Numbered Account

CHAPTER 41

“Were you able to get the reports?” Nick asked as he crossed the threshold to Sylvia Schon’s apartment. It was eight o’clock and he had come directly from the bank.

“What? No hello? No ‘How was your afternoon?’” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “It’s nice to see you, too, Mr. Neumann.”

Nick walked down the hallway, taking off his overcoat. “Sylvia, were you able to get the monthly activity reports?”

“I said I’d help you, didn’t I?” Sylvia picked up the polished briefcase leaning against her sofa. She unbuckled the cover and drew out two thick binders, colored the same faded yellow as the one they had read several nights before. She handed one to him. “Satisfied? I’m sorry I forgot to get them in time for lunch.”

Nick lifted one and read the coding on its spine. January through March 1978. He shot a glance at the other file. It was entitled April-June 1978. At least one thing had gone right today. “I’m sorry if I was rude.”

Nick was tired and irritable. His only break the entire day had been the scant half hour he’d spent lunching with Sylvia at Kropf Bierhalle. Time to consume a sausage, french fries, and two Cokes, but hardly enough to get around to asking her if she had mentioned their lunch date to someone. They had agreed it best to keep their relationship quiet. Not secret—for secret was a dirty word. Just quiet. Neither had thought to ask what answer should be given if someone were to question them about their seeing each other. Or if they had, they hadn’t dared ask it.

Sylvia stood on her tiptoes and rubbed his cheek. “Want to talk about it? You don’t look so great.”

Nick knew he looked haggard. He’d been getting by on five hours of sleep a night. When, that is, he could sleep at all. “Just the regular grind. Things are pretty crazy up on the Fourth Floor. The general assembly is only five days away. Konig’s biting at our heels.”

“What does Kaiser have you doing?”

“The usual,” Nick explained, aware that he was doing everything but. Regardless of his feelings for Sylvia, he couldn’t bring himself to confess the larceny being perpetrated on the Fourth Floor. Some things he had to keep to himself. “Lining up votes. Answering phone calls from investment analysts. We’re all feeling the pressure. It’s crunch time.”

“Everyone is feeling Konig’s pressure,” she said. “Not just you big shots on the Fourth Floor. No one wants Konig to get his seats. Change is frightening, especially for the little guys underneath the Emperor’s Lair.”

“Too bad we can’t order every employee of the bank to purchase a hundred shares of our stock,” Nick said. “If they don’t have the money—no problem. We can subtract it from their future salaries. That would go a long way toward fending off the Adler Bank. At least then I wouldn’t have to-” He bit off his words in mid-sentence.

“Then you wouldn’t have to what?” asked Sylvia. Her eyes flickered, and Nick could see the scent of scandal was rich in her nose.

“Then we wouldn’t have to fight so damned hard against Konig,” he shot back, not missing a beat.

“How does it look?”

“Forty-six percent for the good guys, thirty percent for the bad guys. Just keep your fingers crossed Konig doesn’t launch a full-scale hostile bid.”

“What’s stopping him?”

“Cash. Or lack of it. He’d have to offer a significant premium to the market price, but if he did, enough shares are in the hands of the arbs that he’d have no problem capturing sixty-six percent of the votes. Even our supporters would defect to Konig. That would give him full control of the board. A one-way ticket to Valhalla for Wolfgang Kaiser.”

“And for the rest of us?” demanded Sylvia. “What about us? You know very well the first jobs cut after any merger are overlapping staff functions: accounting, treasury, logistics. I can’t imagine that the Adler Bank will have any need for two personnel directors in their finance department.”

“Sylvia, don’t worry. The battle we’re fighting is to keep Konig off the board. No one is talking about an outright takeover.”

“Not yet they’re not.” She squinted her eyes as if she didn’t like what she saw. “You’ll never understand what this bank means to me. The time I’ve put in. The hope I’ve wasted on this stupid job.”

“Wasted?” he asked. “Why wasted?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said disgustedly. “You can’t. It’s that simple. You can never know what it’s like to work twice the hours of your male colleagues, to consistently do better work, and to see everyone around you promoted quicker because they have hair on their chest and speak with a deeper voice. Imagine, being passed over for client meetings, just so men can lie to each other about who they’ve seduced. Imagine what it’s like having to endure a hundred compliments a day about how nice you look—‘Isn’t that a new scarf?’ ‘Why, Fraulein Schon, you look particularly fetching today.’ Or, to be asked your opinion about a proposed project, and when it doesn’t quite jibe with Mr. Senior Vice President’s, have it dismissed with a polite smile and a wink. A wink, dammit! Has Armin Schweitzer ever winked at you?”

Stunned by the verbal barrage, Nick dug his chin into his neck and said “No.”

“I have to go twice as far, twice as fast. You make a mistake and the powers that be say, “Of course, happens all the time.’ I make a mistake, they say, ‘Typical woman. What’d ya expect? Chuckle, chuckle, yuck, yuck.’ And all the time they’re thinking ‘My, wouldn’t I like to have a go at her?’”

Sylvia met Nick’s eyes and gave him a smile of dignified resignation. “I haven’t put up with this nonsense for nine years only to have some bastard come along and kick me out my own front door. If Konig takes over USB, my life is shot.”

For a few seconds, there was silence between them. Then she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come on so strong.”

“Don’t be sorry. The scary thing is, everything you said is true.”

“I’m glad you realize it. You’re probably the only one at the bank. The boys on the Fourth Floor prefer their women like Rita Sutter. She’s been Kaiser’s secretary forever, making his lunch appointments, fixing his coffee. She should be a senior vice president. How can anyone put up with that kind of abuse for so long?”

“People make their own choices, Sylvia. Don’t feel sorry for Rita Sutter. If she’s there, it’s for a reason.” He recalled the photo he had seen in Marco Cerruti’s apartment. Kaiser kissing Rita Sutter’s hand. Maybe he had beaten out Klaus Konig for her affections.

“I don’t feel sorry for her. I just wonder what she’s getting out of it.”

“That’s her concern. Not ours.”

Nick walked to the sofa and sat down. “Christ,” he said sharply. “I almost forgot.”

Sylvia came over to him. “Don’t scare me. What is it?”

“If you get a funny message on your phone machine tomorrow, don’t erase it.” Nick went over his meeting with Peter Sprecher and the discovery that a mole at USB was supplying the Adler Bank with information crucial to the successful defense of the United Swiss Bank. He shared his suspicions as to the culprit’s identity.

“If it is Schweitzer,” Sylvia declared angrily, “I swear I will personally kick him in the you know where.”

“If it is him, you have my permission. For now, though, save any message that sounds funny. You’ll know it when you hear it.”

“I promise.”

After dinner, Nick retrieved the files from the living room and laid them on the dining room table. He waited for Sylvia to rejoin him, then brought out his father’s agenda for 1978.

Nick said, “The first time I read through my father’s entries, it was just out of nostalgia, you know, to see if he had left any personal notes that might help me get a handle on who he really was. He didn’t—which was just like my dad. He was all business. It was only after I’d looked at the agendas a few times that I picked up on the vibe of fear that ran through the last pages of 1979. Going back through them, I saw that the only places where my father indicated any type of emotional response to his work were in reference to a Mr. Allen Soufi and this company Goldluxe.”

“Are the two related?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. Soufi was a private banking client, a guy who maintained a numbered account with the bank. He wanted my father to help with some iffy business proposition. I don’t know any more than that.”

“Let’s look for Soufi then,” Sylvia suggested.

“The first mention of Soufi is on April 15, 1978.” Nick flipped open the agenda to that date. His father had written, “Dinner. A. Soufi. The Bistro. 215 Canon Dr.”

Sylvia looked at the page. “Is that all?”

“Until later, yeah.” Nick thought of the indignant comments left by his father, “Soufi is undesirable. Bastard threatened me,” then opened the file containing the monthly activity reports for the period January through March 1978. “Regardless, we’ve got to start at the beginning of the year. There might be a mention of him earlier. My father had to send the head office copies of new account information for every client he brought in. If he brought in Soufi, there’ll be copies of account registration, name, address, signature cards, the works.”

“And Goldluxe?”

“They don’t show up till later.”

Nick read the January activity report from first page to last. He learned that the results for the L.A. rep office for 1977 were thirty-three percent above forecast; that in 1978, a newly hired secretary could expect to earn $750 a month; and that the U.S. prime rate was sitting up in the stratosphere at sixteen percent.

The activity report for February contained a revised pro forma budget, a third request for greater office space, and a proposal to open a two-man San Francisco office.

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where is he, Sylvia? Where is Soufi?”

Sylvia rubbed his back. “He’ll be here, sweetheart. Be patient. We’re almost finished with this month’s report.”

They returned to the section highlighting new business. Sylvia ran her finger down the list of names listed as new clients. A Mr. Alphons Knups, a Max Keller, a Mrs. Ethel Ward. Suddenly, she shouted, “Look, there it is.” She pointed to the last name on the list.

Nick pulled the file closer. Sure enough, there it was. Mr. A. Soufi. A star had been placed next to his name. Nick found the star at the bottom of the page and read that Soufi was a referral from Mr. C. Burki (VP) in USB’s London branch office.

“Bingo,” said Nick. “We found him.” He flipped to the back of the report for the supporting documentation that accompanied every new account. A sheet topped by Allen Soufi’s name was attached. However, neither occupation, business, nor home address was provided. At least there was a signature. Soufi had signed the sheet in an expansive looping script. Under “Comments” was written: “Cash deposit $250K.”

Nick checked the client profile sheets filled out by other new customers. Each one had given full biographical information: name, address, date of birth, passport number. Only Soufi had left his sheet blank. He nudged her shoulder. “My question is, who is C. Burki in London?”

Sylvia removed her glasses and wiped them on the hem of her shirt. “If he was in London, it’s more likely than not that he was a member of the finance department. Offhand, I can’t say I remember the name. I’ll check our personnel records. Maybe something will turn up.”

“Maybe.” Nick kept his doubt to himself. He’d looked up Soufi first on Cerberus and then Medusa, and found nothing.

For the next two hours, Nick and Sylvia read through the remaining reports and cross-checked the agenda. Numerous references were made to budgetary matters: actual versus projected revenues, a running tab of selling, general and administrative expenses. A steady stream of new corporate clients appeared each month. And, of course, there was mention of new private banking clients, always by name, always accompanied by a meticulously completed client information sheet. Nick asked himself again why Soufi hadn’t filled his out.

Nick finished reading the report for May and looked over at Sylvia. Her eyes were closed and her head was bobbing unsteadily. He felt as tired as she looked.

“Sylvia,” he whispered. “Time to call it quits.” He closed the binders as quietly as possible, then took his father’s agenda and shuffled into the corridor to place it in his briefcase.

“Don’t go,” came a weak voice. “You can stay here.”

“You don’t know how much I want to, but I have a big day tomorrow. I can’t.” He thought about how good it would feel to fall asleep with her back nestled close to his chest. He considered changing his mind but held firm. At eleven A.M. tomorrow, he’d be shaking hands with Ali Mevlevi, the Pasha, and extending the fullest courtesies of the bank to an international drug trafficker—sorry, to a “well-respected businessman.” He intended on getting a solid night’s rest. “I have to run if I’m going to make the last tram.”

“Nick…” she protested sleepily.

“I’ll call you in the morning. Can you return the binders and get the next six months of reports?”

“I’ll try. Should I set a place for you tomorrow night?”

“I don’t think that’ll work. Kaiser has a full day and night planned for me.”

“Call me if you change your mind. Remember Saturday, I’m going to my father’s.”

Nick knelt beside her and placed a strand of hair behind her ear. “And Sylvia… thanks.”

“For what?”

He looked at her a few seconds longer, wanting desperately to spend the night. He kissed her lightly. She reached an arm up and tried to bring him close for another kiss. He moved her arm gently back to her side. One more kiss would doom him. “Just thanks.”