Numbered Account Read Free

sir.”
    But Nick did not hear a word. His back remained to the open door, his eyes staring blindly ahead. He struggled to fit the separate images together, to bind them into a finished portrait. He recalled the powerful feelings of awe and pride and fear he’d experienced when in his father’s company, but nothing more. His memories remained incomplete and somehow disjointed, wanting for some essential fabric that he did not possess.
    “Young man, are you all right?” the porter asked.
    Nick spun to face him, banishing the disconcerting images from his mind. “I’m fine,” he said. “Just fine.”
    The porter placed a foot into the elevator. “You’re sure you are ready to begin work today?”
    Nick raised his chin and fought the porter’s inquisitive stare. “Yes,” he said gravely, giving an imperceptible nod of his head. “I’ve been ready for a long time.”
    Offering an apologetic smile, he let the elevator door close and pressed the button for the second floor.
     
     
    “Marco Cerruti is ill. Out with some virus or bug, who knows what,” explained a tall, sandy-haired executive well on the downslope to forty, who was waiting for Nick on the second-floor landing. “Probably the lousy water in that part of the world — Middle East, that is. The Fertile Crescent: that’s our territory. Believe it or not, we
bankers
did not give it that name.”
    Nick stepped out of the elevator and offering the required smile, introduced himself.
    “Course, you’re Neumann. Who else would I be waiting for?” The sandy-haired man thrust out his hand and gave a vigorous shake. “I’m Peter Sprecher. Don’t let the accent fool you. I’m Swiss as William Tell. Did my schooling in England. Still know the words to “God Save the Queen.”’ He pulled at an expensive cuff and winked. “Old man Cerruti is just back from his Christmas run. I call it his yearly Crusade: Cairo, Riyadh, Dubai, and then off to points unknown — probably a sunny port where he can work on his tan while the rest of us back at head office wilt. Guess it didn’t work out as planned. Word’s come down he’ll be out at least a week. The bad news is you’re with me.”
    Nick listened to the rambling outpouring of information, doing his best to digest it all. “And the good news?”
    But Peter Sprecher had disappeared down a narrow corridor. “Ah, yes, the good news,” he called over his shoulder. “Well, the good news is that there is a mountain of work to be done. We’re a bit shorthanded at the moment, so you won’t be sitting on your duff reading a sackful of annual reports. We’re sending you out into the blue, pronto.”
    “Into the blue?”
    Sprecher stopped at a closed door on the left-hand side of the hallway. “Clients, chum. We have to put somebody’s pretty mug in front of our trusting customers. You look like an honest type. Got all your teeth, do you? Should be able to fool them.”
    “Today?”
Nick asked, ruffled.
    “No, not today,” Sprecher answered, grinning. “The bank usually likes to provide a little training. You can count on at least a month to learn the ropes.” He leaned on the handle and opened the door. He walked inside the small meeting room and tossed the manila envelope he’d been carrying onto the conference table. “Take a seat,” he said, flinging himself into one of the quilted leather chairs. “Make yourself at home.”
    Nick pulled out a chair and sat across the table from his new boss. His momentary panic settled, giving way to the usual vague unease that accompanied his arrival at a new post. But he recognized a new sensation, too — a stubborn disbelief that he was actually there.
    You’re in, Nick told himself in the admonishing tone that had belonged to his father. Keep your mouth closed and your ears open. Become one of them.
    Peter Sprecher pulled a sheaf of papers from the envelope. “Your life in four lines, single spaced. Says here you’re from Los Angeles.”
    “I grew up