Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“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 He set the folder on his desk and began filling it with random memos and out-of-date papers until it approximated the girth of the Pasha’s file.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.”