Free Numbered Account by Christopher Reich
Authors: Christopher Reich
time.”
She did not smile. As soon as he was seated, she began speaking. “In a few weeks you’ll begin meeting clients of the bank. You’ll help them review the status of their portfolios, assist in administrative matters. Most likely, you will be their only contact with the bank. Our human face. I’m sure Mr. Sprecher has been teaching you how to handle yourself in such situations. It’s my job to ensure that you are aware of your obligation to secrecy.”
The second day on the job, Nick had been presented by Peter Sprecher with a copy of the country’s legislation governing bank secrecy— “Das Bank Geheimnis.” He had been forced to read it, then sign a statement acknowledging his understanding of, and compliance with, the article. Sprecher hadn’t made a single wisecrack the entire time.
“Are there any further papers I need to sign?” Nick asked.
“No. I’d just like to go over some general rules to stop you from developing any bad habits.”
“Please, go ahead.” This was the second time he’d been warned about bad habits.
Sylvia Schon clasped her hands and laid them on the desk in front of her. “You will not discuss the affairs of your clients with anyone other than your departmental superior,” she said. “You will not discuss the affairs of your clients once you leave this building. No exceptions. Not over lunch with a friend and not over cocktails with Mr. Sprecher.”
Nick wondered whether the rule of discussing the affairs of his clients only with his departmental superior would supersede the “no discussion over booze” rule but decided to keep his mouth shut.
“Be sure not to discuss any business concerning the bank or its clients over a private telephone, and never take home any confidential documentation. Another thing . . .”
Nick shifted in his seat. His eyes wandered the perimeter of her office. He was looking for some personal touch that might give him an idea about who she really was. He didn’t see any photographs or keepsakes on her desk. No vase of flowers to brighten up the office. Only a bottle of red wine on the floor next to the filing cabinet behind her desk. She was all business.
“. . . and it’s never wise to make personal notes on your private papers. You can’t be sure who might read them.”
Nick tuned back in. After a few more minutes, he felt like adding “Loose lips sink ships” or “Shh, Fritz might be listening.” The whole thing was a little dramatic, wasn’t it?
As if sensing his mental opposition, Sylvia Schon stood abruptly from her chair and circled her desk. “You find this amusing, Mr. Neumann? I must say that is a particularly American response — your cavalier attitude about authority. After all, what are rules for, if not to be broken? Isn’t that how you look at things?”
Nick sat up stiffly in his chair. Her vehemence surprised him. “No, not at all.”
Sylvia Schon perched herself on the corner of the desk nearest him. “Just last year a banker at one of our competitors
was jailed
for violating the bank secrecy law. Ask me what he did.”
“What did he do?”
“Not much, but as it turned out enough. During Fastnacht, the carnival season, it’s a tradition in Basel to turn off all the town lights until 3:00 A.M. the morning the carnival commences. During this time the Fastnachters congregate in the streets and make merry. There are many bands, costumes. It’s quite a spectacle. And when the lights are turned on, the
Stadtwohner
, the persons living in the city, shower the revelers with confetti.”
Nick kept his gaze focused. The smart-ass in the back of his mind was sitting in the corner until further punishment was handed down.
Sylvia continued, “One banker had taken home old printouts of his client’s portfolios — passed through the shredder, of course — to use as confetti. Come three o’clock in the morning, he threw these papers out the window and littered the streets with confidential client
She did not smile. As soon as he was seated, she began speaking. “In a few weeks you’ll begin meeting clients of the bank. You’ll help them review the status of their portfolios, assist in administrative matters. Most likely, you will be their only contact with the bank. Our human face. I’m sure Mr. Sprecher has been teaching you how to handle yourself in such situations. It’s my job to ensure that you are aware of your obligation to secrecy.”
The second day on the job, Nick had been presented by Peter Sprecher with a copy of the country’s legislation governing bank secrecy— “Das Bank Geheimnis.” He had been forced to read it, then sign a statement acknowledging his understanding of, and compliance with, the article. Sprecher hadn’t made a single wisecrack the entire time.
“Are there any further papers I need to sign?” Nick asked.
“No. I’d just like to go over some general rules to stop you from developing any bad habits.”
“Please, go ahead.” This was the second time he’d been warned about bad habits.
Sylvia Schon clasped her hands and laid them on the desk in front of her. “You will not discuss the affairs of your clients with anyone other than your departmental superior,” she said. “You will not discuss the affairs of your clients once you leave this building. No exceptions. Not over lunch with a friend and not over cocktails with Mr. Sprecher.”
Nick wondered whether the rule of discussing the affairs of his clients only with his departmental superior would supersede the “no discussion over booze” rule but decided to keep his mouth shut.
“Be sure not to discuss any business concerning the bank or its clients over a private telephone, and never take home any confidential documentation. Another thing . . .”
Nick shifted in his seat. His eyes wandered the perimeter of her office. He was looking for some personal touch that might give him an idea about who she really was. He didn’t see any photographs or keepsakes on her desk. No vase of flowers to brighten up the office. Only a bottle of red wine on the floor next to the filing cabinet behind her desk. She was all business.
“. . . and it’s never wise to make personal notes on your private papers. You can’t be sure who might read them.”
Nick tuned back in. After a few more minutes, he felt like adding “Loose lips sink ships” or “Shh, Fritz might be listening.” The whole thing was a little dramatic, wasn’t it?
As if sensing his mental opposition, Sylvia Schon stood abruptly from her chair and circled her desk. “You find this amusing, Mr. Neumann? I must say that is a particularly American response — your cavalier attitude about authority. After all, what are rules for, if not to be broken? Isn’t that how you look at things?”
Nick sat up stiffly in his chair. Her vehemence surprised him. “No, not at all.”
Sylvia Schon perched herself on the corner of the desk nearest him. “Just last year a banker at one of our competitors
was jailed
for violating the bank secrecy law. Ask me what he did.”
“What did he do?”
“Not much, but as it turned out enough. During Fastnacht, the carnival season, it’s a tradition in Basel to turn off all the town lights until 3:00 A.M. the morning the carnival commences. During this time the Fastnachters congregate in the streets and make merry. There are many bands, costumes. It’s quite a spectacle. And when the lights are turned on, the
Stadtwohner
, the persons living in the city, shower the revelers with confetti.”
Nick kept his gaze focused. The smart-ass in the back of his mind was sitting in the corner until further punishment was handed down.
Sylvia continued, “One banker had taken home old printouts of his client’s portfolios — passed through the shredder, of course — to use as confetti. Come three o’clock in the morning, he threw these papers out the window and littered the streets with confidential client