Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

His eyes scanned the monitor. A pinched smile indicated he was satisfied with the answer. “How may I help you today? My name is Pee-ter Shprek-her.” Slowly and clearly. “I am Mr. Cerruti’s assistant.” His brow furrowed. “My bank reference? Yes sir, my three-letter reference is S-P-C.” Another pause. “Mr. Cerruti is ill. I’m sure he’ll be back with us next week. Any message you’d like me to pass on to him?”

Sprecher’s pen flashed across the page. “Yes, I’ll tell him. Now, how may we be of service?”

He listened. A command was entered into the computer. A moment later, he relayed the information to his client. “The balance of your account is twenty-six million dollars. Two six million.”

Nick repeated the sum silently while his stomach dropped to the floor below. Twenty-six million dollars. Not bad, mister. For as long as he could remember he had been living on the tightest of budgets. There had been no fat since his father had died. Pocket money in high school came from part-time jobs at a dozen fast-food joints. Expenses in college were met through scholarships and a job tending bar—even if he had been two years under age. He’d finally earned a decent paycheck in the Corps, but after sending three hundred a month off the top to his mother, he’d been left with only enough for a small apartment off base, a used pickup, and a couple of six-packs on weekends. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to have twenty-six million dollars in his account. He couldn’t.

Sprecher was listening intently to the Pasha. He nodded several times while bouncing a pencil off his thigh. Without warning he erupted in a flurry of disparate movements. The phone was tucked under the chin, the chair rolled backward toward the cabinet. Elbows flew, oaths were whispered. Finally an orange file was extracted and laid upon the desk. Still unsatisfied by his exertions, he lowered his head to search, along with five busy fingers, through the second drawer of his desk. Aha! Victory at last. He had found his treasure, in this case a mint green form bearing the words “Transfer of Funds” in bold capital letters, and now he waved it over his head as if he were a newly crowned Olympic champion.

Sprecher placed the phone to his mouth and took a deep breath before speaking. “I confirm that you wish to transfer the entire amount currently in the account, twenty-six million U.S. dollars, to the schedule of banks as listed per matrix three.”

The orange file was opened, consulted, then a five-digit operational code entered into the computer. Sprecher studied the screen as if he had discovered the Rosetta stone. “Twenty-two banks are listed. I will note that the transfer is to be urgent. The money is to be wired out before the end of business this day. Without fail. Yessir, I am aware that you have my bank reference. Not to worry. Thank you, sir. Good-bye, sir.”

With a sigh, Sprecher laid the phone in its cradle. “The Pasha has spoken. So shall his will be done.”

“Sounds like a demanding client.”

“Demanding? More like dictatorial. Know what his message to Cerruti was? ‘Get back to work.’ There’s a good chap for you.” Sprecher laughed as if he couldn’t believe the client’s gall, but a moment later his features darkened. “It’s not his manner that bothers me. It’s his voice. Bloody cold. No emotion whatsoever. Like a man without a shadow. This is one client whose orders we follow to a T.”

Nick was thinking that he wanted nothing to do with this difficult client. Let Cerruti handle him. Then he remembered the few words of Sprecher’s conversation he had overheard earlier. It will take fifty thousand more to bring me over to your side of the fence. I’m not leaving for a nickel less. Call it a risk premium. You fellows are new at this sort of thing. If, in fact, Sprecher had been talking about leaving the bank, it might fall to Nick to handle the Pasha in Cerruti’s absence. The thought made him sit up a little straighter.

Sprecher asked, “Did you pay attention to the procedure I followed?”

Nick said he had. “No information given to the client until an account number is received and the account holder’s identity confirmed.”

“Bravo. That is step one, and I might add, the most important one.”

“Step two, remove the client’s dossier from that filing cabinet.”

Turning his chair, Sprecher dragged a finger across the files visible in the open drawer. “The dossiers are filed in numerical order. No names, remember. Inside are his exact wire instructions. The Pasha uses this account strictly as a temporary way station. Money gets wired in at ten or eleven in the morning. He calls at three to check that it’s here, then tells us to get rid of it by five.”

“He doesn’t keep any money on deposit here?”

“Cerruti whispered about him having over two hundred million at the bank—in shares and in cash. I’ve looked like hell for it, but Cerberus won’t reveal a lick of information, will you, darling?” Sprecher patted the top of the gray computer monitor. “Uncle Peter doesn’t have high enough clearance.”

“Cerberus?” Nick asked.

“Our management information system. Guards our client’s financial information like the three-headed hound at the gates to hell. Each employee has access only to those accounts the proper fulfillment of his job demands he see. I can look at the accounts in FKB4, but no others. The Pasha may have two hundred million dollars stashed away, but someone somewhere”—Sprecher jabbed a thumb toward the ceiling, indicating the Fourth Floor, where the top executives of the bank resided—“doesn’t want me to see it.”

“Do the Pasha’s transfers always involve such a large sum?” Nick’s curiosity was piqued by the likelihood, however remote, that one day he’d be on the receiving end of that phone call.

“Same instructions twice each week. The amounts vary but are never less than ten million. The highest I’ve seen in eighteen months was thirty-three million. Scoot your chair over here and let’s look at his account together. The Pasha has set up seven matrices, each of which specifies the amounts we are to wire—as a percentage of the total sum in the account—and the institutions where they’re to go. Look here: matrix three.” Sprecher slid the orange file closer to Nick and peeled back the pages, stopping at a pink sheet. “We type each matrix on a different color sheet for easy differentiation. Matrix one is yellow, two is blue, three is pink. Cerberus has them all memorized, but we always double-check with the hard copy. Procedure.”

Nick ran a finger along the list of banks: Kreditanstalt, Vienna; Bank of Luxembourg; Commerz Bank, Frankfurt; Norske Bank, Oslo. A numbered account was listed next to each bank. Nowhere on the paper was there an individual’s name. “He’s certainly well traveled.”

“The money is, that’s for sure. The Pasha chooses a different matrix each time he calls, and never in order. He skips around. But his instructions are always the same. Confirm the balance of his account. Transfer the entire amount to anywhere from twenty-two to thirty-three financial institutions around the world.”

“I guess I shouldn’t ask who he is, or why he’s transferring his money through a maze of banks.”

“And you’d be correct in that presumption. Don’t get into any bad habits. All we need is another…” Sprecher exhaled. “Forget it.”

“What?” Nick bit his tongue a second too late.

“Nothing,” said Sprecher curtly. “Just do as you’re told and remember one thing: We’re bankers, not policemen.”

“‘Ours is not to reason why,’” said Nick wryly. He’d meant it as a joke, but somehow in this office it sounded all too serious.

Sprecher clapped him on the back. “A quick learner, indeed.”