Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“Jester?”

“Alive. The contraband was lost in the arrest. Burned up.” Thorne dragged a thumb across his sooty cheek and held it up for inspection. “That’s about the only thing left of it. But we have our tie to Mevlevi nonetheless. Thanks to you, we finally managed to get the Swissies’ cooperation. Kaiser’s going down. Your colleague Mr. Feller says he was here but stopped to take a call in the lobby from a Miss Schon. Must’ve been a warning because he never came up. We can’t find him anywhere. The Swiss won’t issue an APB until formal charges have been filed.”

Nick let the mention of Sylvia’s name pass right through him. He’d have plenty of time later to tell himself what a fool he’d been. “I thought you said they were cooperating.”

Thorne shrugged. “In fits and spurts. Mevlevi is one thing. Wolfgang Kaiser another. Right now I’m taking what I can get.”

Nick started toward the open door. He felt incredibly sad. The whole plan had fucked up. The police hadn’t gotten Mevlevi or Kaiser. “I want to see my friend.”

“Go ahead. The ambulance is on its way, so hurry it up.”

Peter Sprecher lay on the floor of the large salon. He was conscious. His eyes were open, darting around the room. Bath towels had been placed under his shoulder. A police officer sat beside him, keeping pressure on the wound in an effort to stanch the bleeding. Nick eased himself to the floor, sure to keep his right leg extended, and relieved the officer of his duty.

Sprecher lifted his head and gave the weakest of laughs. “Didn’t get you either?”

“No, he didn’t.” Nick kept his hand firmly on Sprecher’s shoulder. “How are you, chum?”

“I may be taking a smaller jacket size. But, I’ll live.”

Nick was worn out. “Well, we tried.”

“I diddled him as long as I could. Had to come up with a dozen excuses. It wasn’t easy. I couldn’t help but imagine what had happened to you. When he got word his shipment had been taken down, that was that. He wanted out.”

“You did good, Peter. Real good.”

Sprecher smiled slyly. “I did better than that, chum.” Wincing, he lifted himself from the floor and whispered, “I know where he’s gone. Didn’t want to tell Thorne. Tell you the truth, I never trusted him. Five minutes earlier and he’d have gotten the Pasha.”

Nick leaned closer, putting his ear to Sprecher’s lips.

“I heard Mevlevi talking on the phone. He didn’t know I spoke his lingo. Brissago. Main square in an hour. He’s meeting someone there. Pissant of a town, smack on the Italian border.”

“It’s eleven-thirty right now. When did he leave?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. You just missed him, schmuck.”

“And Kaiser? A no-show?”

“Don’t know where the Chairman was. Ask Feller. They’ve already taken him out of here. Mevlevi pistol-whipped the poor chap. Bleeding worse than I was. Don’t tell him, but I think he saved my life. Now go on. Get out of here. Find Mevlevi and give him my best regards.”

Nick took his friend’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I’ll find him, Peter. And don’t worry, I’ll let Mevlevi know just how you feel about him. You can count on it.”

Sterling Thorne was waiting for Nick at the doorway.

“Neumann, before we pack you off to the hospital with your buddy, I wanted to share something we found in Mevlevi’s briefcase.”

“What is it?” Nick wasn’t going to any hospital. At least not yet. And he was in no mood to stand around shooting the shit. Every second put more distance between him and the Pasha. Every second lengthened the odds of his capture.

Thorne handed him a sheaf of papers attached at the upper-left-hand corner by a gold paper clip. Three words in bold Cyrillic script ran across the top of the page. The documents were addressed to Mr. Ali Mevlevi, address a post office box in Beirut. Below Mevlevi’s name, written in English, was a devil’s lexicon of modern armaments. Aircraft, helicopters, tanks, missiles. Quantities, prices, availability dates.

Despite his impatience, Nick could not help but give the pages his utmost attention. “This list includes a battlefield nuclear weapon. Who the hell is selling this stuff?”

Thorne scowled. “Our new Russian allies, who else? Do you have any idea what Mevlevi can do with this?”

“Didn’t you say he had a private army?”

“I said ‘private army,’ as in half-assed militia. There’s a dozen of those already in Lebanon. This here constitutes enough firepower for the First Marine Division. I don’t even want to think of what Mevlevi would do with a nuke. I’ve been on the horn to Langley. I imagine they’ll get in touch with the Mossad.”

Nick studied the sheets. He could practically feel the tumblers fall into place as his mind unlocked this one last puzzle. Why did the Pasha want to fund a takeover of the United Swiss Bank? Why had he peopled the Adler Bank with Middle Eastern executives? Why his urgency to get Gino Makdisi’s forty-million-dollar prepayment? Why had he come all the way to Zurich?

Nick sighed. Because the Adler Bank wasn’t good enough for him. Because the Pasha needed USB as well. Because he required the combined cash and securities held by both banks to buy his Easter basket of shit-hot, state-of-the-art weaponry. God only knew to what use he’d put them.

Nick handed back the papers to Thorne. “Sprecher told me something that might interest you. He thinks he knows where Mevlevi’s headed.”

Thorne cocked his head, sniffing the air as if he had the scent of his prey. “He didn’t mention it to me.”

Nick considered telling Thorne the truth, then thought the better of it. If he wanted to pursue Mevlevi, he had to move Thorne out of the way. Thorne would insist Nick go to the hospital directly. Or he’d say that Nick was a civilian, something about how Thorne couldn’t allow his life to be endangered. Bottom line: Thorne would do anything to have Mevlevi to himself.

And so would Nick.

“Peter thought you might have been responsible for the screwup. I set him straight. Told him that you didn’t know Mevlevi was on to me.” Nick paused, allowing Thorne to dangle a little longer.

“Goddammit, Neumann. Where in the hell did he say Mevlevi was heading?”

“Porto Ceresio. It’s east of here, on the Italian border. But don’t run off, I’m coming with you.”

Thorne shook his head. He was already reaching for his walkie-talkie. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you aren’t going anywhere with that leg. You stay put until the ambulance gets here.”

Nick decided more resistance was needed. “You’re not leaving me here. I gave you this information. Mevlevi tried to kill me. It’s personal now. I want a shot at him.”

“Exactly why you’re staying here. I want Mevlevi alive. Dead he does us no good whatsoever.”

Nick lowered his head and muttered to himself, as if exhaustion had won him over. He raised an arm in protest, then allowed it to drop.

“Thanks for your help, Neumann, but you’re better off getting yourself patched up.” Thorne brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “We’ve got word on where Mevlevi is heading. I’ll be downstairs in a minute. Get us a couple squad cars as escort. Some podunk town called Porto Ceresio. Call the local authorities. Tell them we’re heading over. Ya hear?”

Ali Mevlevi sat in the backseat of a speeding taxi, furious about the loss of his briefcase. It held everything: his agenda containing all his banking information—accounts, code words, phone numbers; a copy of the weaponry he had purchased from Marchenko; and most important, his cellular phone. He had always liked to think of himself as being calm in the face of danger, but now he knew that was not the case. He was a coward. Why else had he lived his life holed up in a fortified compound in a lawless land? Why else hadn’t he chased after Neumann and made sure that he was dead? Why else had he fled the hotel before he wrested the briefcase from that maniac Sprecher’s grip? Because he was afraid, that’s why.