Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“Are you there?” she asked, and he realized he hadn’t spoken for a few seconds.

“Just don’t do anything stupid, Anna. I have to go now.” He hung up the phone.

Nick spotted Peter Sprecher walking toward Sprungli from the kiosk in the Paradeplatz. He was carrying a newspaper in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He wore a dark suit under a navy overcoat and had a white scarf wrapped around his neck. “Don’t look so surprised,” he said, by way of greeting. “It’s not a holiday, is it? I mean, we are going to work.”

Nick patted him on the back, checking his own garb in return. Blue jeans, a sweatshirt, and a forest-green parka. “Depends on what kind of work you had in mind.” He opened the door to Sprungli for his friend and followed him up the stairs to the main dining room. They chose a table in the far left corner, not far from the lavish breakfast buffet. They waited until a waitress arrived to take their orders before getting down to business.

Nick shot a glance at the briefcase. “Did you take a minute this morning and compare our man’s transfers through USB with the purchases made for the Ciragan Trading account?”

“Did better than that.” Sprecher opened the briefcase and withdrew a ledger sheet. He had drawn a line down its center and written the words USB transfers to the left and Ciragan Trading Purchases to the right. He handed Nick the sheet, saying, “We’re close, but it’s not a hundred percent. Mevlevi transferred over eight hundred million through his account at USB since last June.”

“And Konig’s purchases of USB stock?”

“Started small in July and kicked into full gear in November. I’m surprised Kaiser hadn’t taken note of someone snapping up such large blocks of shares.”

“Could’ve been anyone. Pension fund managers, mutual funds, individual investors. How was he to know?”

Sprecher raised an eyebrow, not ready to dismiss Kaiser’s gaffe. “Anyhow, we’re a hundred million off in total.”

Nick studied the sheet. “Yeah, but look. For twenty-odd weeks, the value of shares purchased by the Adler Bank exactly matches Mevlevi’s transfers. Maybe the final tally’s not a hundred percent, but it’s darned close.”

Nick continued to examine the ledger. He was excited to have obtained what he believed would pass for proof that Mevlevi was behind the Adler Bank’s takeover of USB. Yet, he realized that so far nothing had truly been accomplished. Yes, he had the ammunition he needed. But the real battle would take place tomorrow… if the proper generals arrived at the proper battlefields at the proper times. Three skirmishes would be fought across two fronts separated by forty kilometers, and the one enemy could not be engaged before the other had been vanquished. The time for celebration was far off.

“I don’t fancy being in Klaus’s shoes,” said Sprecher, “not when his ship gets taken out from under him. Do you think he knows exactly who the Pasha is?”

“Of course he knows,” Nick said. “Everyone knows. The secret is pretending you don’t, and keeping a straight face when you deny it.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Come on. Mevlevi’s fingerprints are all over the Adler Bank. My only fear is not knowing exactly what he’s trying to pull off. Why does Ali Mevlevi want to control the United Swiss Bank?”

“Why does he want to control the Adler Bank?” Sprecher countered.

“‘Banks. That’s where the money is.’ Willie Sutton said that. Back in the twenties, he was a pretty decent bank robber.”

Sprecher spread his arms and tilted his head toward Nick as if to say “Case closed.”

“Tack on sixty years, change the color of the passport, and update the wardrobe. Voila: it’s still the same man. One more well-dressed hood.”

Nick wasn’t convinced. “So the Pasha is a bank robber? If that’s the case, this has to be the most sophisticated heist in history. Not to mention the most expensive!”

“Look at it this way, put up a billion francs in order to get back ten billion. Call me old-fashioned, but that’s a fair return on your investment.”

“Not possible, my friend. Not possible.” But as Nick peered through the window at the clothing stores that quilted the Bahnhofstrasse, boutiques selling cashmere sweaters at three thousand francs a shot and Italian leather handbags at twice that amount, he asked himself, “Why not?” Maybe Ali Mevlevi was a thief, a glorified holdup artist? Was it possible to plunder the resources of a bank from within its own walls? Could the Pasha empty the vaults of his own bank under official pretenses? And what if he didn’t give a damn for official pretenses?

Nick turned his mind to a more troubling area of inquiry. What would Mevlevi do with the money? He recalled Thorne’s rant about the arms and materiel Mevlevi had accumulated at his compound near Beirut. If Mevlevi has that much equipment now, imagine what he could purchase with funds diverted from the Adler Bank and USB.

Since the end of the cold war, arms dealers had been willing to sell their wares to any breathing soul with hard currency. Damn the politics! Mevlevi had only to pick up a telephone to have his choice of the deadliest weapons currently manufactured.

“Simply not possible,” Nick assured Peter, if only to allay his own fears. “The Pasha’s a pirate all right, but that might be going too far. Anyway, it doesn’t matter why he wants it. With what we’ve got in our possession, we can drop him cold.” He enumerated the evidence on the fingers of his right hand. “Proof of his transfers into and out of USB. Signature cards from when the account was first opened, including code words written in his own hand. Copies of the matrices that show to which banks he wires his funds. And now proof of his involvement with Konig and the Adler Bank.”

“And what about Thorne? Without him, all we have is a lot of paper and a crazy theory.”

“He’s solid,” said Nick, coaxing himself to believe his own words. “I got ahold of him this morning and he’s ready to work with us.” Nick didn’t bring up the personal leap of faith required to call Sterling Thorne and offer his services. After his dealings with Jack Keely, he had sworn never to work with another agent of the United States government again. But his current situation forbade the luxury of prejudice. Like it or not, Thorne was all he had.

“Fill me in then,” said Sprecher. “What have you worked out with him?”

For the next fifty minutes, Nick outlined the rudiments of his plan to Sprecher. He didn’t know what to make of his friend’s frequent guffaws and laments, but when he had finished, Sprecher extended his hand and said, “I’m in. We’ve got no better than a fifty-fifty chance, mind you, but you can count on me. First time in my life I feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. It’s a new sensation. Can’t decide if I like it or not.”

Nick paid the bill and both men walked outside. “You’ve got enough time to make your train?”

Sprecher checked his watch. “Loads of it. Eleven-thirty now. I’m on the 12:07 via Lucerne.”

“And you’ve brought your friend?”

Sprecher winked and patted a slight bulge beneath his arm. “Standard issue of every officer in the Swiss Army. I am a captain, don’t forget.”

Nick switched to another topic. “How much do you think it will take to convince the front office manager to give you that suite?”

“Top floor, lake view? Five hundred minimum.”

“Ouch!” Nick said. “I owe you.”

Peter buttoned his coat and tossed the scarf over his shoulder. “Only if I end up with a tag on my toe. Otherwise, consider it my membership fee in your world of responsible and civilized nations.”