Numbered Account

The second floor was calmer. Four showcases were positioned in a square in the center of the room. Nick pretended to study their contents as he slowly circled their perimeter. His eyes shifted quickly between the watches displayed below him and the stairwell before him. Most of the watches cost more than his annual salary. An Audemars Piguet Grande Complication was priced at Sfr. 195,000. Around a hundred fifty thousand dollars. You could barely make out the actual time because of all the individual hands, and dials within dials, and days and dates. Probably someone's idea of a masterpiece. He pulled back his sleeve and looked at his own watch- a 1961 Patek-Philippe his father had left him. He thought of how much money it was worth and marveled at how he'd managed to keep it out of his mother's hands.

When Nick looked up again, he noted the arrival of a swarthy man- tall and thick with curly black hair, looking strangely his way. Could be a thug, he thought. Nick glanced up and offered a weak smile, but the ill-shaven man was examining a favorite watch and couldn't be disturbed.

Nick stopped to study a solid gold wristwatch. Come closer, he dared him. If you're a customer, like me, you'll keep walking. He kept his eyes glued to the gaudy watch- nice if you're a Vegas bookie or a loan shark in Miami Beach. Looking up, he saw that the man had vanished.

"I see that Monsieur is interested in the Piaget," came a polished voice from behind his right shoulder.

Nick turned and stared into a dazzling smile.

"Frankly, I would recommend something more casual," said the swarthy salesman. "Maybe even something a little bit rugged. You appear a man of action, a sportsman, non? Perhaps the Daytona from Rolex? We have a wonderful model in eighteen-karat gold, sapphire crystal, deployment buckle, water resistant to two hundred meters. The finest timepiece in the world for just thirty-two thousand francs."

Nick raised an eyebrow. If he ever had a spare thirty thousand francs, he wouldn't spend it on a watch. "Do you have that model with a diamond bezel?"

The salesman registered gross disappointment. "Helas, non. We have just sold our last such model. But may I propose-"

"Maybe another time then," Nick cut in apologetically before finding the staircase to the ground floor.

He exited the store and headed south toward the lake, staying close to doorways and shop windows. You are getting paranoid, he told himself. You didn't see anybody in that alley. You didn't see any peaked cap trailing behind you. The man in Bucherer was a salesman. Nick asked himself who in the world would have the slightest interest in following him. He had no idea. No logical answer suggested itself.

Relax, he told himself.

In front of him, the Bahnhofstrasse widened. The buildings to his right fell away, revealing a large open square, the Paradeplatz. Trams arrived from all four corners, encircling the kiosk and ticket station that sat shyly in the midst of their more commanding neighbors. To his immediate right stood the headquarters of Credit Suisse, a neo-Gothic edifice reflecting the Victorian era's pride in the mastery of detail. Farther across the square sat the Swiss Bank Corporation, a masterpiece of postwar anonymity. Immediately to his left, the Hotel Savoy Baur-en-Ville welcomed many a thirsty banker to Zurich's most elegant watering hole.

Nick crossed the street and turned into the square. He ducked into the entry hall of Credit Suisse where he hid, rather idiotically by his own estimation, behind a potted date tree. Well-dressed eccentrics were apparently quite common in Zurich, for none of the bank's customers, seeking the services of the twenty-four-hour bancomat, gave him a second glance. He waited five minutes, then deciding he'd studied the date tree's leaves long enough, left the bank. He paused to allow the number thirteen tram to pull into the Paradeplatz, direction Albisguetli, then trotted across the tracks, daring the number seven, picking up speed rapidly in the other direction,to hit him. With one last stride, he was clear of the tracks and on safe ground. Content that no one was behind him, he walked directly across the square to the Confiserie Sprungli.

As Nick passed through the pastry shop's doors, he was overwhelmed by a succession of intoxicating aromas, each more seductive than the last. A whiff of chocolate, the tart sniff of lemon, and in a lower register, a note of freshly whipped cream. He made his way to the counter and asked for a box of chocolate luxembergerli, confections of meringue and chocolate cream, each no larger than his thumb and lighter than air. He paid and turned toward the exit. Leave your overactive imagination at the door, he told himself.