Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

It was at this moment that for the first time Nick felt the unalloyed impact of his decision. And it hit him like a sucker punch to the gut.

The number thirteen tram pulled into the Paradeplatz, metal wheels groaning as the brakes were applied. Nick climbed aboard and had the pick of the entire car. He slid into a seat halfway back. The tram started forward with a jolt, and the abrupt movement refocused his attentions on the memories of the day. The moment of utter panic when for one life-ending second he’d truly believed that in a matter of hours Peter Sprecher was going to stick him in front of the paying public; his being found in front of Dokumentation Zentrale, ostensibly lost; and worst, his unforgivable faux pas when addressing Wolfgang Kaiser informally in Swiss-German.

He pressed his cheek to the window and kept his eye on the brooding gray buildings that lined both sides of the Stockerstrasse. Zurich was not a friendly town. He was a stranger here and he’d better remember it. The jar and rustle of the tram, the empty cabin, the unfamiliar environs, all of it only bolstered his uncertainty while amplifying his loneliness. What could he have been thinking, giving up so much to come on this wild goose chase?

Soon the tram slowed and Nick heard the driver’s gruff voice announce his stop. Utobrucke. He lifted his cheek from the window and stood up, grabbing the overhead safety rail for balance. The tram stopped and he stepped outside, happy to be wrapped in the night’s cold embrace. His worries had bound themselves together into a prickly ball and taken refuge in a hollow basin deep inside his stomach. He recognized the feeling. Fear.

It was the feeling he’d had before walking into his first high school dance when he was thirteen, the dread that came from knowing that once you stepped into the auditorium you were putting yourself on display, and one way or the other you had to ask a girl to dance and just pray you wouldn’t be rejected.

It was the feeling he’d had the day he’d reported to officer candidate school in Quantico, Virginia. There was a moment when all the recruits were gathered in the processing hall. The paperwork was finished, the physical exams were completed; suddenly, the hall became very quiet. Every man in the room knew that on the other side of the steel fire doors, ten rabid drill instructors were waiting for them, and that in three months they’d either be a second lieutenant in the United States Marine Corps or a washout standing on a street corner somewhere with a couple of dollars in their pocket and a label that they’d never be able to erase.

Nick watched the tram recede into the darkness. He breathed in the pure air and relaxed, if only a little. He had given a name to his uncertainty and its recognition strengthened him. As he walked, he consoled himself. He was on an upward track. College at Cal State Northridge, the Corps, Harvard B-School. He had made something of his life. As far back as he could remember he had promised to pull himself out of the slime into which he’d been thrust. He had sworn to reclaim the birthright his father had worked so hard to give him.

For seventeen years these had been his guiding lights. And on this winter’s night, with a new challenge before him, he saw them more clearly than ever.

One week later, Marco Cerruti had still not returned to his desk in the Hothouse. No further word regarding his condition had been passed along. Only an ominous memo from Sylvia Schon that no personal calls should be made to the sick portfolio manager and the firm instructions that Mr. Peter Sprecher should assume all his superior’s responsibilities, including the attendance of a biweekly investment allocation meeting from which he had just returned.

Talk at the meeting had not centered on the ailing Cerruti. In fact, his condition was never mentioned. Since nine o’clock that morning, those present at the meeting, as well as every other living, breathing employee of the bank, had been talking about one thing and one thing only: the shocking announcement that the Adler Bank, an outspoken rival whose headquarters sat no more than fifty yards down the Bahnhofstrasse, had purchased five percent of USB’s shares on the open market.

The United Swiss Bank was in play.

Nick read aloud from a Reuters financial bulletin that blinked across his monitor. “Klaus Konig, Chairman of the Adler Bank, today announced the purchase of a five percent stake in the United Swiss Bank. Citing USB’s ‘grossly insufficient return on assets,’ Konig vowed to take control of the board of directors and force a repositioning of the bank into more lucrative activities. The transaction is valued at over two hundred million Swiss francs. USB shares are up ten percent in heavy trading.”

“‘Grossly insufficient return,’” said Sprecher indignantly, slamming a fist onto his desk. “Am I losing my mind or did we not report record earnings last year, an increase in net profits of twenty-one percent?”

Nick peered over his shoulder. “Konig didn’t say there was anything wrong with our profits. Only with our return on assets. We’re not using our money aggressively enough.”

“We are a conservative Swiss bank,” Sprecher spat out. “We’re not supposed to be aggressive. Konig must think he’s in America. An unsolicited takeover bid in Switzerland. It’s never been done. Is he totally insane?”

“There’s no law against hostile takeovers,” said Nick, enjoying his role as devil’s advocate. “My question is, where is he getting the money? He’d need four or five billion francs before it’s all over. The Adler Bank doesn’t have that kind of cash.”

“Konig might not need it. He only needs thirty-three percent of USB’s shares to gain three seats on the board. In this country that’s a blocking stake. All decisions taken by the board of directors must carry by two thirds of those voting. You don’t know Konig. He’s a wily one. He’ll use his seats to foment a rebellion. Make everyone’s dick hard by bragging about Adler’s fantastic growth.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult. The Adler Bank’s profits have grown at something like forty percent per year since its founding. Last year Konig’s bank earned over three hundred million francs after tax. There’s a lot to be impressed about.”

Sprecher eyed Nick quizzically. “What are you? A walking financial encyclopedia?”

Nick shrugged. “I wrote my thesis on the Swiss banking industry. The Adler Bank is a new breed over here. Trading is their principal activity. Using their own capital to bet on stocks, bonds, options; anything whose price can go up or down.”

“Figures then that Konig would want USB. Get his greedy hands into the private banking side of things. He used to work here, you know—years ago. He’s a gambler. And a canny one at that. ‘A repositioning into more lucrative activities.’ I can just see what he means by that. It means betting the firm’s capital on the outcome of next week’s OPEC meeting or guessing the next actions of the United States Federal Reserve. It means risk spelled in capital letters. Konig wants to get his hands on our assets to increase the size of the Adler Bank’s bets.”

Nick studied the ceiling as if figuring a complex equation. “Strategically, it’s a sound move for him. But it won’t come easy. No Swiss bank will fund an attack on one of their own. You don’t invite the devil into the house of the Lord, not if you’re a priest. Konig would have to attract private investors, dilute his ownership. I wouldn’t worry yet. He only holds 5 percent of our shares. All he can do is scream a little louder at the general assembly.”

A sarcastic voice smirked from the entryway, “The future of the bank decided by two of its greatest minds. How reassuring.” Armin Schweitzer, the bank’s director of compliance, marched into the Hothouse, stopping before Nick’s desk. “Well, well, our newest recruit. Another American. They come and go once a year—like a bad case of the flu. Made the reservations for your return flight yet?” He was a bullet-shaped man of sixty, all hulking shoulders and gray flannel. He had steady dark eyes and a tight, pained mouth.