Numbered Account

Sprecher pushed back his head and laughed. "You're not bad for a Yank. Not bad at all. Now get the hell out of here and bring me my coffee. Black, two sugars."

CHAPTER 3

The call came that afternoon at three o'clock, just as Peter Sprecher had promised. One of their section's biggest fish; Marco Cerruti's most important client. A man known only by his account number and his nickname: the Pasha. Called every Monday and Thursday at three o'clock sharp. Never failed. More punctual than God. Or the Swiss themselves.

The phone rang a second time.

Peter Sprecher raised a finger to his mouth. "Just be quiet and listen," he ordered. "Your training officially begins now."

Nick paid close attention, curious as to what could make his boss so edgy.

Sprecher picked up the phone and placed it to his ear. "United Swiss Bank. Good afternoon." He paused and his shoulders stiffened. "Mr. Cerruti is not available."

Another pause while the other party spoke. Sprecher winced, then winced again. "I'm sorry, sir, I cannot tell you the reason for his absence. Yessir, I would be happy to provide you with information legitimizing my employ at USB. First, though, I require your account number."

He wrote a number on a blank slip of paper. "I confirm your account number is 549.617 RR." He punched in a blizzard of numbers and commands into his desktop computer. "And your code word?"

His eyes scanned the monitor. A pinched smile indicated he was satisfied with the answer. "How may I help you today? My name is Pee-ter Shprek-her." Slowly and clearly. "I am Mr. Cerruti's assistant." His brow furrowed. "My bank reference? Yes sir, my three-letter reference is S-P-C." Another pause. "Mr. Cerruti is ill. I'm sure he'll be back with us next week. Any message you'd like me to pass on to him?"

Sprecher's pen flashed across the page. "Yes, I'll tell him. Now, how may we be of service?"

He listened. A command was entered into the computer. A moment later, he relayed the information to his client. "The balance of your account is twenty-six million dollars. Two six million."

Nick repeated the sum silently while his stomach dropped to the floor below. Twenty-six million dollars. Not bad, mister. For as long as he could remember he had been living on the tightest of budgets. There had been no fat since his father had died. Pocket money in high school came from part-time jobs at a dozen fast-food joints. Expenses in college were met through scholarships and a job tending bar- even if he had been two years under age. He'd finally earned a decent paycheck in the Corps, but after sending three hundred a month off the top to his mother, he'd been left with only enough for a small apartment off base, a used pickup, and a couple of six-packs on weekends. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to have twenty-six million dollars in his account. He couldn't.

Sprecher was listening intently to the Pasha. He nodded several times while bouncing a pencil off his thigh. Without warning he erupted in a flurry of disparate movements. The phone was tucked under the chin, the chair rolled backward toward the cabinet. Elbows flew, oaths were whispered. Finally an orange file was extracted and laid upon the desk. Still unsatisfied by his exertions, he lowered his head to search, along with five busy fingers, through the second drawer of his desk. Aha! Victory at last. He had found his treasure, in this case a mint green form bearing the words "Transfer of Funds" in bold capital letters, and now he waved it over his head as if he were a newly crowned Olympic champion.

Sprecher placed the phone to his mouth and took a deep breath before speaking. "I confirm that you wish to transfer the entire amount currently in the account, twenty-six million U.S. dollars, to the schedule of banks as listed per matrix three."

The orange file was opened, consulted, then a five-digit operational code entered into the computer. Sprecher studied the screen as if he had discovered the Rosetta stone. "Twenty-two banks are listed. I will note that the transfer is to be urgent. The money is to be wired out before the end of business this day. Without fail. Yessir, I am aware that you have my bank reference. Not to worry. Thank you, sir. Good-bye, sir."

With a sigh, Sprecher laid the phone in its cradle. "The Pasha has spoken. So shall his will be done."

"Sounds like a demanding client."

"Demanding? More like dictatorial. Know what his message to Cerruti was? 'Get back to work.' There's a good chap for you." Sprecher laughed as if he couldn't believe the client's gall, but a moment later his features darkened. "It's not his manner that bothers me. It's his voice. Bloody cold. No emotion whatsoever. Like a man without a shadow. This is one client whose orders we follow to a T."