Numbered Account

Nick and Hubert both smiled, each bound by a separate duty.

"And that, Mr. Neumann, is how my grandfather received his title."

"By helping Leopold conquer the Congo?" Nick ventured.

"Of course not." The count guffawed. "He imported European women to make the damned place habitable. Leopold's mistresses wouldn't go near it! Someone had to look after the king's pleasures."

The count's express purpose that morning was to alter the signatures on his existing accounts. His son, Robert, had recently passed away. Nick recalled seeing a few lines in the paper: Robert Senn, 48, president of Senn Industries, a Swiss manufacturer of light firearms, pressurized aerosol containers, and ventilation systems, died when the plane in which he was traveling, a Gulfstream IV belonging to Senn Industries, crashed shortly after takeoff from Grozny, Chechnya. No speculation was made on the cause of the crash or for that matter on the purpose of Mr. Senn's visit to the war-torn area. Recent history was littered with the corpses of arms merchants cut down by credit-poor warriors. Now the dead man's signature must be replaced by Hubert's. Another generation to be welcomed into the bank. The entire business would take only a few minutes.

Nick opened his leather folder and placed two blank signature cards on the desk. "If you'll kindly sign the bottom of these forms, we can have the account transferred to Hubert by the end of the day."

The count stared at the cards, then lifted his eyes to the young banker across the table. "Robert never wanted to stay in Switzerland. He preferred traveling. Italy, South America, the Far East. Robert was an excellent salesman. Wherever he journeyed he sold our products. There are Senn pistols and machine guns in the armed forces of over thirty nations and territories. Did you know that, Mr. Neumann? Thirty nations. And that's only the official tally." Senn directed a conspiratorial wink at Nick, then shifted in his chair to gaze at his irresolute grandson. "You know, Hubert, I told your father, 'Stay away from these funny new countries, Kazakhstan, Chechnya, Ossetia.' 'New frontiers, Papa. New borders', he said. Robert loved our clients."

No doubt best those that paid cash, Nick said to no one.

A cloud passed over the count's wrinkled face. He leaned forward as if puzzling over one last question. His eyes filled and a tear rolled down his cheek. "Why was he so terribly bored, my Robert? Why was he so bored?"

Hubert took his grandfather's hand and gently patted it. "We'll be all right, Grandfather."

Nick kept his eyes on the polished tabletop.

"Of course we'll be all right," the count roared. "The Senns are like this bank: solid, indestructible. Did I tell you, Neumann, that we have been clients of USB for over one hundred years? That Holbein on the wall behind you is a gift from my father. My Opa, the first count, started his business with loans from this bank. Can you imagine? The first Senn weapons built with money from this institution. You're part of a great tradition, Neumann. Don't forget that. People rely on this bank. On tradition. On trust. Not enough of it left in the world."

Hubert motioned in the banker's direction, signaling to move on to the business at hand. Nick placed the signature cards in front of his clients. Eberhard Senn signed the two cards and passed them to his grandson. Hubert freed his elbow from the constricts of his jacket and added his signature to one card, then the other.

Nick collected the cards and thanked the gentlemen for coming. He stood to show them the way out. Senn shook his hand vigorously. "Trust, Mr. Neumann. When you get older, it's the only thing that really matters. Not enough of it left in the world today."

Nick escorted Senn and his grandson to the entry, then took his leave. Crossing the lobby he thought about the count and what he had said. Eberhard Senn was an unrepentant arms merchant, the grandson of a white slaver- after all, what woman went peaceably to the Congo, the "heart of darkness," way back in 1880?- a man whose entire family fortune had been amassed through the conduct of morally ambiguous commerce, and here he was going on about the importance of trust and how he relied on the unimpeachable integrity of the United Swiss Bank.

Nick's mind rocketed to the sheet of paper that waited on his desk: the Internal Account Surveillance List. What about every other client who had put his trust in the bank? he asked himself. Didn't they also depend on the bank's guarantee of confidentiality? In a country where absolute secrecy was a bank's defining characteristic, trust meant everything. Surely, Wolfgang Kaiser would not take exception to that sentiment. What had he said to the collected bankers after Sterling Thorne's remarks? "… while Mr. Thorne may search far and wide for his rogue males, he shall never find what he is looking for within the walls of the United Swiss Bank."