Numbered Account

Nick read the January activity report from first page to last. He learned that the results for the L.A. rep office for 1977 were thirty-three percent above forecast; that in 1978, a newly hired secretary could expect to earn $750 a month; and that the U.S. prime rate was sitting up in the stratosphere at sixteen percent.

The activity report for February contained a revised pro forma budget, a third request for greater office space, and a proposal to open a two-man San Francisco office.

Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. "Where is he, Sylvia? Where is Soufi?"

Sylvia rubbed his back. "He'll be here, sweetheart. Be patient. We're almost finished with this month's report."

They returned to the section highlighting new business. Sylvia ran her finger down the list of names listed as new clients. A Mr. Alphons Knups, a Max Keller, a Mrs. Ethel Ward. Suddenly, she shouted, "Look, there it is." She pointed to the last name on the list.

Nick pulled the file closer. Sure enough, there it was. Mr. A. Soufi. A star had been placed next to his name. Nick found the star at the bottom of the page and read that Soufi was a referral from Mr. C. Burki (VP) in USB's London branch office.

"Bingo," said Nick. "We found him." He flipped to the back of the report for the supporting documentation that accompanied every new account. A sheet topped by Allen Soufi's name was attached. However, neither occupation, business, nor home address was provided. At least there was a signature. Soufi had signed the sheet in an expansive looping script. Under "Comments" was written: "Cash deposit $250K."

Nick checked the client profile sheets filled out by other new customers. Each one had given full biographical information: name, address, date of birth, passport number. Only Soufi had left his sheet blank. He nudged her shoulder. "My question is, who is C. Burki in London?"

Sylvia removed her glasses and wiped them on the hem of her shirt. "If he was in London, it's more likely than not that he was a member of the finance department. Offhand, I can't say I remember the name. I'll check our personnel records. Maybe something will turn up."

"Maybe." Nick kept his doubt to himself. He'd looked up Soufi first on Cerberus and then Medusa, and found nothing.

For the next two hours, Nick and Sylvia read through the remaining reports and cross-checked the agenda. Numerous references were made to budgetary matters: actual versus projected revenues, a running tab of selling, general and administrative expenses. A steady stream of new corporate clients appeared each month. And, of course, there was mention of new private banking clients, always by name, always accompanied by a meticulously completed client information sheet. Nick asked himself again why Soufi hadn't filled his out.

Nick finished reading the report for May and looked over at Sylvia. Her eyes were closed and her head was bobbing unsteadily. He felt as tired as she looked.

"Sylvia," he whispered. "Time to call it quits." He closed the binders as quietly as possible, then took his father's agenda and shuffled into the corridor to place it in his briefcase.

"Don't go," came a weak voice. "You can stay here."

"You don't know how much I want to, but I have a big day tomorrow. I can't." He thought about how good it would feel to fall asleep with her back nestled close to his chest. He considered changing his mind but held firm. At eleven A.M. tomorrow, he'd be shaking hands with Ali Mevlevi, the Pasha, and extending the fullest courtesies of the bank to an international drug trafficker- sorry, to a "well-respected businessman." He intended on getting a solid night's rest. "I have to run if I'm going to make the last tram."

"Nick…" she protested sleepily.

"I'll call you in the morning. Can you return the binders and get the next six months of reports?"

"I'll try. Should I set a place for you tomorrow night?"

"I don't think that'll work. Kaiser has a full day and night planned for me."

"Call me if you change your mind. Remember Saturday, I'm going to my father's."

Nick knelt beside her and placed a strand of hair behind her ear. "And Sylvia… thanks."

"For what?"

He looked at her a few seconds longer, wanting desperately to spend the night. He kissed her lightly. She reached an arm up and tried to bring him close for another kiss. He moved her arm gently back to her side. One more kiss would doom him. "Just thanks."

CHAPTER 42

Wolfgang Kaiser gunned the twelve-cylinder engine of his BMW 850i along the expanse of the General Guisan Quai. To his right, lights burned from the windows of Zurich's century-old concert haus, the Tonhalle. To his left, a skirt of ice extended thirty meters from the lake's shore. Past it, the surface of the lake was ruffled by a strong north wind.