Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“And that’s what I gave him, goddammit.”

“You didn’t?” Strait’s eyes bulged. “That information is classified!”

“Hell, yes I did. We have satellite photos of Ali Mevlevi’s compound. The man has his own private army, for Christ’s sake.” Thorne put a hand to his mouth as if he had mistakenly revealed a secret. “Oh, I forgot, that’s Langley’s concern. None of our business.” He smiled sarcastically. “No problem. There’s enough evidence to go around. We have sworn statements as to Mevlevi’s involvement in heroin trafficking from his former business partners, two of whom are doing time in the supermax facility outside Colorado Springs. Best of all we’ve got intercepts from the Defense Intelligence Agency’s supercomputing center in San Diego that track the exact sums of money going into and out of Mevlevi’s accounts at the United Swiss Bank. That alone is proof of significant money-laundering activity. Put those three together and we have a slam dunk. Even that pansy-assed federal prosecutor Franz Studer couldn’t disagree.”

“You had no right to submit that information without prior approval from the director. Eastern Lightning has to be given time. Director’s orders.”

Thorne grabbed the piece of USB stationery from Strait’s hands. “I am sick and tired of waiting around until the bad guys figure out we got a hook in their gills and wriggle free. Jester has provided all the information we need. It’s my op and I decide how and when to roll it up.” He crumpled up the surveillance list and threw it on the floor. “Or do we have to wait until Mevlevi uses that army of his?”

Strait shook his head vigorously. “Would you stop with that army nonsense? Operation Eastern Lightning was designed to capture the man responsible for the trafficking and distribution of thirty percent of the world’s heroin and, in the process, to seize a significant amount of contraband. We did not go to all this trouble to freeze a dozen insubstantial bank accounts that hold what for this man amounts to pin money. Or to indulge your hopeful fantasies about stopping some Middle Eastern crackpot.”

“Have you read Jester’s summary of the materiel Mevlevi’s accumulating? He’s got a couple dozen tanks, a squadron of Russian Hind helos, and who knows what else? We don’t have a fart’s chance in a windstorm of arresting this guy. Success in our game is the art of the possible. The only thing we have left to us is his assets. If you think freezing upwards of one hundred million dollars is ‘pin money,’ then we must be reading from two different balance sheets.” Thorne walked past Strait and looked out the window. The nosy old broad across the way was still checking on his team’s activities.

“Freeze his money and he’ll be back in business in a year, maybe two,” said Strait. “This operation is about drugs, Sterling. We work for the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. Not the CIA, not the NSA, and not Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. We can nail Mevlevi and his drugs. But it will take time and patience. Something you’re very short of.”

“Fine. Forget about the guns. By freezing Ali Mevlevi’s accounts, we stop the flow of drugs now. No one in D.C. gives two shits about what happens next year.”

“Well, I do. And so does the director.” Strait approached Thorne and jabbed a rigid finger into the West Virginian’s shoulder. “I’ll remind you of one other problem. By convincing Studer to stick that account number on the USB surveillance list, you placed the life of source Jester in great danger. After what happened on Christmas Eve, I’d have thought you’d be a little more careful.”

Thorne spun, and as quick as a mongoose grabbed Terry Strait’s index finger, bending it backward unmercifully. His guilty conscience didn’t need a reminder about his responsibility toward his agents. “That does it. I have tolerated your sanctimonious bullshit long enough. I am going to nail Mevlevi the only way I know how. Stop the money and you stop the man. Is that clear?”

Strait grimaced. “If Mevlevi finds out we know what we’re looking for, Jester is in deep shit.”

“Did you hear me, Reverend Terry? I asked if that was clear?” Thorne bent the finger further backward. He told himself that Becker’s death was a random act of violence, a failed robbery, then laughed at his willful naivete. He knew better.

Strait stooped forward. His head faced the floor as if he were looking for a lost contact lens. In response, Thorne applied greater force to the distended digit. Strait yelped, then fell to one knee. “Clear, Terry?”

Strait nodded and Thorne let go of the finger.

“You’re a schoolyard bully,” yelled Strait. He shook his hand to lessen the pain.

“I may be a bully, but I also happen to be running things out here, so watch your mouth.”

“Not for long if I have my way. The director sent me out to keep an eye on you. He had a feeling you’d be getting antsy.”

“I already have a shadow,” said Thorne.

“Well, now you have two. Consider yourself a lucky man.” Strait walked to the couch on the opposite side of the room and slumped onto its lumpy cushions. “Just tell me one thing. Tell me, please, that no activity came across that account.”

“It’s your lucky day. Yours and Mevlevi’s, that is. No activity has come across the account. For months Jester has been calling the transfers into and out of that account like clockwork. The day that account goes on their surveillance list, Jester goes cold. Frankly, it has me wondering.”

“Our priority is Eastern Lightning,” said Strait. “And Eastern Lightning is about drugs. That’s the word from the director. Is that clear? I’m just here to make sure you toe the line.”

Thorne stared out the window and waved a tired hand in Strait’s direction. “Go away, Terry. The op is safe and sound for the time being.”

“That is what I needed to hear,” Strait said exhaustedly. “From now on, clear any ideas you might have with me. And tell Franz Studer to take that damn account number off his list.”

Thorne waved his hand once more. “Fuck off, Terry.”

Outside, a white Volvo from the Zurich Police Department had drawn up on the sidewalk, behind the DEA’s rented vehicles. A young policeman wearing a knee-length black leather topcoat was lecturing one of the junior agents. It was clear from the officer’s exaggerated gestures that the improvised parking spaces constituted an infraction of the highest magnitude. Somewhere above breaking and entering but below first-degree murder.

Who sent this joker? Thorne wondered. By instinct, he looked up at the old woman perched at her window. The hag caught sight of him and quickly withdrew into the shadows of her apartment. The window slammed shut a second later.

A bewildered Sterling Thorne shrugged and returned to his desk. “Christ, I hate this place.”

Two hours earlier, Nick Neumann sat in a stiff leather armchair, allowing his eyes to adjust to a dimly lit office on the Fourth Floor of the United Swiss Bank. Iron window blinds built into the walls like a medieval portcullis remained fully lowered. A single lamp sprouting from the left forecorner of the imposing crescent-shaped desk provided the room’s only light.

Nick stared across the room at Martin Maeder, executive vice president for private banking. Maeder’s head was lowered, his eyes riveted on two pieces of paper lying side by side on his desk—no doubt some report concerning Nick. He’d been sitting this way for the past ten minutes, not saying a word. Nick figured his silence to be a tactic designed to soften up his insides and make him ready to confess to a whole litany of crimes, one or two of which he just might have committed. Grudgingly, he admitted it was working.