Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“I purchased this piece thinking of you, Wolfgang,” said Ali Mevlevi as he stepped into Wolfgang Kaiser’s office. His arm was pointing at the fabulous mosaic of the mounted Saracen brandishing his sword above a one-armed moneylender. “I don’t get to see it often enough.”

Wolfgang Kaiser strolled to the door of his private elevator, his broad smile bursting with all the bonhomie in the world. “You must make it a habit to stop in more often. It has been a while since your last visit. Three years?”

“Nearly four.” Mevlevi grasped the outstretched hand and drew Kaiser in for a hug. “It’s more difficult to travel these days.”

“Not for much longer. I’m pleased to say that a meeting has been arranged on Monday morning with a colleague of mine, a man well placed in the naturalization department.”

“A civil servant?”

Kaiser raised his shoulders as if to say “Who else?” “One more who never quite got accustomed to living on his salary.”

“Doing your bit for privatization, are you?”

“Unfortunately, the fellow is located in the Tessin, in Lugano. Neumann scheduled the meeting for ten A.M. It will mean an early start.”

“You will be joining me, Mr. Neumann?”

Nick said yes and added that they would be departing at seven Monday morning.

He had just presided over the counting of twenty million dollars in cash. For two and a half hours, he had stood in a small, antiseptic room two floors underground helping break the seals on slim packets of one-hundred-dollar bills and handing the money to a portly clerk for the counting. At first, the sight of so much cash had left him giddy. But as time passed and his fingers grew smudged with the U.S. Treasury’s ink, his giddiness grew to boredom and then to anger. He could not continue the charade much longer.

Mevlevi had watched it all, never once growing restless. Funny thing, Nick thought, the only ones who didn’t trust the Swiss banks were the crooks who used them.

Kaiser took his favorite seat under the Renoir. “If a Swiss passport is strong enough to protect Marc Rich against the wrath of the United States government, I’m sure it will do for you.”

Mevlevi sat on the couch, dapperly pinching the knees of his trousers. “I must accept your word on this.”

“Rich hasn’t been bothered by the American authorities since he set up his domicile in Zug,” enthused Kaiser.

Before becoming a fugitive from justice, Marc Rich had been president of Phillipp Bros., the world’s largest commodities trading corporation. In 1980, he had found the submarket oil prices offered by the newly installed fundamentalist government of Iran irresistible, and despite the American government’s strict embargo on trading with the Ayatollah Khomeini, had bought as much of the stuff as he could. He sold the lot to the Seven Sisters’ traditional customers at one dollar below the OPEC floor and made a killing.

Soon afterward, the U.S. Treasury Department traced the orders to buy the restricted oil back to New York and from there to the offices of one Marc Rich. Rich’s lawyers kept the government at bay for over two years, agreeing to fines as high as fifty thousand dollars a day to keep their client out of jail. But soon it became clear that the government’s case was rock solid, and that if tried, Rich would take an extended vacation behind the bars of a federal country club. Discretion, and in this instance, self-preservation, being the better part of valor, Rich skedaddled to Switzerland, a country holding no extradition treaty with the United States for crimes of a fiscal or tax-oriented nature. He set up his new company’s headquarters in the canton Zug, where he hired a dozen traders, put some local big shots on the board, and made several generous donations to the local community. Soon afterward, Rich was awarded a Swiss passport.

Kaiser explained that Mevlevi suffered from a similar problem. Sterling Thorne was attempting to have his accounts frozen on grounds that he had violated statutes prohibiting money laundering, an act that Switzerland had only recently declared illegal. Generally speaking, no Swiss prosecutor would freeze the account of a wealthy citizen based solely on charges of money laundering brought by a foreign authority, however well supported by hard evidence. First, the suspect had to be tried and convicted. And lest any rash measures be taken, an appeal granted. Holding a Swiss passport would thus effectively prevent the U.S. DEA from obtaining a warrant to freeze Ali Mevlevi’s accounts. In one week, Sterling Thorne would be just a bad memory.

“And our other problem?” Mevlevi asked. “The nagging one that threatened to do us so much harm.”

Kaiser glanced at Nick. “Effectively resolved.”

Mevlevi relaxed. “So much the better. This trip has already freed me of a great many worries. Onward then? Do we have some time to review my account?”

“Of course.” Wolfgang Kaiser turned to his assistant. “Nicholas, would you mind running down to DZ and picking up Mr. Mevlevi’s mail. I’m sure he would like to take it with him.” He picked up the phone sitting on the coffee table and dialed a four-digit extension. “Karl? I am sending down a Mr. Neumann to pick up the file for numbered account 549.617 RR. Yes, I know one isn’t allowed to remove it from DZ. Indulge me this one time, Karl. What’s that? The second favor this week. Really?” Kaiser paused and looked directly at Nick. Nick could tell he was wondering what in the world the first favor had been. But this was no time for dawdling and in a second Kaiser continued his conversation. “Thank you, that’s very kind of you. His name is Neumann, Karl. He may look familiar to you. Call me if you recognize him.”

Nick was worried. Yes, he had anticipated that Mevlevi might want to review his file. Yes, he had been sure to bring back all the transaction confirmations he’d stolen from Mevlevi’s file three days ago. But, like a fool, he’d left them in his office, taped to the underside of the top drawer of his desk. Now he had one chance to replace the transaction confirmations in the file before the Pasha discovered them missing. His only hope was to return to his office after retrieving the file and exchange the dummy envelopes for the real ones.

And therein lay his problem.

To retrieve the letters, he would have to pass the entrance to Kaiser’s outer offices with Mevlevi’s compendious file in hand. Rita Sutter might see him. Or Ott or Maeder, or any one of the executives who frequented the Chairman’s antechamber. Of course that wasn’t the only problem. During his call to Karl, Kaiser had referred to Nick twice specifically by name. The Chairman had even served up a riddle as to his identity. “Call me if you recognize him,” he’d said. Only three days ago, Nick had presented himself to Karl as Peter Sprecher. Now what would the old geezer think?

Nick waited for the elevator, frustrated at his lack of alternatives. He was scared. If Mevlevi discovered that his mail was missing, his crime would be discovered in a second. And then? Immediate dismissal if he was lucky. And if he wasn’t? Better not to think of it.

Nick decided that speed would be his only ally. He’d rush into DZ, grab the dossier, and rush out. Similarly, when he returned to the Fourth Floor, he would dash past the Emperor’s Lair and replace the stolen letters before anyone saw him. Carl Lewis was better suited to run this errand.

On the first floor, Nick strode briskly through the hallway until he reached the entry to DZ. He placed his back against the steel door, drew in three deep breaths, then opened it and marched to Karl’s counter.