Numbered Account

Four minutes later, Nick's snow-capped head mounted the stairs leading to Sprungli's main dining hall. The room was filled with midday habitues, mainly women of a certain age, impeccably dressed and bored to distraction. An old rumor suggested that women breakfasting alone on Sprungli's second floor between the hours of nine and eleven were seeking the company of gentlemen for pursuits rather less genteel than shopping.

Sprecher signaled to Nick from a corner table. An empty demitasse sat in front of him. "Espresso?"

Nick remained standing. "What's on your mind? I can't be away from my desk for long."

"First, I'm sorry. I want you to forget that I ever asked about those blasted shares. Konig said you were too good a target to pass up. He hit on me to give you a call. Point me in the right direction and I march. That's me. The loyal soldier."

"That's a pathetic excuse."

"Come on, Nick. First couple of days on the job. Eager to do anything to please the wallahs upstairs. Surely, you know what I'm talking about. Christ, you practically did the same thing yourself."

"I didn't try to betray a friend."

"Look, it was a vulgar proposition. Case closed. Won't happen again."

Nick pulled out a chair and sat down. He ran a hand through his hair, and flakes of snow tumbled onto the table. "Let's get to it. What do you have for me?"

Sprecher pushed a white sheet of paper toward him. "Read this. I found it on my desk this morning. I'd say it evens the score between us."

Nick pulled the sheet closer. It was a photocopy and not a very good one. The sheet listed the names of five institutional shareholders of USB stock, their approximate holdings, the portfolio manager, and his telephone number. He raised his head abruptly. "I typed this sheet."

Sprecher smiled, victorious. "Bingo. Your initials are at the top. 'NXM.' Whoever copied this did a shoddy job. You can see half of the USB logo."

Nick looked at Peter skeptically. "Where did you get this?"

"Like I said, it fell on my desk." Sprecher fumbled for a cigarette. Something in his face weakened. "If you must know, George von Graffenried threw it at me. He's Konig's right-hand man at the bank. George mumbled something about an investment finally yielding a dividend. It seems, chum, you have a very naughty mole in your organization."

"Jesus Christ," Nick muttered under his breath. "This sheet is from my desk. Only a few people have seen it."

"Only takes one."

Nick counted off the names of those he knew had copies of the sheet: Feller, Maeder, Rita Sutter, and of course, Wolfgang Kaiser. Who else might have seen it? Immediately, Nick recalled the guilty expression of a lumbering prowler caught in flagrante stealing a glance at his papers. Armin Schweitzer had been so emboldened- or so desperate- as to even request a copy of this very sheet. Nick's cheeks colored with anger and embarrassment.

Peter took back the sheet, folded it neatly, and replaced it in his jacket pocket. "I'll have to contact these investors. No way around that, is there? But, I've got a feeling a few of these chaps may be tied up this morning. Best wait until later this afternoon or early tomorrow. You know these intercontinental connections. Devilishly poor at times."

Nick stood and put out his hand. "Thanks, Peter. I'd say this evens the score."

Sprecher shook it uneasily, an odd expression straining his features. "Still haven't figured out whether I'm a hero or a whore."

***

Nick rushed back to the bank, his mind boiling with conspiracy. He passed Hugo Brunner without so much as a hello and took an elevator reserved for clients directly to the Fourth Floor. "Two can play at this game," he whispered to himself.

Inside his office, Nick made a beeline for his desk. He shoved the endless stack of client portfolios to one side and positioned himself squarely before the computer. He exited Medusa and logged on to Cerberus, where he accessed the word-processing software. The noble struggle to "repatriate" shares of USB would have to wait a few minutes. He had a more urgent calling: ferreting out a traitor.

First he accessed the list of institutional shareholders holding blocks of USB shares. It was the same list now in Peter Sprecher's possession- the list that he was certain had been taken from his desk. Once it was on the screen, he erased the date and all pertinent shareholder information: name, phone number, address, and finally contact person. He typed in today's date and moved to the area reserved for shareholder information. In this space, he added the name of a heretofore unknown shareholder- a group Martin Maeder, Reto Feller, and he had failed to locate during their initial screening. He chewed on his pen, trying hard to recollect the institution's name. Ah, yes, he had it. The Widows and Orphans Fund of Zurich. He typed in the name and next to it wrote "140,000 shares held in trust at J. P. Morgan, Zurich. Contact Edith Emmenegger."