Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“I plan on a long stay in Zurich,” Nick said, after he had risen and introduced himself. “I’ll do my best to better your impression of American labor.”

Schweitzer’s meaty hand appraised the stubble of his scalp. “My impression of American labor was destroyed long ago, when as a young man I made the regrettable mistake of purchasing a Corvair.” He pointed a stubby finger at Peter Sprecher. “Some news regarding your esteemed superior. A private chat, if you please.”

Sprecher rose and followed Schweitzer from the room.

Five minutes later, he returned alone. “It’s Cerruti,” he said to Nick. “He’s out until further notice. A nervous breakdown.”

“From what?”

“That’s what I’m asking myself. Sure, Marco is high-strung, but with him it’s a permanent condition. Kind of like it is for Schweitzer to be an asshole. He can’t help it.”

“How long is he gone for?”

“Who knows? They want us to run this section as is. No replacement for Cerruti. The first fallout from the good Mr. Konig’s announcement: control rising costs.” Sprecher sat down at his desk and searched for his security blanket, the red and white pack of Marlboros. “Christ, first Becker, now Cerruti.”

And when are you out of here? Nick asked silently.

Sprecher lit his cigarette, then pointed the burning embers at his colleague. “Any reason why Schweitzer should dislike you? I mean besides being a cocky American.”

Nick laughed uneasily. He didn’t like the question. “No.”

“Ever meet him before?”

“No,” Nick repeated louder. “Why?”

“He said he wants a sharp eye kept on you. He was serious.”

“He said what?”

“You heard me. I’ll tell you something—you do not want Schweitzer on your tail. He’s relentless.”

“Why should Schweitzer want you to look after me?” Had Kaiser given him those instructions?

“Probably just because’s he’s an anal retentive prick. No other reason.”

Nick sat forward, ready to protest. The phone rang on his desk. He picked it up on the first ring, happy to be saved from making a disparaging remark about the bank’s director of compliance. “Neumann,” he said.

“Good morning. Sylvia Schon speaking.”

“Good morning, Dr. Schon. How are you?”

“Well, thank you.” A dismissal—trainees had no business engaging in pleasantries with their superiors—but then the voice eased. “Your Swiss-German is sounding better already.”

“I still need a little time to get it back, but thanks.” He was surprised how good the compliment made him feel. He’d been spending an hour every evening reading aloud and having conversations with himself, yet until now no one had remarked on his improvement.

“And your work?” she asked. “Mr. Sprecher providing proper guidance?”

Nick eyed the pile of portfolios sitting on his desk. It was his job to make sure that the investments in each corresponded to the breakdown set forth by the investment allocation committee. Today that breakdown stipulated a mix of thirty percent stocks, forty percent bonds, and ten percent precious metals, with the rest to be kept in cash. “Yes, plenty to do up here. Mr. Sprecher is keeping me very busy.”

Across the desk, Sprecher tittered.

“It’s a shame about Mr. Cerruti. I suppose you’ve heard.”

“Just a few minutes ago, as a matter of fact. Armin Schweitzer informed us.”

“Under the circumstances, I wanted to schedule a time to meet with you to make sure you’re settling in all right. I’m holding you to your promise of fourteen months.” Nick thought he heard a smile in her voice. “I’d like to suggest a dinner, something a little more informal than usual. Let’s say February 6 at Emilio’s.”

“February 6 at Emilio’s,” Nick repeated. He asked her to wait one moment, then put the phone on his shoulder while he checked an invisible calendar. “That would be fine. Yes, perfect.”

“Seven o’clock, then. In the meantime I need to see you in my office. We have to cover some issues regarding our bank secrecy requirements. Do you think Mr. Sprecher could spare you tomorrow morning around ten?”

Nick glanced at Sprecher, who stared back, a bemused grin screwing up his face. “Yes, I’m sure Mr. Sprecher can do without me for a few minutes tomorrow morning.”

“Very good. I’ll see you then.” Instantly she was gone.

Nick hung up the phone and asked Sprecher, “What?”

Sprecher chuckled. “Emilio’s, eh? Can’t recall seeing any personnel files in there. But it’s bloody good grub and not cheap either.”

“It’s routine. She wants to make sure I’m not too worried about Cerruti.”

“Routine, Nick, is the cafeteria. Third floor, down the hallway to your left. Wiener schnitzel and chocolate pudding. Dr. Schon has something else in mind for you. Don’t think for a second she doesn’t know of our august chairman’s interest in you. She wants to make sure you’re well fed and comfortable. Can’t afford to lose you, can she?”

“You’ve got this all worked out, haven’t you?”

“Some things even Uncle Peter can figure out on his own.”

Nick shook his head in disbelief, laughing. He reached for his agenda and penciled in her name on the appropriate page. His date with Sylvia Schon—check that, his meeting with her—would constitute its first entry. He raised his eyes and saw Sprecher typing a letter on his computer. Bastard still had a smirk on his face. She has something else in mind for you, he’d said.

Nick ran the words through his mind a second time, and then a third. What exactly had Sprecher meant? As he pondered his colleague’s comments, his unsupervised imagination wandered down to the first floor and tiptoed into Dr. Schon’s cozy office. He saw her working diligently behind her cluttered desk. Her glasses were pushed into her hair, her blouse unbuttoned a notch lower than perfectly decent. Her slim fingers massaged a chain that dangled from her neck and brushed the swell of her cleavage.

As if reading his thoughts, Sprecher said, “Watch yourself, Nick. They’re smarter than we are, you know.”

Nick looked up, startled. “Who?”

Sprecher winked. “Women.”

Nick averted his gaze, though if it was from guilt or embarrassment he didn’t know. The frank sexual nature of his daydream surprised him. He had no doubt where it would have led had Sprecher not interrupted him, and even now he found it difficult to clear his mind of the seductive images.

Two months ago he’d been ready to bind himself to another woman for the rest of his life. A woman he’d loved and respected and relied on more than he ever knew was possible. Part of him still refused to believe that Anna Fontaine was gone. But as his vivid daydream made clear, another part of him had resolved itself to the fact, and was antsy to move on. One thing, though, was perfectly clear. A relationship with Sylvia Schon was not the place to start.

Nick returned to his task of verifying that their clients’ portfolios met the proper strategic asset allocation model. It was a monotonous chore and in theory never ending, for the bank changed its investment mix every sixty days or so, just the amount of time he’d need to make it through every one of his section’s seven hundred discretionary clients.

After a week at the bank, his days had assumed a familiar pattern. He rose each morning at six, then forced himself to withstand fifteen seconds of an ice-cold shower (an old habit from the Corps), the theory being that after suffering through the frosty agony the rest of the day didn’t look so bad. He left his one-room apartment at 6:50, caught the 7:01 tram, and hit the office by 7:30, latest. Normally he was among the first to arrive. His morning’s work invariably concerned gathering a group of client portfolios and studying them for stocks performing poorly or bonds that were due to expire. These noted, he issued sell recommendations that Sprecher approved uniformly.