“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 donot question,” he said. “You donot 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.”
“I’m glad you can live with it.”
Sprecher rolled his eyes and he grew angry. “Saint bloody Nicholas seated right here beside me. Another American ready to save the world from itself. Why is it that Switzerland is the only country that has ever learned to mind its own business? The world would be a damned sight better off if more countries followed our example. Butt the fuck out!” He sighed loudly, then signaled for the barman. “Two beers. My friend here plans to cure civilization of its evils. The very thought makes a chap parched.”
Neither man spoke until the bartender returned with the two beers.
Sprecher touched Nick’s arm. “Look, chum, if you’re so bent on discovering who the Pasha is you needn’t go any further than Marco Cerruti. If I’m not mistaken, Cerruti paid a courtesy visit to our Pasha during his last trip to the Middle East. ’Course, he’s gone round the bend since then. But take my advice. Leave well enough alone.”
Nick squinted his eyes in frustration. “The sum total of your years of experience is to close my eyes and do exactly as I am told.”
“Precisely.”
“Close my eyes and ride headlong into disaster?”
“Not disaster, dear boy. Glory!”
CHAPTER
18
Nick left the Keller Stubli and headed to the nearest post office, where he tucked himself into a phone booth and began checking local directories for the name of Marco Cerruti. His curiosity was quickly rewarded.Cerruti, M. Seestrasse 78. Thalwil. Banker. His profession was listed next to his name—another one of this country’s neat quirks Nick had only just discovered.
He took a tram to the Burkliplatz and transferred there to a bus for the quarter-hour ride to Thalwil. Seestrasse 78 was easy to find. A pretty yellow stucco apartment building sitting on the main road, running parallel to the lake.
Nick found the name he was looking for at the top of a list of six. He pressed the buzzer next to it and waited. Not a soul stirred. He wondered if he should have phoned in advance, then decided that he’d been correct to come unannounced. This was not an official visit. He rang the buzzer again and a clipped voice spurted from the grate.
“Who is it?”
Nick jumped toward the speaker. “Neumann, USB.”
“USB?” asked the garbled voice.
“Yes,” said Nick, then he repeated his name. A moment later he heard a soft metallic click as the entry’s lock was released. He pushed open the glass door and entered the foyer, which smelled strongly of pine antiseptic. He crossed to the elevator and pressed the call button. Next to the elevator door was a small mirror. He leaned down and checked his appearance. Dark circles under his eyes broadcast a lack of sleep. Why are you here? he asked himself. To spite Maeder? To prove wrong Sprecher’s amoral drivel? Or was it to honor the unsubstantiated image he held of his father? Wouldn’t Alex Neumann have done the same thing?
Nick opened the elevator door and pushed the top button. Several announcements were posted on the wall. One read:“Please respect your assigned laundry day. No laundry may be done on Sundays. By Federal Ordinance.” Written in pen, under the declaration, was“No switching of assigned laundry days permitted.” And under that,“especially Frau Brunner!!”
The elevator buffeted lightly as it reached the top floor. Before Nick realized that it had stopped, the door was flung open and a short man, impeccably dressed in a double-breasted gray suit, fresh carnation pinned to the lapel, was grasping his hand and ushering him into the living room.
“Cerruti,es freut mich. Pleased to meet you. Come in, sit down.”
Nick allowed himself to be steered through a narrow corridor and into a spacious living room. A firm hand in the lee of his back gave him a polite shove toward the couch.
“Please have a seat. Good Lord, it’s about time you arrived. I’ve been calling the bank for weeks.”
Nick opened his mouth to explain.
“Don’t apologize,” said Marco Cerruti. “We both know Herr Kaiser wouldn’t permit it. I can imagine the bank is in an uproar. Konig, that devil. I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new on the Fourth Floor?”
So this was the mysterious Marco Cerruti. He was an excitable man, mid-fifties by the look of him. His bristly gray hair was cut short. His eyes were neither blue nor gray. Pale washed-out skin hung on his face like a badly done job of wallpapering—tight here, sagging there.
“I don’t work on the Fourth Floor,” said Nick. “I’m sorry if you misunderstood me.”
Cerruti pulled up. “My mistake, I’m sure. You are . . . ?”
“Neumann. Nicholas Neumann. I work in your section. FKB4. I began shortly after you became ill.”
Cerruti looked at Nick oddly. He bent his knees and inspected him carefully, like a critic would examine a particularly frantic work of Picasso or Braque. Finally, he placed his hands on Nick’s shoulders and stared directly into his eyes. “I don’t know how I could have missed it when you walked in. I heard your name but it just didn’t register. Yes, of course. Nicholas Neumann. My God, you look so like your father. I knew him. Worked under him for five years. Best time of my life. Sit still and let me fetch my papers. There are so many things we have to talk about. Look, eh? Fit as a fiddle and raring to go.” He turned a full circle, then dashed out of the room.
Finding himself alone, Nick surveyed his surroundings. The flat was furnished in somber tones, a style he would call antique Swiss Gothic. The colors were sober to the point of being morose. The furniture was clumsy and wooden. A picture window ran the length of the apartment and where not obscured by heavy calico drapes, offered a magnificent view of the Lake of Zurich. That afternoon a mantle of fog clung to the lake’s surface. A light drizzle fell. The world was textured damp, gray, and forlorn.
Cerruti bustled into the room carrying two notebooks and a stack of files. “Here is a list of clients Mr. Sprecher must call. Three or four had scheduled appointments with me before my absence.”
“Peter is leaving USB,” said Nick. “He’s been hired by the Adler Bank.”
“The Adler Bank? They’ll be the death of us.” Cerruti dropped a limp hand on his head and collapsed onto the couch beside his visitor. “Well, what have you brought for me? Let’s see.”
Nick opened the slim briefcase he had brought with him and extracted a manila file. “Sheikh Abdul bin Ahmed al Aziz
has been phoning every other day. He sends his best personal regards. He wants to know how you are, where he can contact you. Insists that only your personal responses to his questions will do.”
Cerruti sniffed twice and blinked his eyes in rapid succession.
“The sheikh,” Nick continued, “is dead set on buying German governments. He has it on good authority thatFinanz Minister Schneider will lower the Lombard rate any day now.”
Cerruti looked at Nick uncertainly. A great sigh left him, and then he laughed. “Dear old Abdul bin Ahmed. I call him Triple A, you know. Never could read economic data worth a damn. German inflation is rising, unemployment over ten percent, Abdul’s uncle is itching to raise oil prices. The only way interest rates can go is up, up, up!” Cerruti stood up and straightened his jacket. He pulled his sleeves from his jacket until a good inch of cuff showed. “You must tell the sheikh to buy German equities, pronto. Sell whatever German bonds he’s holding and put him into Daimler-Benz, Veba, and Hoechst. That should cover the major industrial groups and keep Abdul from losing his shirt.”
Nick wrote down his instructions verbatim.
Cerruti tapped Nick on the arm. “Neumann? No word from Kaiser’s office on my returning. Even on a part-time basis?”
So Cerruti wanted to come back? Nick wondered why Kaiser might be keeping him away. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any contact with the Fourth Floor.”
“Yes, yes,” Cerruti tried unsuccessfully to conceal his disappointment. “Well, I’m sure the Chairman will call me soon and let me know his plans. Carry on then, who’s next?”
“Another client is causing a fuss. I’m afraid it’s one of our numbered accounts, so I don’t know the name.” Nick made a show of searching for the account number among the papers on his lap. After all, he was only a trainee, he couldn’t be expected to match the mental acuity of Maestro Cerruti. He held up a sheet of paper. “Found it. Account 549.617 RR.”
“Can you repeat that?” whispered Cerruti. His blinking had gone haywire.
“Five four nine, six one seven, R R. I’m sure you recognize the number.”
“Yes, yes. Of course, I do.” Cerruti harrumphed. He fidgeted. His hands mangled each other. “Well, get to it, boy. What’s the problem?”
“Not a problem really. More an opportunity. I’d like to convince this client to keep more of his assets with us. In the last six weeks he’s transferred over $200 million through our accounts without keeping a dime of it overnight. I’m sure we can make some more money off of him than simple transfer fees.”
Suddenly, Cerruti was on his feet. “Stay there, Nicholas. No moving. No budging. I’ll be right back. I have something wonderful to show you.”
Before Nick could protest, he was gone. He came back a minute later with a spiral scrapbook tucked under his arm. He thrust the scrapbook into Nick’s hands and opened it to a spot kept by a leather bookmark. “Recognize anyone?” he asked.
Nick peered down at the color photo on the right-hand page. It was a 5 by 7 of Wolfgang Kaiser, Marco Cerruti, Alexander Neumann, and a stout, jolly-looking fellow with a sweaty brow. A voluptuous woman with frosted blond hair and bright pink lipstick curtsied in front of them. She was a knockout. Kaiser held one of her hands to his mouth, giving it a zesty kiss. Not to be outdone, the jolly little fellow held her other hand in a similar position. The woman’s sparkling eyes made it clear she was enjoying the attention. A handwritten caption beneath the photograph read, “California, Here He Comes! December 1967.”
Nick stared at his father. Alexander Neumann was tall and slim, hair as black as Nick’s, cut in the style of the day. His blue eyes shone with the zeal of a thousand dreams, all of them attainable. He was laughing. A man with the world before him.
Standing next to him, a head shorter, was Cerruti, ever the dandy, sporting a red carnation in the lapel of a dark suit. Wolfgang Kaiser came next, exuberantly smooching the attractive woman’s hand. His mustache was, if possible, bushier than today. Nick did not recognize the fourth man or the woman.
“Your father’s going-away party,” said Cerruti. “Before he left to open the office in Los Angeles. We were some crew, all of us bachelors. Handsome devils, eh? Everyone at the bank came to the party. Of course, we were only a couple hundred back then.”
“You said you worked with him?”
“We all worked together. We were the heart and soul of private banking. Kaiser was our divisional manager. I served as an apprentice under your father. Looked after me like a brother, he did. He’d been promoted to vice president that very day.” Cerruti tapped the picture. “I adored Alex. I hated to see him go to Los Angeles but for me it was a big step up.”
Nick continued studying the photograph. He’d seen few snapshots of his father before he came to America, mostly black-and-white portraits of a tall unsmiling teenager in a strict Sunday suit. He was surprised at how much younger he looked in Cerruti’s photo than in his own recollections. This Alex Neumann was happy, really happy. Nick didn’t have a single memory of his father being so cheerful, so unrestrained.
Cerruti bounced to his feet. “Come, let’s have a drink. What can I get you?”
Nick felt buoyed by Cerruti’s enthusiasm. “How about a beer?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t touch alcohol. Makes me nervous. Will a soda do?”
“Sure, that’s fine.” If alcohol made this guy nervous, what calmed him down? Nick wondered.
Cerruti disappeared into the kitchen. A minute later, he returned with two cans of soda and glasses filled with ice. Nick took the glass and poured himself a soft drink.
“To your father,” Cerruti toasted.
Nick raised his glass, then took a sip. “I never knew he worked directly under Wolfgang Kaiser. What did he do?”
“Why, your father was Kaiser’s number two for years. Portfolio management, of course. The Chairman never told you?”
“No, I’ve only spoken to him for a few minutes since I arrived. Like you said, he’s pretty busy these days.”
“Your father was a tiger. There was a lot of competition between the two of them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come now, turn the page. I kept a letter from your father. It will show you what I mean. Actually, it’s one of his monthly reports. An update detailing the business conducted at the Los Angeles office.”
Nick turned the page to find a wrinkled memorandum held in place by a transparent plastic sheet. The stationery was headedUnited Swiss Bank, Los Angeles Representative Office, Alexander Neumann Vice President and Bureau Manager. The memo was addressed to Wolfgang Kaiser and cc’d to Urs Knecht, Beat Frey, and Klaus Konig. It was dated June 17, 1968.
The text was uneventful, more notable for the casual tone employed (compared with the formal reports submitted today) than for any important news. Nick’s father wrote about three prospective clients he had visited, a deposit he had received for $125,000 from Walter Galahad, “a big shot at MGM,” and his need for a secretary. He mentioned that he could not be expected to mimeograph bank documents and then go to lunch at Perino’s, blue ink wet on his hands. He planned a trip to San Francisco the next week. Most interesting to Nick’s eye was the postscript labeled“Confidential”— no doubt a ruse to ensure maximum readership.“Wolf, am prepared to double our wager. Goal of one million in deposits first year too easy. Don’t say I’m not fair. Alex.”
Nick read the memorandum a second time, this time slowly, line by line. He felt as if his father were still alive. Alex Neumann had a plane to catch next week to San Francisco. A bet with Wolfgang Kaiser he was determined to win. A luncheon date at Perino’s. How could he be dead seventeen years? He had a marriage, a child, an entire life in front of him.
Nick stared at the words, transfixed. His stomach grew hollow and his shoulders ached with a fatigue that hadn’t been there moments ago. One look at the picture, one reading of the memo, and he was ready to fall apart. He was utterly surprised that after so long he could feel so much pain. He
flipped back to the picture and looked deep into his father’s eyes. He realized at that instant that he’d taught himself not to miss the man, not to miss Alexander Neumann, but to miss the role he played, to miss his father. He had never considered for a second that he’d been deprived of knowing someone special, a man Cerruti had adored. For the first time in his life Nick felt sorry for his father, for the forty-year-old executive who’d had his life stolen from him. He had discovered a new wellspring of sorrow and already its waters were seeping into him, filling him with his own worst memories.
Nick closed his eyes and held them tightly shut.
He is no longer in Marco Cerruti’s apartment. He is a boy. It is night. He shudders as the strobe of a police siren lights a dozen shadowy figures dressed in yellow sou’westers. A heavy rain pounds his shoulders. He walks toward the front door of a house he’s never seen before. Why is his father staying here only two miles from home? Business? That’s the excuse his mother has lamely provided. Or, is it because lately his parents never seem to stop arguing? Inside the doorway, his father lies on his side in his tan pajamas. A pond of blood has gathered between his chest and his outstretched arm. “Sonuvabitch caught three in the chest,” whispers a policeman behind Nick. “Sonuvabitch caught three in the chest, caught three in the chest . . .”
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.
Numbered Account Page 17