Numbered Account

CHAPTER 38

Nick planned his excursion for ten A.M. sharp, at the height of the morning rush. Throughout the bank it was a time of rehearsed chaos. Secretaries hurried from one office to another on missions of dubious importance. Apprentices filed back to their posts after a mandated fifteen-minute break. Reptilian executives conspired in ill-lit corridors. The bank bustled with activity, and he would lose himself in it.

Nick left his office one minute early. He strode past the entrance to the Chairman's anteroom and continued down the corridor until he reached the entry to the interior stairwell. Careful not to show the least hesitation, he swept open the door and stepped inside. He descended the stairs, head lowered, hugging the outside wall. Several people passed him, but he didn't notice them. He wasn't making this trip. At least not officially.

Nick slowed his pace as he neared the first-floor landing. He stopped next to the unmarked iron door and gathered his breath, steeling himself for the task ahead. When he was ready, he tucked his chin into his neck, cast his eyes downward, then pulled open the heavy door and stepped into the corridor. The hallway was as endless as he remembered. He walked quickly toward his destination- one more harried worker on his daily rounds. His footsteps echoed off the walls. The numbers inscribed on the small metal plates beside every door declined. Finally, he passed a series of unmarked entries. He was there. Room 103. Dokumentation Zentrale.

He opened the door and stepped inside. The office was full of people. Two neat lines were formed in front of a Formica counter behind which stood a twisted old man with a shock of white hair. The famous Karl, dungeon master of DZ.

Waiting in line, Nick thought of his father working in this same office forty years ago. The place looked as if it hadn't changed an iota. Metal desks of prewar vintage were arranged in twin columns of four behind the counter. Scuffed linoleum flooring peeled near the walls and under the radiators. Maybe the lighting had improved- if you could call fluorescent bulbs an improvement. The room smelled of decay, and Nick was sure it had smelled no different in 1956 when Alex Neumann had begun his career here. He pictured his father hefting files to the highest shelves, scooping up request forms and patrolling the miles of stacks in search of one document or another. Two years he'd spent working for Karl. Two years in this dustbin. Step one of his education. The first rung up the ladder.

The woman in front of Nick received her files and left the office. Nick stepped forward and handed Karl the account request form. He stared at the old man and began counting down from ten, waiting for the bomb to go off.

"You don't say please?" Karl barked as he slipped on a pair of bifocals hanging from a tarnished iron chain around his neck.

"Please," said Nick. Seven, six, five…

Karl brought the request to his eyes. He sniffed.

Four, three, two…

Karl dropped the form on the counter as if it were worthless currency. "Young man," he huffed, "this request has no personal reference. It does not show who wants the files. No reference, no file. I am sorry."

Nick had prepared an explanation, though it was weak and had not been tested under live fire. He checked over his shoulder, then leaned across the counter and whispered, "These forms were generated by a new computer system. It isn't initialized yet. Only on the Fourth Floor. I'm sure you know about it. The Medusa system."

Karl stared at the paper. His bushy eyebrows bunched together. He looked unconvinced. "No reference, no files. I am so sorry."

Nick pushed the request form under Karl's eyes. Time to up the stakes. "If you have a problem, call Herr Kaiser immediately. I just left his office. His extension is-"

"I know his extension," declared the dungeon master. "No reference, no file. I am so-"

"So sorry," Nick said in unison. He had expected such obstinacy. He had known a few master sergeants in the Corps who made Karl look like a pussycat, and he had learned through trial and error that the only way to make them circumvent sacred routine was to use a technique he had developed named the shove and hug. A discreet but firm hint of a threat, followed by a show of respect for their position and a heightened appreciation for the favor they were about to grant. At best, it worked half the time.

"Listen to me carefully," Nick began. "Do you know what we're doing upstairs? We're working night and day to save this bank from a little man down the street who has every intention of buying us. Do you know what will happen if he takes us over?"

Karl didn't seem to care.