Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Nick didn’t know. But he needed someone to find him in a hurry. He didn’t have gloves or an overcoat. He could survive a few hours, maybe until night. Longer than that he couldn’t guarantee. His leg was already stiffening. Left without any treatment, it would freeze up and he would be incapable of moving it. He required medical attention, someone to swab out the wound and dress it with sulfa and gauze bandages. Most of all, he needed a car to go after the Pasha. He would not allow the sonuvabitch to get away.

Nick heard the screeching of the car’s tires as it made its way around the last hairpin turn. The engine fired more confidently as the incline lessened. He rolled to his right so that he could place his left leg under himself. Thousands of shredded nerve endings ignited. Tears came to his eyes. And then he froze. He asked himself who else would be so foolish to come up this road in the dead of winter, braving a wild snowstorm? Was it just some adventurous tourist? Or a local so familiar with the roads that even near whiteout conditions did not daunt him? He didn’t think so. Odds were it was a chase car sent by Gino Makdisi to clean up after his business partner.

Nick turned over the situation in his mind. He had to allow the driver to find him. If it was a local, he’d be safe and on his way in a few minutes. If it was a cohort of Mevlevi’s, the solution might be messier. One thing was certain: he needed a car to follow Mevlevi.

Nick ran his hands over the asphalt searching for a stone or rock that he might be able to use, if necessary. The lot was scattered with loose gravel. Spotting a decent-size rock—probably a piece of granite from the underlying rock strata—he pulled himself a few feet to his left and grabbed hold of the stone. Then he scooted back to where he had fallen. He ran his hand through the puddle of blood and wiped it across his white shirt. After only a few passes, even he was sickened by the gory sight. His shirt was pasty and crimson—like his father’s, the last time he had seen him.

Nick laid down on the ground as the car forded the crest of the mountain. He rested his cheek on the asphalt and focused his eyes on an iron safety pylon intermittently visible through the swirling snow. Keeping his gaze thus directed, he couldn’t see what type of car it was that was approaching so slowly. Only that it was red. He tensed as the headlights brushed his eyes. He thought they flashed to bright, then returned to normal but could not be sure. The engine died, and the car came to a halt at the edge of his peripheral vision.

A door opened. Steps approached. Nick kept his eyes glued to the iron pylon. Dead man’s stare. He breathed shallowly. It was hard as hell, seeing as how his heart was doing at least a hundred a minute. He was scared and powerless. He waited for a second door to open, but the sound didn’t come. Whoever was standing ten feet away from him had come alone.

The steps recommenced. A shape took form in his periphery. Medium-size man. Dark clothing. Approaching cautiously. Why don’t you say something? Nick asked himself. Ask me how I am, if I’m alive. He tightened his grip on the rock cupped beneath his hand. The man took another step. Now he was leaning over Nick’s body. He jabbed a foot into Nick’s lower back.

Definitely not a local.

Nick kept his gaze on the pylon. His eyes itched terribly, and he needed to blink. Still, no voice. The man bent down lower. Nick knew he was staring at his bloody shirt and sizing up his lifeless gaze. Any second now he’d put his hand in front of Nick’s mouth and feel the warm breath, and then he’d know. The face was directly above him. Nick smelled expensive cologne. Could almost make out the features. Gray beard, closely cropped. Thick eyebrows.

Then Nick saw the hat. The man held it in his right hand, which had fallen directly in front of Nick’s eyes. It was a rugged, dark green affair. A pinsel brush extended from its band.

An Austrian mountain guide’s hat.

Nick snapped his head to the right and stared into the surprised face of his gentleman stalker. The man yelped. But before he could rise, Nick’s hand arced through the air, delivering the stone to his cheek. The man gasped, then tumbled onto his side, unconscious. He held a snub-nosed revolver in his left hand.

Nick sat up and stared at the damaged face. He had no doubt it was the same man who had pursued him up the Bahnhofstrasse four weeks ago. He could practically see the cocky smirk the man had offered him that night in Sprungli. He picked up the gun and put it in his pocket, then rummaged through the man’s pockets. No wallet. No cellular phone. No car keys. Just a few hundred francs in currency.

Nick leaned to his right and drew his left leg under him. Somehow his anger had lessened the pain. Grimacing, he stood, then limped to the car. A Ford Cortina. The keys were in the ignition. Thankfully it was an automatic. He leaned into the driver’s seat, peering around the interior for any sign of a first-aid kit or a telephone. He opened the glove compartment and checked inside. Nothing. A hump on the console behind the rear seat gave him hope. He hobbled backward and opened the passenger door. Lowering himself to the rear seat, he opened the small compartment and found an unused first-aid kit. Inside was adhesive tape, gauze, Mercurochrome, and aspirin. Not bad for a start.

Fifteen minutes later, Nick had cleaned and bandaged his leg. The stalker lay on his side, immobile. Probably had a fractured cheek and a few broken teeth. That would be the least of his problems once he’d discovered he’d been left up here without a car. Nick took a survival blanket from the first-aid kit and threw it at the prostrate form. The Mylar blanket would keep him warm enough until he figured out a way down. Nick might even call the police later and report a pedestrian stranded at the St. Gotthard Pass. Then again, he might not. Right now, though, he had more important matters to tend to.

Nick moved to the front door of the Ford and lowered himself delicately into the driver’s seat. He would have to drive with his left leg. He started the engine. The gas tank was three-quarters full. He checked his watch: 10:30. The Pasha was thirty minutes ahead of him.

Time to fly.

Ali Mevlevi arrived at the Hotel Olivella au Lac at 10:40. The weather was clear and cool, hazy sunshine pushing its way through a thin stratus of cloud. The temperate Mediterranean winds that lapped against the southern wall of the Alps brought to the Tessin mild, comfortable winters, not altogether different from those of Lebanon. In Zurich, it was said, you spent the winter huddled behind the double-paned windows of overheated offices, while in Lugano you buttoned up your sweater and took only a single espresso outdoors in the Piazza San Marco. Certainly, that was the case today—but there would be no time for espresso.

Mevlevi slammed the front door of the limousine and walked deliberately into the hotel, taking care to conceal his limp. He had wrapped his leg with a bandage he had found in the limousine’s first-aid kit. It would hold until he could get to a proper doctor and have the ugly gash stitched up. He approached the reception area and asked the clerk in which room he could find Mr. Yves-Andre Wenker. The clerk checked the register. Room 407. Mevlevi offered his thanks and directed himself to the elevators. He clenched his jaw, biting back the pain. One thought consoled him. By now, Neumann should be buried deep in the mountain snow, his disappearance to be solved only by a late spring thaw. There is no nobility in being honest and dead, Nicholas. That is a lesson you should have learned from your father long ago.

Mevlevi took the elevator to the fourth floor. He found Room 407 and rapped twice on the door. One lock disengaged, then a second. The door swung open revealing a tall gentleman in a gray pinstripe suit. He wore pince-nez spectacles and had the terminal stoop and begrudging squint of a deskbound clerk.