Numbered Account

Outside, the sky was a downy gray. A sharp wind blew from the south, teasing the air with the first intimations of spring. Nick paused on the steps of the bank and breathed in deeply. He had expected to feel happier, freer maybe, but deep inside him a doubt lingered, a certainty that he had somewhere to rush to, someone he had to see, but he couldn't quite remember who or what it was. For the first time since his arrival in his father's country two months ago, he had nowhere to go, no pressing schedule to meet. He was on his own.

A black Mercedes sedan was parked at the curb. Sterling Thorne lowered the window. He was grinning. "Get in the car, Neumann. I'll give you a lift."

Nick said thanks, then climbed into the car. He was waiting for a final comment, something about everyone getting what they deserved, but for once Thorne kept quiet. The car pulled away from the curb and for a few minutes, no one spoke. Nick stared through the window at the sky. He spotted a patch of blue, but an angry gray cloud soon covered it. Thorne shifted in his seat and looked over his shoulder at Nick. The West Virginian was still smiling. "Say, Neumann, know where we can get a decent hamburger in this town?"

***

Wednesday morning, Nick stood in the departure lounge of Zurich Flughafen, staring up at a massive blackboard that listed all flights scheduled to leave before noon. An overcoat was draped over one arm. His only suitcase sat on the floor next to him. Resting his weight on the sturdy cane, he eased the pressure from his injured leg and allowed his eyes to roam the destinations: Frankfurt, Stockholm, Milan. The names excited him. Cosmopolitan cities offering the chance to start a new life. After an instant, he lowered his eyes and studied the flights bound for more familiar locales: Chicago, New York, Los Angeles.

The departures board fluttered, the twirling of hundreds of aluminum tabs sounding like the shuffling of a giant deck of cards. New letters clicked into the place of old as each flight climbed a row closer to the top of the board, a few minutes nearer to takeoff.

A voice announced, "Swissair flight one seven four, departure to New York, now ready for boarding through gate sixty-two," then repeated the message in German and Italian.

Nick opened his wallet and took out a square of white paper. He unfolded it and studied the address: 750 Park Avenue, apartment 16B. He smiled. The only way Anna was going to Greece this summer was with him. He thought a ceremony atop the Acropolis might be very nice. Looking up, he found the flight to New York listed on the departures board. He had thirty minutes to make it.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank the following people for their kind assistance:

Babs and Willy Reich offered only encouragement and support.

Farlan Myers, a longtime family friend, showed his true colors when it counted.

Karla Kuban, Tina Venema, and David Yorkin read early drafts of this book and offered helpful advice.

Sarah Piel of Arthur Pine Associates provided invaluable assistance in whipping the first drafts of the book into shape.

Lori Andiman, also of Arthur Pine Associates, proved to be nothing less than a wizard.

Jacqueline Miller, my editor, lit the way and held my hand through some difficult times.

Carole Baron showed her faith in a new writer.

Most important, I'd like to thank Leslie Schnur for believing in the book and pulling out all the stops. You're the best.

And finally, I offer my heartfelt thanks to my agent, Richard Pine. Onward and upward!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Christopher Reich was born in Tokyo and grew up in Los Angeles. He worked in the private banking department of a major Swiss bank in Geneva before joining the bank's department of mergers and acquisitions in Zurich. In 1995 he decided to pursue writing full-time. He lives in Texas with his wife and child.

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