Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Nick broke off his tirade and circled the restricted platform. He stared at Peter, and Peter stared back. A sharp wind whistled through the trestles of the observation tower, blowing with it a smattering of frozen rain and the smell of damp pine.

“So why kill him?” Sprecher asked finally. “What does he know now that he hasn’t for the last five years?”

Nick halted his pacing. What about our nagging problem? Mevlevi had asked Kaiser yesterday afternoon. The one that threatens to do us so much harm.

“The way I see it, Cerruti was going to talk to Sterling Thorne or to Franz Studer. Mevlevi got wind of it and had him killed.”

As Sprecher shook his head in disbelief, Nick explained his predicament with the conviction of the damned. He told Sprecher everything that had happened during the past two weeks. Maeder’s plan to liberate the equity shareholdings of USB’s discretionary clients, the theft from DZ of the Pasha’s correspondence, how he’d foolishly put his own fingerprints on the pistol that shot and killed Albert Makdisi. Finally, he told Sprecher about his true reasons for coming to the bank. He explained how his father was murdered. He described his interest in the USB Los Angeles rep office monthly activity reports and underlined his growing certainty that Mevlevi had been involved in his father’s killing. He left nothing out.

Sprecher whistled long and low. “You really believe the Pasha had a hand in your father’s death?”

“If Mevlevi is Allen Soufi, then I’m sure of it. What I have to discover is why my father felt so strongly about not working with him. What was Goldluxe up to? The only person who can tell us is Caspar Burki.”

“Who?”

“Allen Soufi was recommended to my father by a portfolio manager out of USB London. His name was Caspar Burki. He’d have known what Soufi and Goldluxe were up to. You’ve been at the bank twelve years. Name ring a bell?”

“I don’t know anyone by that name in our London office.”

“He retired in 1988,” said Nick. “Used to live in town. I have his old address. I went by before coming to see you. The place was deserted.”

Sprecher shifted his gaze from Nick to the panorama of drizzle that enveloped the tower. He fished for another cigarette. “Can’t say I know a Caspar Burki. Only fellow I know who dates from that period is Yogi Bauer. In fact, we both know Yogi.”

“Both of us?” Nick raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know anybody named Yogi.”

“Au contraire, mon chere. You’ve even bought the man a drink. At the Keller Stubli. Fat bloke with greasy black hair, white as death. We toasted Schweitzer’s talented wife.”

Nick remembered him. “Some luck. The guy’s a full-blown alcoholic. He can’t remember how he gets to the bar every day, let alone a stranger from twenty years ago.”

“Yogi Bauer worked in the London branch of USB. He was Schweitzer’s assistant. If Burki was there at the same time, Bauer is bound to have known him.”

Nick laughed at their situation. “Are you getting the feeling that this is a pretty tangled web we’re caught up in?”

Sprecher lit the cigarette that had been dangling from his mouth. “I’m sure the authorities can unravel it just fine.”

“The authorities won’t be of any help. We have to take Mevlevi down ourselves.”

“Far beyond our domain, I’m afraid. Tell the proper authorities. They’ll see to it that all is set right.”

“Will they?” Nick was incensed by Sprecher’s willful naivete. “Any documents we show the police will incriminate us. The bank will press charges that we stole them. Violation of bank secrecy laws. I can’t see nailing the Pasha from the inside of a jail cell.”

Sprecher was unconvinced. “I don’t think the federal government will be keen to learn that two of its most important banks were being controlled by a Middle Eastern drug lord.”

“But, Peter, where are the drugs? Mevlevi’s been convicted of no crime. We have numbered accounts, money being laundered, maybe even a tie to the Adler Bank. But no drugs. And, I might add, no name. We have to do this ourselves. Do I have to mention what happened to Marco Cerruti? Or to Marty Becker?”

“Please don’t,” said Sprecher, blanching.

Nick thought he was finally getting through. “You agree that we can match Konig’s purchases of stock to the Pasha’s transfers through USB?”

“Theoretically, it’s possible. I’ll grant you that. I’m afraid to ask what you want of me.”

“Get me hard-copy evidence that the Ciragan Trading account holds eighty percent of the USB shares. It’s got to be clear that the shares do not belong to the Adler Bank, but that they are only being voted on their behalf. We need a historical record of Adler’s accumulation of USB shares through that account: dates, quantities, and purchase prices.”

“Should I bring you back Cinderella’s glass slipper while I’m at it?” Sprecher’s tone was as flip as ever, but Nick could see that his jaw was set and his eyes harder than before.

Nick smiled. For a split second he felt that they might even have half a chance. “I’ve got to get a copy of all the transfers made for account 549.617 RR since last July, when Konig began accumulating shares. Plus a copy of the Pasha’s banking instructions. Our records show where the money went on its first leg. Your records will show which bank it came from on its last leg. Together that’s a pretty good map.”

“Maps are all well and good. But who are we going to show it to?”

“We don’t have much choice. There’s only one man reckless enough to move while Mevlevi is in Switzerland.”

“Besides you and me, you mean. Who is it?”

“Sterling Thorne.”

Sprecher looked as if someone had just stolen his cigarettes. “You’re joking? I don’t disagree that the man is reckless. The portrait you’ve painted makes him sound absolutely possessed. But what of it?”

Nick was careful to hide his own misgivings. “Thorne will do anything to get his hands on the Pasha. He’s the only one who can use any evidence we manage to steal. If he knows that Mevlevi is in this country, he’ll put the full efforts of the DEA behind our plan. I bet Thorne will bring in a fucking Ranger A-Team to kidnap the Pasha and take him back to the States.”

“If he can find him…”

“Oh, he can find him. Monday morning at ten A.M., I’ll be escorting the Pasha to a meeting in Lugano with an employee of the Federal Passport Office. Seems Kaiser has arranged for Mevlevi to obtain citizenship in this fine country as a way to get the DEA off his back.”

“Kaiser set that up?” Peter gave a soft laugh. “Like you said, ‘lock, stock, and barrel.’ So how does one go about finding our Mr. Thorne?”

Nick patted his pocket. “I’ve got his card. Didn’t he give you one too?”

“He did, but I’m a smart lad. I threw it away.” Sprecher shivered suddenly. “All right, mate, let’s make the plan. It’s too cold up here to continue our little parley.”

Nick thought of what he needed to do that afternoon. He wouldn’t be free until six at the earliest. “Let’s hook up at the Keller Stubli tonight at eight,” he suggested. “I’m looking forward to seeing Yogi.”

“Keep your fingers crossed,” said Sprecher. “Hope that Bauer hasn’t quaffed one too many beers.”

Nick placed his palms together and brought them up to his chest. “I’m praying.”

Nick arrived at the Paradeplatz at five past two, anxious to get to the bank. It had taken him over an hour to slog down the icy path from the Uetliberg and catch a tram into the center of the city. An hour that he did not have. The game had a time limit now. Monday, Gino Makdisi would take possession of the Pasha’s merchandise. Tuesday, Konig would officially be voted his seats on USB’s board of directors. Nick could not allow either to take place.