Sylvia Schon nodded.

Rudolf Ott returned from the tall double doors and taking hold of the Chairman's arm, led him from the room. "Good morning, Dr. Schon. Thank you for coming," he muttered.

"We're off, Ott," said Kaiser, as if embarking on a jaunty morning cruise. "Who did you say is on the agenda? The Hausammanns? Slumlords. Amazing who we have to work with to keep Konig at bay."

Sylvia Schon was left standing alone in the empty boardroom. For a long while she stood motionless, staring at the empty space where the Chairman had been. Finally, as if having struggled with a difficult decision, she took a deep breath, buttoned her blazer, and walked briskly out of the room.

CHAPTER 17

Upon entering the Keller Stubli, Nick was assaulted by the usual mixture of hot air, stagnant smoke, and stale beer. The small bar was crowded beyond its capacity. A sartorially diverse assortment of men and women were packed together tighter than a stack of new hundreds, waiting for a table to clear. Asshole to belly button, they would say in the Corps.

"You're late," Peter Sprecher barked over the maddening roar. "Fifteen minutes and then I'm gone. Nastassia's waiting at the Brasserie Lipp."

"Nastassia?" Nick asked, reaching the far end of the bar, where his friend sat with a stein of beer in his hand.

"Fogal," Peter explained, referring to the pricey hosiery emporium situated two doors down from USB. "The gorgeous bird behind the counter. I'm giving you fifteen minutes of her precious lunch break."

"You're a generous man."

"Least I can do. Now, what's the trouble? Spill your guts to Uncle Peter."

Nick wanted to ask him a hundred questions about his second day at the Adler Bank. Had he met Konig? What had he heard about the takeover? Was it simply a bid to drive up the share price and exact greenmail from Kaiser? Or would Konig unleash a full-scale attack? But those questions would have to wait for another time.

"The Pasha," Nick said simply.

"Our most reliable client?"

Nick nodded and for the next ten minutes explained his decision to delay the Pasha's transfer.

"Probably a wise move," said Peter afterward. "What's the problem?"

Nick leaned closer. "I got a call at six this morning from Martin Maeder. He dragged me into his office and asked me one too many questions about why I did it. Did I know the Pasha? How dare I disobey the bank? Regular drill."

"Go on."

"I was ready for the questions. Not quite so soon, to be honest, but that didn't faze me. When it was over, Maeder sent me home. Told me not to go back to the office; that I shouldn't contact you. 'The verdict will be delivered Monday,' he said." Nick rubbed the back of his neck and scowled in self-doubt. "Yesterday I was sure I had done the right thing. Now I'm not so sure."

Sprecher laughed raucously. "Worst you can expect is a transfer to logistics in Alstetten or the new office in Latvia." He slapped Nick's knee. "Just joking, chum. Don't sweat it. Come Monday, all will be status quo ante."

"This isn't funny," Nick protested. "I don't think for a second that anything will be the same as before."

Sprecher straightened his shoulders and spun on his stool so that he faced his colleague. "Listen, Nick. You didn't lose any money, you steered a client out of trouble, and in doing so, you kept the bank's nose a damn sight cleaner. I'd be surprised if you didn't get the Victoria Cross for bravery under fire."

Nick didn't share his friend's jovial mood. If he was fired, or even transferred to a less important post, his ability to effect any type of meaningful investigation into his father's death would be hindered greatly, if not destroyed.

"And then yesterday," Nick continued, "I was walking toward the lake when Agent Sterling Thorne stopped me."

Sprecher appeared amused. "I take it he wasn't inviting you to happy hour at the American Club?"

"Hardly. He asked me if I had seen anything 'interesting' at the bank, anything illegal."

Sprecher feigned shock. "Good gracious. What else? Did he ask if you were working for the Cali Cartel? Bribing the whole of the Italian Senate? Don't look so surprised, it's been done. Promise me, Nick, that you didn't confess." He lit a cigarette. "The man is pathetic. The DEA has a mandate to get some arrests, to force our banks to cooperate. I'll bet he didn't say anything specific about the Pasha. Right?"

"Nothing specific. But he mentioned Cerruti."

"Did he now? So what? That clown tried to come down on me two weeks ago. I said, "Sorree, no speakee Ingrish.' He got bloody pissed at that, I can promise you."

"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."