Numbered Account by Christopher Reich

“It certainly beats the alternative.”
    “The alternative? What’s that? Self-immolation.”
    “Federal legislation mandating cooperation. An act making our voluntary collaboration a matter of public record.”
    Sprecher circled Nick’s desk like a predatory hawk. “Since 1933, we have managed to guard the integrity of our banks. Sixty-five years and now this. An abomination is what it is. A fucking disaster. Yesterday our bank’s position with regard to queries about a client’s identity and the activity in his account was unyielding. A brick wall. Without a formal federal warrant signed by the president, no information, not even the most inconsequential sliver, would be forwarded to an inquiring party. Not to General Ramos seeking restitution of the billions purloined by the Family Marcos, not to your Federal Bureau of Investigation looking to tamper with the working capital of a certain group of Colombian businessmen, and definitely not to a band of overzealous Zionists howling for the repatriation of funds deposited by their relatives prior to the Second World War.”
    “It is exactly that intransigence that led to this situation,” argued Nick.
    “Wrong,” shouted Sprecher. “It is that intransigence that built our reputation as the finest private bankers in the world.” He jabbed a finger in Nick’s direction. “And don’t you forget that. Granite, Neumann, not sandstone.”
    Nick raised his hands above his head. He took no pleasure in defending Sterling Thorne’s point of view.
    “Anyway, it’ll be your problem soon enough,” Sprecher said all too quietly. “I’ll be departing the premises in ten days.”
    “Ten days? What about your quitting notice? You’re here at least until April 1.”
    Sprecher shrugged. “Call it a divorce American style. I’m here until Wednesday next. Thursday and Friday, I’ll be taken ill. Nothing grave, thank you. Just a dizzy spell or a spot of flu. Feel free to take your pick if anyone should ask. Between you, me, and the fly on the wall, I’ll be at Konig’s place. Two-day seminar for new employees. I’m to start the following Monday.”
    “Jesus Christ, Peter. Give me a break. The Indians are circling the fort and you’re tunneling out of here.”
    “As I recall, the Alamo boasted a very low survival rate. Not a sound career move.”
    Nick stood and looked Sprecher squarely in the eye. “And what if—”
    “The Pasha? Won’t happen. I mean, how many clients does the bank have? And after all, according to you he’s just a successful international businessman with a crackerjack accounting department. Still, if ever such a situation did present itself, you’d be wise to consider the consequences before acting rashly.”
    “Consequences?” Nick asked, as if he had never heard the word before.
    “To the bank.
To yourself
.” Sprecher loped from the office. “I’m off to the tailor. New job, new suits. Back by eleven. You’re on duty this morning. If any new clients arrive, Hugo will phone from downstairs. Take good care of them.”
    Nick waved good-bye distractedly.
     
     
    Eight days later, Nicholas Neumann, only son of a slain Swiss banker, former marine lieutenant, unofficially promoted portfolio manager, and if his roster was correct, morning duty officer, arrived at his desk at five minutes past seven o’clock. The office was still dark, as were most of the offices on either side of the ambling corridor that cut a crooked swath through the center of the second floor. Closing his eyes, he flicked on the overhead lights. The intrusion of the fluorescent light never failed to bring back memories of a bad hangover. He walked to the employee pantry, where he hung up his damp overcoat, then laid a plastic bag carrying a freshly laundered dress shirt on top of the coat rack. The clean shirt was for that evening’s engagement: dinner with Sylvia Schon at Emilio’s Ristorante. Sprecher’s words about her plans for him had never really faded. He