Finally, Wolfgang Kaiser drew a labored breath and rose to his feet. "Gentlemen, a word. If you please."

The bankers drew themselves to attention.

"We are all hoping that our cooperation with the international authorities will be at once brief and uneventful. Mr. Thorne clearly has some unsavory characters in mind when he speaks of going elephant hunting. 'Rogue males' and all that." Kaiser's blue eyes smiled as if to say that he too had seen some interesting customers over the years. "But I am confident that none shall be counted among our esteemed clientele. The foundations of this bank were built upon fulfilling the commercial requirements of the honest businessmen of this country. Over the years, the services we offer to our countrymen, and to the international community, have grown more diverse, more complex, but our commitment to working exclusively with honorable individuals has never wavered."

A collective nodding of heads. Nick's fellow bankers appreciated their Chairman's affirmation of the bank's innocence in any unseemly matters.

Kaiser pounded his fist on the table. "We have no need now, nor shall we ever, to seek profit from the bitter fruit of illegal and immoral commerce. Please go back to your posts confident in the knowledge that while Mr. Thorne may search far and wide for his rogue males, he shall never find what he is looking for within the walls of the United Swiss Bank."

And with that, Kaiser marched from the room. Maeder and Schweitzer followed on his heels like two overgrown acolytes. The assembled bankers milled around for a few minutes, either too shocked or too stunned to say much. Nick maneuvered through their ranks toward the tall doors. He walked out of the boardroom and down the hallway. He shared an elevator with two men he didn't know. One was telling the other that the whole thing would blow over in a week. Nick was only half listening to them. He kept replaying Wolfgang Kaiser's words over and over again. "… while Mr. Thorne may search far and wide for his rogue males, he shall never find what he is looking for within the walls of the United Swiss Bank."

Were they a statement of fact or a call to arms?

"The terms of our surrender," Peter Sprecher declared the following day as he threw a copy of a memorandum entitled "Internal Account Surveillance List" onto his desk. "Issued by Yankee Doodle Dandy, no less."

"Well, we're safe," said Nick, after studying his own copy of the memorandum. "None of the accounts on this list belong to FKB4."

"It's not us I'm worried about," said Sprecher, jamming a cigarette into the corner of his mouth. "It's the bank. It's the whole bloody industry."

The list had arrived earlier that morning, delivered personally by a cheerful Armin Schweitzer. Despite the Chairman's spirited defense of his customers' good names, four numbered accounts belonging to clients of the United Swiss Bank had made their way onto the list.

" 'Any transactions made for benefit of an account listed above must be reported immediately to Compliance, extension 4571,' " Nick read aloud. "This should keep Schweitzer busy."

"Busy?" Sprecher rolled his eyes. "The man has died and gone to heaven. No more niggling over documents without the proper dual signature, no more quibbling over violation of margin requirements. Armin has hit the big time. A servant of Honesty and Decency, with capital letters. He's answering the call of his nation's government to ensure that our gentlemen's agreement is honorably enforced. Am I the only one here who feels a dire urge to scream?"

"Calm down," said Nick. He wondered if honesty and decency were resident members of the Swiss pantheon, or just visiting. "It certainly beats the alternative."

"The alternative? What's that? Self-immolation."

"Federal legislation mandating cooperation. An act making our voluntary collaboration a matter of public record."

Sprecher circled Nick's desk like a predatory hawk. "Since 1933, we have managed to guard the integrity of our banks. Sixty-five years and now this. An abomination is what it is. A fucking disaster. Yesterday our bank's position with regard to queries about a client's identity and the activity in his account was unyielding. A brick wall. Without a formal federal warrant signed by the president, no information, not even the most inconsequential sliver, would be forwarded to an inquiring party. Not to General Ramos seeking restitution of the billions purloined by the Family Marcos, not to your Federal Bureau of Investigation looking to tamper with the working capital of a certain group of Colombian businessmen, and definitely not to a band of overzealous Zionists howling for the repatriation of funds deposited by their relatives prior to the Second World War."

"It is exactly that intransigence that led to this situation," argued Nick.

"Wrong," shouted Sprecher. "It is that intransigence that built our reputation as the finest private bankers in the world." He jabbed a finger in Nick's direction. "And don't you forget that. Granite, Neumann, not sandstone."

Nick raised his hands above his head. He took no pleasure in defending Sterling Thorne's point of view.

"Anyway, it'll be your problem soon enough," Sprecher said all too quietly. "I'll be departing the premises in ten days."

"Ten days? What about your quitting notice? You're here at least until April 1."

Sprecher shrugged. "Call it a divorce American style. I'm here until Wednesday next. Thursday and Friday, I'll be taken ill. Nothing grave, thank you. Just a dizzy spell or a spot of flu. Feel free to take your pick if anyone should ask. Between you, me, and the fly on the wall, I'll be at Konig's place. Two-day seminar for new employees. I'm to start the following Monday."

"Jesus Christ, Peter. Give me a break. The Indians are circling the fort and you're tunneling out of here."

"As I recall, the Alamo boasted a very low survival rate. Not a sound career move."

Nick stood and looked Sprecher squarely in the eye. "And what if-"

"The Pasha? Won't happen. I mean, how many clients does the bank have? And after all, according to you he's just a successful international businessman with a crackerjack accounting department. Still, if ever such a situation did present itself, you'd be wise to consider the consequences before acting rashly."

"Consequences?" Nick asked, as if he had never heard the word before.

"To the bank. To yourself." Sprecher loped from the office. "I'm off to the tailor. New job, new suits. Back by eleven. You're on duty this morning. If any new clients arrive, Hugo will phone from downstairs. Take good care of them."

Nick waved good-bye distractedly.

Eight days later, Nicholas Neumann, only son of a slain Swiss banker, former marine lieutenant, unofficially promoted portfolio manager, and if his roster was correct, morning duty officer, arrived at his desk at five minutes past seven o'clock. The office was still dark, as were most of the offices on either side of the ambling corridor that cut a crooked swath through the center of the second floor. Closing his eyes, he flicked on the overhead lights. The intrusion of the fluorescent light never failed to bring back memories of a bad hangover. He walked to the employee pantry, where he hung up his damp overcoat, then laid a plastic bag carrying a freshly laundered dress shirt on top of the coat rack. The clean shirt was for that evening's engagement: dinner with Sylvia Schon at Emilio's Ristorante. Sprecher's words about her plans for him had never really faded. He was looking forward to the dinner more than he cared to admit.

Nick made himself a cup of hot tea, then took a waxed paper sack out of his pocket: breakfast- a pain au chocolat fresh out of the oven from Sprungli. Cup in hand, he returned to his desk to study the Neue Zurcher Zeitung 's financial pages and check on the status of the stock markets in Tokyo, Hong Kong, and Singapore.