Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“He is in the pay of Mong,” said Joseph. “He has admitted to as much.”

Mevlevi approached the sallow youth and with a firm finger lifted up his chin. “Is what Joseph tells me true? Are you working for General Mong?”

Kamal’s eyelids fluttered. His jaw ground upon itself, but he uttered no sound.

“Only the infinite one’s love can heal the rift you have torn in the heart of Islam. Surrender unto His will. Know Allah and paradise will be yours. Are you ready to accept His mercy?”

Did the youth nod his head?

Mevlevi motioned for Joseph to lead Kamal outside. The prisoner was marched to a round pillar behind which glowed the faint outline of Beirut.

“Assume the position of supplication to the Almighty.”

The teenager kneeled and looked out over the calm expanse of the Mediterranean Sea.

“Let us recite the Ode to Allah.”

As Mevlevi spoke the ancient prayer, Joseph withdrew into the house. Lina remained silent at her master’s side. The last words of the prayer drifted away on the evening’s languorous breeze. A compact pistol was drawn and its silver muzzle laid against the nape of the traitor’s neck. For several seconds the gun grazed among the boy’s downy hairs. The weapon was lowered. Aim was taken. Three rounds were fired into the prisoner’s back.

The boy fell forward, eyes open but unseeing, the torn remnants of his heart bruising the pale stone terrace.

“The punishment for traitors shall be death,” proclaimed Ali Mevlevi. “So sayeth the prophet. And so sayeth I.”

Nick bounded down the stairs leading from the employee entrance of the bank, happy to be freed from the fluorescent confines of the Hothouse. He jogged several yards, shaking off the bank’s behavioral corset, then slowed to gulp down a lungful of the pure Swiss air. The last two hours had dragged on forever. He’d felt like a thief trapped in a museum, waiting for the alarm to go off after he’d stolen a painting. At any moment, he had expected Armin Schweitzer to storm into his office demanding to know what Nick had done with the Pasha’s transfer. Remarkably, no alarm had sounded; Schweitzer had been nowhere to be seen. Nick had escaped.

With an hour until his dinner with Sylvia Schon, he decided to make his way to the head of the Bahnhofstrasse, where the lake of Zurich narrowed and ran into the Limmat River. Bundled in his overcoat, he set off through the alleys that ran parallel to the Bahnhofstrasse. The day’s light was fading fast, and patches of ice were rapidly forming. His thoughts, though, were not on the ground in front of him. Like the snow and mist trawling the deserted back streets, his mind cast about in the hazy events of the day, searching for defenses to his actions and calculating the responses that might follow.

According to Sterling Thorne’s rules, should any account on the bank’s internal account surveillance list receive funds greater than ten million dollars and transfer at least half of that amount to an unrelated financial institution within one business day, the bank would be compelled to report such a transaction to the international authorities. While such cooperation rested on a gentlemen’s agreement, USB could ill afford to violate a peace brokered by the president of Switzerland’s Bundesrat. Just in case they had any ideas in that direction, the DEA had placed agents full-time in the payments-trafficking department of every major bank.

Nick’s decision to delay the transfer of the Pasha’s funds by forty-eight hours meant the transaction would not qualify as one of suspect intent. Thorne would no longer have the right to demand all papers pertaining to the account in question. Nor could he call for the account to be frozen pending investigation. The Pasha would elude the grasp of the DEA. And in so escaping, he would protect the United Swiss Bank from scandal.

Nick continued through the dusky alleys, hands dug into the pockets of his overcoat, chin nestled into his scarf. He passed a gaslight lamp long since converted to electricity and watched an elongated shadow take shape on the pitted concrete wall blocking his path. A left turn here should take him to the Augustinergasse, a right turn to the Bahnhofstrasse. He hesitated, not sure of his way, then took off to the left. The pitted wall continued along his right, but as he was no longer in the lamp’s path, his shadow disappeared. He began climbing the winding street but slowed when he noticed an odd shadow appear on the wall ahead of him. A man, he guessed, with rounded shoulders and a peaked hat. The tremulous form gave the impression of a southern Klansman backlit by faint candlelight. Nick stopped to watch the distorted shadow grow. Abruptly, the shadow halted, then shrunk back and disappeared. Nick shrugged and continued on to the Augustinergasse.

The alley snaked uphill to the right. He passed a bakery, a jewelry store, and a boutique selling down comforters imported from Scandinavia. Strolling past this last storefront, he stopped short to check on the price of a pair of eiderdown pillows. He took a step backward and bent closer to the window, placing his hand on the glass to deflect a streetlamp’s glare. The rhythmic attack of footsteps that he had been sure were just behind him ceased. It was too strange to consider. Was someone following him?

Without a moment’s thought, Nick ran back along the path he had just covered. After ten strides, he pulled up and looked in both directions. His eyes sought out the darkest corners of the alleyway and searched the entries of apartments and businesses alike. Nothing. He was alone. His breath came in bursts, his heart beating faster than the mild exertion demanded. Around him the snow-streaked windowpanes and barren window boxes drew nearer. The alley, filled in the daylight with rustic, inviting merchants, was now dark and forbidding.

Nick turned and walked up the street. A hundred yards farther along, he stopped again. He hadn’t heard someone behind him so much as felt him. He darted a glance over his shoulder sure he would catch sight of his stalker. Again, there was no one. He stood as stiff as a pillar, listening to the echoes of his own footsteps carom off the cobblestones and dissolve into the misty evening air. Christ, he must be getting paranoid!

Nick hurried down the alley and rejoined the busy street running parallel to him. The Bahnhofstrasse was swollen with thousands of nightly emigres returning home from their posts with the grand banks and major insurance companies. Trams passed in both directions. Vendors hawked bags of hot chestnuts roasted in iron kettles. He forded the stream of businessmen moving north along Zurich’s most famed artery and made his way in the opposite direction, toward the Paradeplatz. Anyone following him would have a harder time of it in the dense pedestrian traffic.

He walked on, head lowered, shoulders slumped forward. Every few steps, he’d peek over his shoulders and scan the crowds. Half-convinced he’d seen the peaked cap somewhere in the sea of bobbing heads behind him, he dashed across the street and hurried his pace. A few paces ahead, the door to a brightly lit boutique opened. He veered sharply to his left, sliding by an impatient husband and his dawdling wife, and entered the store.

Nick was surrounded by watches. Shimmering creations of gold, stainless steel, and diamonds. A touch of class at thirty thousand francs a shot. He had walked into Bucherer, the city’s most renowned watch emporium, now crowded with early evening shoppers. Behind him the glass door offered an easy view to where he stood. Ahead he saw a flight of stairs.

The second floor was calmer. Four showcases were positioned in a square in the center of the room. Nick pretended to study their contents as he slowly circled their perimeter. His eyes shifted quickly between the watches displayed below him and the stairwell before him. Most of the watches cost more than his annual salary. An Audemars Piguet Grande Complication was priced at Sfr. 195,000. Around a hundred fifty thousand dollars. You could barely make out the actual time because of all the individual hands, and dials within dials, and days and dates. Probably someone’s idea of a masterpiece. He pulled back his sleeve and looked at his own watch—a 1961 Patek-Philippe his father had left him. He thought of how much money it was worth and marveled at how he’d managed to keep it out of his mother’s hands.