Sprecher placed the phone to his mouth and took a deep breath before speaking. "I confirm that you wish to transfer the entire amount currently in the account, twenty-six million U.S. dollars, to the schedule of banks as listed per matrix three."

The orange file was opened, consulted, then a five-digit operational code entered into the computer. Sprecher studied the screen as if he had discovered the Rosetta stone. "Twenty-two banks are listed. I will note that the transfer is to be urgent. The money is to be wired out before the end of business this day. Without fail. Yessir, I am aware that you have my bank reference. Not to worry. Thank you, sir. Good-bye, sir."

With a sigh, Sprecher laid the phone in its cradle. "The Pasha has spoken. So shall his will be done."

"Sounds like a demanding client."

"Demanding? More like dictatorial. Know what his message to Cerruti was? 'Get back to work.' There's a good chap for you." Sprecher laughed as if he couldn't believe the client's gall, but a moment later his features darkened. "It's not his manner that bothers me. It's his voice. Bloody cold. No emotion whatsoever. Like a man without a shadow. This is one client whose orders we follow to a T."

Nick was thinking that he wanted nothing to do with this difficult client. Let Cerruti handle him. Then he remembered the few words of Sprecher's conversation he had overheard earlier. 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. If, in fact, Sprecher had been talking about leaving the bank, it might fall to Nick to handle the Pasha in Cerruti's absence. The thought made him sit up a little straighter.

Sprecher asked, "Did you pay attention to the procedure I followed?"

Nick said he had. "No information given to the client until an account number is received and the account holder's identity confirmed."

"Bravo. That is step one, and I might add, the most important one."

"Step two, remove the client's dossier from that filing cabinet."

Turning his chair, Sprecher dragged a finger across the files visible in the open drawer. "The dossiers are filed in numerical order. No names, remember. Inside are his exact wire instructions. The Pasha uses this account strictly as a temporary way station. Money gets wired in at ten or eleven in the morning. He calls at three to check that it's here, then tells us to get rid of it by five."

"He doesn't keep any money on deposit here?"

"Cerruti whispered about him having over two hundred million at the bank- in shares and in cash. I've looked like hell for it, but Cerberus won't reveal a lick of information, will you, darling?" Sprecher patted the top of the gray computer monitor. "Uncle Peter doesn't have high enough clearance."

"Cerberus?" Nick asked.

"Our management information system. Guards our client's financial information like the three-headed hound at the gates to hell. Each employee has access only to those accounts the proper fulfillment of his job demands he see. I can look at the accounts in FKB4, but no others. The Pasha may have two hundred million dollars stashed away, but someone somewhere"- Sprecher jabbed a thumb toward the ceiling, indicating the Fourth Floor, where the top executives of the bank resided-"doesn't want me to see it."

"Do the Pasha's transfers always involve such a large sum?" Nick's curiosity was piqued by the likelihood, however remote, that one day he'd be on the receiving end of that phone call.

"Same instructions twice each week. The amounts vary but are never less than ten million. The highest I've seen in eighteen months was thirty-three million. Scoot your chair over here and let's look at his account together. The Pasha has set up seven matrices, each of which specifies the amounts we are to wire- as a percentage of the total sum in the account- and the institutions where they're to go. Look here: matrix three." Sprecher slid the orange file closer to Nick and peeled back the pages, stopping at a pink sheet. "We type each matrix on a different color sheet for easy differentiation. Matrix one is yellow, two is blue, three is pink. Cerberus has them all memorized, but we always double-check with the hard copy. Procedure."

Nick ran a finger along the list of banks: Kreditanstalt, Vienna; Bank of Luxembourg; Commerz Bank, Frankfurt; Norske Bank, Oslo. A numbered account was listed next to each bank. Nowhere on the paper was there an individual's name. "He's certainly well traveled."

"The money is, that's for sure. The Pasha chooses a different matrix each time he calls, and never in order. He skips around. But his instructions are always the same. Confirm the balance of his account. Transfer the entire amount to anywhere from twenty-two to thirty-three financial institutions around the world."

"I guess I shouldn't ask who he is, or why he's transferring his money through a maze of banks."

"And you'd be correct in that presumption. Don't get into any bad habits. All we need is another…" Sprecher exhaled. "Forget it."

"What?" Nick bit his tongue a second too late.

"Nothing," said Sprecher curtly. "Just do as you're told and remember one thing: We're bankers, not policemen."

" 'Ours is not to reason why,' " said Nick wryly. He'd meant it as a joke, but somehow in this office it sounded all too serious.

Sprecher clapped him on the back. "A quick learner, indeed."

"Let's hope so." Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, his father's stern voice reminded him. Become one of them.

Sprecher turned his attention back to the transfer of funds slip. He filled in the necessary information rapidly. When he was done, he checked the time, wrote it on the sheet, and finally signed it. "The Pasha requires our immediate and undivided attention. Therefore, it has become our practice to walk the sheet down to Payments Traffic in order to personally deliver it to Pietro, the clerk responsible for international transfers. When the Pasha says 'Urgent,' he means urgent. Come on, I'll show you where you'll be going every Monday and Thursday afternoon at three-fifteen."

After work, Peter Sprecher invited Nick to join him for a beer at the James Joyce pub, a popular watering hole for bankers and insurance executives, owned and operated by one of the United Swiss Bank's larger rivals, the mighty Union Bank of Switzerland. The pub was dark with low ceilings, lit by faux gas lamps and decorated with brass fixtures. Pictures of turn-of-the-century Zurich covered the walls.

Sprecher sat Nick in a corner booth and after quaffing an entire beer, began talking about his twelve years at the bank. He had started as a trainee fresh out of university, not so different from Nick. His first assignment had been a position on the trading floor. He'd hated it from day one. Every trader was held accountable for gains and losses in the investment "book" he managed, be it the Swiss franc versus the dollar, Iowa pork belly contracts, or South African platinum futures. That wasn't for him, he happily admitted. Private banking was where he belonged. The days were hardly pressure filled. Success was determined by your ability to massage the client, to convince him that a four percent annual return really wasn't something to fret about- and the bank took the heat for any poorly advised investments. It was heaven!

"The secret to this game," he pronounced, "is to reckon exactly who your key clients are. The big fish. Take good care of them and everything else will fall into place."

Sprecher hoisted a beer, sure to guard Nick's eye. "Cheers. To your future at USB!"

Nick departed after a third beer, saying he was still jet-lagged from his flight over Friday night. He left the bar and walked the short distance up the Bahnhofstrasse to the Paradeplatz. It was only seven-fifteen, yet the streets were quiet. Few people passed in either direction. The stores were closed, their expensive wares lit only by dim night-lights. Waiting for the tram, he felt as if he were defying a curfew or the last man standing after some terrible pestilence. He stood shivering, bundled tightly in his too thin overcoat. A solitary figure in a foreign land.