Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“And for the rest of us?” demanded Sylvia. “What about us? You know very well the first jobs cut after any merger are overlapping staff functions: accounting, treasury, logistics. I can’t imagine that the Adler Bank will have any need for two personnel directors in their finance department.”

“Sylvia, don’t worry. The battle we’re fighting is to keep Konig off the board. No one is talking about an outright takeover.”

“Not yet they’re not.” She squinted her eyes as if she didn’t like what she saw. “You’ll never understand what this bank means to me. The time I’ve put in. The hope I’ve wasted on this stupid job.”

“Wasted?” he asked. “Why wasted?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” she said disgustedly. “You can’t. It’s that simple. You can never know what it’s like to work twice the hours of your male colleagues, to consistently do better work, and to see everyone around you promoted quicker because they have hair on their chest and speak with a deeper voice. Imagine, being passed over for client meetings, just so men can lie to each other about who they’ve seduced. Imagine what it’s like having to endure a hundred compliments a day about how nice you look—‘Isn’t that a new scarf?’ ‘Why, Fraulein Schon, you look particularly fetching today.’ Or, to be asked your opinion about a proposed project, and when it doesn’t quite jibe with Mr. Senior Vice President’s, have it dismissed with a polite smile and a wink. A wink, dammit! Has Armin Schweitzer ever winked at you?”

Stunned by the verbal barrage, Nick dug his chin into his neck and said “No.”

“I have to go twice as far, twice as fast. You make a mistake and the powers that be say, “Of course, happens all the time.’ I make a mistake, they say, ‘Typical woman. What’d ya expect? Chuckle, chuckle, yuck, yuck.’ And all the time they’re thinking ‘My, wouldn’t I like to have a go at her?’”

Sylvia met Nick’s eyes and gave him a smile of dignified resignation. “I haven’t put up with this nonsense for nine years only to have some bastard come along and kick me out my own front door. If Konig takes over USB, my life is shot.”

For a few seconds, there was silence between them. Then she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come on so strong.”

“Don’t be sorry. The scary thing is, everything you said is true.”

“I’m glad you realize it. You’re probably the only one at the bank. The boys on the Fourth Floor prefer their women like Rita Sutter. She’s been Kaiser’s secretary forever, making his lunch appointments, fixing his coffee. She should be a senior vice president. How can anyone put up with that kind of abuse for so long?”

“People make their own choices, Sylvia. Don’t feel sorry for Rita Sutter. If she’s there, it’s for a reason.” He recalled the photo he had seen in Marco Cerruti’s apartment. Kaiser kissing Rita Sutter’s hand. Maybe he had beaten out Klaus Konig for her affections.

“I don’t feel sorry for her. I just wonder what she’s getting out of it.”

“That’s her concern. Not ours.”

Nick walked to the sofa and sat down. “Christ,” he said sharply. “I almost forgot.”

Sylvia came over to him. “Don’t scare me. What is it?”

“If you get a funny message on your phone machine tomorrow, don’t erase it.” Nick went over his meeting with Peter Sprecher and the discovery that a mole at USB was supplying the Adler Bank with information crucial to the successful defense of the United Swiss Bank. He shared his suspicions as to the culprit’s identity.

“If it is Schweitzer,” Sylvia declared angrily, “I swear I will personally kick him in the you know where.”

“If it is him, you have my permission. For now, though, save any message that sounds funny. You’ll know it when you hear it.”

“I promise.”

After dinner, Nick retrieved the files from the living room and laid them on the dining room table. He waited for Sylvia to rejoin him, then brought out his father’s agenda for 1978.

Nick said, “The first time I read through my father’s entries, it was just out of nostalgia, you know, to see if he had left any personal notes that might help me get a handle on who he really was. He didn’t—which was just like my dad. He was all business. It was only after I’d looked at the agendas a few times that I picked up on the vibe of fear that ran through the last pages of 1979. Going back through them, I saw that the only places where my father indicated any type of emotional response to his work were in reference to a Mr. Allen Soufi and this company Goldluxe.”

“Are the two related?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. Soufi was a private banking client, a guy who maintained a numbered account with the bank. He wanted my father to help with some iffy business proposition. I don’t know any more than that.”

“Let’s look for Soufi then,” Sylvia suggested.

“The first mention of Soufi is on April 15, 1978.” Nick flipped open the agenda to that date. His father had written, “Dinner. A. Soufi. The Bistro. 215 Canon Dr.”

Sylvia looked at the page. “Is that all?”

“Until later, yeah.” Nick thought of the indignant comments left by his father, “Soufi is undesirable. Bastard threatened me,” then opened the file containing the monthly activity reports for the period January through March 1978. “Regardless, we’ve got to start at the beginning of the year. There might be a mention of him earlier. My father had to send the head office copies of new account information for every client he brought in. If he brought in Soufi, there’ll be copies of account registration, name, address, signature cards, the works.”

“And Goldluxe?”

“They don’t show up till later.”

Nick read the January activity report from first page to last. He learned that the results for the L.A. rep office for 1977 were thirty-three percent above forecast; that in 1978, a newly hired secretary could expect to earn $750 a month; and that the U.S. prime rate was sitting up in the stratosphere at sixteen percent.

The activity report for February contained a revised pro forma budget, a third request for greater office space, and a proposal to open a two-man San Francisco office.

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. “Where is he, Sylvia? Where is Soufi?”

Sylvia rubbed his back. “He’ll be here, sweetheart. Be patient. We’re almost finished with this month’s report.”

They returned to the section highlighting new business. Sylvia ran her finger down the list of names listed as new clients. A Mr. Alphons Knups, a Max Keller, a Mrs. Ethel Ward. Suddenly, she shouted, “Look, there it is.” She pointed to the last name on the list.

Nick pulled the file closer. Sure enough, there it was. Mr. A. Soufi. A star had been placed next to his name. Nick found the star at the bottom of the page and read that Soufi was a referral from Mr. C. Burki (VP) in USB’s London branch office.

“Bingo,” said Nick. “We found him.” He flipped to the back of the report for the supporting documentation that accompanied every new account. A sheet topped by Allen Soufi’s name was attached. However, neither occupation, business, nor home address was provided. At least there was a signature. Soufi had signed the sheet in an expansive looping script. Under “Comments” was written: “Cash deposit $250K.”

Nick checked the client profile sheets filled out by other new customers. Each one had given full biographical information: name, address, date of birth, passport number. Only Soufi had left his sheet blank. He nudged her shoulder. “My question is, who is C. Burki in London?”

Sylvia removed her glasses and wiped them on the hem of her shirt. “If he was in London, it’s more likely than not that he was a member of the finance department. Offhand, I can’t say I remember the name. I’ll check our personnel records. Maybe something will turn up.”