executives who lost these deposits to the competition. Glancing one more time into the file, before closing it and pushing it across his desk with finality, Brugger pointed out that the account balance was marginally higher than Ackermann’s previous upper limit, the tacit implication being that its management could be taken as – if not quite a promotion – then as an increase in status.
Grateful for the opportunity, Ackermann set about preparing the necessary papers, meticulously observing his beloved procedures, so that, when he met with Thomas Clayton all would be ready to hand. Disclaimers, indemnity releases, fiduciary agreements and of course the account opening forms – with instructions, mandates and signature cards. He then reserved one of the premium conference rooms and instructed Alicona to be at Fifth-Floor Reception at 11.10 sharp.
At ten-thirty Clayton walked out of the Baur au Lac, having settled his account. Once again he walked the length of Bahnhofstrasse, determined to argue as forcibly as necessary yet aware that by simply denying all knowledge the bank could call his bluff.
Accounts that lay dormant for years had a way of going into suspension for a while, before being absorbed as patrimony of a bank. He knew banks in America that would keep them alive for five years or so, then re-assign them with a different number for a further decent period and eventually, if no claimants were forthcoming, use the proceeds to massage the bank’s balance sheet at will. And it was well known that Swiss banks were the supreme beneficiaries of such bonanzas. Many depositors were so secretive about their Swiss nest-eggs that often, after their untimely demise, nobody would be any the wiser as to the fund’s existence. Every time a Third World despot encountered sudden death, a few more million rang up on the Bahnhofstrasse’s tills. Each time a war shook any corner of the planet, and the leaders of the losing side paid with their lives, their ill-gotten gains quietly found their way into the coffers of an Alpine wonderland.
Without the old bank statement and the account number, Tom knew his chances would have been poor to non-existent. With them, however, the bankers would have to assume he knew more than he really did. That’s what he would assume, in their place. If the money had remained untouched since 1944, it would probably have gone into suspension by 1950 at the latest, with no interest paid thereafter. If they acknowledged the account, he would not accept that stance. He would demand interest, ask for 4 per cent compounded annually, and haggle down, a quarter of one per cent at a time, to settle at three million. Then he would call Interflora and order an obscenely large wreath of flowers, the sort you can buy only in New York or LA, to be placed on his grandfather’s grave. In that positive frame of mind he entered the large building near Paradeplatz and took the lift to the fifth floor, to be greeted by a smiling Alicona.
This time he was ushered in a different direction. The conference room they entered was clearly of a different status, he observed immediately: the kind that all banks had for valued clients. Gone were the recessed, diffused-light fittings. Here were chandeliers. The plush pile carpets had given way to Persian rugs, and the conference table had twelve chairs round it. Ackermann was already standing as they entered the room, a semblance of a smile – at least by Ackermann standards – on his lips, his right arm extended in welcome.
Clayton’s heart leapt: it had to be at least three million.
As they took their seats around the gleaming mahogany table, Tom noticed the neatly placed files. The name Thomas D. Clayton was already printed on the covers.
‘I am pleased to tell you, Mr Clayton,’ said Ackermann opening the meeting affably, ‘that we have been able to complete all our procedures within the short period which you requested.’ He said it as if congratulations were
Grateful for the opportunity, Ackermann set about preparing the necessary papers, meticulously observing his beloved procedures, so that, when he met with Thomas Clayton all would be ready to hand. Disclaimers, indemnity releases, fiduciary agreements and of course the account opening forms – with instructions, mandates and signature cards. He then reserved one of the premium conference rooms and instructed Alicona to be at Fifth-Floor Reception at 11.10 sharp.
At ten-thirty Clayton walked out of the Baur au Lac, having settled his account. Once again he walked the length of Bahnhofstrasse, determined to argue as forcibly as necessary yet aware that by simply denying all knowledge the bank could call his bluff.
Accounts that lay dormant for years had a way of going into suspension for a while, before being absorbed as patrimony of a bank. He knew banks in America that would keep them alive for five years or so, then re-assign them with a different number for a further decent period and eventually, if no claimants were forthcoming, use the proceeds to massage the bank’s balance sheet at will. And it was well known that Swiss banks were the supreme beneficiaries of such bonanzas. Many depositors were so secretive about their Swiss nest-eggs that often, after their untimely demise, nobody would be any the wiser as to the fund’s existence. Every time a Third World despot encountered sudden death, a few more million rang up on the Bahnhofstrasse’s tills. Each time a war shook any corner of the planet, and the leaders of the losing side paid with their lives, their ill-gotten gains quietly found their way into the coffers of an Alpine wonderland.
Without the old bank statement and the account number, Tom knew his chances would have been poor to non-existent. With them, however, the bankers would have to assume he knew more than he really did. That’s what he would assume, in their place. If the money had remained untouched since 1944, it would probably have gone into suspension by 1950 at the latest, with no interest paid thereafter. If they acknowledged the account, he would not accept that stance. He would demand interest, ask for 4 per cent compounded annually, and haggle down, a quarter of one per cent at a time, to settle at three million. Then he would call Interflora and order an obscenely large wreath of flowers, the sort you can buy only in New York or LA, to be placed on his grandfather’s grave. In that positive frame of mind he entered the large building near Paradeplatz and took the lift to the fifth floor, to be greeted by a smiling Alicona.
This time he was ushered in a different direction. The conference room they entered was clearly of a different status, he observed immediately: the kind that all banks had for valued clients. Gone were the recessed, diffused-light fittings. Here were chandeliers. The plush pile carpets had given way to Persian rugs, and the conference table had twelve chairs round it. Ackermann was already standing as they entered the room, a semblance of a smile – at least by Ackermann standards – on his lips, his right arm extended in welcome.
Clayton’s heart leapt: it had to be at least three million.
As they took their seats around the gleaming mahogany table, Tom noticed the neatly placed files. The name Thomas D. Clayton was already printed on the covers.
‘I am pleased to tell you, Mr Clayton,’ said Ackermann opening the meeting affably, ‘that we have been able to complete all our procedures within the short period which you requested.’ He said it as if congratulations were
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