Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

“And?”

Lina licked her lips and opened her eyes as wide as they might stretch. “Yes, I watched you. I know you begin work at seven in the morning and that often you remain in your office until I go to sleep. Sometimes, you do not recite the mid-morning prayers. I think it is because they bore you, not because you forget. On the rest day, you watch the TV. Soccer all day.”

Mevlevi was surprised at the alacrity with which she revealed her crimes. The girl actually believed herself innocent.

She said, “Once, I swear only once, I looked through your desk when you were not at home. I am sorry. But I found nothing. Nothing at all. I do not understand so many numbers. What I saw meant nothing to me.”

Mevlevi brought his hands together as if to pray. “An honest child,” he exclaimed. “Thanks be to Allah. You spoke of numbers. Please go on.”

“I do not understand so many numbers. What is there to see? You work, work, work. On the telephone all the day long.”

Mevlevi smiled as if her confession pleased him. “Now, Lina, you must tell exactly what you reported to the Makdisis.”

“Nothing, I swear.” She cast her eyes to the floor. “Only a little. Sometimes on Sundays, when I visited my mother, he would call.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Makdisi. He wanted to know what you do all day long. What time you get up, when you eat, if you go out. Nothing else. I swear.”

“And this, of course, you told him,” Mevlevi suggested as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

“Yes, of course. He paid my mother so much money. What harm could it do?”

“Of course, darling. I understand.” He stroked Lina’s soft tresses. “Tell me now, did he ask you about my money? About banks? About how I pay my partners?”

“No, no, he never asked that. Never.”

Mevlevi frowned. He was certain that it was Albert Makdisi who had fed information about his transfers to the American DEA. Makdisi had long wanted to go direct to Mong. Eliminate the middleman. “Lina, I prefer it when you tell me the truth.”

“Please, Al-Mevlevi, you must believe me. No questions about money. He only wants to know about where you spend the day. If you travel. Nothing about money.”

Mevlevi pulled a silver Minox camera from his pocket. He passed the camera before Lina’s eyes, then under her nose as if it were a fine cigar. “And so darling, what is this?”

“I don’t know. A small camera? Maybe I have seen one in stores.”

“No, cherie. You have never seen one like this in any store.”

“It is not mine.”

“Of course not,” he cooed. “And this charming little device?” He presented for her inspection a casing of matte black metal, no larger than a deck of cards. From one end he pulled a blunt rubber antenna.

Lina stared at the metal object. “I do not know what this is,” she said indignantly. “You tell me.”

“Me tell you?” Mevlevi peered over his shoulder at Joseph. “She wants us to tell her?”

Joseph looked on impassively.

Mevlevi said, “I’ll let you in on a secret. When Max Rothstein told me that Albert Makdisi had brought you to Little Maxim’s, I went with Joseph to search your quarters. You see, my dear, Max’s word simply wasn’t good enough. Not to condemn you, it wasn’t. I had to be sure for myself. We found this pretty device—it’s a radio, actually—along with the camera in that clever hole you fashioned in the flooring under your bed.” Mevlevi held the small transmitter beneath her eyes. “Tell me about your radio. So petite, so compact. Frankly, I’d have thought such a toy far beyond the Makdisis’ clumsy grasp.”

Lina grew agitated. She fumbled with her hands and ground her ankles together. “Stop it!” she screamed. “There is no hole in my room. That camera doesn’t belong to me. Neither does the radio. I’ve never seen them before. I swear it.”

“The truth, Lina.” Mevlevi’s voice assumed a velvety monotone. “Here we speak only the truth. Come now. You were doing so well just a few moments ago.”

“I am no spy. I never listened to that radio. I own no camera.”

Mevlevi drew nearer Lina. “What did you say?” His voice was filled with an urgency until now absent, his posture suddenly rigid.

“I never listened to the radio,” moaned Lina. “If I want music, I go to the living room. Why would I need a transistor radio?”

Mevlevi regarded her anew. “A transistor radio,” he said appreciatively. “She never listened to the transistor radio.” He glanced at Joseph, then back at Lina, as if momentarily unsure with whom to speak. The device he held in his hand was as far from a transistor radio as modern science allowed. It was an ultra-high-frequency single-band two-way radio capable of plucking from the ether the faintest cobweb of a signal—but only one sent on its preset frequency. It could not be used to find commercial radio transmissions.

“Charming,” he said to Joseph. “And well trained. Don’t you think? For a moment, I nearly believed her. Women often make superb plants. They are naturally emotional. One tends to mistake their hysteria for honesty. If a man cries, it is only because he is guilty and pitying himself.”

Joseph said nothing. He nodded once resolutely as if he knew exactly what his patron was speaking of.

Mevlevi placed himself behind the rattan chair and ran his hands over Lina’s body. He gently squeezed her powerful shoulders and caressed her firm breasts. A morose fog fell upon him. “Lina, the time has come for us to part ways. You go now on a transcendent path. I am sorry I cannot join you, but my work is not yet completed. Soon, though, we may be reunited. Truly, I loved you.”

Lina faced him with her eyes closed. She cried quietly. “Why?” she asked between sniffles.

For a moment, Mevlevi asked the same question of the Almighty. Why must I lose one who means so much to me? One who has brought only light and joy into my life. She is but a child. An innocent. Surely, she should not suffer so for her crimes. And then he felt his resolve stiffen, and he knew it to be Allah speaking through him.

“You were brought to test me. If I can part with you, my sweetest creature, I can part with life itself. Allah demands sacrifices of us all.”

“No, no, no,” she whispered.

“Adieu, my love.” He stood and nodded to Joseph.

Joseph approached Lina slowly and asked her to be calm. “Go serenely,” he counseled. “Go with grace. It is the way of Allah. You must not resist.” And when he cradled her in his arms, she went without fighting.

Joseph carried her to a low bench at the far end of the building. An oblong stone, twenty inches long and ten inches high, lay below the bench. The stone weighed exactly thirty pounds—easily enough to anchor a small woman’s body to the pool’s bottom. He unbound Lina’s feet and placed each one in a shallow depression molded into the stone. Stainless steel manacles extended from a brass eye screw that protruded from between her feet. He locked a cuff around each foot.

“Why are you doing this?” Lina asked. Her tears had dried. Her swollen eyes were clear.

“I must obey Al-Mevlevi. He is inspired by a greater purpose than either of us.”

Lina tried to slap Joseph’s face with her bound hands. “I do not believe you. It is you, the liar. You put the radio under my bed. You!”

“Shhh!” Joseph knelt and offered her a cup of wine. “It contains a powerful tranquilizer. Al-Mevlevi did not wish you to feel any pain. Look into the water. You don’t want to die like that, not while you’re fully conscious.”

“This is the end of my life. I must feel every moment.”

Hastily, Joseph raised her to her feet.

Ali Mevlevi stood at the opposite end of the pool, his head tilted toward the heavens, a muted prayer playing from his mouth. He stopped and looked at Joseph, then nodded and resumed his incantations. Truly, he had loved her.