"Listen to me carefully," Nick began. "Do you know what we're doing upstairs? We're working night and day to save this bank from a little man down the street who has every intention of buying us. Do you know what will happen if he takes us over?"

Karl didn't seem to care.

"No more papers. Every file in here will be scanned, digitized, and saved on a computer disk. They'll cart off all your precious documents, all this-" Nick gave a wide sweeping gesture to encompass the entire room, "and store them in a warehouse in Ebmatingen. We'll never see them again. If I need to access a document, I'll sit at my desk on the Fourth Floor and call it up on my own monitor."

The shove rendered, Nick kept a sharp eye on Karl, watching the old man absorb the information. Before long his wrinkled face fell. "And what about me?"

Gotcha, thought Nick. "I'm sure Klaus Konig would find a position for you. If, that is, he values experience and loyalty as much as Herr Kaiser. But all this will be gone." Onto the hug. "I apologize for not having put the proper reference. But Herr Kaiser is waiting for the information in this file. I know he would greatly appreciate your help."

Karl straightened out the request form and picked up a pen off of the green countertop. "Your three-letter reference?"

"S… P… R," said Nick, enunciating each letter as if it were its own word. If there were ever an inquiry, using Peter Sprecher's personal reference would gain him two, maybe three hours. At that point, who knew? It might be enough time to get him off the premises. Then again, it might not. Regardless, there was no way he was going to leave his own fingerprints all over this file.

Karl wrote the three letters on the request form. "Your identification, please?"

"Of course." Smiling, Nick reached into his coat pocket. His smile turned to surprise, then dismay. His hands rummaged through his pants and again in his jacket. He frowned apologetically, at once angry and contrite. "Looks like I made the mistake this time. I must have left my I.D. upstairs. Get that file for me while I run and get it."

Nick hesitated a moment, then turned and made his way to the door. All the while, he shook his head vigorously, as if chastising himself for his forgetfulness.

"No, no," said Karl. "Stay. Client dossiers belonging to a numbered account may not be removed from this room anyhow. Sit over there and wait where I can keep an eye on you. For the Chairman, I make an exception." He stared past Nick and pointed to a small table with two chairs on each side of it. "Over there. Go and sit. You will be called when it is retrieved."

Nick breathed easier and did as he was told. He walked sheepishly to the table, still shaking his head at his careless behavior. He was probably overacting.

The activity in the office had increased. Eight or nine people waited in line. Still, the room was absolutely silent. "Church mice," Nick would have said to his infantry platoon when silent running was an operational necessity. Only the shuffling of paper and one secretary's itchy throat marred the calm.

"Herr Sprecher?"

Nick jumped to his feet, fearful that someone might recognize him. He scanned the room. No one looked at him oddly.

Karl held a sepia folder in both his hands. "Here is your file. You may not remove any of its contents. You may not leave it unattended, even if you have to go to the toilet. Bring it directly to me when you are finished. Understood?"

Nick said he understood. He took the file from Karl and started back to the reading table.

"Herr Sprecher?" Karl asked unsurely. "That is correct, isn't it?"

Nick turned. "Yes," he answered confidently, waiting for someone to call him an impostor.

"You remind me of a boy I used to know a long time ago. He worked with me. Name wasn't Sprecher, though." Karl shrugged his shoulders and went back to work.

It was a thick file, as big as a textbook and twice as heavy. Nick turned the folder horizontally to check the tab. 549.617 RR was typed in heavy black script. He relaxed and opened the cover. Signature sheets were stapled to the left-hand side. The sheets listed the names of the bank executives who had previously requested the file. Cerruti's name was written on ten or eleven lines, interrupted once by Peter Sprecher's. The name Becker popped up half a dozen times all within a six-month period. Then Cerruti again and before him, something illegible. Lift the sheet and go back in time, mid-eighties. Another page, more names. Back again. And finally, at the top of the first page, a signature he knew well. The date: 1980. He traced the bold curves of the signature with his pen. Wolfgang Kaiser. Chalk up another run in Sterling Thorne's column, thought Nick. Irrefutable proof the Chairman knew Mr. Ali Mevlevi.

Nick turned his attention to the manila folder marked "client mail" sitting loose on top of the right-hand page. The folder held a pile of unclaimed correspondence: official confirmations of every transaction completed for benefit of the Pasha's account. As was common for numbered accounts, all mail was held at the bank until such time as the account holder wanted to review it. The stack wasn't very thick. Marco Cerruti must have delivered a bundle during his most recent visit. Nick counted approximately thirty envelopes. One corresponding for each incoming and outgoing wire transfer plus two month-end statements, the one for February dated only yesterday.

Nick closed the manila folder and slid it onto the signature sheet. A sheaf of transaction confirmations two fingers in height was attached to the right outermost cover of the file. Perusing them, he saw that the stack contained a record of all confirmations sent to the holder of account 549.617 RR. Every incoming wire, every outgoing wire since the account was opened. At the bottom of the stack was a copy of each of the seven matrices listing the name of every bank and every account number to which the Pasha's funds were to be wired. To Sterling Thorne, the matrices would prove more valuable than any treasure map, more inculpatory than any confession. With them, he could trace the flow of funds from USB to fifty or sixty banks around the world. Sure it was only one step in what was no doubt a circuitous route. But it was the first step, and as such, the most important.

Nick studied the incoming wire transfers for the final three months of the previous year. Rules forbade the copying of any information in the files. It was strictly "for his eyes only." As well as he could, he memorized the amounts that arrived on each Monday and Thursday. He totaled the dollar value of the transactions for each week and set them in a column inside his head. When he got as far back as October, his mind failed him. It was as if a screen went blank, a momentary short circuit. He began again, reading in reverse chronological order the transfers made from December 31 back through September 30, totaling the figures weekly. Thirteen numbers stood out clearly in his mind. He ran his mind's eye down the column, summing the eight-digit figures. Finished, he memorized the sum. In three months, $678 million had passed through the Pasha's account.

Nick raised his head and found Karl staring unabashedly at him. "Who are you, really?" he seemed to be asking.

Nick returned his attention to the folder. He had come to steal the unclaimed transaction confirmations. The envelopes held hard-copy proof that the client was violating the rules against money laundering as prescribed by the DEA. They also proved that USB knowingly facilitated such contraventions. In his jacket pocket were a dozen envelopes identical to those in the file below him. He had typed the Pasha's account number on every envelope and placed a folded sheet of blank paper inside. Keeping his eyes glued to the papers below him, he slid the phony confirmations out of his pocket and tucked them under his leg. Now he had to wait for a person to enter and divert Karl's attention.