Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Nick stood on the rotting planks of an abandoned jetty, asking himself the same question over and over again. The green waters of the river Limmat swirled below him. Across the river, the twin spires of the Grossmunster cathedral rose into the mist. It was five o’clock and he knew he shouldn’t have left the office. Martin Maeder had wanted to begin instructing his “boys”—as he now called Nick and Reto Feller—on the intricacies of the new Medusa computer network.

“Medusa tells it all,” Maeder had gushed, as if describing the bells and whistles of a high-end stereo. “Direct access to every account.” And then, like a drunk whose loose tongue had revealed one secret too many, he had grown surly and defensive. “And I’ll remind you of the promise you made to the Chairman. You’ll guard these secrets with your life.”

Maeder was probably looking for Nick even now, anxious to begin issuing sell orders and generate the cash that would keep Wolfgang Kaiser’s hand firmly on the bank’s tiller. Nick wished he could tell Maeder the truth. “Sorry, Marty, I needed some fresh air to help me figure out what in the hell I’m doing to my life” or “Gee, Marty, give me a few minutes and let me figure if there’s a way off of this bucket of bolts. What did you say her name was? The Titanic?” He had a dozen pithy excuses to explain his flight from the constricting corridors of the bank. In the end, he had simply told Rita Sutter that he was running out for a quick errand.

He hadn’t mentioned that it was his soul he’d be searching for.

Looking out over the snow-covered roofs of the old town, Nick felt the realization creep over him that he had gone too far, that in his quest to locate information that might shed light on his father’s murder he’d strayed from the boundaries of decent behavior. When he’d first taken Peter Sprecher’s place, he had justified his actions by saying he was just doing as others before him had done. Shielding the Pasha from the DEA had simply been an extension of that philosophy, though secretly he had hoped that such an act would gain him the confidence of his superiors. He had rationalized his behavior by arguing that he had had no idea as to the true identity of the man who held numbered account 549.617 RR and that his disobeying of the instructions spelled out on the account surveillance sheet was a reaction to his bitter experience with Jack Keely.

But he could no longer permit himself such moral leeway. The scope of the larceny proposed at this afternoon’s meeting obliterated any remaining doubt. Nicholas A. Neumann was standing on the dark side of the legal fence. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He had willingly abetted a criminal wanted by the drug enforcement authorities of several Western nations. He had lied to an agent of the United States government working to bring that man to justice. And now he stood on the brink of helping a bank commit an act of financial fraud unparalleled in recent history.

No more, Nick swore to himself. Like a bowstring drawn too far, he would spring reflexively in the opposite direction. He would make up for what he had done wrong. He thought for a minute about resigning his post, about running to the Swiss authorities. He imagined himself arriving at police headquarters brimming with good intentions, so eager to expose the corruption that was at this moment, Officer, devouring the United Swiss Bank. Nick laughed at himself. Some ploy! The word of an employee at the bank all of seven weeks, a foreigner in spite of his Swiss passport, pitted against that of Wolfgang Kaiser, the nearest thing to a folk hero this land of gold and chocolate had to offer.

Proof, young man! Where is your proof?

Nick laughed disconsolately, realizing that only one course of action was left open to him. He would have to stay at the bank and conduct his investigations from within. He would partition his soul and show Kaiser its dark side. He’d slip deeper into the evil tapestry being woven inside the Emperor’s Lair. And all the while, he’d keep an alert eye peeled for his moment. He didn’t know how or when. Just that he had to do everything within his power to obtain enough evidence of wrongdoing to warrant the freezing of the Pasha’s accounts.

Nick spun on his heels and walked up the rickety gangway. A pair of hungry swans and a lonely mallard followed him. He raised his head and noticed a black Mercedes sedan lolling at the curb. Before long, the passenger door opened and Sterling Thorne stepped out. He was wearing his trench coat, collar turned up against the cold.

“Hello, Neumann.” Thorne’s hands remained conspicuously in his pockets.

“Mr. Thorne.”

“Call me Sterling. I think it’s about time we became friends.”

Nick couldn’t smother a smile. “That’s okay. I’m happy with our relationship the way it is.”

“Sorry about that letter.”

“Does that mean you’ll take it back? Maybe toss in an apology?”

Thorne smiled grimly. “You know what we want.”

“What? To crucify the man I work for? To help sink United Swiss Bank?” Saying the words, knowing that yes, they were exactly what he himself had pledged to do, made Nick feel tired. Tired of defending the bank from Konig’s takeover. Tired of Thorne’s persistent interference. Tired of his own nagging doubts. Still, as if allergic to Thorne, he said, “Sorry, that isn’t going to happen.”

“I made myself a promise that we’re going to stay calm today,” Thorne said. “We aren’t going to argue like a couple of alley cats. You heard what I told Kaiser the other day. I saw by your eyes that you believed me.”

Christ, Nick thought, the guy never said die. “That was some scene you made up there. Uncle Sam would be real proud of you.”

“Sounded like an encyclopedia, didn’t I? All those dates and figures. Only stating the truth. I don’t enjoy hound-dogging you like this. It’s just my job.”

“Is blackmail part of your job, too?”

“If necessary,” said Thorne innocently, as if blackmail were just another form of friendly persuasion. “I’m sorry to hurt your feelings, but your pride means a damn sight less to me than getting my hands on Ali Mevlevi. I told you the other night about Jester—the agent we had in place next to Mevlevi.”

“Has he turned up yet?” Whoever Jester was, Nick felt for him. He’d been in the same lousy position.

“He hasn’t and we’re worried about him. Before he went under, Jester swore that your boss and Mevlevi were real close. Apparently, they go way back. Seems Mevlevi was one of your boss’s first clients in Beirut when Kaiser was setting up the bank’s office over there in the Middle East. I think I remember hearing Kaiser deny that, don’t you? How do you like your boss palling around with one of the biggest smugglers of heroin in this hemisphere?”

Nick didn’t like it one bit, but he’d be damned if he’d let Thorne know. “Let me stop you right here,” he said, placing a hand on the agent’s jacket.

Thorne grabbed his wrist and stepped closer to him. “You are working for a man who kisses the ass of the scum who killed his son! A low-life bastard who values money over his own blood. You are aiding and abetting the worst men on the face of this planet.”

Nick pulled his hand free and retreated several steps. His position was untenable. “Maybe you’re right, this guy, Mevlevi, the Pasha, whoever, is a major heroin smuggler and he does his banking at USB. I agree, that stinks. I’m on your side here. But do you expect me to rifle through the bank’s papers, to request duplicates of his transfer confirmations, to steal his mail from his post box?”

Thorne looked deeper into Nick’s eyes, as if he had spotted the glimmer of something promising. “I see you’ve been thinking about it.”