Numbered Account (30 page)

Nick kept his mouth closed. There it was. No more whacking around whether the DEA had the right man or not. They even knew how much he was transferring day in, day out. Mr. Ali Mevlevi — the Pasha — was squarely in their sights. Time to line up the crosshairs. Time for First Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann to help them pull the trigger.

As if sensing Nick’s impending acquiescence, Thorne leaned closer, and when he spoke his voice acquired a conspiratorial edge. “There’s a human aspect to this case also. We have an agent on the inside. Someone we planted a long time ago. You know the trick?”

Nick nodded, seeing where Thorne was going. He could feel the mantle of responsibility the agent wanted to lay on his shoulders. A second ago he had been ready to sympathize with Thorne, maybe even help him. Now he hated him.

“Our man — let’s call him Jester — has also disappeared. He used to call us twice a week to give us Mevlevi’s weekly take. I’ll let you guess which days. Yep. Monday and Thursday. Jester hasn’t called, Nick. E.T. did not phone home. Hear what I’m saying?”

“I understand your dilemma,” said Nick. “You’ve put a man into a hot situation. You’re scared he may be compromised and now you can’t get him out. In short, you’ve left him hanging on a two-penny string in a shitstorm and you want me to salvage your operation and save your man.”

“That’s about right.”

“I appreciate the situation” — Nick paused for effect—”but I am not going to spend the next couple of years in a Swiss jail so that you can get your next promotion and maybe, just maybe, save the skin of your man.”

“We will get you out of here. I give you my word.”

There it was. The lie Nick had been expecting. He was just surprised that it took so long to come. The anger inside him crested. “Your word doesn’t mean spit to me. You’ve got no say over who the Swiss jail or who they release. You almost had me there for a second. Sound the bugle and the loyal marine comes running. I know you guys. Out there playing God, thinking you’re doing some good. You’re just getting your rocks off, seeing how much power you can exercise over your little slice of the world. Well, forget it. You’ll have to count me out. That’s not my game.”

“You got it all wrong, brother,” Thorne shouted. “You can’t use me as an excuse to pretend Mevlevi doesn’t exist or that you, as his banker, as the man who day in, day out, helps him hide the fruits of his illegal labors, are not responsible. You two are on the same goddamned team. In my world, Nick, there’s us and there’s them. If you’re not one of us, you’re one of them. So where do you stand?”

Nick took a while to answer the question. “I guess I’m one of them.”

Oddly, Thorne seemed pleased by the answer. “That’s too bad. I told you to take advantage of my kindly disposition. Now you’ve gone and pissed me off. I know about your old friend Jack Keely. What went wrong down there in the P.I. must have been something powerful bad for you to fly off the handle like that. You’re lucky you didn’t kill that man. So you think long and hard about helping me out, or others will know about your escapade, too. I don’t think Kaiser would be too happy to learn that you left the Corps with a dishonorable discharge. I don’t think he’d be too keen to learn that you’re a convicted felon — maybe in a private military court, but convicted just the same. Hell, maybe I should be afraid of you, too. But, I’m not. I’m too busy worrying about Mevlevi. And about Jester. You may want to piss on guys like me, but I crush guys like you. That’s not my job — it’s my reason for living. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Nick said. “Do what you have to do. Just stay the hell away from me. I don’t have anything to say to you. Not now. Not ever.”

Rattling into the Paradeplatz early Thursday morning, Nick was greeted everywhere by headlines trumpeting the improprieties of a major bank. The central kiosk was festooned with flyers from every major daily.
Blick
, Zurich’s low-rent scandal sheet, proclaimed, “
Schmiergeld bei Gotthardo Bank
,” Bribe Money at Gotthardo Bank. The
NZZ
, the oldest and most conservative of the city’s three daily papers, was equally accusatory: “Shame on Gotthardo.” The
Tages Anzeiger
took a more global view: “Swiss Banks in League with Drug Mafia.”

Nick hurried from the tram to purchase a newspaper. What had started as a rotten day showed no sign of changing course. His alarm clock had failed to go off at the proper time; the hot water in his building had been turned off, so he’d been forced to endure a full two minutes — not the usual fifteen seconds — under an ice-cold shower; and the 7:01 tram had left at 6:59. Without him! Not that yesterday had been much better, cursed Nick, as he jogged paper in hand down the Bahnhofstrasse.

Klaus Konig had completed his purchase of over 1.7 million shares of USB stock at eleven A.M. and had followed it with a second order to gobble up an additional two hundred thousand shares at market price. By day’s end, the price of USB shares had skyrocketed fifteen percent and Konig held a twenty-one percent stake in the bank, all too near the thirty-three percent threshold that would grant him his coveted seats on the board.

The precipitous rise in share price combined with the Adler Bank’s growing stake left the United Swiss Bank more vulnerable than ever. And no one knew that better, or had responded more vigorously, than Wolfgang Kaiser. At noon, the Chairman had descended to the floor of the Borse and personally ordered Sepp Zwicki to buy, buy, buy USB shares at whatever the cost. Kaiser had drawn his line in the sand. In three hours, the bank had picked up a couple hundred thousand shares, and war had been openly declared between the United Swiss Bank and the Adler Bank. Arbitrageurs in New York and in Tokyo, in Sydney and in Singapore, were licking their chops, buying up shares of USB in hopes of a continuing escalation in price.

Nick took a last look at the newspaper in his hand before entering the Emperor’s Lair. Scanning the inflammatory headlines, he thought, “Holy shit. Now this.”

Kaiser was on the telephone. “
Gottfurdeckel
, Armin,” he yelled, “you told me that Gotthardo would wait at least another two weeks before folding. They’ve known about that drunk Rey for years. Why go public now? This does not put us in a strong position. And Armin” — Kaiser paused, and his eyes found Nick — “this time ensure that your facts are
correct. This is the second time in the last week that you’ve disappointed me. Consider this your last reprieve.” He slammed down the phone and turned to his newest assistant. “Sit down, be quiet, and I will be with you in a few minutes.”

Nick took a seat on the couch and opened his briefcase. The honeymoon is now officially over, he mused. He placed his copy of the
NZZ
on the table before him and reviewed the facts as reported.

Yesterday, the Gotthardo Bank, a universal bank of roughly USB’s size with its headquarters in Lugano, reported to the Swiss federal prosecutor, Franz Studer, that after a lengthy internal investigation, it had discovered evidence of gross impropriety on the part of one of its own executives. For the past seven years, one Lorenz Rey, a senior vice president, had been surreptitiously working for the Uribe family of Mexico to launder money and assist in the international transfer of funds emanating from the sale of illegal narcotics. Rey claimed that only he and two junior members of his department were privy to all details of the account, and thus fully cognizant of the criminality of the acts performed on behalf of their client. Documents given to the federal prosecutor’s office indicated that the bank had laundered over two billion U.S. dollars for the Uribes during the past seven years. Included were receipts given the Uribes for cash deposits, made at Gotthardo’s Lugano head office, totaling more than eighty-five million dollars, an average of one million dollars per month. Rey further admitted to willfully concealing evidence of the client’s activities from his superiors at the bank in exchange for lavish gifts from the Uribe family, including vacations to the Uribe family resort in Cala di Volpe, Sardinia, as well as to Acapulco, San Francisco, and Punta del Este.

A regular Marco Polo, thought Nick.

Franz Studer announced the immediate freezing of the Uribes’ accounts pending a full investigation and hailed the Gotthardo Bank as being at the forefront of Switzerland’s internal efforts to police the illegal activities perpetrated by foreign criminals. No criminal penalties would be sought against the bank, said Studer.

A front-page photograph showed Rey being led in handcuffs from the D.A.’s office. He had dressed well for his swan song. He wore a stylish three-piece suit and sported a gambler’s kerchief, which fell carelessly out of his breast pocket. Worse, the man was smiling.

Nick was hardly a seasoned expert on banking practice. He didn’t need to be to realize that if one client had made transfers and deposits totaling more than two billion dollars over a seven-year period, a lot more than three people were going to know about it.

First off, movements in the portfolios of larger clients were examined monthly. Banks liked to curry favor with their larger clients and were constantly on the lookout for increases in funds deposited, facilities granted, or transactions undertaken on their behalf. Letters of solicitation were sent regularly. Encouragement was given that the client’s funds would be well cared for, and so on and so forth. An entire protocol existed for the proper wooing and pampering of the wealthy client.

Second, even the humblest portfolio manager can’t help bragging about his client’s growing presence at the bank. Wasn’t he in some small way responsible for the growth in revenues stemming from his client’s increased deposits? Shouldn’t he benefit in some way? Lorenz Rey, a senior vice president of the Gotthardo Bank, aged thirty-eight, did not look like a selfless monk. Unless, of course, the Franciscan order had taken to wearing Brioni suits, solid gold Rolex wristwatches, and diamond pinkie rings.

Finally, just the act of depositing one million dollars in banknotes every month would beg the attention, if not inspire the conversation, of the bank’s sharp-eyed logistical staff. The same portfolio manager arriving at the cash window two, three, maybe four times each month with an armful of greenbacks, always on behalf of the same client, year after year, would be as conspicuous to any and all members of the bank as a woman walking stark naked into its lobby and asking directions to the Basel Zoo.

Nick had trouble suppressing a hoot of laughter as he studied the article. If nothing else, the Gotthardo Bank should be applauded for the brazenness of their claims. And as if to prove the sum total of Nick’s suspicions, the paper reported that at the time it was frozen, the Uribes’ account held seven million dollars. Here, observed Nick, is an account through which two billion dollars has been laundered, invested, transferred, what have you, and on the day it is closed, it holds what in the currency of the drug trade is pocket change. Chance? Luck? Coincidence? Hardly.

The Gotthardo Bank was buying its freedom from continuing inquiry. The price, seven million dollars and the careers of several replaceable flunkies. The Uribes would be upset; less so when the bank made good on their frozen deposits with a quiet deduction from the institution’s hidden reserves.

Nick shifted his gaze to the Chairman, who was engrossed in conversation with Sepp Zwicki. So, Kaiser was upset that the Gotthardo Bank had given up the Uribes so early. He had taken a sizable chunk out of Schweitzer’s ass for having passed on some faulty information. Twice, Schweitzer had screwed up, said Kaiser. What
other
error had recently drawn the Chairman’s wrath?

What interested Nick most was the reason for Kaiser’s rage. He wasn’t pissed off that the Gotthardo Bank had worked with the Uribes — a name that for decades had been linked to organized crime. He showed no concern that Gotthardo’s admission might damage Switzerland’s reputation for secrecy. His anger was fueled solely by the fact that they had done it
now
. The Chairman was no fool. He knew damn well that the Gotthardo Bank’s admission would only increase the pressure on USB to fork over one of its own. In this game, no one was innocent. And no one guilty. But somewhere along the line you had to pay your dues to keep your place at the table. Gotthardo had paid and was now relatively safe from further prosecution. USB could afford no such luxury.

Wolfgang Kaiser hung up the telephone and motioned for Nick to join him. Nick quickly folded the newspaper and walked to the Chairman’s desk. On it lay copies of the three Swiss dailies, as well as the
Wall Street Journal
, the
Financial Times
, and the
Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung
. Each was opened to an article discussing the Gotthardo Bank investigation.

“A splendid mess, isn’t it?” asked Kaiser. “The timing couldn’t be worse.”

Nick didn’t have a chance to respond. Beyond the closed doors, Rita Sutter’s normally calm voice rose to a plaintive wail. A chair was overturned and a glass shattered. Nick sprang from his chair. Kaiser rounded his desk and made for the entryway. Before either could take more than three steps, the double doors were flung open.

Sterling Thorne marched into the office of the chairman of the United Swiss Bank. Rita Sutter followed, clutching at the American’s long arm and admonishing him to stop, repeating over and over again that no one was allowed into the Chairman’s office without an appointment. Hugo Brunner, the chief hall porter, trotted in behind them, head hanging low like a hound who had failed his master.

“Madam, you can let go of my shirtsleeve if you’d be so kind,” Thorne said to Rita Sutter.

“It’s all right, Rita,” soothed Wolfgang Kaiser, though his eyes conveyed a different message. “We mustn’t be impolite to our guests, even if they arrive without an appointment. You can go back to your desk. You too, Hugo. Thank you.”

“This man is a . . . a . . . barbarian,” shouted Rita Sutter. She relinquished her grasp on Thorne and, giving him a nasty scowl, stalked from the office. Hugo followed.

Thorne shook loose his sleeve. He walked to Wolfgang Kaiser and introduced himself as if the two had never met.