Numbered Account

"But that was your gig, wasn't it? Setting us up. The NSC didn't know shit about that. Right, Keely? That was between you and your pals in the P.I.?"

"It was a win-win proposition. Some of us over here made a little extra money, all the poor devils in the P.I. would make out a lot better, too."

"Win-win? Did I hear you spouting that bullshit, you miserable fuck? You set up nine United States marines to die so you could feather your own lousy nest. You got one good man killed and another permanently disabled. I am twenty-five years old, Keely. I'll have this leg for the rest of my life."

Keely's moral complacency drains the pond of mercy that had begun to form inside of Nick. Qualms about physical retribution and the purposeful infliction of pain vanish. His world turns to black, and then very distinctly, he hears something inside him snap. He sees Burke's smoldering torso splayed on the Philippine sand; he recalls the ragged crater carved from the back of his right leg, can feel himself gagging at the sight, not believing that is his leg; he hears the plush tones of the doctor's voice telling him that he will never walk properly again and relives in a microsecond the painful months of rehabilitation to prove him wrong. He spins and lashes out with his strong leg, whipping the hardened toe of his boot with all his force into Keely's exposed crotch. Keely expels his breath and keels over onto his side. His face is a deep crimson and as he vomits, his eyes look as if they will pop from his skull.

"Payback, Keely. That one was for Burke."

***

Nick's memories faded as quickly as they had come. Only a second had passed. Maybe less.

"I'm sorry, Thorne. I just can't be of service to you. That's all there is to it."

"Neumann, don't make it hard on yourself. Once I tell Kaiser about your discharge, he's going to have to fire you. He can't have a convict working as his assistant. The way I see it, you don't have much of a career left in this business anyway. Might as well do some good while you're still there."

Nick brushed past the federal agent. "Nice try. Do what you gotta do. So will I."

"I didn't have you figured for a coward, Neumann," Thorne shouted. "You let the Pasha get away once. His crimes are on your soul!"

CHAPTER 35

The office was dark, except for a halo of light focused on a stack of papers in the center of his desk. The building was quiet. No footsteps scurried through the hallways. Only the hushed electronic breathing of the computer disturbed the pall of silence that surrounded him like a fertile cocoon.

Wolfgang Kaiser was alone.

The bank once again belonged to him.

Kaiser stood with his cheek pressed against the glass, staring out the arched window behind his desk. The object of his attention was a stout gray building fifty yards up the Bahnhofstrasse: the Adler Bank. No lights glowed from behind its shuttered windows. Squat and ominous it sat, eyes closed for the night. The predator, like its prey, was asleep.

Kaiser peeled his cheek from the cold window and circled his desk. For twelve months he had been aware that the Adler Bank was accumulating USB's shares. A thousand here, five thousand there. Never enough to upset the average daily volume. Never enough to bid up the price. Just small blocks. Slow and steady. He had guessed Konig's intentions, if not his means. In response, he had conceived a modest plan to permanently cement his own position as Chairman of the United Swiss Bank.

Twelve months earlier the bank had celebrated its one hundred twenty-fifth birthday. A celebratory dinner was given at the Hotel Baur au Lac. The collected members of the board of directors and their ladies were invited. Toasts were made, achievements recognized, and perhaps a tear was shed, but only by one of the pensioned board members. Kaiser's active colleagues remained far too concerned with the evening's final announcement to praise the labors of their predecessors. Their hearts were on money. Specifically, on how much of it they'd get their grubby hands on before the evening was over.

Kaiser recalled the greedy glow that lit those ratlike faces that evening. When he had announced that each member of the board was to receive an anniversary bonus of one hundred thousand francs, he was greeted by silence. His guests were incapacitated, man and woman alike. For several seconds, they sat as still as the dead, perched on the edge of their seats. The pressure from a lone mouse's fart would have sent them sprawling onto the dining room floor. And then came the applause. A thunderous barrage of hand clapping. A standing ovation. Cries of "Long live USB!" and of "To the Chairman!"

How could he have doubted that the board was comfortably in his pocket?