Numbered Account (59 page)

“I said
now
, dammit!” yelled Kaiser, in a baleful voice Nick had never before heard. “Leave!”

The indignity was complete, the Chairman’s cavernous office as silent as a tomb. Schweitzer turned and walked from the room under the bewildered stares of his colleagues.

“And the rest of you,” the Chairman commanded, “go back to your posts. We haven’t lost her yet.”

The witnesses to Schweitzer’s dismissal gathered in the anteroom to the Emperor’s Lair and exchanged expressions of disbelief. Ott and Feller appeared energized by what they had seen. Nick thought they could barely keep the smiles from their faces. Rita Sutter, though, sat behind her desk in a sort of stunned silence, shell-shocked. Nick waited until Feller had left the office, then approached Rudolf Ott.

“I’ve been asked by the client I was escorting yesterday, account number—”

“Mr. Mevlevi,” Ott cut in. “I know the man’s name, Neumann.”

“He asked me to deliver all correspondence from his account being held at the bank.” Nick had wanted to broach the issue with the Chairman, but Schweitzer’s arrival — and departure — had prevented him from bringing it up. Now he was stuck playing to Ott.

“Is that right?” Ott stepped closer to Nick and like a courtier eager to catch up on the latest rumors, linked arms with him and set off down the corridor. “I understood he reviewed his file yesterday afternoon.”

“He was interrupted.” Nick jostled his arm, trying without success to remove it from Ott’s clutch. “News of Cerruti’s death.”

“Ah.” Ott nodded as if now he understood what had transpired. “When does he want it?”

“This evening before seven. I had planned on asking the Chairman but . . .” Nick let the sentence drift off.

“A wise decision,” said Ott. “This is hardly the time to bother him with administrative matters. As for Mevlevi, can’t he wait to read his correspondence while at the bank?”

“I suggested the same to him. He says he wants to review his mail before we drive to Lugano Monday morning.”

“Wants it by seven tonight, does he?” sniffed Ott. “And he expects you to bring it to his hotel?”

“That’s right. To the Dolder. I’m supposed to leave it with the concierge.”

“Well, Herr Kaiser will be relieved to know where he can contact Mevlevi, won’t he? Though he can hardly risk a visit. Much too public to be seen with one of Mevlevi’s sort. Especially now.” Ott looked up at Nick, who stood a head taller. “All righty then. Let me give security a call. Be at DZ in ten minutes. That’s three sharp.”

Nick extricated himself from the man’s clinging grip. He had taken only a few steps when Ott called after him. “And Neumann, be sure to take Mr. Feller with you. He spent a year with Karl. He’ll help you find what you’re looking for much faster.”

Nick returned to his office, cursing his luck at being saddled with Feller’s obnoxious presence. He closed the door and locked it, then circled behind his desk and opened the second drawer of his filing cabinet, taking out a battered sepia folder. He set the folder on his desk and began filling it with random memos and out-of-date papers until it approximated the girth of the Pasha’s file. Halfway through his task, he stopped and opened his top desk drawer. As he had done yesterday, he felt along its underside, hoping that the Pasha’s transaction confirmations might have magically reappeared. His fingers scraped unsanded wood. Nothing more. He had no idea who might have taken them, or why. Yesterday their loss had seemed a disaster. Today he dismissed it as small potatoes. The confirmations of the Pasha’s transfers into and out of the bank would hardly paint as bold a picture as Mevlevi’s entire file. It was the file he wanted. The signature cards, the originals of all seven transfer matrices, the names of the portfolio managers — most important, Wolfgang Kaiser’s — who had supervised the account. The whole damned thing.

Nick closed the drawer and shifted his attention back to the task at hand. He slipped off his jacket, slid the surrogate file into the back of his pants, then adjusted his belt so that it was held firmly in place. This done, he put his jacket on and left his office.

“Did you see his face, Neumann? Did you?” Feller asked, as the two men waited for an elevator to take them to the first floor. “I’ve never seen a grown man cry. An executive vice president of the bank, no less. My God. He was blubbering like a child. No, like a baby!”

Or like an innocent man, Nick thought.

The elevator arrived and both men stepped inside. Nick pressed the button for the first floor and kept his gaze directed at his feet. He found Feller’s glee irritating and inappropriate.

“What did Kaiser mean about the shareholder list?” Feller demanded. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

Nick said he didn’t quite catch it himself.

Feller repeated his question. “What did he do, Neumann? Tell me. Lately, you’ve been spending more time with the Chairman than I have. Fill me in.”

“I can’t,” Nick said, lying to get the nervous twerp off his back. “I don’t know myself.”

He knew the details of the crime, but he didn’t know its motivation. Why would Schweitzer betray the bank that had been his home for thirty years? Had the promise of a return to his former duties as head of a trading desk been that tempting? More money, a new title with an aggressive and extremely profitable bank. Nick didn’t think so. At USB, Schweitzer was a member of the Chairman’s inner circle, privy to daily decision making at the highest level of the bank. Heady stuff — even if officially he was director of compliance. He could hardly hope for as much at the Adler Bank.

Moreover, Peter Sprecher had made a point of repeating Von Graffenried’s words that the list of institutional shareholders had come at a bargain price, practically for free. That didn’t jibe with the careerist treachery of which Schweitzer now stood convicted. On the contrary. It reeked of the basest of human motivations. Revenge.

Feller rapped his knuckles against the wall in a nervous tattoo. “What kind of turncoat would provide information to the enemy in the midst of a battle, eh, Neumann? I ask you that.”

Nick didn’t answer, choosing only to grunt in general agreement. Feller’s questions had forced his mind back to an unwelcome suspicion that had been scratching at the base of his skull these past few minutes. Who had whispered in the Chairman’s ear that it was Schweitzer who had given the list of institutional shareholders to Konig? Nick had set the trap by himself, and he had told just two people about it.

In a distant world, Feller was continuing his tirade against Schweitzer. “God, did you see him crying? To think he’s almost sixty. It was like seeing your father break down.
Unglaublich
.”

Nick turned on Feller. “Schweitzer’s life is ruined, don’t you see that? What kind of pleasure do you get out of glorying in his destruction?”

“None,” answered Feller, momentarily abashed. “But if the bastard stole confidential information pertaining to our defense and gave it to the Adler Bank, I hope he burns in hell. Look at you, Neumann. You would never for an instant consider doing anything to hurt the bank, to harm the Chairman. It’s unthinkable!”

Nick felt the heft of the false dossier pressing against his spine. “Absolutely,” he said.

A security guard was waiting at the entrance to
Dokumentation Zentrale
. Nick and Feller flashed their identifications and the guard admitted them to the bank’s central archive. The room was deserted and pitch-black. Feller walked inside and turned on a bank of fluorescent lights. The guard took a seat at the reading table.

“Like old times,” said Feller, ambling to Karl’s customary position behind the worn green counter. He leaned against it and asked in a palsied voice, “What can I do for you, young man? Want a file, do you? Well then fill out the form, you cretin. You young pups are all alike. Lazy, stupid, and slow. I don’t know how the bank will survive. Haven’t you finished writing up your request yet?” He pretended to take one from Nick. “No reference — no files. Moron.”

Nick laughed. The imitation wasn’t half bad. Apparently he hadn’t been the first guy ever to ask for files without giving his proper personal reference. Feller motioned for him to come behind the counter.

“I need the file for numbered account 549.617 RR,” Nick said.

Feller repeated the number and set off down the central path that ran between the rows and rows of shelves. “Five four nine, what was the rest?”

“Six one seven.”

“All right, come right this way.”

They walked a few yards farther, then took a right turn down a row of shelved materials stacked fifteen feet high. Like street signs, numbers were posted at every corner. Feller moved quickly through the narrow aisles. After a break in the shelves, he turned left down a narrower corridor, hardly wide enough for two persons to stand side by side. Suddenly he stopped.”Here we are then, 549.617 RR. What do you need from this file?”

“Just the uncollected correspondence.”

“Up on the fourth shelf.” Feller pointed above Nick’s head. “I can’t reach it.”

“Don’t you have a ladder for this?”

“There’s one here someplace. Quicker just to climb up the shelves. We used to have races to see who could touch the ceiling first.”

“Really?” said Nick. He needed exactly such a distraction to occupy Feller. He stood on his tiptoes, and the fingers of his right hand just reached the Pasha’s file. “You think you still have it in you?”

“Naw, I’m too used to life on the Fourth Floor,” said Feller, patting his belly.

Nick spotted his cue. “I don’t believe that for a second, Reto. Give it a go. I’ll let you practice a few times and then I’ll whip you myself.”

“You? With your leg? I’m not a cruel man.” But Feller was already removing his suit jacket. “Not in normal circumstances, anyway. But hey, if you want a thrashing, no problem. “He turned his back to Nick and trained his eyes on the small spaces and gaps in each shelf that might serve as his footholds.

Nick withdrew the file from his back and laid it on an empty section of shelf. Tiptoeing, he stretched to reach the Pasha’s file.

A terrible racket echoed through the hallways as Feller clambered up the shelves and touched the ceiling. “See, Neumann,” he called, glowing with pride from his perch between the shelves. “That took about four seconds.”

“Damn quick,” said Nick with appropriate awe. He glanced down to be sure that his body was blocking the shelf where he had laid the surrogate file. It was.

“Are you kidding?” asked Feller, caught up in revisiting his old haunts. “On a good day, I could make it up
and down
in four seconds. Here goes again.” He clattered down the shelves, and before Nick could worry that he might spot the file, he turned around and climbed right back up again. He had made it halfway up to the top when the security guard yelled from across the room. “What are you two doing back there? Come here at once.”

Feller froze where he was, back turned to Nick.

Nick grabbed the edge of the Pasha’s file and freed it from its bin. He opened its cover and took out the pile of fake correspondence he had made up a few days before. Then, he rammed the file — which was much thicker than he had remembered — into the back of his pants, pulling his jacket down to cover the bulge. Christ, it felt like he had an anvil strapped to his waist.

The guard called once again across the room. “Hurry up and come back here. What are you doing?”

Feller answered with an irreverence Nick hadn’t known he possessed. “We’re climbing the walls, what do you think?” He looked over his shoulder at Nick and winked.

“Hurry up, then,” replied the guard. “Zurich Grasshopper is playing Neuchatel Xamax. You damn suits will make me miss the kickoff.”

Nick tapped Feller on the leg and handed him the surrogate file. “Put that back for me, will you. You can reach the bin from where you are.”

The security guard popped his head around the corner. His regard went from Nick to Feller.

Feller replaced the dossier and dropped to the ground. “Looks like our race will have to be rescheduled. Got everything you need?”

Nick held up the counterfeit bundle of the Pasha’s correspondence. “Everything.”

Nick walked into the Keller Stubli that evening at a few minutes past nine. His neck and shoulders bristled with tension, but it was a tension born of impatience, not desperation. For once, he was acting instead of reacting. His plan to steal the Pasha’s file had come off brilliantly. A quick glance at the file’s contents proved that everything was still in its place: the bank’s copies of every transfer confirmation, the matrices specifying the name and accounts where his funds were wired every Monday and Thursday, the names of the portfolio managers who had so modestly administered his account. And along with the file, he had managed to bring something of his own out of the bank. A scheme to nail both Mevlevi and Kaiser. The knowledge that he might be able to regain control of his future sent a current through his system, fueling the tightness that had settled around his shoulders. Good news from Sprecher and the day would be complete.

Nick let his eyes wander the room. He didn’t believe he’d been followed at any time that day, but he couldn’t be certain. Walking to the bar, he had kept an eye behind him, stopping frequently at shop windows and searching their reflections for the shadow of a man or woman moving a shade too slowly. That he had neither seen nor felt another’s presence was no guarantee of his security. A team of professionally trained surveillance artists could shadow him for days without his knowing it. And so, he could not afford to let his guard down.

The bar was filling up rapidly. Customers crowded the score of wooden tables that lined the walls. A jazzy backbeat pounded from the loudspeakers. Sprecher, lit cigarette in hand, occupied his usual place at the far end of the bar.

“Any luck?” Nick asked. “Could you pull up any data on the Ciragan Trading account?”

“The place was a zoo,” said Sprecher. “Konig handed down a case of Dom Perignon to the traders to celebrate our victory. Manna from heaven.”