Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“He was a punctual bastard, I’ll give him that much, your Allen Soufi.”

“And my father?”

“Alex blew the whistle. He asked too many questions. When he figured out what they were doing, he threatened to close the account. Two months after my dinner with Schweitzer, your father was dead.” Burki pointed a finger at Nick. “Don’t ever tell a man like Soufi, a professional running a very serious operation all over the world, to fuck off.”

“His name wasn’t really Allen Soufi, was it?” Nick asked, knowing the answer, but wanting to hear it, needing to have another human voice tell him he wasn’t crazy.

“What do you care?” asked Burki, pushing himself shakily to his feet. “That’s it, kid. Now get the fuck out of here and let me get on with my business.”

Nick put a hand on his shoulder and brought him back down to the ground. “I mean you said he was my Allen Soufi. You said I could call him that if I wanted to. What was his real name?”

“Cost you another hundred francs. A man’s gotta live.”

Or die. Nick pulled out his wallet and gave Burki his money. “Give me his name.”

Burki crumpled it up into his left hand. “No one you’ve ever heard of. A Turkish thug. Mevlevi was his name. Ali Mevlevi.”

Beneath her cosmopolitan fringe, Zurich kept hidden a mantle of brooding solitude and introspection that was, in fact, her true self. A devotion to commerce that bordered on pious, an attention to community that ran to the intrusive, a worship of self that one could only call vain: all these conspired during the week to mask her spinster’s heart. But on a midwinter Sunday, when those with families retreated to the familiar confines of stolid churches and cozy kitchens, and those without cosseted themselves in a comfortable nook of their comfortable apartment, her streets were left bare and her buildings stripped of their pretentious facades. With a soft gray sky as witness, Zurich let down her veil of pomp and prosperity, and shed a single tear. And Nick, walking through the silent streets, glimpsed her lonely nature and smiled inwardly, for he knew it was his own.

He had come to Switzerland to uncover the circumstances surrounding his father’s death. He had forsaken his every moral precept to learn what his father had done to unknowingly precipitate his own murder. Yet now, having put flesh on a framework of conspiracy and deceit, he felt none of the emotions that should crown so difficult a journey. His neck didn’t bristle with rage at the crimes of which Wolfgang Kaiser was guilty. His back didn’t stand straighter for having put Mevlevi’s face to Allen Soufi’s name. And worse, his heart had unleashed no secret reservoir of filial pride as the nobility—or was it merely obstinacy?—of his father’s resistance came to light. In all, he felt neither triumph nor relief, just a cold determination to put an end to this game, once and for all.

Nothing meant a goddamm thing if he didn’t stop Ali Mevlevi.

Nick stood at the center of Quaibrucke. A crust of ice extended unbroken over the Lake of Zurich. The paper said it was the first solid freeze since 1962. A chill breeze grazed his cheeks and took with it his private melancholy. He turned his thoughts away from himself and concentrated on the Pasha, and how after tomorrow Ali Mevlevi would no longer be a force in this world. Nick felt a warm glow in the core of his stomach at the prospect of cutting short his reign of terror, and he knew it was his striving self coming back to the fore. He banished his doubt and his sorrow to a faraway place, wishing he could destroy them forever, but knowing at the same time that they were a part of him, no matter how strong he willed himself to be, and that he had to live with them as best he could.

Nick knew then that the world had changed for him. He wasn’t fighting for his father anymore. Alex Neumann was dead. Nothing he could do would bring him back. Nick was fighting for himself. For his life.

Soon, he was thinking only about the Pasha. About the pearly smile and the dismissive laugh. About the serpent’s eyes and the confident swagger.

He wanted to kill the man.

Early that evening, Nick climbed the familiar path to Sylvia Schon’s home. The road was shorn of ice, and he made good time up the hill. Too good, in fact, for soon he found himself shortening his steps, trying to delay his arrival at her doorstep. Since yesterday afternoon, he had been plagued by a festering doubt concerning Sylvia’s true nature. Why had she helped him locate his father’s files? Was it because of her affection for him? Had she found deep inside her a need to see justice done, even if it was for a perfect stranger who had died almost two decades ago? Or had she been the Chairman’s spy? Keeping tabs on Nick’s every move inside the Emperor’s Lair? Helping Kaiser for reasons he knew all too well?

He didn’t have the answers to any of his questions, and he dreaded finding out. To ask was to admit suspicion, and if he was wrong he would destroy the trust that acted as the foundation of their relationship. “Trust,” he heard Eberhard Senn, the Count Languenjoux saying. “It’s the only thing left in this world.”

Nick kept returning to the voice he had heard on Sylvia’s answering machine Friday night. The gruff, demanding voice that he was sure belonged to Wolfgang Kaiser. He would have to ask Sylvia straight out if she had told Kaiser about Schweitzer. Yet, he already knew that her words alone could not convince him. He had to hear the tape.

Nick was greeted at the door to her apartment with a kiss on the cheek and a grand smile. For the first time, part of him wondered how much of her welcome was for real.

“How was your father?” he asked, stepping inside the warm hallway.

“Lovely,” Sylvia answered. “Curious about who I’m spending my time with. He was interested to hear about my new beau.”

“You have a new beau? What’s his name?”

Sylvia wrapped her arms around him and stood on her tiptoes so that her eyes almost matched his. “I can’t remember offhand. He’s a cocky American. Some might say too much for his own good.”

“Sounds like a bum. Better dump him.”

“Maybe. I haven’t decided yet if he’s the right man for me.”

Nick chuckled as expected of him. It was difficult keeping up an easy going front. His mind kept returning to Kaiser’s office, to the moment when the Chairman had flogged his colleague of thirty years with the barbed accusations of being a spy for the Adler Bank. He asked himself for the hundredth time how Kaiser could have known about Schweitzer’s treachery. For the hundredth time, he came up with the same answer, and he hated himself for it.

“Take off your jacket,” said Sylvia, leading him by the hand into the living room. “Stay awhile.”

Nick unfastened the belt of his jacket and slipped it from his shoulders. He tried to keep from looking at her, wanting to guard a distance between them, but she had never looked more beautiful. She wore a black cashmere turtleneck, and her wheat-colored hair was pulled back into a ponytail. Her cheeks were flushed red. She looked radiant.

Sylvia took the jacket from him and put a hand to his cheek. “What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”

Nick lowered her hand from his cheek and stared into her eyes. He had rehearsed the lines a hundred times, but suddenly his mouth was empty of words. This was more difficult than he’d expected. “Yesterday afternoon I was with the Chairman. There was a group of us: Ott, Maeder, Rita Sutter. There was a crisis atmosphere around the place—every problem magnified to three times its real size, everyone at each other’s throats. Armin Schweitzer was brought in and questioned about the tips the Adler Bank had received. You know, the phony information about which of our shareholders were still undecided.”