Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“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.”

“A little early, isn’t it?”

“Konig’s pulled out all the stops. He’s had a secret weapon all along. Seems that conditional on his passing the thirty-three-percent barrier, a couple of big American banks had agreed to provide him bridge financing to make a cash bid for all the shares of USB he doesn’t own. Monday morning at eight o’clock, he’ll announce an offer to pay five hundred francs for every share not in his possession. That’s a twenty-five-percent premium to yesterday’s close.”

“That’s three billion francs.” Nick closed his eyes for a second. Talk about overkill! “Kaiser will fight it.”

“He’ll try, but so what? How many of the shares you’re counting on to vote with current management do you actually own? Twenty-five, thirty percent?”

Nick did his sums. Even after Maeder’s liberation plan, USB owned only about forty percent of its shares outright. The other shares belonged to institutions they’d convinced to stick with Kaiser. “A little more than that,” he said.

“No matter,” replied Sprecher. “By Tuesday at one P.M., Konig will have over sixty-six percent of the bank in his pocket. Who can turn down that kind of premium?”

“Kaiser will find a white knight.”

“He won’t have the chance.”

Nick realized Sprecher was right. The assembly had attracted so much publicity that portfolio managers from New York, Paris, and London were flying in to attend. One whiff of the price Konig was offering and they’d jump ship. Hambros, Banker’s Trust—all the groups Nick had spent so much time wooing would vote their shares with the Adler Bank. And why not? Just two months ago, USB shares were trading at three hundred francs. No one could resist that kind of return.

“You can imagine the frenzy,” Sprecher went on. “Everyone at the Adler Bank has been working a long time toward this moment. It was near to chaos. A man couldn’t move in there, let alone try and steal something. And it’s going to be the same tomorrow. Konig ordered all the troops back at ten A.M.—a last push before the assembly Tuesday.”

Nick raised his eyes dejectedly. “So you’re telling me you couldn’t get the info on Ciragan Trading?”

Sprecher patted him grimly on the shoulder as if to offer his condolences. Suddenly, he grinned. “I never said any such thing.” He drew an envelope from his jacket and ran it under Nick’s nose. “Every last detail your little heart desires. Uncle Peter wouldn’t let his—”

“Oh, shut up, Peter, and give me that thing.” Nick ripped the envelope out of Sprecher’s hand and they both began laughing.

“Go ahead. Open it. Unless you feel the forces of darkness have us in their sights.”

Reflexively, Nick checked over his shoulders. The crowd hadn’t grown in the last ten minutes. He spotted no one paying him undue attention. Meanwhile, the envelope was burning the flesh of his fingertips. He glanced once at Sprecher, then slid a thumb under the fold and tore open the envelope. On the Adler Bank’s engraved stationery was printed a weekly accounting of shares of the United Swiss Bank purchased for benefit of account E1931.DC—Ciragan Trading. Purchase date, settlement date, price, commission, number of shares—it was all there.