Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Fifteen minutes later, a becalmed Sylvia ran cold water over her face. She kept her head near the sink and ladled handful after handful of water onto her swollen cheeks. She looked into the mirror for a long time. Trust. Dedication. Effort. She had given her whole being to the bank. Why would they choose to treat her this way?

The United Swiss Bank was an internationally active bank. Should anyone hope to rise to the directorship of the bank’s personnel division, he—Sylvia wouldn’t waste another breath considering herself—would be required to supervise hiring not only in Switzerland but in New York, in Hong Kong, in Dubai. Should that person be blocked by the Chairman’s eminence grise from representing the bank abroad, his career would be at an end. That was that.

Sylvia straightened herself up and dried her face. She needed to unburden herself of the grief that sat on her chest robbing her of oxygen. She needed to escape the confines of her office. But that was impossible. Activity in the bank was running at a fever pitch: every department gearing up for presentations to be made at the general assembly; managers nervous to learn the annual operating results; the Adler Bank hovering ever closer. She couldn’t consider taking a day off for at least a month.

Sylvia chided herself for her misplaced loyalties. The avenue leading to a successful future at the United Swiss Bank had been blocked, perhaps permanently, yet she continued to think of nothing but her duty to the bank. She slipped her hand into her pocket and discovered that at some point during her discussion with Ott she had jammed Nick’s messages into it. She uncrumpled the papers and memorized his extension. Was she so alone that the only person she could turn to was a younger man she barely knew?

Sylvia looked in the mirror. She was a mess. Eyes swollen, makeup smeared, cheeks redder than a baby’s. You’re pathetic, she told herself. Allowing the decision of one man to tear apart your dreams; letting a lieutenant tell you the captain’s orders. Go to Wolfgang Kaiser. Present your case directly. Convince him that you can represent the bank overseas. Fight back!

She replayed the meeting with Kaiser Friday morning. She recalled the callused grip of the Chairman’s hand. His lingering touch. Instead of desire, she saw in it hunger. Instead of strength, weakness. Weakness of a variety she knew well. Weakness she would exploit to her own advantage.

Sylvia took a tissue from her purse to wipe away a trail of mascara. She dabbed it in cold water and raised it to her face. Halfway to her cheek, she paused and stepped away from the mirror. Something was wrong. She looked at her hand and saw that it was shaking uncontrollably.

Nick spotted Sterling Thorne loitering under a blinking street-lamp twenty yards from the entrance to the bank’s Personalhaus. The federal agent was wearing a tan trenchcoat over a dark suit. For once, he looked like part of the landscape rather than a blight on it. When he saw Nick, he raised his hand and offered a faint salute.

Nick had half a mind to take off in the other direction. But it was after ten and he was exhausted. And this, after only his second day working with the Chairman. From eight in the morning until ten at night, Wolfgang Kaiser was on the move. And his newest aide-de-camp, assistant vice president Nicholas A. Neumann, was always somewhere close behind.

The day had begun on the trading floor with Sepp Zwicki, a visit to the front lines for a briefing on Konig’s latest sorties. Mid-morning took them to the Emperor’s Lair, where Kaiser dished out instructions on what line to give dissenting shareholders, then placed a few calls himself to show how to charm the greedy bastards. Lunch was spent in one of the bank’s private dining rooms, veal chops, a ’79 Chateau Petrus and Cohibas all around for the jolly good fellows from Bank Vontobel and Julius Baer. Both banks held large blocks of USB. During the afternoon, rolls of USB shareholders were reviewed and telephoning chores divvied up between Nick and Reto Feller. At seven, dinner was sent in from Kropf Bierhalle. Bratwurst mit Zwiebeln. The three hours since had passed in a flurry of calls to stock analysts in Manhattan. Go, go, go.

And now Thorne. Nick’s first instinct was to throw him against a wall and demand whether he’d been the asshole who’d broken into his apartment on Friday.

“Working late, are you, Neumann?” Thorne asked, hand extended in welcome.

Nick kept his hands buried in his pockets. “There’s a lot to do these days. The general assembly is coming up soon.”

Thorne lowered his hand. “You gentlemen announcing another year of record profits?”

“Are you angling for some inside information? Trying to beef up that government paycheck? I remember how skimpy Uncle Sam can be.”

Thorne tried to smile affably but wound up looking like he’d bitten into a rotten apple. Something had soured on his end. Nick was sure of it. Why else the strained courtesy? “How can I be of service to my country this fine evening?”

“Why don’t we take it inside, Nick? Get out of the cold.”

Nick considered the request. Like it or not, Thorne was an officer of the United States government. He deserved some respect. For now. Nick showed Thorne into the apartment’s alcove and led the way up the single flight of stairs to the second floor. He unlocked the door to his apartment and nodded for the agent to go in.

Thorne stepped inside the apartment and looked around. “I thought bankers lived a little better than this.”

Nick took off his coat and hung it over the chair. “I’ve been in worse.”

“So have I. You been mulling over our conversation? Been keeping your eyes open?”

“I’ve been keeping my eyes where they belong. On my work. Can’t say I’ve come across anything that might interest you.”

Nick sat down on the bed. He glared at Thorne, waiting. It was his show. Finally, the lanky agent unbuttoned his jacket and took a seat across the room. “I’m letting down my guard tonight because we need your help,” he said. “It doesn’t happen often, so you’d stand well advised to take advantage of my kind disposition. Won’t last long.”

“Noted.”

“Numbered account 549.617 RR ring a bell to you?”

Nick didn’t answer right away. He kept his face passive, while inside him Thorne’s bell clanged mercilessly. Account 549.617 RR. The Pasha.

“It does, doesn’t it?” continued Thorne. “Has to be hard for a poor city boy to forget seeing so much money being moved around.”

Impossible, if you really want to know, Nick replied silently. “I can’t comment on either a client’s identity or account activity. You know that. It’s confidential information. Bank secrecy and all that.”

“Account 549.617 RR,” Thorne repeated. “I believe you fellas call him the Pasha.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Not so quick, Neumann. I’m asking you a favor. I’m as close to falling onto my knees as I’m ever going to get. I’d like to give you a chance to do some good.”

Nick smiled inadvertently. He couldn’t help it. A government agent doing good was in his experience the most fundamental of oxymorons. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

“The Pasha is a bad man, Nick. His name is Ali Mevlevi. He’s a Turk by birth but lives in a monumental private compound just outside of Beirut. He’s an important player in the world’s heroin trade. We estimate he’s responsible for the importation into Europe and the former Soviet Union of about twenty tons of refined number four heroin—China White, in our lingo—each and every year. Twenty tons, Nick. This is no dilettante we’re talking about. Mevlevi is the real thing.”