Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Mevlevi said he understood. Heat signatures, satellite overflies, microwave fences—they were all part of his new vocabulary. The lexicon of Khamsin.

Joseph continued. “In the afternoon, Lieutenant Ivlov delivered a lecture on target selection and the arming of the laser proximity fuses. The men grew bored quickly. They are more comfortable with their Kalashnikovs. They are all anxious to know what use they will put their training to. Ivlov demanded to know once more whether our target would be civilian or military.”

“Did he?” asked Mevlevi. Lieutenant Boris Ivlov and Sergeant Mikhail Rodenko had arrived along with the equipment two months ago. Both were burned-out veterans of the Afghan war. Trainers for hire supplied in a package deal brokered by General Dimitri Marchenko, late of the Kazakhstani Armed Forces, now president of the quasi-governmental Surplus Arms Warehouse. One of the new breed of post-cold war entrepreneurs. Like many of his country’s wares, Marchenko’s trainers were second-rate, prone to breaking down at inconvenient moments. A vodka-induced stupor had already cost two days of training. And now they were asking questions. Not good.

“Your target will be made known to you in due time,” Mevlevi said coldly. “We will not be firing blanks much longer. You can be certain of that.”

Joseph nodded his head respectfully.

“I am reluctant to inquire about the final matter,” said Mevlevi.

“Unfortunately, true. Another hornet buzzing in our nest.”

“It’s been seven months since Mong’s raid. Will the oriental bastard never let up? Not a month has passed when a traitor hasn’t been uncloaked, not a week when we haven’t had to tighten security.” Mevlevi sighed. And not a night when the promise of restful sleep wasn’t dashed by the recollection of the Asian’s aggressive gambit.

During the predawn still of a July morning, a band of warriors had infiltrated the compound. Fifteen men in all. Their task: Assassinate Ali Mevlevi. Their patron: General Buddy Mong, long Mevlevi’s most trusted business partner, commander of some fifteen thousand irregulars massed along the Thai-Burmese border. Or so Mevlevi had guessed. To this day, he did not know what had prompted the attack and so, in the tortured etiquette of the international narcotics trade, had continued to transact business with Mong on a regular basis. Truth be told he could not afford to stop. Not now.

Not with Khamsin so close to fruition.

“Let us give thanks to Allah that we have sufficient strength to guard against further incursions,” said Joseph.

“Thanks be to Allah.” Mevlevi found it difficult to avoid staring at the terrible scar that ran an unsteady course from the corner of Joseph’s right eye to the base of his jaw. The last wish of Mong’s assassins. Alone among his aides, Joseph could not be questioned as to his loyalty. The scar would not allow it.

“No mercy can be shown Mong, nor any of his minions. Bring the young Judas to me.”

Joseph spun on his heel, and walked from the room, bowing slightly before Lina, who lingered in the doorway awaiting Mevlevi’s acknowledgment.

“Lina,” Mevlevi commanded. “You will join us. Now.”

He wanted his mistress to witness this demonstration of his authority, crude as it might be. The educational powers of punishment were vastly underrated. Though, in retrospect, he had erred in the case of an old acquaintance, Cerruti the banker, who had visited him on New Year’s Day. Mevlevi had felt it necessary to extinguish an unwelcome streak of independence the banker had recently exhibited. He could not allow an underling, no matter how far removed, to believe himself capable of issuing his master unilateral instructions. The Swiss had not responded well to a brief course of negative reinforcement, unthreatening as it might have been.

And now there were more developments from the Swiss front. He scoffed at the news that the nation’s banks had entered into a secret agreement to cooperate with the DEA. Such cooperation would prove a minor headache, nothing more. But the smugness with which the American authorities had emasculated Switzerland’s banks begged defiance. And defy them he would. He would pass before the enemy’s eyes unseen, unmolested, and unscathed. The challenge invigorated him.

He took a breath to sober himself. All actions with regard to his holdings in Switzerland must be carried out with the utmost delicacy. The distant mountain democracy was the key to his ambitious plan. It contained the fuel that would power his legions.

The fuel that would ignite Khamsin.

And today, a new contact at the bank. For that he must accept at least partial responsibility. He could not suppress a chuckle at the recollection of poor Cerruti’s expression when he was brought to Suleiman’s Pool. At first, the banker had refused to believe what lay beneath the pool’s surface. He had stared into the water, eyes blinking madly while his head shook from side to side. When Joseph provided him a closer look, it had proved too much. The man had gagged, then fainted. At least the damn blinking had stopped.

Mevlevi walked into the gloom of his office and glanced at the handwritten notes on his desk. He picked up the telephone and pressed a single button programmed with the private telephone number of his partner in Zurich. A husky voice answered after the third ring. “Makdisi Trading.”

“Albert?”

“Salaam Aleikhum. Hello, my brother. What can I do for you?”

“Routine checkup. An employee of the United Swiss Bank. Name of Neumann. I don’t know the first name. Good English. He might be an American.”

“Just routine?”

“Very low-key, if you please. Keep an eye on him for a few days. Invisible, understand. Search his apartment. If necessary, we can offer an encouraging hello. But not yet.”

“We’ll start today. Call me in a week.”

Mevlevi hung up the phone and listened as the patter of Lina’s footsteps drifted into the study. “It does my eyes good to see you,” he said when she had entered the room.

“Aren’t you finished with business for the day?” Lina pouted. She was a young woman, only nineteen. A raven-haired beauty with full hips and a generous bust. “It’s nearly seven.”

Mevlevi smiled sympathetically. “Almost, cherie. One last matter to attend to. I want you to watch.”

Lina crossed her arms and said defiantly, “I have no interest watching you pass your hours on the telephone.”

“Alas, then you do not have to worry.” He stood and hugged his Lebanese tigress. She discarded her rebel’s stance and wrapped her arms around him, sighing. He had found her three months ago at Little Maxim’s, a nasty establishment in the back alleys of Beirut’s waterfront district. A discreet conversation with the proprietor had secured her services on a permanent basis. She stayed with him six nights a week and returned to her mother in Jounieh the seventh. She was a Christian, from a Phalangist family. He should be ashamed. Yet even Allah could not control the heart. And her body took him to realms he had never before discovered.

Joseph strode across the marble entryway and into his study. In front of him, head slack on a sunken chest, stood Kamal, a homely boy recruited only two months before to serve as a member of Mevlevi’s private security detail. “He was found in your study, rummaging through your private affairs.”

“Bring him to me.”

Joseph guided the teenager forward. “He has lost the will to speak.”

More likely the ability, thought Mevlevi. With a sack of ripe oranges and an extension of rubber pipe, the dark-skinned devil could make Netanyahu confess his undying love of the prophet Muhammad while leaving the fat Jew’s body unmarked.