Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Sylvia continued, “One banker had taken home old printouts of his client’s portfolios—passed through the shredder, of course—to use as confetti. Come three o’clock in the morning, he threw these papers out the window and littered the streets with confidential client information. The next morning, street cleaners found the shredded printouts and handed them over to the police, who were able to make out several names and account numbers.”

“You mean they arrested the guy for using shredded portfolio printouts as confetti?” He recalled the story of the Esfahani rug weavers of Iran who had painstakingly reassembled the thousands of documents shredded by U.S. Embassy personnel in Tehran just after the shah’s fall. But that was a fundamentalist Islamic revolution. In what country did street cleaners burden themselves with the responsibility to inspect their pickings? And worse, rush to the police to report their discoveries?

She blew the air from her cheeks. “This was a major scandal. Aachh! The fact that the papers were unreadable is secondary. It’s the idea that a trained banker violated the confidence of his clients. The man was put in jail for six months. He lost his position at the bank.”

“Six months,” Nick repeated gravely. In a country that didn’t prosecute tax evasion as a criminal offense, half a year for throwing shredded papers out the window was a stiff sentence.

Sylvia Schon put her hands on Nick’s chair and brought her face close to his. “I am telling you these things for your own benefit. We take our laws and our traditions seriously. You must also.”

“I realize the importance of confidentiality. I’m sorry if I looked as if I were growing impatient, but the rules you were reciting sounded like common sense.”

“Bravo, Mr. Neumann. That’s just what they are. Unfortunately, common sense isn’t so common anymore.”

“Maybe not.”

“At least we’re in agreement there.”

Dr. Schon returned to her chair and sat down. “That’s all, Mr. Neumann,” she said coldly. “Time to get back to work.”

On a snowy Friday evening, three weeks after he had begun work at the United Swiss Bank, Nick made his way through the back alleys of Zurich’s old town en route to a rendezvous with Peter Sprecher. “Be at the Keller Stubli at seven sharp,” Sprecher had said when he called in at four that afternoon, several hours after failing to return to the office from lunch. “Corner of Hirschgasse and the Niederdorf. Old sign banged all to hell. Can’t miss it, chum.”

The Hirschgasse was a narrow alley whose lopsided brickwork snaked uphill about a hundred yards from the river Limmat to the Niederdorfstrasse, the old town’s primary pedestrian thoroughfare. A few lights burned from cafes or restaurants at the top of the street. Nick walked toward them. After a few steps, he was aware of a shadow over his head. Sprouting from the wall of a pockmarked building was a bent wrought iron sign from which chipped gold leaf hung in tatters like moss from a willow. Below the sign was a wooden door with a ringed knocker and an iron window grate. A plaque buried in verdigris bore the words “Nunc Est Bibendum.” He ran the Latin words through his mind and smiled. “Now is the time to drink.” Definitely, Sprecher’s type of establishment.

Nick opened the heavy door and entered a dark, wood-paneled watering hole that reeked of stale smoke and spilled beer. The room was half-empty but sported the type of seedy decor that made him think that soon it would be filled to capacity. A Horace Silver tune played wistfully from the sound system.

“Glad you could make it,” yelled Peter Sprecher from the far end of an arolla pine bar. “Appreciate your showing at such short notice.”

Nick waited until he reached the bar before answering. “I had to juggle my schedule,” he said wryly. He didn’t have a friend in the city and Peter knew it. “Missed you this afternoon.”

Sprecher threw open his arms. “A meeting of great import. An interview. An offer even.”

Nick heard at least three beers talking. “An offer?”

“I accepted. Being a man of few principles and unrivaled greed, it was an easy decision to make.”

Nick drummed his fingers on the countertop, digesting the news. He recalled the snippet of conversation he’d overheard his first day at work. So Sprecher had gotten his extra fifty thousand. The question now was from whom. “I’m waiting for the details.”

“Take my word, you’ll need a drink first.”

Sprecher drained the glass in front of him and ordered two Cardinals. When the beers arrived, Nick took a decent swig, then set his glass on the bar. “Ready.”

“The Adler Bank,” said Sprecher. “They’re starting a private banking department. Need warm bodies. Somehow they found me. They’re offering a thirty percent boost in salary, a guaranteed fifteen percent bonus, and in two years, stock options.”

Nick could not conceal his surprise. “After twelve years at USB, you’re going to work for the Adler Bank? They’re the enemy. Last week you were calling Klaus Konig a gambler and a bastard, to boot. Peter, you’re due for a promotion to first vice president later this year. The Adler Bank? You’re not serious?”

“Oh, but I am. The decision has been made. And by the way, I called Konig a canny gambler. ‘Canny’ as in successful. ‘Canny’ as in wealthy, and ‘wealthy’ as in extremely fucking rich. If you’d like, I’ll put in a word for you. Why break up a good team?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass.”

Nick found it difficult to think of his colleague’s action as anything but a betrayal. Then he wondered: Of what? Of whom? Of the bank? Of himself? And knowing full well he had hit upon the answer, chastised himself for his selfish thoughts. In their short time together, Sprecher had slipped into the role of irreverent big brother, dispensing advice on personal and professional matters. His easy banter and cynical worldview were welcome antidotes to the rigid bureaucracy of their workplace. They’d continued their relationship after hours, Sprecher leading the way to one bar or another, Pacifico, Babaloo, Kaufleuten. Soon he’d be leaving the bank and giving up his role as a supporting player in Nick’s life.

“So you’re going to leave the Pasha to me?” Nick asked. Business seemed a sturdy refuge for his disappointment. He remembered Sylvia Schon’s admonitions about client confidentiality and realized too late that he’d acted as cavalierly as she had expected. Just another American.

“The Pasha!” Sprecher swallowed hard and slammed his beer onto the counter. “Now there’s a rum bastard, if ever was one. Money’s so hot he can’t leave it in one spot for more than one hour for fear it’d burn through his mum’s ironing board.”

“Don’t be so sure of his wrongdoing,” Nick countered reflexively. “Regular deposits of customer receivables, quick payment of suppliers. It could be one of a thousand businesses. All of them legal.”

“Suppliers in every goddamned country around the globe?” Sprecher waved his hands, dismissing the suggestion. “Black, white, gray, let’s not argue legality. In this world everything is legal until you get caught. Don’t misunderstand me, young Nick, I’m not passing judgment on our friend. But as a businessman, I’m interested in his game. Is he looting the coffers of the U.N.—a bent administrator lining his pockets with gold? Is he some tin-pot dictator siphoning off his weekly due from the widows and orphans fund? Maybe he’s pushing coke to the Russians? Few months back we sent a bundle to Kazakhstan, I recall. Alma bloody Ata, Nick. Not your everyday commercial destination. There are a thousand ways to skin a cat and I’ll wager he’s a master at one of them, our Pasha is.”