Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“Will he be coming to the bank?”

“At some point, I’m certain he will, yes. First, though, I’d like you to greet him at the airport.”

“At the airport?” Nick rubbed the nape of his neck. He didn’t feel well. Too long in front of the computer. “You’re aware that we’ve only just begun implementing Martin Maeder’s sales plan. I’ve got another five hundred dossiers to get through.”

“I understand,” Kaiser said graciously, “and I appreciate your diligence. Continue on that for the rest of today. You can finish off tomorrow evening, day after that, all right?”

Nick wasn’t thrilled at the prospect, but he nodded his assent anyway.

“Good. Now then, some details about the man you’ll be meeting.” Kaiser took a long drag off the cigar. Several times, he began to speak and then stopped, first to pluck a speck of tobacco from his mouth, next to adjust his position on the couch. Finally, he said, “Nicholas, I’m afraid I lied to you the other day. Rather I lied to that bastard Thorne. There was no choice, really… given the circumstances. Should’ve told you earlier. Don’t know why I didn’t. I know you would’ve understood. We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I. We do what’s necessary to get the job done. Am I right?”

Nick nodded once, enthusiastically guarding the Chairman’s eye. Kaiser was suffering under the mounting pressure. Like a worn truss, his face betrayed a constant interior strain. His eyes, normally clear and confident, were puffy and decorated by dark circles etched into his chalky skin.

“I know Ali Mevlevi,” said Kaiser. “This man Thorne is after. The man you call the Pasha. In fact, I know him well. One of my first clients in Beirut. I wouldn’t expect you to be aware that I opened our representative office in Beirut a very long time ago.”

“Back in seventy-eight, wasn’t it?”

“Exactly.” Kaiser smiled briefly and Nick knew he was flattered. “Mr. Mevlevi was then, and is to this day, a well-respected businessman in Lebanon and throughout the entire Middle East.”

“Sterling Thorne accused the man of being a heroin smuggler.”

“I’ve known Ali Mevlevi for twenty years. I’ve never heard the slightest hint that he was involved with drugs. Mevlevi is active in commodities, rugs, and textiles. He’s a well-respected member of the business community.”

That’s the second time you’ve said that, thought Nick, suppressing a sarcastic grin. Marco Cerruti certainly respected Mevlevi—to the point of suffering a petit mal seizure upon the mention of his name. Sterling Thorne respected Mevlevi—so much that he came charging into the bank like a wounded bull rhino. How the hell did the people act who didn’t respect him?

“No need to apologize,” said Nick. “It’s best to keep the confidence of your clients. It’s certainly none of Thorne’s business.”

“Thorne wants us all as members of his private constabulary. You saw the picture of my son. Do you think I could work with a fiend who gained his living from the international commerce of death? Thorne’s mistaken about our Mevlevi. I’m sure you’ll learn that tomorrow when you meet the man. Remember, Neumann, it’s hardly our job to be policemen.”

Not that old chestnut, thought Nick. Now he was really feeling sick. And sicker still when he heard himself mutter, “I agree fully.” The defender of the faith had spoken.

Kaiser puffed his cigar and patted him on the knee. “I knew you’d see things clearly. Mevlevi will be arriving by private jet tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. You’ll be there to meet him. Car and driver provided, of course. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of errands to run.”

Nick stood, eager to get back to his own cloistered den. “Will that be all?”

“That’s all, Neumann. Get back to Maeder’s project. Have Rita order you some lunch in. Anyplace you like. Why not try the Kronenhalle?”

“I have plans…” Nick began.

“Oh yes, I completely forgot,” Kaiser said. “Well then, back to work for us all.”

As Nick walked out of the grand office, he asked himself when he had mentioned his luncheon plans to the Chairman.

“Were you able to get the reports?” Nick asked as he crossed the threshold to Sylvia Schon’s apartment. It was eight o’clock and he had come directly from the bank.

“What? No hello? No ‘How was your afternoon?’” She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “It’s nice to see you, too, Mr. Neumann.”

Nick walked down the hallway, taking off his overcoat. “Sylvia, were you able to get the monthly activity reports?”

“I said I’d help you, didn’t I?” Sylvia picked up the polished briefcase leaning against her sofa. She unbuckled the cover and drew out two thick binders, colored the same faded yellow as the one they had read several nights before. She handed one to him. “Satisfied? I’m sorry I forgot to get them in time for lunch.”

Nick lifted one and read the coding on its spine. January through March 1978. He shot a glance at the other file. It was entitled April-June 1978. At least one thing had gone right today. “I’m sorry if I was rude.”

Nick was tired and irritable. His only break the entire day had been the scant half hour he’d spent lunching with Sylvia at Kropf Bierhalle. Time to consume a sausage, french fries, and two Cokes, but hardly enough to get around to asking her if she had mentioned their lunch date to someone. They had agreed it best to keep their relationship quiet. Not secret—for secret was a dirty word. Just quiet. Neither had thought to ask what answer should be given if someone were to question them about their seeing each other. Or if they had, they hadn’t dared ask it.

Sylvia stood on her tiptoes and rubbed his cheek. “Want to talk about it? You don’t look so great.”

Nick knew he looked haggard. He’d been getting by on five hours of sleep a night. When, that is, he could sleep at all. “Just the regular grind. Things are pretty crazy up on the Fourth Floor. The general assembly is only five days away. Konig’s biting at our heels.”

“What does Kaiser have you doing?”

“The usual,” Nick explained, aware that he was doing everything but. Regardless of his feelings for Sylvia, he couldn’t bring himself to confess the larceny being perpetrated on the Fourth Floor. Some things he had to keep to himself. “Lining up votes. Answering phone calls from investment analysts. We’re all feeling the pressure. It’s crunch time.”

“Everyone is feeling Konig’s pressure,” she said. “Not just you big shots on the Fourth Floor. No one wants Konig to get his seats. Change is frightening, especially for the little guys underneath the Emperor’s Lair.”

“Too bad we can’t order every employee of the bank to purchase a hundred shares of our stock,” Nick said. “If they don’t have the money—no problem. We can subtract it from their future salaries. That would go a long way toward fending off the Adler Bank. At least then I wouldn’t have to-” He bit off his words in mid-sentence.

“Then you wouldn’t have to what?” asked Sylvia. Her eyes flickered, and Nick could see the scent of scandal was rich in her nose.

“Then we wouldn’t have to fight so damned hard against Konig,” he shot back, not missing a beat.

“How does it look?”

“Forty-six percent for the good guys, thirty percent for the bad guys. Just keep your fingers crossed Konig doesn’t launch a full-scale hostile bid.”

“What’s stopping him?”

“Cash. Or lack of it. He’d have to offer a significant premium to the market price, but if he did, enough shares are in the hands of the arbs that he’d have no problem capturing sixty-six percent of the votes. Even our supporters would defect to Konig. That would give him full control of the board. A one-way ticket to Valhalla for Wolfgang Kaiser.”