Numbered Account (75 page)

Mevlevi looked out his window. Despite the terrible pain in his leg, he smiled.

Khamsin will live!

Nick raced the Ford along the winding road. He squeezed the steering wheel and asked himself where the hell Brissago was. The map he’d found in the glove compartment gave the distance as forty kilometers. He’d been driving for over half an hour. He should be there by now. He held the car tight into a sharp curve. The wheels complained and the engine revved. He almost missed the white sign that flashed past on his right: “Brissago” with an arrow pointing to the left.

Nick took the next turnoff. The road narrowed and descended a steep hill before coming to Lago Maggiore. He rolled down the window and let in a fresh lake breeze. The air was almost warm; the day, peaceful. Fitting, he thought. It matched the reserve that had come over him since leaving the hotel in Lugano. He allowed himself no feelings for Sylvia, or for himself. He did not think of his father. He was powered by a single emotion. A pure hatred for Ali Mevlevi.

The road veered from the lake and passed through a tunnel of elm trees. The town of Brissago commenced at the other side. Nick slowed the Ford and drove along the main street. Small buildings lined the road, all with red tile roofs and whitewashed facades. The street was deserted. He passed a bakery, a kiosk, and a bank. All were closed. He remembered that many smaller towns kept their stores shuttered on Mondays until one o’clock. Thank God. In his perfect blue suit, Mevlevi would stick out like a sore thumb.

Brissago,
Sprecher had said.
Twelve o’clock. Main square.

Nick looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. He drove to the end of the main drag and followed the road as it turned sharply to the right. The town square opened up to his left. It was a large piazza with a modest fountain in its center. A less modest church sat at the opposite side of the square and next to it, a cafe. Perfect for those who needed something stronger than Communion wine. The lake ran along the far side of the church. Closer to him, a few old men were playing boccie ball on a small dirt court. He slowed the car, scanning the square for the Pasha. He saw an old woman walking her dog. Two kids sat around the fountain smoking cigarettes. No sign of Mevlevi.

Nick pulled into a gravel parking lot fifty yards up the road. He eased himself out of the car and walked back to the square. His approach provided no place to hide, no buildings where he might conceal himself. He was out in the open without any weapon. He’d be an easy target if Mevlevi caught sight of him. Funny, right now, he didn’t really care. He moved as if in a trance, his eyes glued to the wide-open piazza in front of him. Mevlevi might not even be here. He’d left the hotel on foot just ten minutes before Nick had arrived. He hadn’t had a car waiting. That meant he would have had to either steal a car or find a taxi.

Nick walked to the fountain and looked around. The place was as quiet as the grave. No cars approached from either direction. The old-timers playing boccie didn’t glance in his direction. He could hear the breeze whistling by, and somewhere far off a dog barking.

As quiet as the grave.

He crossed the square to the church and pushed open its massive wooden doors. He stepped inside and leaned his back against the wall. After a few seconds, his eyes grew accustomed to the dark and he looked up and down the nave, seeing if Mevlevi was seated somewhere in the pews. A few women dressed in black occupied the front rows. A priest came out of the sacristy and adjusted his clerical vestments, preparing for the midday service.

Nick left the church. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he walked to his right toward the lake, then stopped at the corner of the church. For a moment he watched the men playing boccie. Another world, he thought. He looked out at the lake, a few feet away. The surface was ruffled by a steady southerly breeze.

He decided he could keep a good eye on any activity in the square from here. He pressed his shoulder against the wall and told himself to be patient. He looked over his shoulder. There was a phone booth about ten steps away, tucked in by the walls that fronted the apse. He returned his attention to the square. A white Volvo drove by, then nothing. He checked over his shoulder again, his interest drawn to the phone booth. A man stood inside it, his back turned to him. Medium height, dark hair, navy overcoat.

Nick took a step toward the booth. The man turned and faced him, eyes opening wide.

The Pasha.

Ali Mevlevi had reached Brissago’s main square at ten minutes before twelve. He walked to the fountain and looked to all four corners, expecting Khan to show his face, then realized that his assistant had had to cover a greater distance. The extra time made Mevlevi happy. He needed to find a phone booth and call Ott in Zurich. He made a tour of the square and had just about given up when he spotted a silver booth with a yellow PTT sign pasted to its window alongside the church. He rushed to the booth and called the United Swiss Bank. Several minutes passed before the vice chairman of the bank could be located.

Mevlevi held the phone to his ear, praying that word of the police action in Lugano had not yet filtered back to Zurich. He would know the instant he heard Ott’s voice.

“Ott,
Guten Morgen
.” The voice was its usual officious self. Thanks be to Allah.

“Good morning, Rudolf. How are you today?” Mevlevi asked in his most casual voice. The Swiss could smell desperation miles away, even over the phone. Something in their blood.

“Mr. Mevlevi, a pleasure. I imagine you are calling regarding your loan. Everything is in order. We’ve credited the entire amount to your new account.”

“Wonderful news,” said Mevlevi. He realized some small talk was mandatory. “And Konig’s announcement this morning, how did your staff take it?”

Ott laughed. “Why, terribly, of course. What do you expect? I’ve been at the floor of the exchange since eight. Everyone and their aunt is scrambling to get their hands on shares of USB. The professionals seem to think it’s a done deal.”

“It is a done deal, Rudolf,” Mevlevi said confidently, marveling at his own capacity for bullshit. “Rudy, I’ve had a small problem this morning. My briefcase has been stolen. You can imagine what I had in it. All my account numbers, phone numbers, even my cellular. I’ve had to get away from this wretched government functionary, Wenker, just to call.”

“They can be terrible,” Ott agreed unctuously.

Mevlevi said, “I need a favor, Rudy. I had wanted to transfer that entire amount to a colleague first thing, but I don’t have his account number with me any longer. I was wondering if I gave him my account number and my password, you know, “Ciragan Palace,’ as always, if he could give you the coordinates of his bank.”

“What is his name?”

“Marchenko. Dimitri Marchenko. A Russian colleague.”

“Where will he want the money transferred?”

“The First Kazakhi Bank of Alma-Ata. I believe you have a correspondent relationship with them. He’ll give you the details.”

“How will we know it is him?”

“I’ll phone him right away. I’ll give him my code words. Ask him the name of his baby. It is Little Joe.”

“Little Joe?”

“Yes. And Rudy, make the transfer urgent.” Mevlevi didn’t dare say more. He heard Ott repeat the details as he wrote them down. Ott’s mind was fixed on the chairmanship of the new USB-Adler Bank. He wouldn’t let the small matter of a slightly irregular transfer ruin his budding relationship with his new boss.

“I see no problem
. . . Ali
. Have Mr. Marchenko call me in the next few minutes and I’ll personally take care of it.”

Mevlevi thanked him and hung up the phone. He inserted three five-franc pieces into the phone and dialed a nine-digit telephone number. He could feel his heart beating faster. All he needed to do was to give the general his account number and password.

Mevlevi heard the connection go through and the phone ring once, then twice. A voice answered. He ordered the soldier manning the desk to find Marchenko immediately. He tapped his foot, waiting to hear the Russian’s smoky voice.

Marchenko came onto the line. “
Da
? Mevlevi? This is you?”

Mevlevi laughed easily. “General Marchenko. I am so sorry to keep you waiting. We’ve had a small change in plan.”

“What?”

“Nothing serious, I assure you. The entire amount is in my account. Problem is I’ve misplaced
your
account number at the First Kazakhi Bank. I’ve just spoken with my bank in Zurich about the problem. They would like you to call them and give them the account information. You’ll be speaking with Rudolf Ott, the vice chairman of the bank. He’s asked me to tell you my account number and my code words. Please give him your name and tell him your baby is named Little Joe. He’ll make the transfer directly afterward.”

Marchenko paused. “You’re sure this is correct?”

“You must trust me.”

“All right. I will do as you ask. But I will not program the baby until the money is in our account. Understood?”

Mevlevi breathed easier. He had done it. He had brought Khamsin to fruition. The flush of triumph warmed his chest. “Understood. Now do you have a pencil?”

“Da.”

Mevlevi looked out at the lake. What a glorious day! He smiled, then turned and looked back into the square.

Nicholas Neumann stood ten feet away staring directly at him.

Mevlevi met his gaze. For a second his throat tightened and the number of the account he had acquired Friday from the International Fiduciary Trust escaped his recall. But a moment later, his voice grew firm. The number was etched clearly in his mind. At that moment, he knew that Allah was with him.

“My account number is four four seven . . .”

Nick slammed open the door of the phone booth. He grabbed Ali Mevlevi by the shoulders and threw him into the steel and glass wall, then stepped into the booth and delivered a single hammer-like blow to the stomach. The Pasha doubled over, the phone tumbling from his hand. Christ, it felt good to have a go at this monster.

“Neumann,” grunted Mevlevi. “Give me the phone. Then I’ll go with you. I promise.”

Nick brought his fist across Mevlevi’s jaw and felt a knuckle crack. The Pasha slid down the wall, his hands fumbling for the receiver. “I give up, Nicholas. But please, I must speak with that man. Don’t hang up.”

Nick grabbed the receiver and brought it to his ear. An irritated voice said, “What is the account number? You’ve only given me—”

Mevlevi cowered in the corner.

Nick looked at him and saw a frightened old man. A large measure of his hate had been spent. He could not kill him. He would call the police, summon Sterling Thorne.

“Please, Nicholas. I’d like to speak with the man on the phone. Just a moment.”

Before Nick could respond, Mevlevi was up, coming at him. He’d lost his fragile mien. He held a small crescent-shaped knife in his hand and with it he slashed viciously at Nick’s belly. Nick jumped backward, parrying the blow with his left hand, and pinned the attacking arm to the glass wall. With his right hand, he whipped the phone cord around Mevlevi’s neck, using the metal coil as a garrote. Mevlevi’s eyes bulged as the cord was pulled tight. Still he didn’t drop the knife. His knee fired into Nick’s groin. Sonuvabitch had plenty of fight left in him. Nick swallowed the pain. He gave the cord a ferocious tug, pulling Mevlevi off his feet. He felt a distinct snap.

Mevlevi wilted. His larynx was crushed, his esophagus blocked. He collapsed to his knees, eyes blinking wildly as he fought to draw in a breath. The opium harvester’s knife clattered to the floor. He brought both hands to his neck, trying to dislodge the cord fastened around his neck, but Nick held it firm. Time passed. Ten seconds, twenty. Nick stared at the dying man. He felt only a grim determination to end his life.

Suddenly, Mevlevi bucked. His back arched and in a last mad paroxysm, he crashed his head three times against the wall, cracking the glass. Then he was still.

Nick unwrapped the cord from his neck and brought the receiver to his own ear.

The same irritated voice asked, “What is the account number? You have given me only three digits. I need more. Please Mr. Mev—”

Nick hung up the telephone.

Above him, the church bell tolled the midday hour.

Moammar al Khan drove his rented white Volvo slowly past the town’s main square desperately searching for his master’s figure. The square was empty. The only people he saw was a group of old men gathered near the lake. He flicked his wrist and checked the time. It was exactly twelve o’clock. He prayed that Al-Mevlevi had been able to reach Brissago. It pained him to see his master in such difficulty. Betrayed by one so close to him. Chased from this country as if he were a common criminal. The Western Infidel knew no justice!

Inshallah. God is great. Bless Al-Mevlevi.

Khan turned the car around and drove back past the square. He continued down the main street hoping to see his master. Maybe he had misunderstood his instructions. Khan arrived at the entrance to Brissago, then decided to drive back to the square and find a place to park. He would go stand near the fountain so that Al-Mevlevi would not miss him when he arrived.

Khan checked his rearview mirror for any traffic following him. The road was clear. He spun the wheel and directed the Volvo back through the small town. He slowed once again as he passed the square, even rolling down his window and craning his neck outside. He saw no one. He accelerated down the straightaway toward a gravel car park about a hundred yards ahead. On the other side of the road, a man was limping slowly toward the car park. Khan turned his head and looked at him. It was Nicholas Neumann.

Khan shot his eyes to the road in front of him, then realized that Neumann had never seen him. Neumann should be dead. If he was here it could only mean that he knew of Al-Mevlevi’s plan to escape across the border. But why had he come alone? The Arab’s neck grew taut. To kill Al-Mevlevi, of course.