Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

Earlier in the day he had finally received the full copy of Neumann’s military personnel file. A buddy had FedExed it over from Headquarters Marine Corps in D.C. The same guy had faxed him a copy of Neumann’s discharge and the final ruling of the board of inquiry that he’d used to set the kid running. Frankly speaking, Thorne wished he’d gotten his eyes on the whole dossier before he’d started putting pressure on the kid. The last thing he needed was a list of injuries like those suffered by Mr. Jack Keely.

Thorne closed the file. Once more he ran the highlights through his head. Neumann had zoomed through OCS, finishing as honor graduate. During Basic School, he had maxed every physical fitness test he’d taken and gotten himself a billet to U.S. Army Ranger school. He’d finished the course, naturally, and earned his tabs. Not at the top this time, but in a class that boasted a seventy percent attrition rate, just finishing the damn thing in one piece was impressive. Next came an assignment to active duty at Camp Pendleton as executive officer of an infantry platoon. That lasted a year. Then he disappeared. No word on his actions for three years. No fitness reports, no senior officer appraisals, no requests for transfer, no nothing. Just the board of inquiry’s summary and a copy of his separation papers. Dishonorable discharge. No wonder the kid came overseas. Probably couldn’t get a job in the States with that monkey on his back.

Thorne grinned in anticipation. Once Wolfgang Kaiser read this report, he’d be too frightened for his physical safety to keep Neumann working by his side. Who cared about the dishonorable discharge? It paled in comparison to Neumann’s capacity to inflict bodily injury. In theory, Thorne had Nick by the short and curlies. All he had to do was tighten his grip. With it, Neumann could be cajoled, convinced, coerced, whatever, into helping him nail Ali Mevlevi. Or could he? Thorne was beginning to realize that Neumann was just as stubborn as he was. A frontal assault might not work.

A door behind him swung open and clattered against the wall.

“Sterling Thorne, good evening,” said Terry Strait. “Or should I say good morning, seeing as how it’s after midnight.” He stood with his hands on his hips and a monstrous shit-eating grin on his face.

Thorne swung around in his chair and stared at the beaming figure in the doorway. Didn’t the guy know how to knock? “Hello, Terry. Back so soon?”

“Afraid so. Mission accomplished.”

“And what mission might that be? To burrow your nose as far into the ambassador’s snatch as possible before she paws you away?”

“She sends you her best regards too.” Strait walked in and sat himself down on Thorne’s desk. “We enjoyed a lively evening together. A glass of sherry at the embassy, dinner at the Bellevue Palace. We were joined by one of our Swiss counterparts, Franz Studer.”

“Counterpart, my ass. That man is the tightest-lipped, slowest-moving prosecutor I have ever come across.”

“Slow moving? Maybe. Tight-lipped?” Strait shook his head. “You must not know him very well. Tonight, Mr. Studer was positively gabby. In fact, he couldn’t stop talking.”

“No doubt you plan on passing on his words of wisdom?”

“You were his favorite topic of conversation. He had a few good yarns up his sleeve. An unannounced visit to the Chairman of the United Swiss Bank. Hijacking an elevator, brutalizing a secretary, and then attempting to blackmail Wolfgang Kaiser. He felt strongly that this was a violation of the accord between his government and ours. Madam Ambassador was in full agreement.”

Thorne leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes. Best let the good reverend have his moment in the pulpit. “Go on.”

“Was that your intention? To expose his son’s death from an overdose of heroin unless he gave up Ali Mevlevi? And I thought you didn’t like me.”

“To be honest, I don’t.”

Strait squinted incredulously. “What is wrong with you? Are you at war with the entire world?”

Thorne laughed. “You just might have a point there. Maybe I am at that.”

Strait laughed, too. “I hope you won’t mind too much, but since Madam Ambassador’s spirits were already flagging and the evening more or less ruined, I couldn’t resist firing a couple broadsides of my own. The best time to finish a man off is when he’s down on his knees and begging. No mercy. Right, Thorne? Isn’t that one of your maxims?”

“Well, Terry, you got me horny with anticipation. I’m sitting here all hot and bothered. So either fuck me or tuck that big dick back into your pants and get the hell out of here.”

“With pleasure. I think I’ll opt for the former choice, so stand up and bend over. That is the way you country boys like it, isn’t it?”

Thorne jumped from his chair and thrust an open hand at Strait’s throat.

Strait deflected the outstretched arm and hopped away from the desk. He slid a chair between himself and the irate agent. “Just so we’re clear on things, Thorne, let me recite the charges. One, strong-arming one of this country’s most respected businessmen. Two, convincing Studer to place Mevlevi’s account number on the USB surveillance list without the approval of the director. And three, something else I learned yesterday, harassing a U.S. citizen on foreign soil. A Mr. Nicholas Neumann.”

The name stopped Thorne in his tracks. He hadn’t figured on the kid being a tattler.

Strait said, “I have it on good authority that twice you’ve stopped and harassed this individual with the sole intent of gathering information on Ali Mevlevi.”

“Whose authority is that? Did Neumann call you up and cry on your shoulder?”

Strait looked surprised. “Neumann? Of course not. The kid is probably scared stiff. You need to look a little closer to home.” He offered Thorne a smug smile. “Your driver, Agent Wadkins. Next time, make sure you choose your accomplices with greater care. Is it a surprise to learn that your fellow agents don’t share your zeal for flouting the laws of the country in which you’re stationed? That they don’t like disobeying orders?”

Thorne was relieved that Neumann hadn’t ratted him out. The kid represented his last chance at nailing Mevlevi. As for Wadkins, he’d kick his pansy ass later. “Is that what this is about? Breaking a few rules to get a job done?”

“No, Sterling. This is about Eastern Lightning. We won’t let you put the operation into more danger than you already have.”

“More danger?” Thorne felt like falling to his knees and clawing the ground. These boys would never understand what it took to get a job done. “It seems to me I am the only man trying to save this op. You’re ready to sit on your hands for the next six months praying that someday you’ll receive a speck of information about his shipments.”

“And you’re ready to flush all our work down the toilet so you can nab a few guns and crow about stopping the next Colonel Qadhafi. This is about drugs, Sterling, not arms, and it’s our opinion that you’re out of control. This operation does not belong exclusively to you. You don’t have the patience necessary to see it out.”

“Patience?” cried Thorne, as if he possessed carloads of the stuff. “Bullshit. I’m a realist. The only one for miles around.”

“We haven’t heard from Jester for ten days. If he’s been compromised, if he’s dead-” Strait took a breath, “and I pray to the Lord that is not the case—it is because of you and you alone.”

“Jester is my agent. I’ve run him since he went in eighteen months ago. Any decision I make, he knows about. He can cover his ass when the time comes.”

“Like Mr. Becker covered his?”

Thorne bit his lip. Only the sharp pain kept him from beating the living hell out of Terry Strait. “He was only doing what his conscience told him.”