Later, as Nick left to deliver the transfer of funds form to Pietro in Payments Traffic, he thought of the seven pages of wire instructions included in the Pasha's file and the hundreds of banks that were listed. Try as he might, he could not help himself from imagining the scope of the Pasha's activities.

Was there one bank in the world with which the Pasha did not maintain an account?

The next morning at ten A.M. sharp Nick presented himself at the door to Dr. Sylvia Schon's office. He knocked once, then entered. Apparently her assistant was either sick or on vacation, for as on the first day he had met her, the office was empty. He made some shuffling noises, then said, "Neumann here. Ten o'clock meeting with Dr. Schon."

She responded immediately. "Come right in, Mr. Neumann. Sit down. I'm glad to see that you are punctual."

"Only when it keeps me on 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 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."

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.