Numbered Account Page 36

  “Thank God for that,” replied Kaiser, eager to align the deities on his side. “And the count? Have you arranged the meeting?”

  “Bad news. The earliest date he’s available is the morning of the assembly. Can you give him a half hour at ten o’clock?”

  “Out of the question. I have a breakfast with the board at eight sharp.” Senn had always been a pain in the ass. The gall of the man! Even to suggest a meeting the same day as the assembly.

  Neumann said, “He’s in America until a few days before. The count says ten o’clock.”

  Kaiser realized he had few options open. “All right, then, ten o’clock. But keep on him. See if you can’t move it up a day or two.”

  “Yessir.”

  “And Neumann. I need to see you privately. Come down in ten minutes.”

  “Yessir.”

  Kaiser terminated the call. The boy was a wizard. Nothing less. Hambros committing this morning; and yesterday afternoon, Banker’s Trust—the cagiest outfit on the street. Neumann had argued to the rocket scientists in Manhattan that USB shares—given current management, of course—were an effective hedge against Banker’s Trust’s own volatile earnings. They’d swallowed his argument hook, line, and sinker. It was nothing short of miraculous. One of Konig’s fire-spewing brethren, disciples of the “lose a hand, double the next” school of trading, and they had committed to the boring old farts at USB. Kaiser whooped. A fucking miracle!

  He picked up the phone and called Feller to obtain an exact vote count. He wrote the figures on his desktop blotter. USB forty-six percent. Adler thirty point four percent. Christ, it would be close. Mevlevi’s loan would end all speculation. Kaiser was prepared to do all demanded of him to see that his Turkish friend coughed up the money required to keep the United Swiss Bank free from Klaus Konig’s grip. If it was necessary for Neumann to shepherd the man about his business, then so be it. That was the least problematic of Kaiser’s devoirs.

  Kaiser sat in his chair, considering how to tell Neumann about his relationship with Mevlevi. Getting around Sterling Thorne’s accusations would be difficult. Had Neumann’s father been witness to Kaiser’s blatant, even theatrical mendacity, the man would have resigned on the spot. In fact, he had on two occasions. Both times, Kaiser’s silver tongue had been required to assuage Alex Neumann’s wounded conscience. “A genuine misunderstanding. We had no idea the client was dealing in stolen armaments. It will never happen again. Faulty information, Alex. Sorry.”

  Kaiser frowned at the memory. Thank goodness, Nicholas was more pragmatic. Damned difficult to get from strenuously denying one’s knowledge of an individual, even going so far as to purposely mispronounce his name, to professing a twenty-year business relationship with him. But Kaiser had only to think of the actions Neumann had taken to protect Mevlevi from Thorne’s surveillance list to feel better. If the young man was half as smart as anyone thought, he’d have guessed it already.

  A buzzer sounded on his telephone. Rita Sutter’s mellifluous voice informed him that Mr. Neumann had arrived. He told her to send him in.

  # # #

  Wolfgang Kaiser greeted Nick in the center of the office. “Fantastic news this morning, Neumann. Just great.” He laced his good arm around Nick’s shoulder and guided him to the couch. “Cigar?”

  “No thank you,” said Nick. Alarm bells sounded in his head.

  “Coffee, tea, espresso?”

  “Mineral water would be fine.”

  “Mineral water it is,” Kaiser enthused, as if no answer could have pleased him more. He walked to the open doors and told Rita Sutter to bring a mineral water and a double espresso.

  “Neumann,” he said, “I need you to run a special errand for me. Something very important. Requires your gifted touch.” Kaiser seated himself on the couch and blew out a cloud of smoke. “I need a diplomat. Someone with manners. A little worldly experience.”

  Nick sat down and nodded unsurely. Whatever Kaiser was up to had to be big; Nick had never seen him so friendly.

  “An important client of the bank is arriving tomorrow morning,” said Kaiser. “He’ll require a chaperon to help him transact his business throughout the day.”

  “Will he be coming to the bank?”

  “At some point, I’m certain he will, yes. First, though, I’d like you to greet him at the airport.”

  “At the airport?” Nick rubbed the nape of his neck. He didn’t feel well. Too long in front of the computer. “You’re aware that we’ve only just begun implementing Martin Maeder’s sales plan. I’ve got another five hundred dossiers to get through.”

  “I understand,” Kaiser said graciously, “and I appreciate your diligence. Continue on that for the rest of today. You can finish off tomorrow evening, day after that, all right?”

  Nick wasn’t thrilled at the prospect, but he nodded his assent anyway.

  “Good. Now then, some details about the man you’ll be meeting.” Kaiser took a long drag off the cigar. Several times, he began to speak and then stopped, first to pluck a speck of tobacco from his mouth, next to adjust his position on the couch. Finally, he said, “Nicholas, I’m afraid I lied to you the other day. Rather I lied to that bastard Thorne. There was no choice, really . . . given the circumstances. Should’ve told you earlier. Don’t know why I didn’t. I know you would’ve understood. We’re cut from the same cloth, you and I. We do what’s necessary to get the job done. Am I right?”

  Nick nodded once, enthusiastically guarding the Chairman’s eye. Kaiser was suffering under the mounting pressure. Like a worn truss, his face betrayed a constant interior strain. His eyes, normally clear and confident, were puffy and decorated by dark circles etched into his chalky skin.

  “I know Ali Mevlevi,” said Kaiser. “This man Thorne is after. The man you call the Pasha. In fact, I know him well. One of my first clients in Beirut. I wouldn’t expect you to be aware that I opened our representative office in Beirut a very long time ago.”

  “Back in seventy-eight, wasn’t it?”

  “Exactly.” Kaiser smiled briefly and Nick knew he was flattered. “Mr. Mevlevi was then, and is to this day, a well-respected businessman in Lebanon and throughout the entire Middle East.”

  “Sterling Thorne accused the man of being a heroin smuggler.”

  “I’ve known Ali Mevlevi for twenty years. I’ve never heard the slightest hint that he was involved with drugs. Mevlevi is active in commodities, rugs, and textiles. He’s a well-respected member of the business community.”

  That’s the second time you’ve said that,thought Nick, suppressing a sarcastic grin. Marco Cerruti certainly respected Mevlevi—to the point of suffering a petit mal seizure upon the mention of his name. Sterling Thorne respected Mevlevi—so much that he came charging into the bank like a wounded bull rhino. How the hell did the people act whodidn’t respect him?

  “No need to apologize,” said Nick. “It’s best to keep the confidence of your clients. It’s certainly none of Thorne’s business.”

  “Thorne wants us all as members of his private constabulary. You saw the picture of my son. Do you think I could work with a fiend who gained his living from the international commerce of death? Thorne’s mistaken about our Mevlevi. I’m sure you’ll learn that tomorrow when you meet the man. Remember, Neumann, it’s hardly our job to be policemen.”

  Not that old chestnut, thought Nick. Now he was really feeling sick. And sicker still when he heard himself mutter, “I agree fully.” The defender of the faith had spoken.

  Kaiser puffed his cigar and patted him on the knee. “I knew you’d see things clearly. Mevlevi will be arriving by private jet tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock. You’ll be there to meet him. Car and driver provided, of course. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of errands to run.”

  Nick stood, eager to get back to his own cloistered den. “Will that be all?”

  “That’s all, Neumann. Get back to Maeder’s project. Have Rita order you some lunch in. Anyplace you like. Why not try the
Kronenhalle?”

  “I have plans . . .” Nick began.

  “Oh yes, I completely forgot,” Kaiser said. “Well then, back to work for us all.”

  As Nick walked out of the grand office, he asked himself when he had mentioned his luncheon plans to the Chairman.

  CHAPTER

  41

  “Were you able to get the reports?” Nick asked as he crossed the threshold to Sylvia Schon’s apartment. It was eight o’clock and he had come directly from the bank.

  “What? No hello? No ’How was your afternoon?”’ She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “It’s nice to see you, too, Mr. Neumann.”

  Nick walked down the hallway, taking off his overcoat. “Sylvia, were you able to get the monthly activity reports?”

  “I said I’d help you, didn’t I?” Sylvia picked up the polished briefcase leaning against her sofa. She unbuckled the cover and drew out two thick binders, colored the same faded yellow as the one they had read several nights before. She handed one to him. “Satisfied? I’m sorry I forgot to get them in time for lunch.”

  Nick lifted one and read the coding on its spine.January through March 1978. He shot a glance at the other file. It was entitledApril-June 1978. At least one thing had gone right today. “I’m sorry if I was rude.”

  Nick was tired and irritable. His only break the entire day had been the scant half hour he’d spent lunching with Sylvia at Kropf Bierhalle. Time to consume a sausage, french fries, and two Cokes, but hardly enough to get around to asking her if she had mentioned their lunch date to someone. They had agreed it best to keep their relationship quiet. Not secret—forsecret was a dirty word. Just quiet. Neither had thought to ask what answer should be given if someone were to question them about their seeing each other. Or if they had, they hadn’t dared ask it.

  Sylvia stood on her tiptoes and rubbed his cheek. “Want to talk about it? You don’t look so great.”

  Nick knew he looked haggard. He’d been getting by on five hours of sleep a night. When, that is, he could sleep at all. “Just the regular grind. Things are pretty crazy up on the Fourth Floor. The general assembly is only five days away. Konig’s biting at our heels.”

  “What does Kaiser have you doing?”

  “The usual,” Nick explained, aware that he was doing everything but. Regardless of his feelings for Sylvia, he couldn’t bring himself to confess the larceny being perpetrated on the Fourth Floor. Some things he had to keep to himself. “Lining up votes. Answering phone calls from investment analysts. We’re all feeling the pressure. It’s crunch time.”

  “Everyoneis feeling Konig’s pressure,” she said. “Not just you big shots on the Fourth Floor. No one wants Konig to get his seats. Change is frightening, especially for the little guys underneath the Emperor’s Lair.”

  “Too bad we can’t order every employee of the bank to purchase a hundred shares of our stock,” Nick said. “If they don’t have the money—no problem. We can subtract it from their future salaries. That would go a long way toward fending off the Adler Bank. At least then I wouldn’t have to—” He bit off his words in mid-sentence.

  “Then you wouldn’t have to what?” asked Sylvia. Her eyes flickered, and Nick could see the scent of scandal was rich in her nose.

  “Thenwe wouldn’t have to fight so damned hard against Konig,” he shot back, not missing a beat.

  “How does it look?”

  “Forty-six percent for the good guys, thirty percent for the bad guys. Just keep your fingers crossed Konig doesn’t launch a full-scale hostile bid.”

  “What’s stopping him?”

  “Cash. Or lack of it. He’d have to offer a significant premium to the market price, but if he did, enough shares are in the hands of the arbs that he’d have no problem capturing sixty-six percent of the votes. Even our supporters would defect to Konig. That would give him full control of the board. A one-way ticket to Valhalla for Wolfgang Kaiser.”

  “And for the rest of us?” demanded Sylvia. “What about us? You know very well the first jobs cut after any merger are overlapping staff functions: accounting, treasury, logistics. I can’t imagine that the Adler Bank will have any need for two personnel directors in their finance department.”

  “Sylvia, don’t worry. The battle we’re fighting is to keep Konig off the board. No one is talking about an outright takeover.”

  “Not yet they’re not.” She squinted her eyes as if she didn’t like what she saw. “You’ll never understand what this bank means to me. The time I’ve put in. The hope I’ve wasted on this stupid job.”

  “Wasted?” he asked. “Why wasted?”

  “You wouldn’t understand,” she said disgustedly. “You can’t. It’s that simple. You can never know what it’s like to work twice the hours of your male colleagues, to consistently do better work, and to see everyone around you promoted quicker because they have hair on their chest and speak with a deeper voice. Imagine, being passed over for client meetings, just so men can lie to each other about who they’ve seduced. Imagine what it’s like having to endure a hundred compliments a day about how nice you look—”Isn’t that a new scarf?’ “Why, Fraulein Schon, you look particularly fetching today.’Or, to be asked your opinion about a proposed project, and when it doesn’t quite jibe with Mr. Senior Vice President’s, have it dismissed with a polite smile and a wink. A wink, dammit! Has Armin Schweitzer ever winked at you?”

  Stunned by the verbal barrage, Nick dug his chin into his neck and said “No.”

  “I have to go twice as far, twice as fast. You make a mistake and the powers that be say, “Of course, happens all the time.’ I make a mistake, they say, “Typical woman. What’d ya expect? Chuckle, chuckle, yuck, yuck.’ And all the time they’re thinking “My, wouldn’t I like to have a go at her?”’

  Sylvia met Nick’s eyes and gave him a smile of dignified resignation. “I haven’t put up with this nonsense for nine years only to have some bastard come along and kick me out my own front door. If Konig takes over USB, my life is shot.”

  For a few seconds, there was silence between them. Then she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come on so strong.”

  “Don’t be sorry. The scary thing is, everything you said is true.”

  “I’m glad you realize it. You’re probably the only one at the bank. The boys on the Fourth Floor prefer their women like Rita Sutter. She’s been Kaiser’s secretary forever, making his lunch appointments, fixing his coffee. She should be a senior vice president. How can anyone put up with that kind of abuse for so long?”

  “People make their own choices, Sylvia. Don’t feel sorry for Rita Sutter. If she’s there, it’s for a reason.” He recalled the photo he had seen in Marco Cerruti’s apartment. Kaiser kissing Rita Sutter’s hand. Maybe he had beaten out Klaus Konig for her affections.

  “I don’t feel sorry for her. I just wonder what she’s getting out of it.”

  “That’s her concern. Not ours.”

  Nick walked to the sofa and sat down. “Christ,” he said sharply. “I almost forgot.”

  Sylvia came over to him. “Don’t scare me. What is it?”

  “If you get a funny message on your phone machine tomorrow, don’t erase it.” Nick went over his meeting with Peter Sprecher and the discovery that a mole at USB was supplying the Adler Bank with information crucial to the successful defense of the United Swiss Bank. He shared his suspicions as to the culprit’s identity.

  “If it is Schweitzer,” Sylvia declared angrily, “I swear I will personally kick him in the you know where.”

  “If it is him, you have my permission. For now, though, save any message that sounds funny. You’ll know it when you hear it.”

  “I promise.”

  # # #

  After dinner, Nick retrieved the files from the living room and laid them on the dining room table. He waited for Sylvia to rejoin him, then brought out his father’s agenda for 1978.

  Nick said, “The first time I read through my father’s entries,
it was just out of nostalgia, you know, to see if he had left any personal notes that might help me get a handle on who he really was. He didn’t—which was just like my dad. He was all business. It was only after I’d looked at the agendas a few times that I picked up on the vibe of fear that ran through the last pages of 1979. Going back through them, I saw that the only places where my father indicated any type of emotional response to his work were in reference to a Mr. Allen Soufi and this company Goldluxe.”

  “Are the two related?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. Soufi was a private banking client, a guy who maintained a numbered account with the bank. He wanted my father to help with some iffy business proposition. I don’t know any more than that.”

  “Let’s look for Soufi then,” Sylvia suggested.

  “The first mention of Soufi is on April 15, 1978.” Nick flipped open the agenda to that date. His father had written,“Dinner. A. Soufi. The Bistro. 215 Canon Dr.”

  Sylvia looked at the page. “Is that all?”

  “Until later, yeah.” Nick thought of the indignant comments left by his father,“Soufi is undesirable. Bastard threatened me,” then opened the file containing the monthly activity reports for the period January through March 1978. “Regardless, we’ve got to start at the beginning of the year. There might be a mention of him earlier. My father had to send the head office copies of new account information for every client he brought in. If he brought in Soufi, there’ll be copies of account registration, name, address, signature cards, the works.”

  “And Goldluxe?”

  “They don’t show up till later.”

  Nick read the January activity report from first page to last. He learned that the results for the L.A. rep office for 1977 were thirty-three percent above forecast; that in 1978, a newly hired secretary could expect to earn $750 a month; and that the U.S. prime rate was sitting up in the stratosphere at sixteen percent.

  The activity report for February contained a revised pro forma budget, a third request for greater office space, and a proposal to open a two-man San Francisco office.