Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Where were you, Wolfgang Kaiser, at three o’clock on a Sunday morning?

Sylvia stalked into the kitchen and rummaged through her drawers for a cigarette. She found a crushed pack of Gauloises and pulled one from the wrinkled blue sheath.

She puffed madly on the harsh cigarette, desperate to rid her apartment of Nick’s lingering scent. I’m not betraying you, she explained to his memory. I’m saving myself. I could have loved you. Can’t you understand that? Or are you too wrapped up in your personal crusade to notice that I have one of my own? Don’t you know what will happen if Kaiser is arrested? Rudolf Ott will take over. Ott—my rival for the Chairman’s affection. Ott—who tried his best to deny me my chance to move up. It’s him, Nick. He’s the one responsible.

Sylvia acknowledged a pang of guilt but wasn’t sure who it was for. For Nick. For herself. Anyway, it didn’t matter. She had chosen her path a long time ago.

Sylvia stubbed out her cigarette and checked her watch. Another ten minutes until Rita Sutter arrived in the office. She was like a clock, Kaiser had said. In at 7:30 on the dot every day for the past twenty years. His most obedient servant. Rita Sutter would know where to find the Chairman. He didn’t do anything without telling her.

Sylvia pinched the bridge of her nose and shuddered, suddenly nauseated from the unfiltered nicotine. She consulted her watch yet again. And though it was eight minutes too early, she picked up the phone and called the Emperor’s Lair.

The road had assumed a gentler incline. It rose along the icy banks of the river Reuss and wandered up a majestic valley leading deep into the craggy heart of the Swiss Alps. Nick glanced out the window, numb to the beauty around him. He was keeping his fingers crossed it would not snow, wondering where Thorne was right now. He prayed that Kaiser had left Zurich on time to make his eleven o’clock meeting with the count. A sign for Altdorf flashed past and then ones for Amsteg and Wassen, these last small villages made up of a dozen stone houses sitting alongside the highway.

Approaching the village of Goschenen, Ali Mevlevi asked the chauffeur to leave the highway so that he might stretch his legs. The driver obliged, following the next exit off of the highway and driving into the center of a picturesque village, where he halted the automobile next to a gurgling water fountain. All three men climbed out.

“Look at the time,” the Pasha said, making an elaborate show of examining his wristwatch. “At this rate we’ll arrive an hour ahead of schedule. Tell me once again what time our meeting is set for.”

“Ten-thirty,” answered Nick, instantly on edge. He hadn’t foreseen any stops. This was supposed to be the express train. Nonstop intercity.

“Ten-thirty,” Mevlevi repeated. “We have over two hours. I do not wish to sit in an overheated room twiddling my thumbs waiting for this flunky. I can promise you that right now.”

“We can phone Mr. Wenker, the man from the passport office, and ask him to meet us earlier.” Nick had dreaded the prospect of being late. So much so, in fact, that he had never stopped to consider what might happen if they were early.

“No, no. Best not to disturb him.” Mevlevi appraised the gray sky. “I have another idea. I say we take the old route over the top. I’ve never been through the pass itself.”

Over the top? That was insane. It was a skating rink up there.

“The road is extremely dangerous,” Nick said, trying to keep a docent’s steady tone. “Steep, curvy. There’s likely to be quite a bit of ice. It’s not a good idea.”

A shadow crossed the Pasha’s brow. “I think it is a wonderful idea. Ask the driver how long it will take.”

The chauffeur, who had been casually smoking a cigarette by the water fountain, volunteered an answer. “With no snow, we can be up and down in an hour.”

“See, Neumann,” the Pasha said enthusiastically. “One hour. Perfect! We can add a little scenery to the trip.”

A shrill warning bell sounded in Nick’s head. He gazed at the dramatic panorama. The Alpine valley rose steeply on both sides of them, its walls lined with outcroppings of rock and stands of snow-covered pines. Jagged peaks of a dozen lesser mountains stared down through swirling mist and cloud. He had never seen a more spectacular vista. Yet now the Pasha wanted to see even more “scenery.” Out of the fucking question!

“I have to insist that we stay on the highway. The weather can change suddenly in the mountains. By the time we reach the pass, we could be trapped in a blizzard.”

“Neumann, if you knew how rarely I leave my arid little country, you would gladly allow me this pleasure. If we keep Mr. Wenker waiting a little, so be it. He won’t mind—not for the fee Kaiser is undoubtedly paying him.” Mevlevi walked to the chauffeur and clapped him on the back. “Can we make it to Lugano by ten-thirty, my good man?”

“No problem,” came the driver’s answer. He crushed the cigarette under his boot and adjusted his cap.

Nick smiled nervously at the Pasha. Tardy arrival to the meeting with Mr. Wenker of the Swiss Passport Office was a luxury they simply did not possess. The entire plan depended on precise timing. Nick and the Pasha were due at 10:30. And at 10:30, they must arrive.

He opened the car door, pausing for a final breath of air before climbing in. Mevlevi had planned this detour. The chauffeur was one of his. Had to be. No one in his right mind would drive on the old road to the Gotthard Pass in this weather. A midwinter ascent was folly. The road would be icy and ungroomed. Worse, the weather was threatening. It could begin snowing at any second.

Mevlevi strode to the automobile. Before climbing inside, he looked Nick in the eye and tapped the roof of the car twice. “Shall we go then?”

Sylvia Schon screamed at the female operator manning the bank switchboard, “I don’t care if the line is busy. Put me through on another extension. This is an emergency. Do you understand?”

“Mrs. Sutter is occupied on the telephone,” the operator explained patiently. “You may call back later. Auf Wiederhoren.”

The line went dead.

Exasperated but not defeated, Sylvia found a new dial tone and tried the Chairman’s secretary for the third time. Finally, she heard the clipped ringing she so desired.

“Secretariat Herr Kaiser, Sutter.”

“Mrs. Sutter,” Sylvia began, “where is the Chairman? I must speak with him at once.”

“I take it this is Fraulein Schon,” answered a cold voice.

“Yes,” Sylvia responded. “Where is he?”

“The Chairman is out. He cannot be reached until this afternoon.”

“I must know where he is,” Sylvia blurted. “It’s an emergency. Please tell me where I can find him.”

“Of course,” Sutter answered, ever formal. “You may find him in his office this afternoon at three P.M. Not before. May I be of service to you?”

“No, dammit. Listen to me. The Chairman is in danger. His safety and his freedom are in jeopardy.”

“Calm yourself, young lady,” Rita Sutter ordered. “What do you mean by ‘in danger’? If you wish to help Herr Kaiser, you must tell me. Or would you prefer to speak with Dr. Ott?”

“No!” Sylvia pinched her arm to remain calm. “Please, Mrs. Sutter. Please, Rita. You have to believe me. You must tell me where I can reach him. It’s for the good of us all that I find the Chairman.”

I’m sorry, Nick, she explained to the persistent shadow that would not leave her shoulder. This is my home. My life.

Rita Sutter cleared her throat. “He will be back in the office this afternoon at three o’clock. Good-bye.”