Free Numbered Account by Christopher Reich Page A

information. The next morning, street cleaners found the shredded printouts and handed them over to the police, who were able to make out several names and account numbers.”
    “You mean they arrested the guy for using shredded portfolio printouts as confetti?” He recalled the story of the Esfahani rug weavers of Iran who had painstakingly reassembled the thousands of documents shredded by U.S. Embassy personnel in Tehran just after the shah’s fall. But that was a fundamentalist Islamic revolution. In what country did street cleaners burden themselves with the responsibility to inspect their pickings? And worse, rush to the police to report their discoveries?
    She blew the air from her cheeks. “This was a major scandal. Aachh! The fact that the papers were unreadable is secondary. It’s the idea that a trained banker violated the confidence of his clients. The man was put in jail for six months. He lost his position at the bank.”
    “Six months,” Nick repeated gravely. In a country that didn’t prosecute tax evasion as a criminal offense, half a year for throwing shredded papers out the window was a stiff sentence.
    Sylvia Schon put her hands on Nick’s chair and brought her face close to his. “I am telling you these things for your own benefit. We take our laws and our traditions seriously. You must also.”
    “I realize the importance of confidentiality. I’m sorry if I looked as if I were growing impatient, but the rules you were reciting sounded like common sense.”
    “Bravo, Mr. Neumann. That’s just what they are. Unfortunately, common sense isn’t so common anymore.”
    “Maybe not.”
    “At least we’re in agreement there.”
    Dr. Schon returned to her chair and sat down. “That’s all, Mr. Neumann,” she said coldly. “Time to get back to work.”
     
CHAPTER 5
     
    On a snowy Friday evening, three weeks after he had begun work at the United Swiss Bank, Nick made his way through the back alleys of Zurich’s old town en route to a rendezvous with Peter Sprecher. “Be at the Keller Stubli at seven sharp,” Sprecher had said when he called in at four that afternoon, several hours after failing to return to the office from lunch. “Corner of Hirschgasse and the Niederdorf. Old sign banged all to hell. Can’t miss it, chum.”
    The Hirschgasse was a narrow alley whose lopsided brickwork snaked uphill about a hundred yards from the river Limmat to the Niederdorfstrasse, the old town’s primary pedestrian thoroughfare. A few lights burned from cafes or restaurants at the top of the street. Nick walked toward them. After a few steps, he was aware of a shadow over his head. Sprouting from the wall of a pockmarked building was a bent wrought iron sign from which chipped gold leaf hung in tatters like moss from a willow. Below the sign was a wooden door with a ringed knocker and an iron window grate. A plaque buried in verdigris bore the words “
Nunc Est Bibendum
.” He ran the Latin words through his mind and smiled. “Now is the time to drink.” Definitely, Sprecher’s type of establishment.
    Nick opened the heavy door and entered a dark, wood-paneled watering hole that reeked of stale smoke and spilled beer. The room was half-empty but sported the type of seedy decor that made him think that soon it would be filled to capacity. A Horace Silver tune played wistfully from the sound system.
    “Glad you could make it,” yelled Peter Sprecher from the far end of an arolla pine bar. “Appreciate your showing at such short notice.”
    Nick waited until he reached the bar before answering. “I had to juggle my schedule,” he said wryly. He didn’t have a friend in the city and Peter knew it. “Missed you this afternoon.”
    Sprecher threw open his arms. “A meeting of great import. An interview. An offer even.”
    Nick heard at least three beers talking. “An offer?”
    “I accepted. Being a man of few principles and unrivaled greed, it was an easy decision to make.”
    Nick drummed