John Case - Ghost Dancer aka Dance of Death

Wilson took the leather wing chair that was offered, crossed his legs, and explained that he wanted to arrange a wire transfer.

“I’m afraid that facility is only available to our clients,” Herr Eggli explained.

“I understand that,” Wilson said. “I was hoping to become one.”

Eggli’s face dissolved in regret. “We don’t actually do much retail banking.”

“Of course not, but, well, it’s quite a bit of money that’s involved,” Wilson said.

Eggli gave him a curious look. “Oh? May I ask how much?”

“About three million euros,” Wilson told him.

The banker paused, then nodded thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “I don’t see any obstacles, really. We can open an account straight away, if you’d like.”

“I would.”

“There’s very little paperwork. I’ll just need to see your passport. And then, of course, I’ll need the banking codes for the wire.”

Wilson slid the d’Anconia passport across the polished wooden desk.

“I’ve always thought it’s a bit like checking into a hotel,” Eggli joked. “Except, of course, the guests are money.”

Wilson chuckled politely.

“If you’d like, I can arrange the wire transfer this afternoon.”

“Terrific.”

The banker pinched a couple of forms from the top drawer of his desk, and began to fill them in, relying on Wilson’s open passport and asking a couple of questions about the Cadogan account. After a moment, he looked up with a smile. “Your English is very good.”

Wilson smiled. “I grew up in the States.”

“I thought as much.” The banker completed the paperwork, then handed it to his new client. “If you’ll just sign at the bottom…”

Wilson signed d’Anconia’s name, and gave Eggli his account number and password at the Cadogan Bank.

The banker got to his feet, and crossed the room to the door. “I’ll just be a minute.”

Wilson made a gesture, as if to suggest that he had all the time in the world. In reality, he felt as if he were about to implode. It had just occurred to him that the feds might not be as stupid as he’d supposed. If they were on to him, if they were watching the Cadogan Bank, they might very well let the wire transfer go through – after alerting the authorities in Vaduz.

A minute later, the door swept open, and Eggli swept in. “No worries.” He resumed his seat behind the desk. “The wire should clear overnight, so the money will be available in the morning. Ten-ish, I’d guess.”

“That’s great. You’re very efficient.”

“We try. Even if, technically speaking, we’re not Swiss, we try. And now, is there anything else I can do?”

“There is,” Wilson said. “If you could recommend a hotel-”

“Of course!” Eggli exclaimed.

“And a stock.”

“Excuse me?” The banker seemed befuddled.

“The bank invests its client’s monies, does it not?”

“Absolutely,” Eggli said.

“Well, then, I’d like you to invest mine.”

Herr Eggli was delighted. “Yes, well, we have quite an array of instruments. Bonds, shares, mutual funds. May I ask your objective?” He sat with pen poised above a clean sheet of paper.

“My objective,” Wilson told him, “is to walk out of here with three and a half million dollars in stock.”

The banker chuckled nervously. When he saw that his client wasn’t laughing, he said, “You’re speaking figuratively, of course.”

Wilson shook his head, slowly. “Not at all. I want you to buy shares in… whatever. Nestlé. Roche. I don’t care, really, as long as they’re publicly traded. When you’ve made the trades, I’d like the shares couriered, on an expedited basis, to my hotel.”

Eggli winced through the explanation. “Typically,” he said, “we act as a repository for our clients’ shares. It’s safer that way. We’re a bank, after all. And we have a vault. If you’d like to see it-”

“I’m sure it’s sturdy, but… can I be candid?”

The banker looked surprised, but said, “Of course.”

“I’m in the midst of a very unpleasant divorce-”

“I’m sorry.”

Wilson shrugged. “It happens. And when it does, I can promise you it’s a lot better to be liquid than not. So I’d feel more comfortable if I held the shares directly.”

Eggli nodded understandingly, but he wasn’t buying it.

“Let me ask you a question,” Wilson said.

“Of course.” Eggli put the pen down, and folded his hands on the desk.

“How much is the bank’s commission?”

The banker blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your commission! For executing trades. How much do you charge?”

Eggli pursed his lips. “Three-fourths of one percent.”

Wilson did the math. “So that’s… twenty-seven grand.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your commission on the trade will be twenty-seven thousand U.S. dollars.”

Eggli’s expression never changed. He sat where he was, as he was. And then, with a shrug of surrender, he got to his feet and shook hands. “I think you mentioned Nestlé, Roche?”

“Whatever,” Wilson told him. “They’re all good.”

Standing in the Immigration Control line at JFK, passport in hand, Wilson felt tense, though he told himself there was nothing to worry about. He’d left the United States a couple of months before, using his Jack Wilson passport to enter Ireland. After that, he’d used the d’Anconia passport. Anyone looking at Wilson’s real passport would assume that he’d flown to Ireland and stayed there for the past two months.

But there was a problem, nevertheless. When the immigration officer swiped Wilson’s passport through a magnetic reader, something popped up on her computer screen. Wilson couldn’t see what it was, but it was enough to generate a phone call.

“If you’ll just take a seat over there…?” It wasn’t a question, really.

Soon, a good-looking Homeland Security agent arrived on the scene. She spoke with the immigration officer for a moment, then beckoned for Wilson to follow her to a cubicle.

When the door closed behind them, she gestured for Wilson to sit down at a small table. Wilson read her name tag: Carolyn Amirpashaie. What kind of name is that? he wondered, unable to guess her ethnicity. “Is there a problem?”

She leafed through his passport with a frown. Finally, she said, “I don’t know.” Looking up, she said, “Is this your real name?”

Wilson acted as if the question took him aback. Finally, he said, “Yeah… Jack Wilson.”

“Is that a nickname? ‘Jack’ for ‘John’?

Wilson shook his head. “No, it’s ‘Jack’ on my birth certificate.” He smiled. “My mother was a big fan of the Kennedys.”

“How nice…” She leafed through the passport again, but this time much more quickly. “So, what countries did you visit, Jack?”

“It’s on the form,” he told her. “I was in Ireland for a couple of months, and then a couple of days in Switzerland.”

“Right.” She glanced at his Customs & Immigration form, which showed his arrival on a flight from Zurich. “And what were you doing there?”

“Nothing, really. Saw some friends. ‘Explored my Celtic roots.’” He chuckled good-naturedly, but his hands were clammy, and the peripheral vision in his left eye was beginning to flutter.

“In Switzerland?” she asked.

Wilson’s laughter sounded forced, even to himself. “No,” he said. “In Ireland.”

“But then you went to Switzerland?”

“At the end of my trip, yeah. I was only there for two or three days.” He watched as she picked up his passport, and leafed through its empty pages a second time.

“They didn’t stamp it,” she said.

“Who?” he asked.