But that applied only to Europe. The Far East was seven hours ahead of Zurich, and Nick recalled that matrix six included two banks in Singapore and one in Hong Kong. If he gave them until twelve P.M. local time to credit the funds to the Pasha's account, the Pasha could only have discovered their absence at five A.M. Swiss time. One hour prior to Maeder's call.

Confronted with Maeder's Cheshire grin, he suddenly felt very naive.

"Tell me, Mr. Neumann," asked Maeder, "what is the overnight carry on forty-seven million dollars?"

Nick took a deep breath and glanced at the ceiling. This kind of quick figuring was his specialty, so he decided to give Maeder a little show. "For the client, two thousand five hundred seventy-five dollars. That's at yesterday's rate of two and one half percent. But the bank would credit the money to its overnight money market fund and earn approximately five and one half percent or seven thousand and, um, eighty-two dollars. That would give the bank a positive carry of around forty-five hundred dollars."

Maeder banged at his calculator like a nearsighted typist. Robbed of his thunder, he slid it across the desk and changed tack. "Unfortunately, our client is not concerned about several thousand dollars of accrued interest we failed to credit his account when we added his assets to our overnight float. What concerns our client is your failure to honor his transfer instructions. What concerns our client is the fact that sixteen hours after he gave you, and I quote, 'bank reference, NXM,' an order to wire transfer, sorry, to urgently wire transfer, his assets elsewhere, his money is still in Switzerland. Care to explain that?"

Nick unbuttoned his jacket and sat a little easier in his chair, pleased that he was to be given an opportunity to defend his actions. "I filled out a funds transfer form, as usual, but I specified the transaction time as today at three-thirty. I sent the form to payments traffic by internal mail. If the Friday logjam is as bad as usual, the funds should be transferred sometime Monday morning."

"Is that right? Do you know who this client is?"

"No, sir. The account was opened by International Fiduciary Trust of Zug in 1985, prior to the current Form B regulations, which demand proof of an account holder's identity. Of course, we treat all clients with the same respect, whether we know their names or not. They're all equally important."

"Though some more than others, eh?" Maeder suggested, sotto voce.

Nick shrugged. "Naturally."

"I've been given to understand that yesterday was particularly calm in your neck of the woods. No one around to consult with. Sprecher ill, Cerruti out of commission."

"Yes, it was very calm."

"Tell me, Nick, if one of your superiors had been with you, would you have consulted him? Better yet, if this Pasha fellow, if he were your own client- say you were Cerruti- would you have acted in a similar manner? I mean given the extraordinary circumstances and all." Maeder held up a sheet of paper and gave it a shake: the Internal Account Surveillance sheet.

Nick looked his interrogator in the eye. Don't waver. Show them you're a true believer. Become one of them. "If anyone else were there, I would never have been presented with this dilemma. But to answer your question, yes, I would have acted in a similar manner. Our job is to ensure the safekeeping of our clients' investments."

"What about following your clients' instructions?"

"Our job is also to faithfully execute instructions given by our clients. But…"

"But what?"

"But in this instance, execution of this particular set of instructions would have endangered the client's assets and brought unwanted "- Nick paused, searching for the right word to tap-dance around the ugly facts -" 'attention' to the bank. I don't feel qualified to make decisions that may have a damaging effect, not only on the client, but also on the bank."

"But you do feel qualified enough to disobey the bank and ignore the commands of your section's biggest client. Remarkable."

Nick didn't know whether this was a compliment or a condemnation. Probably a little of both.

Maeder stood up and strolled around the side of his desk. "Go home. Don't go back to your office. Don't speak with anyone in your department, including your buddy Sprecher- wherever the hell he is. Understood? The court shall deliver its verdict on Monday." He patted Nick on the shoulder and grinned. "One last question. Why such an urge to protect our bank?"

Nick rose from his chair and reflected before answering. He had always known that his father's past employ offered him a mantle of legitimacy. No matter his private suspicions, he was the bank's kin. Not quite the dauphin returning to claim his throne, but not a wandering contract laborer- an auslander, to wit- either. Tradition. Heritage. Succession. These were the bank's most hallowed grounds. And it was on these grounds that he would stake his claim.

"My father worked here for over twenty-four years," he said. "His entire career. It's in our family's blood to be loyal to this bank."

The job was done quickly enough. He had been given a key and it didn't take more than thirty minutes to search such a small apartment. He had watched the man leave and before entering the building waited a quarter of an hour until he received confirmation that the mark had boarded a tram, direction Paradeplatz. He knew almost nothing about him, only that he worked at the United Swiss Bank and that he was an American.

He set to work immediately once inside the apartment. First he took instant photographs of the single bed and the night table, of the bookshelf and the desk, and of the bathroom. Everything must appear exactly as it had been left. He started at the doorway and worked his way clockwise around the one-room flat. The closet held no surprises. A few suits- two navy, one gray. Four ties. Several white shirts just back from the laundry. Some blue jeans and flannel shirts. A parka. A pair of dress shoes and two pairs of sneakers. All were neatly arranged: clothing hanging in the same direction, shoes aligned. The bathroom, though cramped, was immaculate. The American had few toiletries- only the necessities: toothbrush, toothpaste, shaving cream, an obsolete double-edged razor, one bottle of American aftershave, and two combs. He found a plastic bottle of prescription medication: Percocet- a strong painkiller. Ten tablets were prescribed. He counted eight still in the container. The tub and shower were spotless, as if wiped down after every bath. Two white towels hung from the rack.

He backed out of the bathroom and continued his tour of the apartment. A pile of annual reports sat on top of the desk. Most were from the United Swiss Bank, but there were others- the Adler Bank, Senn Industries. He opened the top drawer. Several pens and a block of writing paper lay inside. He moved the writing paper to one side and found a letter from the bank. He opened it and read it. Nothing interesting- just a few words confirming the mark's start date and his salary. He moved to the lower drawer. Finally, there was some trace that this guy was a human being. A stack of handwritten letters was bound by a thick rubber band. They were addressed to a Nick Neumann. He slipped one out of the bundle and flipped it over to see who had sent it. A Mrs. Vivien Neumann from Blythe, California. He considered opening one but saw that the postmark was ten years old and put it back.

There were thirty-seven books on the shelves. He counted them. He skimmed the titles, then removed each and skipped through the pages to see if any papers might be secreted inside. A couple of photographs fell from a thick paperback. One showed a group of soldiers in full jungle camouflage, faces painted green and brown and black, M-16s strapped across their chests. Another showed a man and a woman standing in front of a swimming pool. The man had black hair and was tall and skinny. The woman was brunet and a little chubby. Still, she wasn't too bad. It was an old photograph. You could tell by the white borders. The last two books didn't have a title written on the spine. He pulled them off the shelf and saw they were agendas, one for 1978, the other for 1979. He scanned the pages but saw only what he would consider routine entries. He looked at the date of Tuesday, October 16, 1979. Nine o'clock was circled, and next to it was the name Allen Soufi. Another circle at two P.M. and "Golf" written next to it. That made him laugh. He replaced the agendas as they were.