Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

The line of climbers has strung out. Erhard keeps the lead. He carries a leather rucksack on his back and holds a gnarled rod in his hand. One hundred yards along comes Alexander Neumann. Twenty paces farther back follows Nick. One by one, the climbers pass him by. Each pats him on the head and offers an encouraging word. Soon no one is behind.

Ahead, the trail cuts into a field of summer snow, as white as icing on a chocolate cake. The pitch of the slope increases. Each step forward is one half step higher. Nick’s breath is shallow, his head light. He can see his great-uncle far in front, can recognize him only by the walking stick he carries. He can see his father too: a bobbing head of black hair above a sweater as red as the Swiss flag.

Minutes pass. Hours. The trail winds upward. Nick lowers his head and walks. He counts to one thousand. Still the end is no closer. Snow rolls out for miles before him. High above his left shoulder, he can see the sharp rocks that lead to the summit. He notes with alarm the distance that separates him from the others. He can no longer see his uncle. His father is merely a red speck. Nick is alone in a valley of snow. With every step, he grows farther separated from his father and his great-uncle. With every step, he comes closer to the peak that wants to kill him. Finally, he can go no farther and stops. He is exhausted and frightened.

“Dad,” he yells. “Dad!” But his thin voice disappears easily in the vast mountain spaces. “Help,” he yells. “Come back!” But no one hears. One after another the trail of climbers disappears around the girth of the mountain. And then his father disappears, too.

At first Nick is stunned. His breathing has calmed. His heartbeat has slowed. The constant crunching of snow that has accompanied him for so long has come to a halt. All is quiet. All is absolutely still. And for a child raised in the city there is nothing so terrifying as that first moment when he feels the icy breath of unspoiled nature upon his naked face, when his dulled senses cower at the magnificence of solitude’s deafening roar, and when he learns for the first time that he is alone.

Nick falls to his knees unsure of his ability to carry on. Where has everyone gone? Why has his father deserted him? Don’t they care? Do they want him to die?

“Dad!” he shrieks.

Nick feels his cheeks flush. His throat tightens uncontrollably. Tears rush into his eyes and his vision grows blurry. With a wrenching sob, he begins to cry. And in the steady flow of his tears come all the injustices, all the petty tyrannies, all the unfair punishments ever bestowed upon him. No one loves him, he says in a garbled tongue, between gulps of air. His father wants him to die up here. His mother probably helped plan it.

Nick cries for his father again. Still, no one comes. The slope ahead is as empty as it was five minutes ago. Soon, the tears dry and the sobbing stops. He is alone with the towering mountains and the slashing breeze and the evil rocks above that want so to kill him. He wipes the dried tears from his cheeks and blows his nose into the snow.

No, he swears, the rocks won’t kill me. The mountains won’t kill me. No one will. He remembers the hot bite of the Pflumli and how he was given the bottle like any other man. He remembers the pats on the head as each climber in turn passed him by. Mostly he remembers the mute plain of his father’s back, the bright red sweater that never once looked back to check upon his progress.

I have to go on, he tells himself. I can’t stay here. And like a divine gift, the thought forms inside him that he must make it to the summit—that this time he doesn’t have a choice. And he tells himself, “I will reach the top of this mountain. Yes, I will.”

Nick lowers his head and starts off. His eyes move from one hollow footprint to another. His feet advance quickly along the steep trail. Soon he is almost running. To the beat of his pounding heart, he tells himself he must make it, he cannot stop. And so he climbs. For how long he does not know. His mind is focused only on the empty footsteps of those gone before, knowing that along this path came his great-uncle and his father and all the others who expect nothing more of him than to walk up the mountain.

A high-pitched whistle intrudes on his hermetically sealed world. A whoop, a yell, a cry of encouragement. Nick looks up. The whole group sits on an outcropping of rock, just yards away. They are cheering his arrival. They are standing and clapping. He hears the whistle again and sees that it is his father running down the slope to greet him.

He has made it. He has succeeded.

And then Nick is in his father’s arms, held tightly in a loving embrace. At first he is upset. He has walked up this mountain. No one has helped him. It is his victory. How dare his father treat him like a child? But after a few tentative moments, he gives in and wraps his arms around his father. For a long time, they hold each other close. Alexander Neumann whispers something about taking the first steps toward being a man. Nick feels hot and smothered. And for some unexplained reason, he begins to cry. There in the lee of his father’s arm, he lets the tears run down his cheeks and he hugs his father as hard as he possibly can.

Nick would always remember that day. He looked up once more at his father’s building and felt awash in pride. He had come to Switzerland to get to know Alexander Neumann. To search for the truth about the banker who had died at the age of forty.

Become one of them, his father’s spirit had urged him. And he had. Now Nick could only pray that his actions on behalf of the Pasha, whoever he was, had not jeopardized his search.

Ali Mevlevi slammed his foot onto the accelerator of the Bentley Mulsanne Turbo and pulled into the oncoming lane of traffic. An approaching Volkswagen van carelessly hugging the center line careered to the left, raising a curtain of dust on the highway’s shoulder, then toppled onto its side and slid down the unpaved embankment. Mevlevi blared his horn and kept his foot firmly on the gas. “Out of my way,” he yelled.

The half-ton pickup that had stubbornly blocked his path scooted to the crest of the highway, allowing him to pass. The decrepit vehicle was loaded far beyond its capacity ferrying a team of migrant laborers, and once on the hardscrabble shoulder it puttered to a halt. Workers jumped from the flatbed, yelling oaths and making obscene gestures at the passing Bentley.

“Miserable beggars,” Mevlevi said, his rage waning as he watched the men scramble about in the late-afternoon sun. Under what unfortunate star had they been born? Their time on earth was marked by degradation, penury, and the systematic crushing of their once indomitable Arabic spirit. For these men, he would risk his fortune. For these men, Khamsin must succeed.

Mevlevi returned his attention to the stripe of asphalt before him, but it was not long before his mind wandered back to the dilemma that pressed on his heart like a sharpened dagger. A spy, he thought to himself. A spy is lying nearby.

Hours earlier, he had discovered that the United Swiss Bank had failed to transfer forty-seven million dollars of his money according to his precise instructions. Calls to inquire about the delay had revealed the circumstances of his escape. However, no explanation had been given as to which failure in the bank’s systems had resulted in his account number’s appearing on a surveillance list established by the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. For now, though, that was of minor concern. For not only had the authorities expected the transfer, they had known its exact amount.

“A spy,” Mevlevi said, through clenched teeth. “A spy has been peeking over my shoulder.”