Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Nick rushed back to the bank, his mind boiling with conspiracy. He passed Hugo Brunner without so much as a hello and took an elevator reserved for clients directly to the Fourth Floor. “Two can play at this game,” he whispered to himself.

Inside his office, Nick made a beeline for his desk. He shoved the endless stack of client portfolios to one side and positioned himself squarely before the computer. He exited Medusa and logged on to Cerberus, where he accessed the word-processing software. The noble struggle to “repatriate” shares of USB would have to wait a few minutes. He had a more urgent calling: ferreting out a traitor.

First he accessed the list of institutional shareholders holding blocks of USB shares. It was the same list now in Peter Sprecher’s possession—the list that he was certain had been taken from his desk. Once it was on the screen, he erased the date and all pertinent shareholder information: name, phone number, address, and finally contact person. He typed in today’s date and moved to the area reserved for shareholder information. In this space, he added the name of a heretofore unknown shareholder—a group Martin Maeder, Reto Feller, and he had failed to locate during their initial screening. He chewed on his pen, trying hard to recollect the institution’s name. Ah, yes, he had it. The Widows and Orphans Fund of Zurich. He typed in the name and next to it wrote “140,000 shares held in trust at J. P. Morgan, Zurich. Contact Edith Emmenegger.”

Happy with this piece of fiction, Nick inserted a piece of USB stationery into his laser printer and printed the document. He took it in his hands and reviewing the information, saw that he had forgotten to list the phone number of the good Mrs. Emmenegger. Whose number could he use? His own was out of the question. The prefix for the USB Personalhaus was the same as the bank’s. Only one other number came to mind. He called it and waited for the answer. As he hoped, a machine picked up. A woman’s voice said, “You have reached 555-3131. No one can take your call at this time. Please leave your name, phone number, and any message after the tone. Thank you.”

“Thank you, Sylvia,” Nick whispered. “Or should I say “Frau Emmenegger’?” He typed in her phone number and reprinted the document. Once more he held it up for examination. Everything was in place. To authenticate it, he jotted some notes in the margin. “Called at 10 and 12.” He added yesterday’s date and “No answer. Message left.” It was complete. He marched around his desk paper in hand, surveying where to put it for best effect. Somewhere obvious, but not out of place. He settled on tucking the document under the bottom left side of the telephone so that only the U and the S of the letterhead were visible. He stepped away from the desk and admired his petit chef-d’oeuvre, his little masterpiece. His gem of misinformation.

Wolfgang Kaiser circled his office, enjoying a Cuban cigar while listening to Nicholas Neumann relate how he had convinced Hambros Bank to vote with the USB slate of directors at the general assembly. “That is wonderful news,” he said when his assistant had finished. “Where does that leave us, then?”

Neumann’s voice blurted from the speakerphone. “At around forty-five percent. Feller will have the exact tally. Adler passed thirty percent this morning, but it looks like their purchasing power has begun to dry up.”

“Thank God for that,” replied Kaiser, eager to align the deities on his side. “And the count? Have you arranged the meeting?”

“Bad news. The earliest date he’s available is the morning of the assembly. Can you give him a half hour at ten o’clock?”

“Out of the question. I have a breakfast with the board at eight sharp.” Senn had always been a pain in the ass. The gall of the man! Even to suggest a meeting the same day as the assembly.

Neumann said, “He’s in America until a few days before. The count says ten o’clock.”

Kaiser realized he had few options open. “All right, then, ten o’clock. But keep on him. See if you can’t move it up a day or two.”

“Yessir.”

“And Neumann. I need to see you privately. Come down in ten minutes.”

“Yessir.”

Kaiser terminated the call. The boy was a wizard. Nothing less. Hambros committing this morning; and yesterday afternoon, Banker’s Trust—the cagiest outfit on the street. Neumann had argued to the rocket scientists in Manhattan that USB shares—given current management, of course—were an effective hedge against Banker’s Trust’s own volatile earnings. They’d swallowed his argument hook, line, and sinker. It was nothing short of miraculous. One of Konig’s fire-spewing brethren, disciples of the “lose a hand, double the next” school of trading, and they had committed to the boring old farts at USB. Kaiser whooped. A fucking miracle!

He picked up the phone and called Feller to obtain an exact vote count. He wrote the figures on his desktop blotter. USB forty-six percent. Adler thirty point four percent. Christ, it would be close. Mevlevi’s loan would end all speculation. Kaiser was prepared to do all demanded of him to see that his Turkish friend coughed up the money required to keep the United Swiss Bank free from Klaus Konig’s grip. If it was necessary for Neumann to shepherd the man about his business, then so be it. That was the least problematic of Kaiser’s devoirs.

Kaiser sat in his chair, considering how to tell Neumann about his relationship with Mevlevi. Getting around Sterling Thorne’s accusations would be difficult. Had Neumann’s father been witness to Kaiser’s blatant, even theatrical mendacity, the man would have resigned on the spot. In fact, he had on two occasions. Both times, Kaiser’s silver tongue had been required to assuage Alex Neumann’s wounded conscience. “A genuine misunderstanding. We had no idea the client was dealing in stolen armaments. It will never happen again. Faulty information, Alex. Sorry.”

Kaiser frowned at the memory. Thank goodness, Nicholas was more pragmatic. Damned difficult to get from strenuously denying one’s knowledge of an individual, even going so far as to purposely mispronounce his name, to professing a twenty-year business relationship with him. But Kaiser had only to think of the actions Neumann had taken to protect Mevlevi from Thorne’s surveillance list to feel better. If the young man was half as smart as anyone thought, he’d have guessed it already.

A buzzer sounded on his telephone. Rita Sutter’s mellifluous voice informed him that Mr. Neumann had arrived. He told her to send him in.

Wolfgang Kaiser greeted Nick in the center of the office. “Fantastic news this morning, Neumann. Just great.” He laced his good arm around Nick’s shoulder and guided him to the couch. “Cigar?”

“No thank you,” said Nick. Alarm bells sounded in his head.

“Coffee, tea, espresso?”

“Mineral water would be fine.”

“Mineral water it is,” Kaiser enthused, as if no answer could have pleased him more. He walked to the open doors and told Rita Sutter to bring a mineral water and a double espresso.

“Neumann,” he said, “I need you to run a special errand for me. Something very important. Requires your gifted touch.” Kaiser seated himself on the couch and blew out a cloud of smoke. “I need a diplomat. Someone with manners. A little worldly experience.”

Nick sat down and nodded unsurely. Whatever Kaiser was up to had to be big; Nick had never seen him so friendly.

“An important client of the bank is arriving tomorrow morning,” said Kaiser. “He’ll require a chaperon to help him transact his business throughout the day.”