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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.”
     
CHAPTER 3
     
    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