Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Thorne tapped his foot impatiently and scowled at the miserable weather. Near noon and no sign of sun, no sign of rain, and no sign of snow. Just a quilt of gray cloud sitting on top of the city like a dirty carpet.

Thorne’s gaze wandered to the building across the street. From an upstairs window, an elderly woman viewed his men’s activity with a bitter eye. Two cars belonging to the DEA were pulled onto the sidewalk. Empty filing boxes were being loaded into the trunk. Like a hungry rat emerging from its hole, the wizened lady leaned far out over the window ledge and surveyed all below.

“Chief, Skouras here. Mr. Schweitzer is checking the accounts now. I can verify that he put in the right numbers. We’re waiting on a hard-copy printout.”

Without so much as a knock, the door to Thorne’s office swung open and rebounded noisily off the wall. The heavy cadence of a single individual’s footsteps approached. Thorne turned and stared into the sweating face and knotted brow of a stocky black man.

“Thorne,” the visitor spat out, “I’ll wait till you get off the phone and then I want an explanation of what in the name of good Christ is going on here.”

Thorne shook his head. A knowing smile brightened his features. “The Reverend Terry Strait. Surprise, surprise. Sinners, fall to your knees and repent! Hello, Terry. Here to fuck up another operation, or just to make sure our hallowed rules are properly obeyed?”

Strait pulled on the pockets of his vest and rolled on the balls of his feet while Thorne placed a hand to his lips and motioned to be quiet.

“Mr. Thorne,” said Schweitzer. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but we report no activity in any of the accounts on our list.”

“Nothing, in or out?” Thorne scratched the back of his neck and glared at Strait, who remained less than a foot away.

“Absolutely nothing,” said Schweitzer.

“You’re sure?” Thorne squinted his eyes. Impossible, he thought. Jester’s never wrong.

“Are you suggesting we at the United Swiss Bank are not telling the truth?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. But seeing as how we have Skouras right next to you, I can’t exactly accuse you of holding back on us.”

“Do not push your luck, Mr. Thorne,” said Schweitzer. “The bank is doing its best to extend a courteous welcome to you. You should be content that you’ve managed to place one of your watchdogs inside our premises. I shall ask my secretary to see that Mr. Skouras continues to receive a copy of every wire instruction given to our payments-trafficking department. If you have any further questions, do not hesitate to call me. In the meantime, good day.” Schweitzer rang off.

Thorne slammed the phone onto its cradle. He faced his unannounced visitor. “What in the hell are the desk jockeys doing in Switzerland?”

Terry Strait glared at Thorne. “I’m here to make sure you follow the game plan we established a long time ago.”

Thorne crossed his arms and leaned against his desk. “What makes you think I wouldn’t?”

“You,” boomed Strait. “You never have in the past. And I can see you aren’t now.” He withdrew a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and held it in front of Thorne. Internal Account Surveillance List was printed in bold letters across USB stationery. “What the hell is going on? How did this account number get on this paper?”

Thorne took the paper, examined it briefly, and showing no emotion, handed it back to Strait.

“I imagine this is what you were yapping to Schweitzer about,” Strait said. “Account 549.617 RR. Am I correct?”

“Righto, Terry. On the ball as usual.”

Strait held the surveillance list as if it gave off a foul odor. “I am actually afraid to ask how this account ended up on that bank’s watch list. I don’t think I want to know.”

Thorne stared blankly ahead, one corner of his mouth peaked in a silent smirk. He hadn’t told Strait a thing, and already he was tired of explaining. “I hate to break it to you, Terry, but it’s legit.”

“Legit? Franz Studer allowed you to place this account on USB’s surveillance list? You’ve got to be kidding!” Strait shook his head as if it couldn’t be true. “Why, Sterling? Why are you jeopardizing the operation? Why do you want to scare our man out of the net?”

“‘The net’?” Thorne exclaimed in disbelief. “Is that what you think we’ve set up here? If we’ve got a net, Terry, then it’s got a hole big enough for Moby fucking Dick to swim through, ’cause that’s what our man has been doing these last eighteen months.”

“You’ve got to give Eastern Lightning time. Every operation has its own schedule.”

“Well, this schedule is coming to an end. Eastern Lightning is my baby. I set her up. I put her into play.” Thorne pushed himself off his desk and began pacing the room. “Let me remind you of our tactical goals. One: Staunch the flow of heroin into southern Europe. Two: Force the party responsible, and we know damn well who that is, out of his mountain hideaway and into a Western nation where we can arrest him. And three: Seize the sonuvabitch’s assets so we have sufficient resources to pay for our dream holiday here in Switzerland. After all, every op’s got to be self-financing, these days. Am I right so far?”

“Yes, Sterling, you’re right, but what about—”

“Shut up, then, and let me finish.” Thorne rubbed his forehead and continued his pacing. “How long has this op been green lighted? Nine months? A year? Try twenty months. Two zero months. Hell, it took us a year just to get Jester in place. Since then, what have we got? Have we stopped the flow of heroin into Europe? Even one damned shipment?”

“That’s Jester’s fault,” Strait protested. “Your source is supposed to supply us with details regarding our man’s shipments.”

“And so far he hasn’t. Put the blame on my shoulders. They may be narrow, but I’ll be proud to carry the load.”

“This is not about placing blame, Sterling.”

“You’re right,” said Thorne. “It’s about getting results. As for our first goal—interdict the flow of heroin—strike one. As for our second—flush the bird from its covey—let me ask you this: Has that sonuvabitch Mevlevi even looked in our direction? Has he even blinked?”

Strait said nothing, so Thorne continued.

“Instead of getting scared, the bastard’s hunkering down for the long haul, tightening security, doubling the size of his army. Christ, he has enough firepower up there to take back the West Bank. Jester says he has something big planned. You’ve read my reports.”

“That’s what has us scared. You’re more interested in broadening the scope of this operation than in bringing its original mandate to a successful conclusion. We passed on your information to Langley. Let them handle it.”

Thorne beseeched the ceiling for divine intervention. “Face it, Terry, we aren’t ever going to force our man into a friendly nation where we can arrest him. And so we’re left with goal number three: Seize the motherfucker’s assets. Hit him where it hurts. You know what I’m saying? Grab ’em by the balls and their hearts and minds will follow. That’s all we got left going for us. The only information that Jester has given us is regarding our target’s finances. Let’s use it.”

Terry Strait stood very still, refusing to be caught up in Thorne’s emotional outburst. “We have discussed this before,” he said quietly. “Proper evidence must be submitted to the office of the Swiss federal prosecutor. Evidence that must first substantiate the target’s involvement with illegal narcotics—”

“Beyond any reasonable doubt,” Thorne cut in.

“Beyond any reasonable doubt,” confirmed Strait.