Marco Cerruti placed a hand on Nick's shoulder. "Are you all right, Mr. Neumann?"

Nick shuddered at the touch. "Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks."

"I was so sorry to learn about your father."

Nick tapped the report. "Reading this brought back some old memories. Do you think I might keep it?"

"Nothing would give me more pleasure." Cerruti folded back the sheet and delicately removed the memorandum. "There are more of these in the bank archives. We've never thrown away a single piece of official correspondence. Not in one hundred twenty-five years."

"Where would I find them?"

"Dokumentation Zentrale. Ask Karl. He can find anything."

"If I have time, maybe one day I'll take a look," Nick said nonchalantly, but inside him an agitated voice was yelling at him to get his ass down to DZ pronto.

I'm going to find out what happened to my father, he had told Anna Fontaine. I'm going to learn once and for all whether he was a saint or a sinner. The memo was what he had come for.

Nick turned back to the picture of his father and Wolfgang Kaiser. "Who's the lady in this photograph?"

Cerruti smiled, as if buoyed by a pleasant memory. "You mean you don't recognize her? That's Rita Sutter. Back then she was just another girl in the typing pool. Today she's the Chairman's executive secretary."

"And the fourth man?"

"It's Klaus Konig. He runs the Adler Bank."

Nick looked closer. The chubby little man kissing Rita Sutter's hand looked nothing like the brash Konig of today. But then, it had been thirty years and Konig wasn't wearing the red polka-dot bow tie that had become his trademark. Nick wondered which of the two men vying for the secretary's attentions had won. And if the other had held a grudge.

"Konig was part of our merry band of thieves," said Cerruti. "He left a few years after your father. Went to America. Studied some kind of mathematics. He needed his doctorate to be better than the rest of us. He came back ten years ago. Did some consulting in the Middle East, probably for the Thief of Baghdad if I know Klaus. Started up his own shop seven years back. Can't fault his success, only his methods. We don't go for terror and intimidation in Switzerland."

"We call it shareholder dissent in the States," said Nick.

"Call it what you will, it's piracy!" Cerruti drained the rest of his cola and moved toward the door. "If that's all you had to discuss, Mr. Neumann…"

"We hadn't finished with our last client," Nick said. "We really should discuss him."

"I'd rather not. Take my advice and forget about him."

But Nick was in no mood for forgetting, so he pressed on. "The amounts of his transfers have increased dramatically since you've been gone. There are other developments. The bank is cooperating with the United States Drug Enforcement Administration."

"Thorne," Cerruti mumbled. "Sterling Thorne?"

"Yes," said Nick. "Sterling Thorne. Has he spoken with you?"

Cerruti wrapped his arms around himself. "Why? Did he mention me?"

"No," Nick said. "Thorne circulates a list each week with the account numbers of individuals he suspects of being involved in drugs, money laundering. This week the Pasha's account was on that list. I need to know who the Pasha is."

"Who the Pasha is, or is not, is none of your concern."

"Why is the DEA after him?"

"Didn't you hear me? It's none of your concern." Cerruti pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. His arm trembled lightly.

"It's my responsibility to know who this client is."

"Do as you're told, Mr. Neumann. Do not get involved with the Pasha. Leave that to Mr. Maeder, or better yet to…"

"To who?" Nick demanded.

"Leave it to Maeder. It is a world entirely beyond you. Keep it that way."

"You know the Pasha," Nick insisted. He felt reckless and out of control. "You visited him in December. What is his name?"

"Please, Mr. Neumann, no more questions. I am quite upset." What had been a minor palsy bothering Cerruti's arm grew into an uncontrolled spasm shaking his entire body.

"What business is the man in?" Nick asked forcefully. He wanted an answer now. He fought to stifle an impulse to shake the bantamweight until he talked. "Why are the authorities pursuing him?"

"I don't know. And I don't want to know." Cerruti grabbed the lapels of Nick's jacket. "Tell me, Neumann. Tell me you haven't done anything to upset him."

Nick held the little man by the wrists and eased him gently onto the couch. The sight of so much fear in Cerruti's face drained all the anger out of him. "No. Nothing," he said.

Cerruti released the lapels. "No matter what you do, don't upset him."

Nick looked down at the frightened banker and, drawing a deep breath, realized there was no more to be gotten out of him- at least for now. "I can show myself to the door. Thank you for my father's memo."

"Neumann, one question. What have they told you at work about why I'm no longer at the office?"

"Martin Maeder announced that you had suffered a nervous breakdown, but we've been asked to tell your clients that you contracted hepatitis on your last trip. Oh, and I forgot to mention, word is you may come back to one of our affiliates. Maybe the Arab Bank."

"The Arab Bank? God help me." Cerruti gripped the couch's cushions, his knuckles white with tension.

Nick fell to one knee and placed a hand on Cerruti's shoulder. It was clear why Kaiser was delaying Cerruti's return. The man was a wreck. "Are you sure you're okay? Let me call a doctor. You're not looking very well."

Cerruti pushed him away. "Just leave, Mr. Neumann. I'm fine. A bit of rest is all I need."

Nick walked toward the door.

"And Neumann," Cerruti called weakly, "when you see the Chairman tell him I'm fit as a fiddle and rarin' to go."

CHAPTER 19

Later that evening, Nick found himself standing before an ungainly gray-stone apartment building on a lesser street far from the prosperous center of the city. The temperature had crawled below freezing and the sky had partially cleared. A scrap of paper showed an address: Eibenstrasse 18.

His father had grown up in this building. Alexander Neumann had lived with his mother and grandmother from his birth until he was nineteen in a lousy two-room apartment overlooking a perpetually shaded interior court.

Nick had visited the apartment when he was a boy. Everything about it had been dark and musty. Closed windows covered by heavy drapes. Massive wooden furniture dyed a deep chestnut brown. To a child used to playing on the rolling lawns and sunlit streets of southern California, the apartment, the street, the entire neighborhood where his father had grown up, had appeared evil and unfriendly. He had hated it.

But tonight he felt the need to revisit the place of his father's childhood. To commune with the ghosts of his parents' past and to reconcile the boy who had grown up on these streets with the man who had become his father.

Nick stared up at the grimy building, recalling a day when he had hated his father. Absolutely despised him. When he had wished the earth would crack open and suck him down to the burning nether regions that were undoubtedly his true home.

A trip to Switzerland during the summer of Nick's tenth year. A weekend in Arosa, a mountain village nestled on the hillside of a sweeping valley. A Sunday-morning gathering of the local chapter of the Swiss Alpine Club in a glade situated under the stoic gaze of a monstrous peak, the Tierfluh.

The party of twenty-odd climbers sets out at dawn. They are a mixed lot: at ten, Nick is the youngest; at seventy, his great-uncle Erhard, the oldest. They walk through a field of high grass, past a milky lake as flat as a mirror, then ford a gurgling brook. Soon they enter a stand of tall pines, and the path begins to move up a gentle slope. Heads are bowed, breathing deep and steady. Uncle Erhard leads the pack. Nick stays in the middle. He is nervous. Will they really try to reach the craggy peak?