Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Nick pushed back his chair and stretched his frame. He needed a break. His eyes were watery and his back was stiff. Five minutes. Visit the bathroom, get a drink of water. Then back to the mill. He was a machine.

A conference call with Hambros Bank in London was set for eleven. Hambros held roughly ten million pounds’ worth of USB stock. Nick had the spiel memorized cold by now. USB would cut costs by offering early retirement and firing nonessential staff, up efficiency through increased computerization, create a merchant banking division, and expand its trading operations. The result: an increase of between two and four percent to their operating ratios within twelve months. After that, who knew? Bankruptcy or a banner year.

At twelve, he had a lunch date with Sylvia. She had promised to bring more monthly activity reports filed by his father from the Los Angeles office. The first binder she had supplied had been a bust. Nineteen seventy-five was too long ago. He needed everything she could find for the period from January 1978 through January 1980. She seemed to be having no problems getting ahold of the reports. If she was scared about being asked why she needed them, she hadn’t told him.

Nick closed his eyes and for a second was blessed with the scent of her skin. He returned his gaze to the monitor in front of him, but instead of perusing the holdings of a numbered account, he was watching Sylvia all over again, replaying the golden moments of their weekend together, already three days and half a century past. He saw her reflection in the Chronometrie Beyer as she pointed to an obscenely expensive diamond-encrusted wristwatch and raised her eyebrows in comic disbelief, though he was sure he spotted a glimmer of envy, too; he was standing next to her in Teuscher as she popped a petite gourmandise into her mouth and proclaimed it wunderbar; he was lying against her warm body among the tousled sheets of her bed after they’d made love, counting the shades of blond in her hair.He was staring transfixed at the perfect curve of her naked breasts as she writhed and whispered, and then collapsed onto him, suddenly silent.

Nick had been seeing Sylvia for two weeks now. He kept expecting his infatuation with her to die down. But that hadn’t happened. Each time he saw her, he suffered a moment of sheer anxiety, scared that she might inform him that their relationship was over. Then she would smile and kiss him on the cheek, and his fears would subside. She was constantly on his mind. If he heard something funny, he wanted to share it with her; if he read an interesting article, he wanted to call her and tell her to read it, too. But despite their intimacy, he was often unable to figure how she looked at things. Like him, Sylvia guarded a part of herself hidden, a part he knew he’d never discover.

The phone rang. It was Felix Bernath from the floor of the exchange. “You have a fill on five thousand shares of USB at three seventy,” he said. Nick thanked him and picked up another portfolio. He flipped back the cover page and began looking for likely sales candidates, category Q-Z. The phone rang again and he answered it immediately.

“Another fill for me, Felix?” he said sarcastically.

“What’s that, Nick? Filling sandbags, are you?”

Nick recognized the insouciant patter. “Hello, Peter. What do you want? I’m busy.”

“Expiation, chum. I’m calling to make up. I was dead wrong to ask you what I did. I knew it then and I know it now. I’m sorry.”

Nick had lost his capacity for forgiveness. “That’s nice, Peter. Maybe we can get together when this contest is over. Until then, forget it. Keep your distance, okay?”

“Such the hard-liner. I expected as much. I didn’t call just to chat. I have something for you. I’m sitting here enjoying a double espresso at Sprungli, second floor. Why not come and join me?”

“What, are you kidding? You expect me to skip out of here because you have something for me?”

“I’m not really asking. I’m telling you. This time you have to trust me. I assure you it’s in your best interest. And the bank’s, for that matter—Kaiser’s, not Konig’s. Meet me here as quickly as possible. It took me three minutes to walk here; it will take you four. On your mark. Get set. Go.”

Four minutes later, Nick’s snow-capped head mounted the stairs leading to Sprungli’s main dining hall. The room was filled with midday habitues, mainly women of a certain age, impeccably dressed and bored to distraction. An old rumor suggested that women breakfasting alone on Sprungli’s second floor between the hours of nine and eleven were seeking the company of gentlemen for pursuits rather less genteel than shopping.

Sprecher signaled to Nick from a corner table. An empty demitasse sat in front of him. “Espresso?”

Nick remained standing. “What’s on your mind? I can’t be away from my desk for long.”

“First, I’m sorry. I want you to forget that I ever asked about those blasted shares. Konig said you were too good a target to pass up. He hit on me to give you a call. Point me in the right direction and I march. That’s me. The loyal soldier.”

“That’s a pathetic excuse.”

“Come on, Nick. First couple of days on the job. Eager to do anything to please the wallahs upstairs. Surely, you know what I’m talking about. Christ, you practically did the same thing yourself.”

“I didn’t try to betray a friend.”

“Look, it was a vulgar proposition. Case closed. Won’t happen again.”

Nick pulled out a chair and sat down. He ran a hand through his hair, and flakes of snow tumbled onto the table. “Let’s get to it. What do you have for me?”

Sprecher pushed a white sheet of paper toward him. “Read this. I found it on my desk this morning. I’d say it evens the score between us.”

Nick pulled the sheet closer. It was a photocopy and not a very good one. The sheet listed the names of five institutional shareholders of USB stock, their approximate holdings, the portfolio manager, and his telephone number. He raised his head abruptly. “I typed this sheet.”

Sprecher smiled, victorious. “Bingo. Your initials are at the top. ‘NXM.’ Whoever copied this did a shoddy job. You can see half of the USB logo.”

Nick looked at Peter skeptically. “Where did you get this?”

“Like I said, it fell on my desk.” Sprecher fumbled for a cigarette. Something in his face weakened. “If you must know, George von Graffenried threw it at me. He’s Konig’s right-hand man at the bank. George mumbled something about an investment finally yielding a dividend. It seems, chum, you have a very naughty mole in your organization.”

“Jesus Christ,” Nick muttered under his breath. “This sheet is from my desk. Only a few people have seen it.”

“Only takes one.”

Nick counted off the names of those he knew had copies of the sheet: Feller, Maeder, Rita Sutter, and of course, Wolfgang Kaiser. Who else might have seen it? Immediately, Nick recalled the guilty expression of a lumbering prowler caught in flagrante stealing a glance at his papers. Armin Schweitzer had been so emboldened—or so desperate—as to even request a copy of this very sheet. Nick’s cheeks colored with anger and embarrassment.

Peter took back the sheet, folded it neatly, and replaced it in his jacket pocket. “I’ll have to contact these investors. No way around that, is there? But, I’ve got a feeling a few of these chaps may be tied up this morning. Best wait until later this afternoon or early tomorrow. You know these intercontinental connections. Devilishly poor at times.”

Nick stood and put out his hand. “Thanks, Peter. I’d say this evens the score.”

Sprecher shook it uneasily, an odd expression straining his features. “Still haven’t figured out whether I’m a hero or a whore.”