"Very good," said Sprecher, as if feigning impression at a simple trick. "Dare I ask if you worked here before, or did they teach you that at Harvard Bragging School? Let me add that the client's money is invested according to a strict set of guidelines established by the bank's investment committee. If you have a hot tip about the next screaming IPO on the New York Stock Exchange, keep it to yourself. Our job is to oversee the proper administration of our clients' accounts. Though our title is portfolio manager, we haven't chosen a portfolio on our own in nineteen years. Our biggest choice is whether to invest in Ford versus General Motors, or Daimler-Benz versus BMW. What we do is administer. And we do it better than anyone on God's green Earth. Got it?"

"One hundred percent," said Nick, thinking he had just heard the Swiss banker's official credo.

They passed an empty office and Sprecher said, "That was Mr. Becker's office. I trust Dr. Schon filled you in on what happened."

"Was he a close friend of yours?"

"Close enough. He joined us in FKB4 two years ago. Awful going like that. And on Christmas Eve. Anyway, you'll be taking his office once your training's through. Hope you don't mind."

"Not at all," Nick said.

Sprecher arrived at the last office on the left side of the corridor. It was bigger than the others, and Nick could see that a second desk had been moved into it. Sprecher strolled through the open door and sat down behind the larger of the two desks. "Welcome to my castle. Twelve years in grade and this is it. Take a seat. That's your place- until you learn the ropes."

The phone rang and Sprecher answered immediately, giving his family name, as was customary. "Sprecher speaking." After a moment, his eyes latched on to Nick. He lowered the phone, covering the receiver with his palm. "Be a good chap and run get me a cup of coffee, would you. Back there." He waved sloppily down the open corridor. "If you can't find it, ask somebody. Anyone will be happy to help you. Thanks."

Nick took his cue and stepped out of the office. Not exactly what he'd quit his job and moved four thousand miles across the Atlantic Ocean to do, but what the hell? Every job demanded that dues be paid. If fetching coffee was all this one entailed, he'd be a lucky man. Halfway down the hallway, he realized that he'd forgotten to ask how Sprecher wanted it. Ever the dutiful adjutant, he hustled back the short distance and tucked his head into his superior's office.

Sprecher was sitting with his head cradled in his hand, eyes staring at the floor. "I told you, George, it will take fifty thousand more to bring me over to your side of the fence. I'm not leaving for a nickel less. Call it a risk premium. You fellows are new at this sort of thing. I'm a bargain at that price."

Nick knocked on the glass wall, and Sprecher's head shot up abruptly. "What is it?"

"How do you want your coffee? Black? With sugar?"

Sprecher held the phone away from his ear, and Nick knew he was trying to figure out how much he had overheard. "George, I'll call you later. Have to run." He hung up the phone, then pointed to the chair in front of his desk. "Sit."

Nick did as he was told.

Sprecher drummed his fingers on the table for several seconds. "Are you one of those blokes always turning up where he doesn't belong? First I find you wandering about on the first floor, hanging around in front of DZ like a lost puppy. Now you come back here and stick your nose into my affairs."

"I didn't hear a thing."

"You heard plenty and I know it." Sprecher rubbed a hand along the back of his neck and exhaled wearily. "Thing is this, old boy, we're going to have to work together for the next little while. I trust you. You trust me. Understand the game? No room for tattling on each other. We're all grown-ups here."

"I understand," said Nick. "Look, I apologize for butting my head into your private conversation. You don't have to worry that I picked up something I shouldn't have. I didn't. So please, put it out of your mind. Okay?"

Sprecher smiled easily. "And even if you did, you didn't, right, mate?"

Nick refused the offer of familiarity, guarding a serious tone. "Exactly."

Sprecher pushed back his head and laughed. "You're not bad for a Yank. Not bad at all. Now get the hell out of here and bring me my coffee. Black, two sugars."

The call came that afternoon at three o'clock, just as Peter Sprecher had promised. One of their section's biggest fish; Marco Cerruti's most important client. A man known only by his account number and his nickname: the Pasha. Called every Monday and Thursday at three o'clock sharp. Never failed. More punctual than God. Or the Swiss themselves.

The phone rang a second time.

Peter Sprecher raised a finger to his mouth. "Just be quiet and listen," he ordered. "Your training officially begins now."

Nick paid close attention, curious as to what could make his boss so edgy.

Sprecher picked up the phone and placed it to his ear. "United Swiss Bank. Good afternoon." He paused and his shoulders stiffened. "Mr. Cerruti is not available."

Another pause while the other party spoke. Sprecher winced, then winced again. "I'm sorry, sir, I cannot tell you the reason for his absence. Yessir, I would be happy to provide you with information legitimizing my employ at USB. First, though, I require your account number."

He wrote a number on a blank slip of paper. "I confirm your account number is 549.617 RR." He punched in a blizzard of numbers and commands into his desktop computer. "And your code word?"

His eyes scanned the monitor. A pinched smile indicated he was satisfied with the answer. "How may I help you today? My name is Pee-ter Shprek-her." Slowly and clearly. "I am Mr. Cerruti's assistant." His brow furrowed. "My bank reference? Yes sir, my three-letter reference is S-P-C." Another pause. "Mr. Cerruti is ill. I'm sure he'll be back with us next week. Any message you'd like me to pass on to him?"

Sprecher's pen flashed across the page. "Yes, I'll tell him. Now, how may we be of service?"

He listened. A command was entered into the computer. A moment later, he relayed the information to his client. "The balance of your account is twenty-six million dollars. Two six million."

Nick repeated the sum silently while his stomach dropped to the floor below. Twenty-six million dollars. Not bad, mister. For as long as he could remember he had been living on the tightest of budgets. There had been no fat since his father had died. Pocket money in high school came from part-time jobs at a dozen fast-food joints. Expenses in college were met through scholarships and a job tending bar- even if he had been two years under age. He'd finally earned a decent paycheck in the Corps, but after sending three hundred a month off the top to his mother, he'd been left with only enough for a small apartment off base, a used pickup, and a couple of six-packs on weekends. He tried to imagine what it would feel like to have twenty-six million dollars in his account. He couldn't.

Sprecher was listening intently to the Pasha. He nodded several times while bouncing a pencil off his thigh. Without warning he erupted in a flurry of disparate movements. The phone was tucked under the chin, the chair rolled backward toward the cabinet. Elbows flew, oaths were whispered. Finally an orange file was extracted and laid upon the desk. Still unsatisfied by his exertions, he lowered his head to search, along with five busy fingers, through the second drawer of his desk. Aha! Victory at last. He had found his treasure, in this case a mint green form bearing the words "Transfer of Funds" in bold capital letters, and now he waved it over his head as if he were a newly crowned Olympic champion.