Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“November 12, 1936.”

“Present address?”

“It is in the passport. On the third page.”

Wenker made no move to pick up the passport. “Address?”

Mevlevi scooped up the passport and read off the address. “Satisfied?”

Wenker kept his head lowered and painstakingly filled out his precious form. “Years at this address?”

“Seven.”

“Seven?” Sharp blue eyes peeked out from behind the thin spectacles. A strand of blond hair fell across his brow.

“Yes, seven,” Mevlevi insisted. His leg was killing him. Suddenly, he was unsure. He swallowed hard and rasped, “Why not seven?”

Wenker smiled. “Seven is fine.” He returned his attention to the paper resting in his lap. “Occupation?”

“Import and export.”

“What exactly do you import and export?”

“I concentrate on precious metals and commodities,” said Mevlevi. “Gold, silver, the like.” Hadn’t Kaiser told him a damned thing? This drab functionary was beginning to get on his nerves. Not the questions, so much, but the decidedly nasty tinge to his voice.

“Income?”

“That is none of your concern.”

Wenker removed his eyeglasses from the bridge of his nose. “We do not sponsor wards of the state to immigrate to Switzerland.”

“I hardly qualify as a ward of the state,” Mevlevi objected loudly.

“Of course not. Regardless, we must have—”

“And who said anything about immigrating?”

Wenker slapped the stack of forms onto the coffee table. He lifted his chin, ready to deliver a stern rebuke. “Mr. Neumann told me specifically that you wished to purchase property in Gstaad in order to establish a permanent residence in this country. While on certain occasions we make exceptions for the granting of a Swiss passport, permanent residence is an absolute requirement. Are you, or are you not, planning on maintaining a permanent residence in Switzerland?”

Ali Mevlevi coughed, then poured himself a glass of mineral water from a bottle set upon the table. He preferred a country where a bent official at least had a little respect. “I misunderstood you. Mr. Neumann was absolutely correct. I shall be making Gstaad my principal residence.”

Wenker sat lower in his chair. He offered Mevlevi a starched smile while he scribbled away at his form. “Income?”

“Five hundred thousand dollars per annum.”

Wenker raised his eyebrows. “Is that all?”

The Pasha stood up, his face flushed and his lips quivering. “Isn’t that enough?”

Wenker remained unruffled. His pen slid across paper. “That is enough,” he said to his questionnaire.

Mevlevi grimaced and returned to his seat. He sensed his wound tear. A warm trail of blood inched down his leg. Just a little longer, he told himself. Then you can walk to the telephone, call Gino Makdisi, and find out what you already know—that your precious cargo is safely across the border and that Nicholas Neumann is dead.

Wenker glanced offhandedly at his wristwatch and then returned his attention to the form spread across his lap. He cleared his throat noisily. “Communicable diseases?”

Remo jerked his head into the cabin of the truck. His eyes played between Joseph and Franco. “They are checking every truck,” he said. “No one is getting a free pass.”

“Calm down,” Joseph ordered, as much for his nerves as theirs. “Listen, both of you. Everything is going as planned. Who gives a good goddamn if they are checking manifests? Maybe they do it every Monday morning. We’ve got our man in the far right booth. He is looking for us. Relax and we’ll get through this.”

Remo looked out the window. The peaks of the Swiss Alps loomed before them like a distant gray specter. “I am not going back inside,” he said. “Three years was enough.”

Two trucks separated them from the probing eyes of the customs inspectors. All incoming vehicles were forced to pass under a broad portico designed primarily to measure the height of freight carriers entering Switzerland. A small office built from sturdy blue steel sat to the right of each lane. A customs inspector, walkie-talkie in hand, stood next to each office, waving the next trucks forward.

Joseph scanned the booths and beyond. He felt his shoulders tighten. Ten police cars were parked on the shoulder of the highway about two hundred yards up the road. Why so much firepower for a simple bust? he wondered. Three men and a lousy truck. What were they expecting? An army?

The gasoline tanker in front of them roared forward, belching exhaust.

Remo considered the empty space in front of his rig.

Joseph nudged him in the ribs. “Go on. Don’t make us look conspicuous.”

Remo eased his foot onto the accelerator, and the truck groaned forward, foot by foot.

The customs inspector jumped onto the running board of the gasoline tanker directly in front of them. He thrust his head inside its cabin and emerged a moment later, cargo manifest in hand. He used the antenna of his walkie-talkie to skim the manifest. He was a tall, thin man wearing a green jacket. He had unruly brown hair and pitted cheeks. He shot a casual glance at their rig, and Joseph spotted the dark rings under his eyes. Sterling Thorne looked as crappy as ever.

Thorne returned the manifest to the driver of the truck currently in bay and directed his attention toward the blue Magirus eighteen-wheeler bearing British license plates and a white TIR tag, next in line. He raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth and issued what appeared to be heated instructions.

Franco shot forward in his seat, pointing a finger at Thorne. “He eyeballed us. He’s got us picked out already.”

“Keep calm,” said Joseph. He could feel the tension ratcheting up inside their cabin.

“I saw it, too,” said Remo. “The fucker at the booth. He’s got us pegged. Christ, it’s a setup. They know exactly what they’re looking for and it’s us.”

“Keep your mouths closed,” shouted Joseph. “We’ve got nowhere to go but forward. There’s no other way out. We are holding a legitimate manifest. We are transporting a legitimate cargo. It would take a genius to find our merchandise.”

Remo stared at Joseph. “Or a tip.”

Franco kept his arm pointed at Sterling Thorne. “The cop at the booth. He took one look at our rig and scrambled his team. And look! Look up there! They got ten cruisers ready for us.”

“You’re wrong,” said Joseph. “They’re not scrambling anything.” He had to keep these losers calm until they didn’t have any other choice but to give up peacefully. Get the truck under the portico. Just another minute or two. “Just sit back and shut up.”

At that moment, both rearview mirrors lit up with revolving red and blue lights. A brace of police cars drew up twenty yards in back of them. The tanker ahead was waved through. When it cleared the portico, a team of twelve policemen rushed forward forming a tight phalanx behind Sterling Thorne. Each policeman wore dark blue body armor and brandished a blunt submachine gun.

“We’re screwed,” said Remo, hysteria cracking his voice. He was rocking off the steering wheel like a hyperactive child. “I told you. No more unpaid vacations. I can’t go back.”

“Listen to me,” Joseph pleaded. “We have to call their bluff. That’s our only chance of getting out of here.”

“There is no chance of getting out of here,” exploded Remo. “Someone has set a trap and we’re the catch.”

Joseph thrust a finger into Remo’s chest. “We have two tons of my boss’s merchandise sitting in the back of this rig. I won’t allow us to lose it because your nerves can’t stand a little heat. We are not caught until they slam the cuffs on our wrists.”