Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“Remember, chum,” Sprecher was fond of saying, “revenue is paramount. Commissions must be generated. It’s the only true yardstick of our diligence.”

But Nick’s activities were not restricted to those set forth by Peter Sprecher. Each day he found time to pursue inquiries of a more private nature. His unofficial duties, he liked to call them, and these involved finding ways to dig into the bank’s past, to see what nuggets he might discover about his father’s work those many years ago. His first excursion, undertaken on the Wednesday after his arrival, was to the bank’s research library, WIDO—Wirtschafts Dokumentation. There he scoured old annual reports, documents issued internally before the bank had gone public in 1980. He found a mention of his father in several of them, but only a passing reference or a notation in an organigram. Nothing that might shed any real light on his day-to-day tasks.

Other times, Nick studied the bank’s internal phone directory searching for names of executives that sounded familiar (none did) while checking by rank who might have been at the bank with his father. It was a hopeless task. To approach every executive over the age of fifty-five and inquire whether he had known his father was to invite news of his activities to be publicly broadcast.

Twice Nick returned to Dokumentation Zentrale. He would slide by the door, daring himself to step inside, dreaming of the miles and miles of retired papers he’d find filed in meticulous order. He grew convinced that if his father’s murder was tied in any way to his activities on behalf of the bank or its clients, the only extant clues would be found there.

The call came that afternoon at three o’clock, as it had the previous Monday and Thursday. As it had for the past eighteen months, maybe longer, said Peter Sprecher. Nick found himself guessing the amount the Pasha would transfer that day. Fifteen million dollars? Twenty million? More? Last Thursday the Pasha had transferred sixteen million dollars from his account to the banks listed on matrix five. Less than the twenty-six million he had transferred the previous Monday, but still a king’s ransom.

Nick thought it odd, as well as inefficient, that they had to wait to check the balance of account 549.617 RR until the Pasha phoned. Rules forbade the perusal of a client’s accounts. Why didn’t the Pasha just leave a standing order at the bank asking that all moneys that accumulated in the account be transferred out every Monday and Thursday? Why this waiting until three o’clock to call, this causing such a rush to wire the funds out before closing?

“Twenty-seven million four hundred thousand dollars,” said Peter Sprecher to the Pasha. “To be transferred on an urgent basis according to matrix seven.” He was using a voice he’d labeled the disinterested monotone of the professionally jaded.

Nick handed him the orange file, opened to matrix seven, and silently read the banks listed: Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank; Singapore Trade Development Bank; Daiwa Bank. Some European banks were included: Credit Lyonnais; Banco Lavoro; even the Moscow Narodny Bank. A total of thirty internationally respected financial institutions.

Later, as Nick left to deliver the transfer of funds form to Pietro in Payments Traffic, he thought of the seven pages of wire instructions included in the Pasha’s file and the hundreds of banks that were listed. Try as he might, he could not help himself from imagining the scope of the Pasha’s activities.

Was there one bank in the world with which the Pasha did not maintain an account?

The next morning at ten A.M. sharp Nick presented himself at the door to Dr. Sylvia Schon’s office. He knocked once, then entered. Apparently her assistant was either sick or on vacation, for as on the first day he had met her, the office was empty. He made some shuffling noises, then said, “Neumann here. Ten o’clock meeting with Dr. Schon.”

She responded immediately. “Come right in, Mr. Neumann. Sit down. I’m glad to see that you are punctual.”

“Only when it keeps me on time.”

She did not smile. As soon as he was seated, she began speaking. “In a few weeks you’ll begin meeting clients of the bank. You’ll help them review the status of their portfolios, assist in administrative matters. Most likely, you will be their only contact with the bank. Our human face. I’m sure Mr. Sprecher has been teaching you how to handle yourself in such situations. It’s my job to ensure that you are aware of your obligation to secrecy.”

The second day on the job, Nick had been presented by Peter Sprecher with a copy of the country’s legislation governing bank secrecy—“Das Bank Geheimnis.” He had been forced to read it, then sign a statement acknowledging his understanding of, and compliance with, the article. Sprecher hadn’t made a single wisecrack the entire time.

“Are there any further papers I need to sign?” Nick asked.

“No. I’d just like to go over some general rules to stop you from developing any bad habits.”

“Please, go ahead.” This was the second time he’d been warned about bad habits.

Sylvia Schon clasped her hands and laid them on the desk in front of her. “You will not discuss the affairs of your clients with anyone other than your departmental superior,” she said. “You will not discuss the affairs of your clients once you leave this building. No exceptions. Not over lunch with a friend and not over cocktails with Mr. Sprecher.”

Nick wondered whether the rule of discussing the affairs of his clients only with his departmental superior would supersede the “no discussion over booze” rule but decided to keep his mouth shut.

“Be sure not to discuss any business concerning the bank or its clients over a private telephone, and never take home any confidential documentation. Another thing…”

Nick shifted in his seat. His eyes wandered the perimeter of her office. He was looking for some personal touch that might give him an idea about who she really was. He didn’t see any photographs or keepsakes on her desk. No vase of flowers to brighten up the office. Only a bottle of red wine on the floor next to the filing cabinet behind her desk. She was all business.

“… and it’s never wise to make personal notes on your private papers. You can’t be sure who might read them.”

Nick tuned back in. After a few more minutes, he felt like adding “Loose lips sink ships” or “Shh, Fritz might be listening.” The whole thing was a little dramatic, wasn’t it?

As if sensing his mental opposition, Sylvia Schon stood abruptly from her chair and circled her desk. “You find this amusing, Mr. Neumann? I must say that is a particularly American response—your cavalier attitude about authority. After all, what are rules for, if not to be broken? Isn’t that how you look at things?”

Nick sat up stiffly in his chair. Her vehemence surprised him. “No, not at all.”

Sylvia Schon perched herself on the corner of the desk nearest him. “Just last year a banker at one of our competitors was jailed for violating the bank secrecy law. Ask me what he did.”

“What did he do?”

“Not much, but as it turned out enough. During Fastnacht, the carnival season, it’s a tradition in Basel to turn off all the town lights until 3:00 A.M. the morning the carnival commences. During this time the Fastnachters congregate in the streets and make merry. There are many bands, costumes. It’s quite a spectacle. And when the lights are turned on, the Stadtwohner, the persons living in the city, shower the revelers with confetti.”

Nick kept his gaze focused. The smart-ass in the back of his mind was sitting in the corner until further punishment was handed down.