Numbered Account

Screw Thorne, he answered. Let him pursue his rogues' gallery of drug supremos and narcotraficantes, but goddamn it, not on my watch. As far as Nick was concerned all government agencies- the CIA, the FBI, the DEA, the whole rotten bunch- operated on some hopelessly stilted agenda. They were motivated as much by the self-serving and entirely human aspirations of their leaders as by a legitimate desire to remedy societal ills. To hell with them all.

***

Nick returned to his desk at five minutes before three o'clock. The office seemed unnaturally quiet. Sprecher's desk was empty, as was Cerruti's- a desolate stretch of banking highway. He had five minutes to decide how to handle the Pasha, true identity unknown, this day at odds with the laws of at least one Western nation.

Nick tapped his pen on the Internal Account Surveillance List. He had been neglecting his duties for most of the day. To divert his thoughts, or maybe to focus them more clearly, he took out the two modification of account information forms he had filled out that morning and began making the necessary additions. A valiant trumpet sounded the charge from an imaginary battlefield. He recognized the Chairman's air. A call to arms.

Nick hazarded a weak smile and glanced up to the clock. 14:59. And then it was done… 15:00. He slid open his top drawer and withdrew a green transfer of funds sheet and a black pen. He laid down both in front of him, sure to cover Schweitzer's surveillance list, and began counting. One… two… three. He could practically feel the pulses of compressed light firing through the fiber-optic cables. Four… five… six.

The phone jumped in front of him. Nick stared at the flashing light. The phone rang again. He picked up the receiver and placed it firmly against his ear.

"United Swiss Bank, Mr. Neumann, good afternoon."

CHAPTER 9

Nick leaned back in his chair and repeated himself. "United Swiss Bank, Mr. Neumann speaking. How may I be of service?"

A brusque hissing erupted from the line.

"Good afternoon. Is anyone there?" His stomach felt empty. A streak of anxiety sparked in his lower abdomen and rose unchecked into his throat.

"Please come to my desert kingdom," said a scratchy voice. "The pleasures of Allah await. I have heard you are a handsome and virile young man. We have many beautiful women, some very, very young. But for you I have reserved something special, something infinitely more pleasurable."

"Excuse me," Nick said. This didn't sound like the man he had listened to on Monday.

"The pleasures of the desert are legion," the voice rumbled on. "But for you, my young friend, I reserve my precious Fatima. Such softness you do not know. Like the down from a thousand pillows. And gentle… ahh, Fatima is a kind and loving beast. The queen of all my camels." The voice broke down, trading its shaky Arabic accent for one of English origin. "Please you may fuck her as often as you like," Peter Sprecher blurted out, before bursting into laughter, no longer able to continue his charade. "Am I keeping you from something more important, young Nick?"

"Bastard! You'll pay!" Nick railed.

Sprecher laughed louder.

"Isn't Konig keeping you busy enough? Or are you already buying shares for him? Is he going to make a bid for the entire bank?"

"Sorry, chum, I couldn't tell you. But if I were a betting man, I wouldn't count him out."

"Always full of positive news…" Nick halted in mid-sentence. A new light on his telephone had begun blinking. "Gotta run. Our friend is here. By the way, his account is on Schweitzer's surveillance list." He caught the beginning of a loud exclamation before he stabbed the flashing extension. "United Swiss Bank, Mr. Neumann, good afternoon."

"Mr. Sprecher, please." It was him.

"This is Mr. Neumann speaking. Unfortunately Mr. Sprecher is away from the office today, but I am his assistant. May I help you, sir?"

"What is your bank reference?" the gravelly voice demanded. "I know Mr. Sprecher well. I do not know you. Please be so kind as to provide me your full name and bank reference."

"Sir, I would be more than happy to provide you with information legitimizing my employ at the bank; however, first, I need to have either your name or your account number."

The line faded for a second. The quietest of hums cut out, and then was back.

"Very well. My account number is"- he pronounced the numbers slowly and deliberately-"five four nine, six one seven. R. R."

"Thank you. Now I require your code word for this account."

Nick felt oddly empowered by the strict procedure set forth to control the identity of the anonymous individuals holding numbered accounts. For decades all that had been required to open an account at any Swiss bank was a check drawn on an internationally active bank, or for more discreet individuals, a stack of currency freely convertible against the Swiss franc. Proof of identity was welcome but by no means obligatory.