaiser. Who else might have seen it? Immediately, Nick recalled the guilty expression of a lumbering prowler caught in flagrante stealing a glance at his papers. Armin Schweitzer had been so emboldened—or so desperate—as to even request a copy of this very sheet. Nick’s cheeks colored with anger and embarrassment.

Peter took back the sheet, folded it neatly, and replaced it in his jacket pocket. “I’ll have to contact these investors. No way around that, is there? But, I’ve got a feeling a few of these chaps may be tied up this morning. Best wait until later this afternoon or early tomorrow. You know these intercontinental connections. Devilishly poor at times.”

Nick stood and put out his hand. “Thanks, Peter. I’d say this evens the score.”

Sprecher shook it uneasily, an odd expression straining his features. “Still haven’t figured out whether I’m a hero or a whore.”

Nick rushed back to the bank, his mind boiling with conspiracy. He passed Hugo Brunner without so much as a hello and took an elevator reserved for clients directly to the Fourth Floor. “Two can play at this game,” he whispered to himself.

Inside his office, Nick made a beeline for his desk. He shoved the endless stack of client portfolios to one side and positioned himself squarely before the computer. He exited Medusa and logged on to Cerberus, where he accessed the word-processing software. The noble struggle to “repatriate” shares of USB would have to wait a few minutes. He had a more urgent calling: ferreting out a traitor.

First he accessed the list of institutional shareholders holding blocks of USB shares. It was the same list now in Peter Sprecher’s possession—the list that he was certain had been taken from his desk. Once it was on the screen, he erased the date and all pertinent shareholder information: name, phone number, address, and finally contact person. He typed in today’s date and moved to the area reserved for shareholder information. In this space, he added the name of a heretofore unknown shareholder—a group Martin Maeder, Reto Feller, and he had failed to locate during their initial screening. He chewed on his pen, trying hard to recollect the institution’s name. Ah, yes, he had it. The Widows and Orphans Fund of Zurich. He typed in the name and next to it wrote “140,000 shares held in trust at J. P. Morgan, Zurich. Contact Edith Emmenegger.”

Happy with this piece of fiction, Nick inserted a piece of USB stationery into his laser printer and printed the document. He took it in his hands and reviewing the information, saw that he had forgotten to list the phone number of the good Mrs. Emmenegger. Whose number could he use? His own was out of the question. The prefix for the USB Personalhaus was the same as the bank’s. Only one other number came to mind. He called it and waited for the answer. As he hoped, a machine picked up. A woman’s voice said, “You have reached 555-3131. No one can take your call at this time. Please leave your name, phone number, and any message after the tone. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Sylvia,” Nick whispered. “Or should I say “Frau Emmenegger’?” He typed in her phone number and reprinted the document. Once more he held it up for examination. Everything was in place. To authenticate it, he jotted some notes in the margin. “Called at 10 and 12.” He added yesterday’s date and “No answer. Message left.” It was complete. He marched around his desk paper in hand, surveying where to put it for best effect. Somewhere obvious, but not out of place. He settled on tucking the document under the bottom left side of the telephone so that only the U and the S of the letterhead were visible. He stepped away from the desk and admired his petit chef-d’oeuvre, his little masterpiece. His gem of misinformation.

Wolfgang Kaiser circled his office, enjoying a Cuban cigar while listening to Nicholas Neumann relate how he had convinced Hambros Bank to vote with the USB slate of directors at the general assembly. “That is wonderful news,” he said when his assistant had finished. “Where does that leave us, then?”

Neumann’s voice blurted from the speakerphone. “At around forty-five percent. Feller will have the exact tally. Adler passed thirty percent this morning, but it looks like their purchasing power has begun to dry up.”

“Thank God for that,” replied Kaiser, eager to align the deities on his side. “And the count? Have you arranged the meeting?”

“Bad news. The earliest date he’s available is the morning of the assembly. Can you give him a half hour at ten o’clock?”

“Out of the question. I have a breakfast with the board at eight sharp.” Senn had always been a pain in the ass. The gall of the man! Even to suggest a meeting the same day as the assembly.

Neumann said, “He’s in America until a few days before. The count says ten o’clock.”

Kaiser realized he had few options open. “All right, then, ten o’clock. But keep on him. See if you can’t move it up a day or two.”

“Yessir.”

“And Neumann. I need to see you privately. Come down in ten minutes.”

“Yessir.”

Kaiser terminated the call. The boy was a wizard. Nothing less. Hambros committing this morning; and yesterday afternoon, Banker’s Trust—the cagiest outfit on the street. Neumann had argued to the rocket scientists in Manhattan that USB shares—given current management, of course—were an effective hedge against Banker’s Trust’s own volatile earnings. They’d swallowed his argument hook, line, and sinker. It was nothing short of miraculous. One of Konig’s fire-spewing brethren, disciples of the “lose a hand, double the next” school of trading, and they had committed to the boring old farts at USB. Kaiser whooped. A fucking miracle!

He picked up the phone and called Feller to obtain an exact vote count. He wrote the figures on his desktop blotter. USB forty-six percent. Adler thirty point four percent. Christ, it would be close. Mevlevi’s loan would end all speculation. Kaiser was prepared to do all demanded of him to see that his Turkish friend coughed up the money required to keep the United Swiss Bank free from Klaus Konig’s grip. If it was necessary for Neumann to shepherd the man about his business, then so be it. That was the least problematic of Kaiser’s devoirs.

Kaiser sat in his chair, considering how to tell Neumann about his relationship with Mevlevi. Getting around Sterling Thorne’s accusations would be difficult. Had Neumann’s father been witness to Kaiser’s blatant, even theatrical mendacity, the man would have resigned on the spot. In fact, he had on two occasions. Both times, Kaiser’s silver tongue had been required to assuage Alex Neumann’s wounded conscience. “A genuine misunderstanding. We had no idea the client was dealing in stolen armaments. It will never happen again. Faulty information, Alex. Sorry.”

Kaiser frowned at the memory. Thank goodness, Nicholas was more pragmatic. Damned difficult to get from strenuously denying one’s knowledge of an individual, even going so far as to purposely mispronounce his name, to professing a twenty-year business relationship with him. But Kaiser had only to think of the actions Neumann had taken to protect Mevlevi from Thorne’s surveillance list to feel better. If the young man was half as smart as anyone thought, he’d have guessed it already.

A buzzer sounded on his telephone. Rita Sutter’s mellifluous voice informed him that Mr. Neumann had arrived. He told her to send him in.

Wolfgang Kaiser greeted Nick in the center of the office. “Fantastic news this morning, Neumann. Just great.” He laced his good arm around Nick’s shoulder and guided him to the couch. “Cigar?”

“No thank you,” said Nick. Alarm bells sounded in his head.

“Coffee, tea, espresso?”

“Mineral water would be fine.”

“Mineral water it is,” Kaiser enthused, as if no answer could have pleased him more. He walked to the open doors and told Rita Sutter to bring a mineral water and a double espresso.

“Neumann,” he said, “I need you to run a special errand for me. Something very important. Requires your gifted touch.” Kaiser seated himself on the couch and blew out a cloud of smoke. “I need a diplomat. Someone with manners. A little worldly experience.”

Nick sat down and nodded unsurely. Whatever Kaiser was up to had to be big; Nick had never seen him so friendly.

“An important client of the bank is arriving tomorrow morning,” said Kaiser. “He’ll require a chaperon to help him transact his business throughout the day.”

“Will he be coming to the bank?”

“At some point, I’m certain he will, yes. First, though, I’d like you to greet him at the airport.”

“At the airport?” Nick rubbed the nape of his neck. He didn’t feel well. Too long in front of the computer. “You’re aware that we’ve only just begun implementing Martin Maeder’s sales plan. I’ve got another five hundred dossiers to get through.”

“I understand,” Kaiser said graciously, “and I appreciate your diligence. Continue on that for the rest of today. You can finish off tomorrow evening, day after that, all right?”

Nick wasn’t thrilled at the prospect, but he nodded his assent anyway.

“Good. Now then, some details about the man you’ll be meeting.” Kaiser took a long drag off the cigar. Several times, he began to speak and then stopped, first to pluck a speck of tobacco from his mouth, next to adjust his position on the couch. Finally, he said, “Nicholas, I’m afraid I lied to you the other day. Rather I lied to that bastard Thorne. There was no choice, really… given the circumstances. Should’ve told you earlier. Don’t know why I didn’t. I know you would’ve understood. We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I. We do what’s necessary to get the job done. Am I right?”

Nick nodded once, enthusiastically guarding the Chairman’s eye. Kaiser was suffering under the mounting pressure. Like a worn truss, his face betrayed a constant interior strain. His eyes, normally clear and confident, were puffy and decorated by dark circles etched into his chalky skin.

“I know Ali Mevlevi,” said Kaiser. “This man Thorne is after. The man you call the Pasha. In fact, I know him well. One of my first clients in Beirut. I wouldn’t expect you to be aware that I opened our representative office in Beirut a very long time ago.”

“Back in seventy-eight, wasn’t it?”

“Exactly.” Kaiser smiled briefly and Nick knew he was flattered. “Mr. Mevlevi was then, and is to this day, a well-respected businessman in Lebanon and throughout the entire Middle East.”

“Sterling Thorne accused the man of being a heroin smuggler.”

“I’ve known Ali Mevlevi for twenty years. I’ve never heard the slightest hint that he was involved with drugs. Mevlevi is active in commodities, rugs, and textiles. He’s a well-respected member of the business community.”

That’s the second time you’ve said that, thought Nick, suppressing a sarcastic grin. Marco Cerruti certainly respected Mevlevi—to the point of suffering a petit mal seizure upon the mention of his name. Sterling Thorne respected Mevlevi—so much that he came charging into the bank like a wounded bull rhino. How the hell did the people act who didn’t respect him?

“No need to apologize,” said Nick. “It’s best to keep the confidence of your clients. It’s certainly none of Thorne’s business.”

“Thorne wants us all as members of his private constabulary. You saw the picture of my son. Do you think I could work with a fiend who gained his living from the international commerce of death? Thorne’s mistaken about our Mevlevi. I’m sure you’ll learn that tomorrow when you meet the man. Remember, Neumann, it’s hardly our job to be policemen.”

Not that old chestnut, thought Nick. Now he was really feeling sick. And sicker still when he heard himself mutter, “I agree fully.” The defender of the faith had spoken.

Kaiser puffed his cigar and patted him on the knee. “I knew you’d see things clearly. Mevlevi will be arriving by private jet tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. You’ll be there to meet him. Car and driver provided, of course. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of errands to run.”

Nick stood, eager to get back to his own cloistered den. “Will that be all?”

“That’s all, Neumann. Get back to Maeder’s project. Have Rita order you some lunch in. Anyplace you like. Why not try the Kronenhalle?”

“I have plans…” Nick began.

“Oh yes, I completely forgot,” Kaiser said. “Well then, back to work for us all.”

As Nick walked out of the grand office, he asked himself when he had mentioned his luncheon plans to the Chairman.