Numbered Account

Reflexively, Nick checked over his shoulders. The crowd hadn't grown in the last ten minutes. He spotted no one paying him undue attention. Meanwhile, the envelope was burning the flesh of his fingertips. He glanced once at Sprecher, then slid a thumb under the fold and tore open the envelope. On the Adler Bank's engraved stationery was printed a weekly accounting of shares of the United Swiss Bank purchased for benefit of account E1931.DC- Ciragan Trading. Purchase date, settlement date, price, commission, number of shares- it was all there.

"You didn't just type this up, did you?" Nick asked, joking.

"Couldn't if I wanted to. See there at the lower left-hand corner. Those four numbers followed by the letters AB. That's our internal reference for the operation I requested to print out these shares. Somewhere in our database there is a record of my little theft."

Nick finished for his friend. "So if we call up that record, we'll get the exact same info as you have."

"Natch," said Sprecher, and then he winked. "It was too damned easy. Like I said, the place was bloody chaotic. Faris, our equities guru, sits with his back to me at the next station over. I knew where to look, I just needed the opportunity. Filled the good man's glass with bubbly, Uncle Peter did, and voila, presto magico. Off he went for a pit stop and off I went to his desk. It's not as if he logs into and out of his computer each time he gets up. I sat my bottom down as if I ruddy well belonged there. Didn't look over my shoulder once. Just tapped in the account name, requested a historical record of all movements into and out of the account for the last eighteen months, and hit 'Print.' And don't worry, Nick, I returned the computer to the screen it was on when I sat down- currency cross rates or some such. He never knew I was there. And you, Nick. How did thee fare?"

Nick knew he'd have a hard time matching Sprecher's joyous recitation, so he decided on a low-key performance. "The Pasha's file in its entirety." He tapped the briefcase at his side. "With what's inside and the list you gave me, we can check if Mevlevi's transfers match Konig's purchases."

"Good boy. Of course, you I never doubted."

"For now, I'm turning the file over to you. Too dangerous to keep it at my place."

Sprecher eyed the briefcase, then said gravely, "Do not fold, spindle, or mutilate."

"And besides that, keep it in good condition."

Nick had tried to reach Sylvia twice prior to leaving the bank, hoping to wangle an invitation to spend the night at her place. She hadn't been home either time and only belatedly had he remembered a mention of her visiting her father in Sargans. He wondered if the Pasha's file would be any safer at Sylvia's than at his place. He'd assembled a list of questions for her, and now as he reviewed them his stomach burned with a sour fury. Who had told Kaiser about the theft of the shareholder lists and their delivery to Klaus Konig? Who had informed him that Armin Schweitzer was the man behind their theft? How had Kaiser known about their lunch date Thursday? Who had left the message on her machine last night? Had it been the Chairman's voice he'd heard?

He wanted desperately to assure himself that there was no chance that Sylvia was the responsible party. He wished he knew her so well that he could answer his own misgivings with an unequivocal no. But she had always kept a part of herself hidden from him. He knew it was true, because he had done the same. Until today he had enjoyed exploring the limits of their relationship, never knowing what he might find behind a veiled glance or a furtive sigh. Now he had to ask himself if her diffidence had merely been obfuscation.

Nick turned his attention toward the hopping establishment. "Any sign of our man?"

Sprecher stood and scanned the entire room. "Don't see him."

"I'll check the floor. Maybe I can spot him. You keep your eye on that briefcase." Nick left his stool and walked a few steps into the crowded room. He remembered Yogi Bauer as a hunched gray man in a dark suit. So far he didn't see anyone who matched that description. Clusters of men and women stood drink in hand, every last one smoking a cigarette. He moved through their ranks searching the tables that ran along each wall. No luck. After a few minutes he returned to the bar and found Sprecher nursing a beer.

"Didn't see him?" Sprecher asked, lighting another cigarette.

Nick said no and ordered a beer for himself.

Sprecher leaned back on his stool, grinning sardonically. "What did you say you did in the marines?"

"Recon."

"That's what I thought. Must've been one sad unit." He laid his cigarette in the ashtray and swung around on his stool, lifting a casual finger toward the darkest corner of the bar. "Next to the potted palm, far corner. You might consider investing in a good pair of specs."