Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

The desk was overturned. Annual reports and assorted papers were strewn across the floor. The closet was open, every suit chucked onto the carpet. The dresser drawers had been emptied, then discarded. Shirts, sweaters, and socks were everywhere. His bed rested on its side, the worn mattress lying askew, sheets and blankets tangled up in each other. The bathroom was no better. The mirror on the medicine cabinet was shattered, the tile floor littered with broken glass.

Nick saw all of this in a moment.

And then he spotted his holster. It lay in the far corner of the room cached beside the bookshelves. A gleaming black leather triangle. Empty. Side arm missing.

Nick stepped inside the apartment and closed the door behind him. Calmly, he began sorting through his clothing, hoping to feel the hard plane of his gun’s rectangular snout or the stubble of its crosshatched grip. Nothing. He picked up a T-shirt here, a sweater there, praying to catch a glimpse of the dull blue-black sheen of the Colt Commander. Nothing. He grew frantic. He shuffled around the apartment, running his hands along the floor. He lifted the mattress and threw it across the room. He upended the bed frame. Nothing. Shit!

Abruptly, something strange caught his eye. A pile of books lay next to the desk arranged sloppily like a kind of unlit bonfire. In the center of this pile sat a textbook from business school—a large book, Principles of Finance by Brealy and Myers. Its cover was open; the pages had been ripped from its spine. Nick picked up another textbook. It had received a similar trashing. He selected a paperback, The Iliad, his father’s favorite. Its soft covers were bent backward and its pages fanned. He dropped it on the floor.

Nick stopped searching. He stood up straight, alone in his silent apartment. Mevlevi had been here—or one of his men—and he’d been looking for something specific. What?

Nick checked his watch and with a start saw that a half hour had passed. It was 6:35. He had ten minutes to shower, shave, and put on clean clothes. The limo was scheduled to arrive at 6:45. He was due at the Dolder at seven. He grabbed two dirty dress shirts, fell to his knees, and swept the bathroom floor of glass. Finished, he balled them up and threw them into his closet. He stripped and stepped gingerly across the tile floor. He took a navy shower—thirty seconds under freezing cold water. He shaved in record time, ten swipes of the razor, to hell with anything left over.

Outside, a car honked twice. He brushed back a curtain. The limousine had arrived.

Nick walked to his overturned desk, grabbed two of its legs, and brought it onto its side. He ran a hand along each leg, seeking a small indentation he had made a few weeks ago. He found it, then unscrewed the round metallic foot at its base. He inserted the tips of his right thumb and forefinger delicately into the leg. He felt the tip of a sharp object and breathed easier. He grasped the metal blade and withdrew the knife. His marine issue K-Bar. Jack the Ripper. Serrated on one side, razor sharp on the other. Years ago, he had wrapped athletic tape around its handle to reduce any slippage. The tape was stained with age, mottled with sweat and dirt and blood.

Nick rummaged through the debris scattered on the bathroom floor until he found a roll of similar tape. He used it to keep the brace he wore on his right knee in place when he exercised. Working quickly, he cut four strips of tape and laid them on the table’s edge. Then he picked up the knife and pressed it flat (handle down) against a damp patch of skin below his left arm. One by one, he grabbed the lengths of tape and secured the K-Bar to his body, but not too tightly. A firm downward tug would free the knife. The ensuing motion would rip out a man’s guts.

Nick flitted through his scattered belongings looking for some clean clothes. He came up with a shirt and suit just back from the laundry. Despite their mistreatment, they were relatively unwrinkled, and he put them on. One tie remained in his closet. He grabbed it, then bolted from the apartment.

Inside the limousine, Nick checked his watch over and over again. Morning traffic was heavy, slower than it had ever been. The black Mercedes rolled past Bellevue and climbed the Universitatstrasse. It mounted the Zurichberg and passed through the forest. The dovecote tower of the Dolder Grand appeared high above his left shoulder. His heart beat faster.

Calm down, he told himself. You’re on.

Nick forced himself to wait until the limousine had made a full stop before opening the door. He was livid with himself for being late. Only ten minutes—but today timing was everything. He climbed the maroon carpeted stairs two at a time and rushed through the revolving door. He spotted the Pasha at once.

“Good morning, Nicholas,” the Pasha said quietly. “You’re late. Let’s make a quick start. Mr. Pine, the night manager, informs me that snow may be on the way. We do not want to be caught at the Gotthardo in a blizzard.”

Nick advanced a step and shook Mevlevi’s hand. “There shouldn’t be any problem. The St. Gotthard tunnel is always open, even in the worst conditions. The driver assures me we should have no problems making it to Lugano in time. The car has four-wheel drive and chains.”

“It will be you helping to attach the chains, not me.” Mevlevi smiled, then climbed into the backseat of the limousine, nodding once to the chauffeur, who manned the rear door.

Nick followed suit, allowing the chauffeur to shut the door behind him. He was determined to be the perfect functionary. Polite, amiable, never intrusive. “Do you have your passport and three photos?” he asked the Pasha.

“Of course.” Mevlevi handed Nick both. “Have a look. Friends of mine at British Intelligence passed it along to me. They tell me it’s the real thing. The Brits prefer to use the Argentinean variety. Add a little salt to open wounds. I chose the name myself. Clever, don’t you think?”

Nick opened the Argentinean passport. It was the same one used at International Fiduciary Trust in Zug on Friday, issued in the name of one Allen Malvinas, resident of Buenos Aires. Home to El Oro de los Andes. “Didn’t you say that you had lived in Argentina?”

“Buenos Aires. Yes, but only briefly.”

Nick handed the passport back without further comment. Soufi, Malvinas, Mevlevi. I know who you are.

Mevlevi slipped the passport into his jacket pocket. “Of course, it’s not the only name I’ve ever used.”

Nick unbuttoned his jacket, and his arm brushed against the forged steel blade. He smiled to himself. And you know I know.

An early-morning silence enveloped the car as it sped through the Tal Valley. The Pasha appeared to be sleeping. Nick kept one eye on his watch and the other on the passing scenery. The sky had faded from its earlier pale blue to a paler, watery gray. Still, no snow fell, and for that he was grateful.

The Mercedes hummed along nicely for another hour, its powerful engine sending a comforting vibrato through the chassis. The sleek automobile passed through the quaint lakeside village of Kussnacht before climbing onto a narrower road that followed the steep northern rim of the Vierwaldstatter See toward the St. Gotthard Pass. A few low-lying clouds blanketed the lake. From Nick’s vantage point high above its misty surface, he had the impression of a schooner’s mainsail torn by a hurricane wind into a thousand tattered strips. It made him think of a shipwreck. If he were a superstitious man, he would consider it a bad omen. Seconds later the car passed into the first of a series of isolated showers, and the lake was lost from view.

At the same time that Nick was passing through Kussnacht, Sylvia Schon tucked the telephone under her chin and dialed the Chairman’s home number for the fourth time. The line connected immediately. The phone rang and rang and rang. Twenty-seven times she allowed it to sound before banging the receiver into its cradle. Tears of frustration streamed down her face. Twice during the night, she had crept from her bed to call. Neither time had there been an answer.