Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

You’re a coward, Ali. For once, he did not try to deny it.

Mevlevi shifted in his seat and asked the taxi driver how much farther to Brissago. The driver said, “Almost there.” He’d been saying the same thing for half an hour now. Mevlevi looked out the window. The foothills of the Tessin rose on either side of him. The landscape was a moribund green, similar to that of the Shouf Mountains near his home in Lebanon. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of the lake off to his left. The blue water consoled him. Italy lay on the other side.

Mevlevi sat up straighter and grimaced with pain. His left leg felt as if it were on fire. He lifted his pant leg and looked at the wound. The gash was only three inches long, but he’d been cut deeply, almost to the bone. The blood had tried unsuccessfully to coagulate. He had been moving around too much, first struggling with Peter Sprecher, then running from the hotel to a taxi stand a quarter of a mile up the road. Now the wound had suppurated. The blood had turned a chocolate black and was oozing down his leg.

Damn the leg! Concentrate on how to get yourself out of this mess!

Mevlevi considered what he must do once he reached Brissago. He knew he didn’t have much time. The swarm of policemen outside the hotel made clear the involvement of the Swiss authorities. His accounts would be frozen in a day or two. An international arrest warrant bearing his name would be issued any minute. Kaiser was probably already in jail. Who knew what he would tell the authorities?

A curious sense of detachment descended over him. The more he thought about his situation, the freer he felt. He would lose his investment in the Adler Bank as well as his shares at USB and the twenty million in cash he had deposited there only Friday. He was ruined financially. That much was patently clear. He heard his father’s voice telling him that if a man had religion he could never be bankrupt; that Allah’s love made every man rich. And for the first time in his life, he truly believed it.

Mevlevi had only one thing left to him. The successful implementation of Khamsin.

He drew a deep breath and calmed himself. Ott had promised to credit his account at USB with eight hundred million francs this morning before noon. If he could get the money wired to Marchenko before word of his own escape and Kaiser’s arrest leaked out, he could make sure he left the world with at least one lasting legacy. The destruction of the settlement of Ariel. The extermination of fifteen thousand arrogant Jews.

Mevlevi checked his watch. It was twenty minutes before twelve. He set forth in his mind the calls he would have to make. It would be more difficult without his agenda. He would have to improvise. He knew Ott’s number at USB. He knew the number of his own communications facility in Lebanon. He just needed the time to make two phone calls.

Mevlevi looked out his window. Despite the terrible pain in his leg, he smiled.

Khamsin will live!

Nick raced the Ford along the winding road. He squeezed the steering wheel and asked himself where the hell Brissago was. The map he’d found in the glove compartment gave the distance as forty kilometers. He’d been driving for over half an hour. He should be there by now. He held the car tight into a sharp curve. The wheels complained and the engine revved. He almost missed the white sign that flashed past on his right: “Brissago” with an arrow pointing to the left.

Nick took the next turnoff. The road narrowed and descended a steep hill before coming to Lago Maggiore. He rolled down the window and let in a fresh lake breeze. The air was almost warm; the day, peaceful. Fitting, he thought. It matched the reserve that had come over him since leaving the hotel in Lugano. He allowed himself no feelings for Sylvia, or for himself. He did not think of his father. He was powered by a single emotion. A pure hatred for Ali Mevlevi.

The road veered from the lake and passed through a tunnel of elm trees. The town of Brissago commenced at the other side. Nick slowed the Ford and drove along the main street. Small buildings lined the road, all with red tile roofs and whitewashed facades. The street was deserted. He passed a bakery, a kiosk, and a bank. All were closed. He remembered that many smaller towns kept their stores shuttered on Mondays until one o’clock. Thank God. In his perfect blue suit, Mevlevi would stick out like a sore thumb.

Brissago, Sprecher had said. Twelve o’clock. Main square.

Nick looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. He drove to the end of the main drag and followed the road as it turned sharply to the right. The town square opened up to his left. It was a large piazza with a modest fountain in its center. A less modest church sat at the opposite side of the square and next to it, a cafe. Perfect for those who needed something stronger than Communion wine. The lake ran along the far side of the church. Closer to him, a few old men were playing boccie ball on a small dirt court. He slowed the car, scanning the square for the Pasha. He saw an old woman walking her dog. Two kids sat around the fountain smoking cigarettes. No sign of Mevlevi.

Nick pulled into a gravel parking lot fifty yards up the road. He eased himself out of the car and walked back to the square. His approach provided no place to hide, no buildings where he might conceal himself. He was out in the open without any weapon. He’d be an easy target if Mevlevi caught sight of him. Funny, right now, he didn’t really care. He moved as if in a trance, his eyes glued to the wide-open piazza in front of him. Mevlevi might not even be here. He’d left the hotel on foot just ten minutes before Nick had arrived. He hadn’t had a car waiting. That meant he would have had to either steal a car or find a taxi.

Nick walked to the fountain and looked around. The place was as quiet as the grave. No cars approached from either direction. The old-timers playing boccie didn’t glance in his direction. He could hear the breeze whistling by, and somewhere far off a dog barking.

As quiet as the grave.

He crossed the square to the church and pushed open its massive wooden doors. He stepped inside and leaned his back against the wall. After a few seconds, his eyes grew accustomed to the dark and he looked up and down the nave, seeing if Mevlevi was seated somewhere in the pews. A few women dressed in black occupied the front rows. A priest came out of the sacristy and adjusted his clerical vestments, preparing for the midday service.

Nick left the church. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he walked to his right toward the lake, then stopped at the corner of the church. For a moment he watched the men playing boccie. Another world, he thought. He looked out at the lake, a few feet away. The surface was ruffled by a steady southerly breeze.

He decided he could keep a good eye on any activity in the square from here. He pressed his shoulder against the wall and told himself to be patient. He looked over his shoulder. There was a phone booth about ten steps away, tucked in by the walls that fronted the apse. He returned his attention to the square. A white Volvo drove by, then nothing. He checked over his shoulder again, his interest drawn to the phone booth. A man stood inside it, his back turned to him. Medium height, dark hair, navy overcoat.

Nick took a step toward the booth. The man turned and faced him, eyes opening wide.

The Pasha.

Ali Mevlevi had reached Brissago’s main square at ten minutes before twelve. He walked to the fountain and looked to all four corners, expecting Khan to show his face, then realized that his assistant had had to cover a greater distance. The extra time made Mevlevi happy. He needed to find a phone booth and call Ott in Zurich. He made a tour of the square and had just about given up when he spotted a silver booth with a yellow PTT sign pasted to its window alongside the church. He rushed to the booth and called the United Swiss Bank. Several minutes passed before the vice chairman of the bank could be located.