Mike Offit - Nothing Personal - A Novel of Wall Street

Warren had accumulated enough frequent-flier miles to upgrade to two first-class seats on Lufthansa, which Sam insisted had the best little cosmetic kits of any airline. He also splurged and bought a bottle of Grands Échézeaux along in his carry-on bag, which added a touch of extra civility to the perfectly acceptable in-flight dinner, not to mention deepening the sleep afterward.

In Munich they picked up a sleek, black Porsche from a rental agency, and Warren rechecked the route. It would only take about three hours to make it to Vaduz, in Liechtenstein, and they would be there not long after its bankers unlocked their forbidding office doors.

The drive was beautiful, the snow cover fresh and clean, the roads clear and dry. They made such good time that they lingered over strong Kaffee in a charming Bavarian inn, and Sam sampled a few of the rich breakfast pastries for the extra energy. They went over the details they had rehearsed again and again before leaving and on the plane. Sam knew a lot about the banks from her expensive forensic accounting lesson at Artie’s hands, but Warren took her through the intricacies of how they calculated and talked about interest rates on big, important accounts. It was hardly eleven o’clock when they pulled into Vaduz’s tidy central square and parked, just about twenty yards from the august entrance to the Wilhelmsbanken. Sam levered herself out of the low-slung car, looking elegant in a fur-lined, leather duffel coat, and tight stirrup pants tucked neatly into a pair of Hermès snow boots. Warren simply wore gray flannels and a white dress shirt under the shearling coat he’d bought at Barneys for the occasion. They looked healthy, wealthy, and very much in their element, their black sunglasses glinting in the clear mountain air.

A portly doorman in a black cutaway allowed them to pass, and Sam led the way to the inner sanctum. At the reception desk she did not remove her glasses, but in an imperious voice and perfect German, fine-tuned with a half dozen classes at Berlitz, addressed the older woman who looked up from her seat inquisitively.

“ Herr Schlusmann, bitte . It is important.”

“ Ja. Ja. A moment, I will ring him. Please sit, if you wish.” The woman gestured to two wing chairs and lifted her handset. She started speaking only moments after punching in an extension.

“Herr Schlusmann, there is a young woman and a gentleman to see you at reception…. Ja. I will tell them. Ja .” She put the receiver down and turned her face to Sam. “Herr Schlusmann has asked that I take you to his office.” Sam nodded and gestured to Warren to follow.

“Ah, good. Then we will get this problem straightened out.” Warren couldn’t believe Sam’s accent, and though he hadn’t a clue what she was saying, she sounded convincingly pissed about something.

They followed their guide into a surprisingly bland office, where a round, well-dressed gentleman sat behind a large partner’s desk, making notes on a report of some sort. He looked up pleasantly. “Yes. Hello. How can I help you?” His accent was clipped.

“Help me? I will tell you. I am quite upset.” Sam still had the pissed-off tone, in what Warren assumed was excellent German. “There is a serious irregularity in my account, and I want to correct it right away.”

“Irregularity? Of what sort? I’m certain we can correct it.” The man sounded genuinely solicitous, and Warren couldn’t help but think Sam’s legs had something to do with it.

“When my brother passed away, his estate was held only in US dollars. Every account. Every bond. It is simply not possible. Not possible.” She was now speaking to the man as if he were an idiot and actually banged a fist on the desk for emphasis.

“But I don’t understand? What is not possible?” His voice was unctuous, soothing, practiced in assuaging the petulant demands of the rich.

“Some moron has responded to my inquiry by insisting that my account is held here in Swiss francs. That is absurd. It is dollars. Dollars only. Who is responsible for this stupidity?” Warren was sitting there, nodding gravely. He understood the part about dollars, and something about Swiss francs. He tried to look annoyed. “This is my solicitor, Herr Markus. We wish to address this problem right away.” She gestured to Warren, who rose and shook Herr Schlusmann’s hand.

“Well, that is a concern. There is quite a difference. Let me investigate. What is the account number, if you please.” He was speaking to Warren now, but Sam butted in.

“Three oh eight seven six six three four two dash three is the first. The one with the problem.” There was only one account at this bank, but she thought it was a nice touch. Herr Schlusmann jotted it on a slip of paper.

“ Ja . I will see.” He swiveled in his chair to a small computer terminal. Then paused, almost as an afterthought “Of course, if you will, I must have the pass code.”

“The pass code?” Sam asked.

“Yes, of course, the pass code.” Schlusmann swiveled imperceptibly back toward the desk.

“I will not give you my pass code. I will enter it on the computer in private as I always have. What is this lunacy?” She had a condescending bite that transcended language. She had committed to memory all the numbers in Anson’s spreadsheet, and the moment of truth had arrived. If they didn’t match up, they could have real trouble.

“Yes, of course, as you wish.” The servile tone had returned. He spent a moment at the keyboard, then swiveled back. “At your convenience…”

Sam stood abruptly and stepped to the console behind the man, who did not turn to observe. She tapped the keypad a few times and stepped away. “Ja,” she muttered.

Schlusmann turned again and spun through a few menus. His back stiffened slightly as a screen full of tiny numbers appeared, which even Warren could see contained an awful lot of zeros. Sam had to struggle not to show any reaction.

“But, as you can see, this is all in United States dollars! I cannot understand how you were ever told otherwise. Do you—”

“ Ach . Idiot. I told her. Well then, good. Tell me, Herr Schlusmann, was the interest paid in last month, as scheduled? Twenty-five basis points under LIBOR, I presume?” The information Warren had gotten from one of the traders at Credit Suisse had been spot-on. This would apply only to a highly preferred account—most deposits here paid no interest.

“Yes, of course. But we have modified your rate to only twenty last September.” The man was being so polite as to border on obsequiousness.

“So generous, Herr Schlusmann. I am sure it must cause you a great deal of discomfort.” Sam was smiling now, deciding the time had come to ease up. She motioned to Warren, as if he were a servant, to follow her. He tried to look the part as he nervously snatched her coat and helped her into it.

“Bitte,” he muttered. He thought he sounded like Lili Von Shtupp in Blazing Saddles .

“ Danke. Danke schön, Herr Schlusmann . I will notify you of where I wish my account transferred tomorrow. This bank should be most ashamed of itself. I do not blame you, but this is intolerable.” The man looked crestfallen, shocked. He started to renew his apologies, to explain that the bank never made such errors.

She cut him off. “Herr Schlusmann, I do not blame you. Not at all. I will write a letter to your director complimenting you. I will even recommend you to the Faaringsbank. But I do not suffer such treatment easily. Now, I must be going. I will be in touch with you tomorrow.” She tossed her Hermès scarf around her shoulder, and she and Warren exited briskly past the receptionist, whom Warren nodded to, and the doorman.