Nick's mind shot back to the Keller Stubli, to Peter Sprecher's wild accusations. The Pasha: thief, smuggler, embezzler. Why not add "murderer" and cover all the bases? Four weeks ago, Nick had defended his reputation, and by extension, that of the bank. But hadn't he always suspected, if not the worst, well, then, at least something worse? Something marginally at odds with the laws of Western society?
"The Pasha," he mused. "International criminal." Why not?
Few at the bank even knew the man's identity. One of them, Marco Cerruti, was currently suffering from, and here Nick chose the official terminology, "chronic stress-related fatigue." So much prettier than saying the poor guy had suffered a force-ten nervous breakdown. It was Cerruti who had given the Pasha his nickname; Cerruti who for years had personally handled the account. Had he in his choice of sobriquet provided a clue to the identity of his client? Could he have been referring to the man's nationality, or perhaps, more pointedly, hinting at his character?
Nick rolled the word around in his mouth. The Pasha. It oozed a familiarity with corruption. He envisioned a slowly turning ceiling fan scattering clouds of blue cigarette smoke, a whispering palm brushing against a shuttered window, and a crimson fez with a braided golden tassel. The Pasha. It recalled the slutty elegance of a once great empire, now tired and dilapidated, and gliding toward the devil with a wicked nonchalance.
The phone rang, waking Nick from his anxious reverie.
"Neumann speaking."
"Hugo Brunner, chief hall porter, here. An important client has arrived without an appointment. He wishes to open a new account for his grandson. Your name has been posted as duty officer. Please come down immediately to Salon 4."
"An important client?" This worried Nick. He wanted to pawn him off on somebody else. "Shouldn't his regular portfolio manager handle it?"
"He is not yet on the premises. You must come immediately. Salon 4."
"Who is the client? I'll need to bring down his dossier."
"Eberhard Senn. The Count Languenjoux." Nick could practically hear the porter's teeth gnashing. "He owns 6 percent of the bank. Now hurry."
Nick forgot all about the surveillance list. Senn was the bank's largest private shareholder. "I'm only a trainee. There must be someone more qualified to meet with Mr. Senn- uh, the count."
Brunner spoke slowly and with a fury that brooked no excuse. "It is twenty minutes before eight o'clock. No one else has arrived. You are the duty officer. Now move it. Salon 4."
CHAPTER 8
"My grandfather was a close friend of Leopold of Belgium," bellowed Eberhard Senn, the Count Languenjoux. He was a chipper man of eighty dressed in a neat Prince de Galles suit and a sprightly red bow tie. "Do you remember the Congo, Mr. Neumann? Belgians stole the whole damned country. Hard to do that nowadays. Take that tyrant Hussein: Tried to steal the postage stamp next door and got his cheeks waxed."
"Soundly defeated," translated Hubert, the count's grandson, a blond waif of twenty swallowed by a three-piece navy pinstripe. "Grandfather means that Hussein was dealt a crippling defeat."
"Ah yes." Nick nodded, feigning little knowledge of this minor imbroglio. Tactful ignorance was an important component of the successful banker's repertoire. Not to mention speed.
After receiving Hugo Brunner's call, he had raced down the corridor to retrieve Senn's file from his official portfolio manager's secretary. In the two minutes required to reach the ground floor and find Salon 4, he'd reviewed the client's dossier.
"But not to our entire disadvantage, eh Hubert?" continued the count. "Fools lost all their weaponry. Tanks, machine guns, mortars. All of it. Gone. It's a gold mine for us. The secret is Jordan. You'll need a strong business partner in Jordan to ferry the weapons in."
"Of course," said Nick in firm agreement. Senn remained silent a few moments longer, and Nick worried that he was being asked to supply the name of such a partner.
"Belgians haven't done a damn thing since they took the Congo," said Senn. "I'm still hoping they'll take it back. Do the place some good."
Nick and Hubert both smiled, each bound by a separate duty.
"And that, Mr. Neumann, is how my grandfather received his title."
"By helping Leopold conquer the Congo?" Nick ventured.
"Of course not." The count guffawed. "He imported European women to make the damned place habitable. Leopold's mistresses wouldn't go near it! Someone had to look after the king's pleasures."
The count's express purpose that morning was to alter the signatures on his existing accounts. His son, Robert, had recently passed away. Nick recalled seeing a few lines in the paper: Robert Senn, 48, president of Senn Industries, a Swiss manufacturer of light firearms, pressurized aerosol containers, and ventilation systems, died when the plane in which he was traveling, a Gulfstream IV belonging to Senn Industries, crashed shortly after takeoff from Grozny, Chechnya. No speculation was made on the cause of the crash or for that matter on the purpose of Mr. Senn's visit to the war-torn area. Recent history was littered with the corpses of arms merchants cut down by credit-poor warriors. Now the dead man's signature must be replaced by Hubert's. Another generation to be welcomed into the bank. The entire business would take only a few minutes.
Nick opened his leather folder and placed two blank signature cards on the desk. "If you'll kindly sign the bottom of these forms, we can have the account transferred to Hubert by the end of the day."
The count stared at the cards, then lifted his eyes to the young banker across the table. "Robert never wanted to stay in Switzerland. He preferred traveling. Italy, South America, the Far East. Robert was an excellent salesman. Wherever he journeyed he sold our products. There are Senn pistols and machine guns in the armed forces of over thirty nations and territories. Did you know that, Mr. Neumann? Thirty nations. And that's only the official tally." Senn directed a conspiratorial wink at Nick, then shifted in his chair to gaze at his irresolute grandson. "You know, Hubert, I told your father, 'Stay away from these funny new countries, Kazakhstan, Chechnya, Ossetia.' 'New frontiers, Papa. New borders', he said. Robert loved our clients."
No doubt best those that paid cash, Nick said to no one.
A cloud passed over the count's wrinkled face. He leaned forward as if puzzling over one last question. His eyes filled and a tear rolled down his cheek. "Why was he so terribly bored, my Robert? Why was he so bored?"
Hubert took his grandfather's hand and gently patted it. "We'll be all right, Grandfather."
Nick kept his eyes on the polished tabletop.
"Of course we'll be all right," the count roared. "The Senns are like this bank: solid, indestructible. Did I tell you, Neumann, that we have been clients of USB for over one hundred years? That Holbein on the wall behind you is a gift from my father. My Opa, the first count, started his business with loans from this bank. Can you imagine? The first Senn weapons built with money from this institution. You're part of a great tradition, Neumann. Don't forget that. People rely on this bank. On tradition. On trust. Not enough of it left in the world."
Hubert motioned in the banker's direction, signaling to move on to the business at hand. Nick placed the signature cards in front of his clients. Eberhard Senn signed the two cards and passed them to his grandson. Hubert freed his elbow from the constricts of his jacket and added his signature to one card, then the other.
Nick collected the cards and thanked the gentlemen for coming. He stood to show them the way out. Senn shook his hand vigorously. "Trust, Mr. Neumann. When you get older, it's the only thing that really matters. Not enough of it left in the world today."