Numbered Account

In seven hours, the holder of account 549.617 RR would phone. He would inquire as to the balance in his account, then he would ask that it be transferred to several dozen banks around the world. Should Nick transfer the money as asked, he would deliver the Pasha into the hands of the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. Should he delay the transfer, the Pasha would have escaped their grasp- at least for now.

Schweitzer's admonition reverberated in his head: "One of your clients might be on this list…" And then? Nick asked himself. Would he contact Schweitzer in conformity with the bank's directives? Would he tell him that a client whose account number was on the surveillance list had executed a transaction that required the bank to "voluntarily" inform the United States DEA?

Nick's mind shot back to the Keller Stubli, to Peter Sprecher's wild accusations. The Pasha: thief, smuggler, embezzler. Why not add "murderer" and cover all the bases? Four weeks ago, Nick had defended his reputation, and by extension, that of the bank. But hadn't he always suspected, if not the worst, well, then, at least something worse? Something marginally at odds with the laws of Western society?

"The Pasha," he mused. "International criminal." Why not?

Few at the bank even knew the man's identity. One of them, Marco Cerruti, was currently suffering from, and here Nick chose the official terminology, "chronic stress-related fatigue." So much prettier than saying the poor guy had suffered a force-ten nervous breakdown. It was Cerruti who had given the Pasha his nickname; Cerruti who for years had personally handled the account. Had he in his choice of sobriquet provided a clue to the identity of his client? Could he have been referring to the man's nationality, or perhaps, more pointedly, hinting at his character?

Nick rolled the word around in his mouth. The Pasha. It oozed a familiarity with corruption. He envisioned a slowly turning ceiling fan scattering clouds of blue cigarette smoke, a whispering palm brushing against a shuttered window, and a crimson fez with a braided golden tassel. The Pasha. It recalled the slutty elegance of a once great empire, now tired and dilapidated, and gliding toward the devil with a wicked nonchalance.

The phone rang, waking Nick from his anxious reverie.

"Neumann speaking."

"Hugo Brunner, chief hall porter, here. An important client has arrived without an appointment. He wishes to open a new account for his grandson. Your name has been posted as duty officer. Please come down immediately to Salon 4."

"An important client?" This worried Nick. He wanted to pawn him off on somebody else. "Shouldn't his regular portfolio manager handle it?"

"He is not yet on the premises. You must come immediately. Salon 4."

"Who is the client? I'll need to bring down his dossier."

"Eberhard Senn. The Count Languenjoux." Nick could practically hear the porter's teeth gnashing. "He owns 6 percent of the bank. Now hurry."

Nick forgot all about the surveillance list. Senn was the bank's largest private shareholder. "I'm only a trainee. There must be someone more qualified to meet with Mr. Senn- uh, the count."

Brunner spoke slowly and with a fury that brooked no excuse. "It is twenty minutes before eight o'clock. No one else has arrived. You are the duty officer. Now move it. Salon 4."

CHAPTER 8

"My grandfather was a close friend of Leopold of Belgium," bellowed Eberhard Senn, the Count Languenjoux. He was a chipper man of eighty dressed in a neat Prince de Galles suit and a sprightly red bow tie. "Do you remember the Congo, Mr. Neumann? Belgians stole the whole damned country. Hard to do that nowadays. Take that tyrant Hussein: Tried to steal the postage stamp next door and got his cheeks waxed."

"Soundly defeated," translated Hubert, the count's grandson, a blond waif of twenty swallowed by a three-piece navy pinstripe. "Grandfather means that Hussein was dealt a crippling defeat."

"Ah yes." Nick nodded, feigning little knowledge of this minor imbroglio. Tactful ignorance was an important component of the successful banker's repertoire. Not to mention speed.

After receiving Hugo Brunner's call, he had raced down the corridor to retrieve Senn's file from his official portfolio manager's secretary. In the two minutes required to reach the ground floor and find Salon 4, he'd reviewed the client's dossier.

"But not to our entire disadvantage, eh Hubert?" continued the count. "Fools lost all their weaponry. Tanks, machine guns, mortars. All of it. Gone. It's a gold mine for us. The secret is Jordan. You'll need a strong business partner in Jordan to ferry the weapons in."

"Of course," said Nick in firm agreement. Senn remained silent a few moments longer, and Nick worried that he was being asked to supply the name of such a partner.

"Belgians haven't done a damn thing since they took the Congo," said Senn. "I'm still hoping they'll take it back. Do the place some good."