“I’m afraid you rather startled Herr Koenig. It’s not often a three-zero account arrives without prior notice. He’s quite set in his ways, you know; the unusual ruins his day. On the other hand, it generally makes mine more pleasant. I’m Walther Apfel. Please, come in.” The bank officer released the patient’s hand and gestured toward the steel door. The room beyond was a V-shaped extension of the cell. Dark paneling, heavy comfortable furniture and a wide desk that stood in front of a wider window overlooking the Bahnhofstrasse.
“I’m sorry I upset him,” said J. Bourne. “It’s just that I have very little time.”
“Yes, he relayed that.” Apfel walked around the desk, nodding at the leather armchair in front.
“Do sit down. One or two formalities and we can discuss the business at hand.” Both men sat; the instant they did so the bank officer picked up a white clipboard and leaned across his desk, handing it to the Gemeinschaft client. Secured in place was another sheet of stationery, but instead of two blank lines there were ten, starting below the letterhead and extending to within an inch of the bottom border. “Your signature, please. A minimum of five will be sufficient.”
“I don’t understand. I just did this.”
“And very successfully. Verification confirmed it.”
“Then why again?”
“A signature can be practiced to the point where a single rendition is acceptable. However, successive repetitions will result in flaws if it’s not authentic. A graphological scanner will pick them up instantly; but then I’m sure that’s no concern of yours.” Apfel smiled as he placed a pen at the edge of the desk. “Nor of mine, frankly, but Koenig insists.”
“He’s a cautious man,” said the patient, taking the pen and starting to write. He had begun the fourth set when the banker stopped him.
“That will do; the rest really is a waste of time.” Apfel held out his hand for the clipboard.
“Verifications said you weren’t even a borderline case. Upon receipt of this, the account will be delivered.” He inserted the sheet of paper into the slot of a metal case on the right side of his desk and pressed a button; a shaft of bright light flared and then went out. “This transmits the signatures directly to the scanner,” continued the banker. “Which, of course, is programmed. Again, frankly, it’s all a bit foolish. No one forewarned of our precautions would consent to the additional signatures if he were an imposter.”
“Why not? As long as he’d gone this far, why not chance it?”
“There is only one entrance to this office, conversely one exit. I’m sure you heard the lock snap shut in the waiting room.”
“And saw the wire mesh in the glass,” added the patient.
“Then you understand. A certified imposter would be trapped.”
“Suppose he had a gun?”
“You don’t.”
“No one searched me.”
“The elevator did. From four different angles. If you had been armed, the machinery would have stopped between the first and second floors.”
“You’re all cautious.”
“We try to be of service.” The telephone rang. Apfel answered. “Yes? ... Come in.” The banker glanced at his client. “Your account file’s here.”
“That was quick.”
“Herr Koenig signed for it several minutes ago; he was merely waiting for the scanner release.” Apfel opened a drawer and took out a ring of keys. “I’m sure he’s disappointed. He was quite certain something was amiss.”
The steel door opened and the receptionist entered carrying a black metal container, which he placed on the desk next to a tray that held a bottle of Perrier and two glasses.
“Are you enjoying your stay in Zurich?” asked the banker, obviously to fill in the silence.
“Very much so. My room overlooks the lake. It’s a nice view, very peaceful, quiet.”
“Splendid,” said Apfel, pouring a glass of Perrier for his client. Herr Koenig left; the door was closed and the banker returned to business.
“Your account, sir,” he said, selecting a key from the ring. “May I unlock the case or would you prefer doing so yourself?”
“Go ahead. Open it.”
The banker looked up. “I said unlock, not open. That’s not my privilege, nor would I care for the responsibility.”
“Why not?”
“In the event your identity is listed, it’s not my position to be aware of it.”
“Suppose I wanted business transacted? Money transferred, sent to someone else?”
“It could be accomplished with your numerical, signature on a withdrawal form.”
“Or sent to another bank --outside of Switzerland? For me.”
“Then a name would be required. Under those circumstances an identity would be both my responsibility and my privilege.”
“Open it.”
The bank officer did so. Dr. Washburn’s patient held his breath, a sharp pain forming in the pit of his stomach. Apfel took out a sheaf of statements held together by an outsized paperclip. His banker’s eyes strayed to the right-hand column of the top pages, his banker’s expression unchanged, but not totally. His lower lip stretched ever so slightly, creasing the corner of his mouth; he leaned forward and handed the pages to their owner.
Beneath the Gemeinschaft letterhead the typewritten words were in English, the obvious language of the client:
Account: Zero--Seven--Seventeen--Twelve--Zero--Fourteen--Twenty-six--Zero
Name. Restricted to Legal Instructions and Owner
Access: Sealed Under Separate Cover
Current Funds on Deposit: 7,500,000 Francs
The patient exhaled slowly, staring at the figure. Whatever he thought he was prepared for, nothing prepared him for this. It was as frightening as anything he had experienced during the past five months. Roughly calculated the amount was over five million American dollars.
$5,000,000!
How? Why?
Controlling the start of a tremble in his hand, he leafed through the statements of entry. They were numerous, the sums extraordinary, none less than 300,000 francs, the deposits spaced every five to eight weeks apart, going back twenty-three months. He reached the bottom statement, the first It was a transfer from a bank in Singapore and the largest single entry. Two million, seven hundred thousand Malaysian dollars converted into 5,175,000 Swiss francs.
Beneath the statement he could feel the outline of a separate envelope, far shorter than the page itself. He lifted up the paper, the envelope was rimmed with a black border, typewritten words on the front.
Identity: Owner Access