Numbered Account

Kaiser looked away. Yes, perhaps that was pushing things too far. Best to go slowly. He wanted Neumann around for a long time. "Forget I asked," he said. "One last thing, though. About you telling Neumann- better wait until Monday. Clear?" He wanted Nicholas to sweat over the weekend. He didn't like his subordinates making important decisions without first consulting him. Even if their instincts were correct.

Sylvia Schon nodded.

Rudolf Ott returned from the tall double doors and taking hold of the Chairman's arm, led him from the room. "Good morning, Dr. Schon. Thank you for coming," he muttered.

"We're off, Ott," said Kaiser, as if embarking on a jaunty morning cruise. "Who did you say is on the agenda? The Hausammanns? Slumlords. Amazing who we have to work with to keep Konig at bay."

Sylvia Schon was left standing alone in the empty boardroom. For a long while she stood motionless, staring at the empty space where the Chairman had been. Finally, as if having struggled with a difficult decision, she took a deep breath, buttoned her blazer, and walked briskly out of the room.

CHAPTER 17

Upon entering the Keller Stubli, Nick was assaulted by the usual mixture of hot air, stagnant smoke, and stale beer. The small bar was crowded beyond its capacity. A sartorially diverse assortment of men and women were packed together tighter than a stack of new hundreds, waiting for a table to clear. Asshole to belly button, they would say in the Corps.

"You're late," Peter Sprecher barked over the maddening roar. "Fifteen minutes and then I'm gone. Nastassia's waiting at the Brasserie Lipp."

"Nastassia?" Nick asked, reaching the far end of the bar, where his friend sat with a stein of beer in his hand.

"Fogal," Peter explained, referring to the pricey hosiery emporium situated two doors down from USB. "The gorgeous bird behind the counter. I'm giving you fifteen minutes of her precious lunch break."

"You're a generous man."

"Least I can do. Now, what's the trouble? Spill your guts to Uncle Peter."

Nick wanted to ask him a hundred questions about his second day at the Adler Bank. Had he met Konig? What had he heard about the takeover? Was it simply a bid to drive up the share price and exact greenmail from Kaiser? Or would Konig unleash a full-scale attack? But those questions would have to wait for another time.

"The Pasha," Nick said simply.

"Our most reliable client?"

Nick nodded and for the next ten minutes explained his decision to delay the Pasha's transfer.

"Probably a wise move," said Peter afterward. "What's the problem?"

Nick leaned closer. "I got a call at six this morning from Martin Maeder. He dragged me into his office and asked me one too many questions about why I did it. Did I know the Pasha? How dare I disobey the bank? Regular drill."

"Go on."

"I was ready for the questions. Not quite so soon, to be honest, but that didn't faze me. When it was over, Maeder sent me home. Told me not to go back to the office; that I shouldn't contact you. 'The verdict will be delivered Monday,' he said." Nick rubbed the back of his neck and scowled in self-doubt. "Yesterday I was sure I had done the right thing. Now I'm not so sure."

Sprecher laughed raucously. "Worst you can expect is a transfer to logistics in Alstetten or the new office in Latvia." He slapped Nick's knee. "Just joking, chum. Don't sweat it. Come Monday, all will be status quo ante."

"This isn't funny," Nick protested. "I don't think for a second that anything will be the same as before."

Sprecher straightened his shoulders and spun on his stool so that he faced his colleague. "Listen, Nick. You didn't lose any money, you steered a client out of trouble, and in doing so, you kept the bank's nose a damn sight cleaner. I'd be surprised if you didn't get the Victoria Cross for bravery under fire."

Nick didn't share his friend's jovial mood. If he was fired, or even transferred to a less important post, his ability to effect any type of meaningful investigation into his father's death would be hindered greatly, if not destroyed.

"And then yesterday," Nick continued, "I was walking toward the lake when Agent Sterling Thorne stopped me."

Sprecher appeared amused. "I take it he wasn't inviting you to happy hour at the American Club?"

"Hardly. He asked me if I had seen anything 'interesting' at the bank, anything illegal."

Sprecher feigned shock. "Good gracious. What else? Did he ask if you were working for the Cali Cartel? Bribing the whole of the Italian Senate? Don't look so surprised, it's been done. Promise me, Nick, that you didn't confess." He lit a cigarette. "The man is pathetic. The DEA has a mandate to get some arrests, to force our banks to cooperate. I'll bet he didn't say anything specific about the Pasha. Right?"

"Nothing specific. But he mentioned Cerruti."

"Did he now? So what? That clown tried to come down on me two weeks ago. I said, "Sorree, no speakee Ingrish.' He got bloody pissed at that, I can promise you."