Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Strait smiled smugly. “Believe that if you want to. From this moment onward, Eastern Lightning is officially my baby. Per the director’s instructions. Not only will I handle communications with Jester, I’ll be running the whole show.” He withdrew an envelope from his jacket and tossed it onto the desk beside Thorne. “From now on we’re doing things my way. If you’re caught talking to Neumann or anyone else at USB, you’re getting a one-way ticket back to the States. Destination of your choice ’cause you’re history.”

Thorne picked up the white envelope and looked at it. He knew what the letter would say. Take a step down the ladder. Do as we tell you and keep your big yap closed. He slid his thumb under the flap and tore it open. A fax from the director’s office. Shit, not even a letter. He read the text. It confirmed what he suspected, what he should have guessed the second he saw Strait’s grinning mug. Demotion to second banana.

Thorne tossed the letter into the trash. “So this is how it’s going to be?”

“No,” answered Strait. “This is how it is.”

“Congratulations, Terry. Welcome back to the field.” Thorne offered his hand. “Or have you ever been out of admin before?”

Strait waved away the hand. “Clear out of my office now. Get your crap and move. There’s a desk for you across the hall. The one next to the trash can.”

“Terry, you can be a real s.o.b.,” Thorne said mockingly.

“It’ll do you good to take orders again. And believe me, I have plenty for you. Tomorrow, I’m seeing Franz Studer to go over how we might patch up the mess you’ve made.”

“Be sure to give him your bank account in case any of his buddies want to give you an early Christmas present.”

“Fuck you, Thorne.”

“Careful now, Terry. God won’t let you into heaven if you use the F word.”

Strait stalked out of the office.

Sterling Thorne placed his hands behind his head and looked out the window. Snow fell, dusting the cars parked along the street. A low cloud cover gave the night a downy softness. For a moment, he considered packing it in. Strait wanted Eastern Lightning, let him have it.

“No, goddammit!” Thorne said out loud, crashing his fist onto the desktop in booming punctuation. “The Pasha is mine.”

Thorne watched as the good reverend shuffled down the pathway, afraid to lift a foot too high off the walk for fear he’d discover a hidden sheet of ice. Slow and cautious. Mr. Routine. Move him to Zurich, give him responsibility for the operation, what’s that going to get you? A surefire recipe for disaster. If Jester wasn’t in danger before, he sure as hell was now.

One thing was for certain. He would not work under Terry Strait. No sir-fuckin’-ree Bob!

So deep was he in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the telephone in the other room until it had rung a second time. He walked into Wadkins’s office and picked up the phone.

“Yeah,” he answered, too tired to wonder who the hell was calling at one in the morning.

“Sterling Thorne, please.”

“This is Thorne.” He heard money being added to a pay phone.

“Agent Thorne, this is Joe Habib.”

Thorne felt as though he’d been struck by lightning. “Jester? That you? You’re alive?” Thought Mevlevi had taken care of you, he almost added. “Why the hell haven’t you checked in? You’ve missed two call-ins.”

“I don’t have enough coins to talk for a long time, so listen. I am in Brindisi, Italy. We’re unloading over two tons of product. It’s been secreted into a shipment of cedar paneling. We are bringing it over the border in two or three days’ time. Through Chiasso and then to Zurich.”

“Slow down, boy.” Thorne checked the window again. Strait rounded the corner and disappeared from view. “Joe, take this number. It’s for my private phone. Don’t call the main number again. Ever. The line may not be secure. We have to chance it with a cellular. Contact me directly. Is that clear?” Thorne read off the number to his cellular.

“Why? I was told in case of emerg—”

“Don’t argue with me, Joe. Do as you’re told.”

“Yes sir, I understand.”

A bell bleated repeatedly in Thorne’s earpiece. Jester was running out of change. “Now tell me again about this shipment. What are you doing in Italy?”

“It’s Mevlevi. He doesn’t trust the Makdisis anymore. I’m supposed to be his watchdog. Thorne, we finally got our break. The shipment is coming to Zurich.”

“Where is he?” Thorne asked, unable to keep the desperation from his voice. “Where is Mevlevi? What about his army?”

“Mevlevi is—”

“Joe?” The line was dead.

Thorne put the phone down. And though he hadn’t been able to question Jester about Mevlevi or the arms, he felt as if God had just whispered in his ear. A shipment was coming into Zurich. Hallelujah!

Thorne ran to his office and set to work with a determined glee. Working methodically, he gathered all the papers he would need. Transcripts of Jester’s messages, historical files on Mevlevi, “top secret” intercepts from the Defense Intelligence Agency confirming wire transfers, both incoming and outgoing, to and from Mevlevi’s accounts at USB. Anything and everything that might be useful in the coming days was crammed into his worn briefcase. This done, he scribbled a note to Strait stating his decision to voluntarily retire from the case. “Adios, Terry,” he wrote. “She’s all yours.”

Thorne threw on his overcoat, grabbed his tired briefcase, and marched down the narrow path leading from Wildbachstrasse 58. As he walked, one word buzzed and crackled in his head. It rang sweet and clear in his ears, and tasted even better on his lips. It promised him the world. It gave him another chance at Neumann and a final shot at Mevlevi. Oh, God, how he loved that word!

Redemption.

Nick had been seated at his desk exactly three minutes when Reto Feller telephoned.

“The Adler Bank has crossed over thirty percent,” came the frantic voice.

“I hadn’t heard.”

“Get in at a decent hour. Everyone knows.”

Nick checked his watch. It was five minutes past seven. The bank was deserted. “Bad news.”

“A disaster. Konig needs three percent to get his seats. We have to stop the bastard. Have you started selling?”

“I’m starting now.”

“Get to it. Call me at ten. Let me know how many orders you have on the floor.”

Feller hung up before Nick could answer.

Three hours later, Nick’s eyes were burning from the glare of the computer screen. One stack of portfolio printouts sat on the floor, rising as high as his desktop. Another stack sat directly in front of him. Each portfolio belonged to an investor who had given the bank discretionary power to trade his account. Nick’s job was to sell fifty percent of the Swiss franc value of the equities in each of these portfolios and issue an order to buy USB shares for the equivalent amount. So far that morning he’d “liberated”—as Martin Maeder encouraged him to think of his task—over twenty-seven million Swiss francs from seventy numbered accounts. That came out to twenty-three accounts an hour, or one every two minutes forty-five seconds. Essentially, it was piecework once you got the hang of it.

Nick reached across his desk and picked off the next portfolio. This one had a name. Surprise, surprise. An Italian, one Renato Castilli. Nick flipped the pages. He would sell off Metallgesellschaft, Morgan Stanley, Nestle, and Lonrho. Two of them were dogs. No harm done. He typed the sell orders into Medusa and passed them to the floor. In two minutes he had liberated over Sfr. 400,000 from Signor Castilli’s portfolio. An order to purchase a corresponding amount of USB shares was duly entered. Finito!