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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.
    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