Numbered Account

"No more papers. Every file in here will be scanned, digitized, and saved on a computer disk. They'll cart off all your precious documents, all this-" Nick gave a wide sweeping gesture to encompass the entire room, "and store them in a warehouse in Ebmatingen. We'll never see them again. If I need to access a document, I'll sit at my desk on the Fourth Floor and call it up on my own monitor."

The shove rendered, Nick kept a sharp eye on Karl, watching the old man absorb the information. Before long his wrinkled face fell. "And what about me?"

Gotcha, thought Nick. "I'm sure Klaus Konig would find a position for you. If, that is, he values experience and loyalty as much as Herr Kaiser. But all this will be gone." Onto the hug. "I apologize for not having put the proper reference. But Herr Kaiser is waiting for the information in this file. I know he would greatly appreciate your help."

Karl straightened out the request form and picked up a pen off of the green countertop. "Your three-letter reference?"

"S… P… R," said Nick, enunciating each letter as if it were its own word. If there were ever an inquiry, using Peter Sprecher's personal reference would gain him two, maybe three hours. At that point, who knew? It might be enough time to get him off the premises. Then again, it might not. Regardless, there was no way he was going to leave his own fingerprints all over this file.

Karl wrote the three letters on the request form. "Your identification, please?"

"Of course." Smiling, Nick reached into his coat pocket. His smile turned to surprise, then dismay. His hands rummaged through his pants and again in his jacket. He frowned apologetically, at once angry and contrite. "Looks like I made the mistake this time. I must have left my I.D. upstairs. Get that file for me while I run and get it."

Nick hesitated a moment, then turned and made his way to the door. All the while, he shook his head vigorously, as if chastising himself for his forgetfulness.

"No, no," said Karl. "Stay. Client dossiers belonging to a numbered account may not be removed from this room anyhow. Sit over there and wait where I can keep an eye on you. For the Chairman, I make an exception." He stared past Nick and pointed to a small table with two chairs on each side of it. "Over there. Go and sit. You will be called when it is retrieved."

Nick breathed easier and did as he was told. He walked sheepishly to the table, still shaking his head at his careless behavior. He was probably overacting.

The activity in the office had increased. Eight or nine people waited in line. Still, the room was absolutely silent. "Church mice," Nick would have said to his infantry platoon when silent running was an operational necessity. Only the shuffling of paper and one secretary's itchy throat marred the calm.

"Herr Sprecher?"

Nick jumped to his feet, fearful that someone might recognize him. He scanned the room. No one looked at him oddly.

Karl held a sepia folder in both his hands. "Here is your file. You may not remove any of its contents. You may not leave it unattended, even if you have to go to the toilet. Bring it directly to me when you are finished. Understood?"

Nick said he understood. He took the file from Karl and started back to the reading table.

"Herr Sprecher?" Karl asked unsurely. "That is correct, isn't it?"

Nick turned. "Yes," he answered confidently, waiting for someone to call him an impostor.

"You remind me of a boy I used to know a long time ago. He worked with me. Name wasn't Sprecher, though." Karl shrugged his shoulders and went back to work.

***

It was a thick file, as big as a textbook and twice as heavy. Nick turned the folder horizontally to check the tab. 549.617 RR was typed in heavy black script. He relaxed and opened the cover. Signature sheets were stapled to the left-hand side. The sheets listed the names of the bank executives who had previously requested the file. Cerruti's name was written on ten or eleven lines, interrupted once by Peter Sprecher's. The name Becker popped up half a dozen times all within a six-month period. Then Cerruti again and before him, something illegible. Lift the sheet and go back in time, mid-eighties. Another page, more names. Back again. And finally, at the top of the first page, a signature he knew well. The date: 1980. He traced the bold curves of the signature with his pen. Wolfgang Kaiser. Chalk up another run in Sterling Thorne's column, thought Nick. Irrefutable proof the Chairman knew Mr. Ali Mevlevi.