Once seated, he unlocked his desk and the credenza behind it. He opened his top right-hand drawer and took out his list of "action items," which he updated twice a day. He read it.
"Item one: Review portfolios 222.000-230.999 for bonds that were due to expire before month's end. Item two: Order printouts for accounts 231.000-239.999. Item three: Review preferred equities sheet [a list of stocks portfolio managers were allowed to purchase for the accounts of their discretionary clients]. Highlight companies seen as likely takeover candidates." Item four said simply "15:00."
He stared at the time indicated and wondered why he had written anything at all. Why not: "Item four: Make sure your ass is in your seat at three o'clock when the Pasha calls." Or "Item four: Don't screw the pooch the first day your superior is absent." As if he even needed an "Item four" to remind him!
Nick opened the newspaper to the financial section and checked the daily market commentary. The Swiss Market Index had risen seventeen points to 4975.43. USB shares were up five francs to 338 on heavy buying- Klaus Konig stocking up his war chest in advance of the general assembly to be held in four weeks' time. Nick decided to check on the stock's daily volume since Konig's announcement.
He slid his identification card into Cerberus's access slot and waited for the computer to power up. A stream of yellow words passed along the left side of the screen as Cerberus ran its self-diagnostics. Moments later a brusque voice said "Wilkommen," and the screen blossomed into a dull shade of gray. Nick entered his three-digit identification code, and a rectangular box descended through the center of the screen. Four choices were offered him: Financial Market Information, Reuters News, USB Account Access, and Document Manager. He moved the cursor to Financial Market Information and hit enter. The screen blinked, then turned a lustrous blue. The same rectangular box appeared. New choices: Domestic or International. He chose domestic, and a yellow ribbon appeared at the bottom of the screen flashing yesterday's closing prices at the Zurich stock exchange. He typed in the symbol for USB, added a ".Z" to indicate the Zurich exchange (prices of major Swiss stocks were also quoted by the Geneva and Basel exchange), and followed it by the coded instructions VV21. A daily summary of USB share price and volume traded for the past thirty days appeared on the screen. Graphical interpretations of the data were shown on the right side of the screen.
The price of USB shares was up eighteen percent since Konig's announcement. Daily volume nearly double. The stock was definitely in play. Traders, brokers, arbitrageurs eager for a little action on the habitually calm Swiss market, had seized upon the United Swiss Bank as an interesting "story," that is, a possible takeover candidate. Still, an increase of eighteen percent in the share price was small, given the higher daily volume, and reflected the unlikelihood of Konig's actually making good on his promise. Then why the rise? A certainty that USB would act decisively to improve its lagging return on assets, and thus profitability, be it through cost cutting or more aggressive trading.
Nick moved to the "Reuters News" section and tapped in USB's symbol to see if any stories had been floated the night before about Konig's foray. The screen blinked. Before he could read the first words, a firm hand was placed on his shoulder. He jolted upright in his chair.
"Guten Morgen, Herr Neumann," said Armin Schweitzer. "How is our resident American managing today?" He pronounced the word American as if it were a sour lemon. "Checking on the continued meltdown of your beloved dollar or just having a look at the all-important basketball scores?"
Nick spun in his chair to face the bank's director of compliance, noticing the man's scuffed brogues and his short white socks. "Good morning."
Schweitzer waved a sheaf of papers. "I have the newest warrants from the American gestapo. Friends of yours, are they?"
"Hardly friends," Nick answered, a shade louder than he would've liked. Schweitzer made him nervous. He emanated a kind of palpable instability. A toxic chemical best kept at room temperature.
"You're sure?" asked Schweitzer.
"I resent the intrusion into our bank's affairs as much as anyone. We should be fighting these requests for confidential information by all means possible." Inside, Nick shuddered. A large part of him actually believed his own words.
" 'Our bank,' is it, Mr. Neumann? Six weeks off the boat and already a claim of ownership. My, how they teach you to be ambitious in America." Schweitzer smiled unevenly and leaned closer. His breath was bitter with the dregs of that morning's coffee. "Unfortunately, it seems that your American friends have left us no alternative but to cooperate. What splendid consolation to know that your sentiments are in the correct place. Perhaps one day you will have a chance to prove such heartfelt loyalty. Until then, I advise you to keep your eyes open. Who knows? One of your clients may be on this list."
Nick caught a glimmer of hope in Schweitzer's voice. So far there had been no bites on the four accounts that had originally been listed; no activity that might fit Sterling Thorne's strict criteria. Nick took the updated account surveillance list and laid it on his desk without glancing at it. "I'll keep my eyes open," he said.
"I expect no less," called Schweitzer over his shoulder as he left the room. "Schonen Tag, noch."
Nick watched him go before picking up the updated sheet. Six accounts were listed. The four from the previous week plus two new ones. Numbered accounts 411.968.OF and 549.617 RR.
Nick stared at the last number.
549.617 RR.
He knew it by heart. Every Monday and Thursday at three P.M. Set your clock to it. Six digits, two letters. Today they spelled the directions for the quickest route to hell. Ninth circle. First class. Nonstop. "The Pasha," he whispered aloud.
On Monday, Nick had demanded to listen to their notorious client. Though initially opposed, Sprecher had relented, knowing that he wouldn't be in the office next time the Pasha called. "Wait until you hear him," Sprecher had said. "The man is cold." And so while speaking to him on the telephone, he had broadcast his client's voice from a tinny speaker.
The Pasha's voice was low and rough, Nick remembered. Like an empty cardboard box being dragged across a gravel lot. Demanding but not angry. Intonation a tool, not an emotion. Listening to the voice, he had felt a shiver growing at the base of his spine, at that tiniest of nubs where intuition signals the arrival of an unwelcome event.
Now, seated at his cramped desk, he stared at the Internal Account Surveillance List and felt the same curious tingling, the same frisson of anxiety itching at the base of his spine. From all exterior appearances the list was an innocent sheet of USB stationery, "Strictly for internal use" printed in bold letters across the upper left corner, its body sullied only by the four-word heading, the six account numbers below, and an admonition stating "All transactions regarding above accounts must be reported immediately to your superior and/or directly to Compliance, ext. 4571."
In seven hours, the holder of account 549.617 RR would phone. He would inquire as to the balance in his account, then he would ask that it be transferred to several dozen banks around the world. Should Nick transfer the money as asked, he would deliver the Pasha into the hands of the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. Should he delay the transfer, the Pasha would have escaped their grasp- at least for now.
Schweitzer's admonition reverberated in his head: "One of your clients might be on this list…" And then? Nick asked himself. Would he contact Schweitzer in conformity with the bank's directives? Would he tell him that a client whose account number was on the surveillance list had executed a transaction that required the bank to "voluntarily" inform the United States DEA?