Numbered Account

"If he came after you, Peter, and then tried to speak with me, it has to mean he's after the Pasha. No other client in our section came up on the surveillance list."

"Thorne can lick my silver bells." Sprecher raised his mug of beer. "I hope you told him to get stuffed."

"More or less, yeah."

Sprecher nodded his head once. "No worries, mate. Cheers." He drained his stein, lifted his pack of cigarettes from the bar, and threw down a ten-franc note. "Say five Our Fathers, five Hail Marys, and you will be absolved of all sins."

Nick put his hand on Sprecher's shoulder and indicated he should retake his seat on the wobbly stool.

"You mean there's more?" Sprecher slumped against the bar's railing. "Nastassia is going to be very cross with me."

"Tell her that if she wants you, she'll have to fight me first," Nick said sarcastically.

"Go on then, boy. But make it snappy."

Nick hesitated before diving in. He'd told himself before coming to Switzerland that the bank was only a means to an end. That he would do whatever was necessary to dig up any available information about his father and to hell with the rest of it. But today he needed some answers. The events of the past twenty-four hours had stirred up too much in him. The agonizing decision to shield the Pasha, the visit from Thorne, the call from Maeder. He was taking fire from too many angles. He was on the run. From the bank, from his father, and most surprisingly, from himself.

"After my meeting with Maeder, I went back to the office anyway. I had to check out the account, you know, 549.617 RR. Just to see. All the money had been transferred out. No initials anywhere on the computer as to who ordered it done. Aren't you curious to know who this guy is?"

"Keeps me from sleeping."

"Ask yourself what client can rouse an executive vice president of the bank at six in the morning. What client traces his money from bank to bank and doesn't sleep until it arrives? What client has Maeder's private phone number? He might have even called the Chairman."

Sprecher shot off his stool and pointed a finger at Nick. "Only God has a direct line to Kaiser. Remember that."

Nick tapped the bar with his thumb and forefinger pinched together. "The Pasha's number is on the surveillance list. The DEA is interested in him. He calls Maeder directly. Fuck, Peter, we are dealing with a major personality."

"I applaud your choice of moniker, young Nick. Yes, I am in full agreement. No doubt the Pasha is a 'major personality.' The bank needs as many major personalities as it can find. It's our bloody business, remember."

"Who is he?" Nick demanded. "How can you explain what's going on with that account?"

"Weren't you the one defending him the other night?"

"Your fit of curiosity took me by surprise. Today it's my turn to ask the questions."

Sprecher shook his head in exasperation. "You do not question," he said. "You do not explain. You close your eyes and count the money. You perform your duties in a professional manner, you take your handsome fee, and you sleep soundly each and every night. Once or twice a year you jump on a plane and fly to a beach where the sun shines more than in this miserable hole and sip a pina colada. Peter Sprecher's recipe for long life, brilliant success, and unsurpassed happiness. A thick billfold and two tickets to St.-Tropez, first class."

"I'm glad you can live with it."

Sprecher rolled his eyes and he grew angry. "Saint bloody Nicholas seated right here beside me. Another American ready to save the world from itself. Why is it that Switzerland is the only country that has ever learned to mind its own business? The world would be a damned sight better off if more countries followed our example. Butt the fuck out!" He sighed loudly, then signaled for the barman. "Two beers. My friend here plans to cure civilization of its evils. The very thought makes a chap parched."

Neither man spoke until the bartender returned with the two beers.

Sprecher touched Nick's arm. "Look, chum, if you're so bent on discovering who the Pasha is you needn't go any further than Marco Cerruti. If I'm not mistaken, Cerruti paid a courtesy visit to our Pasha during his last trip to the Middle East. 'Course, he's gone round the bend since then. But take my advice. Leave well enough alone."

Nick squinted his eyes in frustration. "The sum total of your years of experience is to close my eyes and do exactly as I am told."

"Precisely."

"Close my eyes and ride headlong into disaster?"

"Not disaster, dear boy. Glory!"

CHAPTER 18

Nick left the Keller Stubli and headed to the nearest post office, where he tucked himself into a phone booth and began checking local directories for the name of Marco Cerruti. His curiosity was quickly rewarded. Cerruti, M. Seestrasse 78. Thalwil. Banker. His profession was listed next to his name- another one of this country's neat quirks Nick had only just discovered.