Numbered Account by Christopher Reich Page B
Authors: Christopher Reich
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Romance, Thrillers, Banks & Banking, Business & Economics, Adventure fiction, Banks And Banking, Switzerland, International finance, Banks and banking - Switzerland, Zurich (Switzerland)
Ads: Link
Herr Neumann,”
said Armin Schweitzer. “How is our resident American managing today?” He pronounced the word
American
as if it were a sour lemon. “Checking on the continued meltdown of your beloved dollar or just having a look at the all-important basketball scores?”
Nick spun in his chair to face the bank’s director of compliance, noticing the man’s scuffed brogues and his short white socks. “Good morning.”
Schweitzer waved a sheaf of papers. “I have the newest warrants from the American gestapo. Friends of yours, are they?”
“Hardly friends,” Nick answered, a shade louder than he would’ve liked. Schweitzer made him nervous. He emanated a kind of palpable instability. A toxic chemical best kept at room temperature.
“You’re sure?” asked Schweitzer.
“I resent the intrusion into our bank’s affairs as much as anyone. We should be fighting these requests for confidential information by all means possible.” Inside, Nick shuddered. A large part of him actually believed his own words.
““Our bank,’ is it, Mr. Neumann? Six weeks off the boat and already a claim of ownership. My, how they teach you to be ambitious in America.” Schweitzer smiled unevenly and leaned closer. His breath was bitter with the dregs of that morning’s coffee. “Unfortunately, it seems that your American friends have left us no alternative but to cooperate. What splendid consolation to know that your sentiments are in the correct place. Perhaps one day you will have a chance to prove such heartfelt loyalty. Until then, I advise you to keep your eyes open. Who knows? One of your clients may be on this list.”
Nick caught a glimmer of hope in Schweitzer’s voice. So far there had been no bites on the four accounts that had originally been listed; no activity that might fit Sterling Thorne’s strict criteria. Nick took the updated account surveillance list and laid it on his desk without glancing at it. “I’ll keep my eyes open,” he said.
“I expect no less,” called Schweitzer over his shoulder as he left the room. “
Schonen Tag, noch
.”
Nick watched him go before picking up the updated sheet. Six accounts were listed. The four from the previous week plus two new ones. Numbered accounts 411.968.OF and 549.617 RR.
Nick stared at the last number.
549.617 RR.
He knew it by heart. Every Monday and Thursday at three P.M. Set your clock to it. Six digits, two letters. Today they spelled the directions for the quickest route to hell. Ninth circle. First class. Nonstop. “The Pasha,” he whispered aloud.
On Monday, Nick had demanded to listen to their notorious client. Though initially opposed, Sprecher had relented, knowing that he wouldn’t be in the office next time the Pasha called. “Wait until you hear him,” Sprecher had said. “The man is cold.” And so while speaking to him on the telephone, he had broadcast his client’s voice from a tinny speaker.
The Pasha’s voice was low and rough, Nick remembered. Like an empty cardboard box being dragged across a gravel lot. Demanding but not angry. Intonation a tool, not an emotion. Listening to the voice, he had felt a shiver growing at the base of his spine, at that tiniest of nubs where intuition signals the arrival of an unwelcome event.
Now, seated at his cramped desk, he stared at the Internal Account Surveillance List and felt the same curious tingling, the same frisson of anxiety itching at the base of his spine. From all exterior appearances the list was an innocent sheet of USB stationery, “Strictly for internal use” printed in bold letters across the upper left corner, its body sullied only by the four-word heading, the six account numbers below, and an admonition stating “All transactions regarding above accounts must be reported immediately to your superior and/or directly to Compliance, ext. 4571.”
In seven hours, the holder of account 549.617 RR would phone. He would inquire as to the balance in his account, then
said Armin Schweitzer. “How is our resident American managing today?” He pronounced the word
American
as if it were a sour lemon. “Checking on the continued meltdown of your beloved dollar or just having a look at the all-important basketball scores?”
Nick spun in his chair to face the bank’s director of compliance, noticing the man’s scuffed brogues and his short white socks. “Good morning.”
Schweitzer waved a sheaf of papers. “I have the newest warrants from the American gestapo. Friends of yours, are they?”
“Hardly friends,” Nick answered, a shade louder than he would’ve liked. Schweitzer made him nervous. He emanated a kind of palpable instability. A toxic chemical best kept at room temperature.
“You’re sure?” asked Schweitzer.
“I resent the intrusion into our bank’s affairs as much as anyone. We should be fighting these requests for confidential information by all means possible.” Inside, Nick shuddered. A large part of him actually believed his own words.
““Our bank,’ is it, Mr. Neumann? Six weeks off the boat and already a claim of ownership. My, how they teach you to be ambitious in America.” Schweitzer smiled unevenly and leaned closer. His breath was bitter with the dregs of that morning’s coffee. “Unfortunately, it seems that your American friends have left us no alternative but to cooperate. What splendid consolation to know that your sentiments are in the correct place. Perhaps one day you will have a chance to prove such heartfelt loyalty. Until then, I advise you to keep your eyes open. Who knows? One of your clients may be on this list.”
Nick caught a glimmer of hope in Schweitzer’s voice. So far there had been no bites on the four accounts that had originally been listed; no activity that might fit Sterling Thorne’s strict criteria. Nick took the updated account surveillance list and laid it on his desk without glancing at it. “I’ll keep my eyes open,” he said.
“I expect no less,” called Schweitzer over his shoulder as he left the room. “
Schonen Tag, noch
.”
Nick watched him go before picking up the updated sheet. Six accounts were listed. The four from the previous week plus two new ones. Numbered accounts 411.968.OF and 549.617 RR.
Nick stared at the last number.
549.617 RR.
He knew it by heart. Every Monday and Thursday at three P.M. Set your clock to it. Six digits, two letters. Today they spelled the directions for the quickest route to hell. Ninth circle. First class. Nonstop. “The Pasha,” he whispered aloud.
On Monday, Nick had demanded to listen to their notorious client. Though initially opposed, Sprecher had relented, knowing that he wouldn’t be in the office next time the Pasha called. “Wait until you hear him,” Sprecher had said. “The man is cold.” And so while speaking to him on the telephone, he had broadcast his client’s voice from a tinny speaker.
The Pasha’s voice was low and rough, Nick remembered. Like an empty cardboard box being dragged across a gravel lot. Demanding but not angry. Intonation a tool, not an emotion. Listening to the voice, he had felt a shiver growing at the base of his spine, at that tiniest of nubs where intuition signals the arrival of an unwelcome event.
Now, seated at his cramped desk, he stared at the Internal Account Surveillance List and felt the same curious tingling, the same frisson of anxiety itching at the base of his spine. From all exterior appearances the list was an innocent sheet of USB stationery, “Strictly for internal use” printed in bold letters across the upper left corner, its body sullied only by the four-word heading, the six account numbers below, and an admonition stating “All transactions regarding above accounts must be reported immediately to your superior and/or directly to Compliance, ext. 4571.”
In seven hours, the holder of account 549.617 RR would phone. He would inquire as to the balance in his account, then
Similar Books
