Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Nick put up both hands in front of him, signaling Thorne to stop. “And so? If he is, what about it? How does that concern me or the bank? Haven’t you gotten it through your skull that I am prohibited by law to discuss anything I do for USB with you, or with anybody else for that matter? I’m not admitting that this Pasha fellow is my client. I’m not saying he is, or he isn’t. Doesn’t matter. I could have Satan calling me twice a day and still I couldn’t tell you.”

Thorne just nodded his head and kept talking as if the sheer brunt of his evidence would eventually win over Nick’s essentially good soul. It was a good strategy.

“Mevlevi’s got himself a private army of about five hundred souls in his backyard. Trains them morning, noon, and night. And he’s got a mountain of materiel on top of that. Russian T-72s, a few Hinds, plenty of rockets, mortars, you name it. A ready mobile battalion of mechanized infantry. That’s what’s got us worried. You remember what happened to our boys at the marine barracks in Beirut. Several hundred good men had their lives taken by a lone suicide bomber. Imagine what five hundred of them could do.”

Nick leaned closer, the infantry officer in him cognizant of the havoc to be wreaked by such a force. Still, he did not speak.

“We have hard-copy proof of the transfers Mevlevi’s been making to and from your bank for the last eighteen months. Irrefutable evidence that your bank is laundering his dough. Our problem, Nick, is that the Pasha has gone under. Three days after we put his name on your bank’s internal account surveillance list, Mr. Ali Mevlevi has stopped making his weekly payments. We were expecting about forty-seven million dollars to hit his account on Thursday. Did it?”

Nick kept his mouth closed. There it was. No more whacking around whether the DEA had the right man or not. They even knew how much he was transferring day in, day out. Mr. Ali Mevlevi—the Pasha—was squarely in their sights. Time to line up the crosshairs. Time for First Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann to help them pull the trigger.

As if sensing Nick’s impending acquiescence, Thorne leaned closer, and when he spoke his voice acquired a conspiratorial edge. “There’s a human aspect to this case also. We have an agent on the inside. Someone we planted a long time ago. You know the trick?”

Nick nodded, seeing where Thorne was going. He could feel the mantle of responsibility the agent wanted to lay on his shoulders. A second ago he had been ready to sympathize with Thorne, maybe even help him. Now he hated him.

“Our man—let’s call him Jester—has also disappeared. He used to call us twice a week to give us Mevlevi’s weekly take. I’ll let you guess which days. Yep. Monday and Thursday. Jester hasn’t called, Nick. E.T. did not phone home. Hear what I’m saying?”

“I understand your dilemma,” said Nick. “You’ve put a man into a hot situation. You’re scared he may be compromised and now you can’t get him out. In short, you’ve left him hanging on a two-penny string in a shitstorm and you want me to salvage your operation and save your man.”

“That’s about right.”

“I appreciate the situation”—Nick paused for effect—“but I am not going to spend the next couple of years in a Swiss jail so that you can get your next promotion and maybe, just maybe, save the skin of your man.”

“We will get you out of here. I give you my word.”

There it was. The lie Nick had been expecting. He was just surprised that it took so long to come. The anger inside him crested. “Your word doesn’t mean spit to me. You’ve got no say over who the Swiss jail or who they release. You almost had me there for a second. Sound the bugle and the loyal marine comes running. I know you guys. Out there playing God, thinking you’re doing some good. You’re just getting your rocks off, seeing how much power you can exercise over your little slice of the world. Well, forget it. You’ll have to count me out. That’s not my game.”

“You got it all wrong, brother,” Thorne shouted. “You can’t use me as an excuse to pretend Mevlevi doesn’t exist or that you, as his banker, as the man who day in, day out, helps him hide the fruits of his illegal labors, are not responsible. You two are on the same goddamned team. In my world, Nick, there’s us and there’s them. If you’re not one of us, you’re one of them. So where do you stand?”

Nick took a while to answer the question. “I guess I’m one of them.”

Oddly, Thorne seemed pleased by the answer. “That’s too bad. I told you to take advantage of my kindly disposition. Now you’ve gone and pissed me off. I know about your old friend Jack Keely. What went wrong down there in the P.I. must have been something powerful bad for you to fly off the handle like that. You’re lucky you didn’t kill that man. So you think long and hard about helping me out, or others will know about your escapade, too. I don’t think Kaiser would be too happy to learn that you left the Corps with a dishonorable discharge. I don’t think he’d be too keen to learn that you’re a convicted felon—maybe in a private military court, but convicted just the same. Hell, maybe I should be afraid of you, too. But, I’m not. I’m too busy worrying about Mevlevi. And about Jester. You may want to piss on guys like me, but I crush guys like you. That’s not my job—it’s my reason for living. You hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Nick said. “Do what you have to do. Just stay the hell away from me. I don’t have anything to say to you. Not now. Not ever.”

Rattling into the Paradeplatz early Thursday morning, Nick was greeted everywhere by headlines trumpeting the improprieties of a major bank. The central kiosk was festooned with flyers from every major daily. Blick, Zurich’s low-rent scandal sheet, proclaimed, “Schmiergeld bei Gotthardo Bank,” Bribe Money at Gotthardo Bank. The NZZ, the oldest and most conservative of the city’s three daily papers, was equally accusatory: “Shame on Gotthardo.” The Tages Anzeiger took a more global view: “Swiss Banks in League with Drug Mafia.”

Nick hurried from the tram to purchase a newspaper. What had started as a rotten day showed no sign of changing course. His alarm clock had failed to go off at the proper time; the hot water in his building had been turned off, so he’d been forced to endure a full two minutes—not the usual fifteen seconds—under an ice-cold shower; and the 7:01 tram had left at 6:59. Without him! Not that yesterday had been much better, cursed Nick, as he jogged paper in hand down the Bahnhofstrasse.

Klaus Konig had completed his purchase of over 1.7 million shares of USB stock at eleven A.M. and had followed it with a second order to gobble up an additional two hundred thousand shares at market price. By day’s end, the price of USB shares had skyrocketed fifteen percent and Konig held a twenty-one percent stake in the bank, all too near the thirty-three percent threshold that would grant him his coveted seats on the board.

The precipitous rise in share price combined with the Adler Bank’s growing stake left the United Swiss Bank more vulnerable than ever. And no one knew that better, or had responded more vigorously, than Wolfgang Kaiser. At noon, the Chairman had descended to the floor of the Borse and personally ordered Sepp Zwicki to buy, buy, buy USB shares at whatever the cost. Kaiser had drawn his line in the sand. In three hours, the bank had picked up a couple hundred thousand shares, and war had been openly declared between the United Swiss Bank and the Adler Bank. Arbitrageurs in New York and in Tokyo, in Sydney and in Singapore, were licking their chops, buying up shares of USB in hopes of a continuing escalation in price.