Christopher Reich - Numbered Account

A few employees began trickling out of the bank, alone and in pairs, mostly secretaries. Thorne kept his eyes nailed to the stairs, waiting for his boy to show. The fact that somewhere out there Jester was rolling along with a major shipment of refined heroin bound for the Swiss market was terrific, but Neumann’s help would be essential if he wanted to demonstrate USB’s complicity in Mevlevi’s affairs. He thought of Wolfgang Kaiser breezily lying to him about not knowing Mevlevi. Alfie Merlani? he had asked. Arrogant sumbitch. With a start, Thorne realized that he wanted Kaiser’s ass as much as Mevlevi’s. And it made him feel good.

Twenty wasted minutes later, the cellular phone attached to Thorne’s belt rang. The dull electronic chirping took him by surprise, sending a jolt of adrenaline down his spine. He fumbled with the buttons on his leather coat. Jester, he prayed, let that be you. Come through for me, buddy. He freed the phone from his belt and pressed the answer button. “Thorne,” he said calmly.

“Thorne,” Terry Strait yelled. “I want you back in this office immediately. You have taken property belonging to the United States government. Files on running operations are never, I repeat never, to be removed from secure premises. Eastern Lightning is…”

Thorne listened to the good reverend rant and rave for another five, maybe ten seconds, then hung up on him. Worse than a wood tick in your belly button.

The phone rang again. Thorne hefted the compact plastic unit, weighing it as if to judge who might be on the other end. Keep dreaming, Terry. You wanted me out of your hair—I’m out. But one day soon I’m going to intercept a mother lode of refined no. 4 heroin without your help and I am going to put away the Pasha. Eastern Lightning will be a bigger success than any of us thought possible. I’ll be back. And I’ll be gunning for your sorry ass.

The phone rang a second time. What the hell? thought Thorne. If it was Strait, he’d just hang up again. A third ring. “Thorne, here.”

“Thorne? This is Jester. I’m in Milan. At a house belonging to the Makdisi family.”

Thorne nearly crossed himself and fell to his knees. “Good to hear from you. Can you talk? Do you have some time?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“Good boy. Have you got a schedule for me?”

“We’re crossing at Chiasso, Monday morning between nine-thirty and ten-thirty. Far right-hand lane. We’re in a two-trailer rig with British plates. A transnational routier. It has the blue shield on the front bumper saying T-I-R. Gray canopies covering the load. The inspector is looking for us. We’ll get a free pass.”

“Go on.”

“Then I guess we’re coming to Zurich. The Makdisis’ boys are driving. We’ll be taking it to their usual drop point. Near a place called Hardturm. I think it’s a soccer stadium. I’m caught in the middle of something here. Everybody is looking at me funny. A lot of phony smiles. I told you I’m only along for the ride because Mevlevi suspects the Makdisis of double dealing. Too big a shipment to let go without a friend nearby. We’re looking at a couple of thousand pounds minimum, maybe more. He is desperate that this go through.”

Thorne interrupted Jester. “Getting our hands on that much product is damned good work, but we have to tie it to Mevlevi, otherwise he’ll just send a bigger load in two weeks’ time. I don’t want a cargo of contraband without the man responsible. I don’t want the bullets without the gun, you understand. The Makdisis don’t mean shit to me.”

“I know, I know…” The connection weakened and static filled Thorne’s ear. Jester’s voice came through a garbled mess.

“What did you say? What about Mevlevi? Can you hear me, Joe?”

Jester’s voice returned. “… so like I said there will never be a better chance. We can’t miss out on this opportunity.”

“Speak up. I lost you for a second.”

“Jesus,” Jester rasped, sounding out of breath. “I said he’s in Switzerland.”

“Who?”

“Mevlevi.”

Thorne felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. “You’re telling me that Ali Mevlevi is in Switzerland?”

“He arrived this morning. He called the house where I’m staying to make sure everything was all right. Told me that after the load came through safely he’d build me my own house at his compound. He’s got a big gig planned for Tuesday. The bank’s meeting. He’s in deep with that bank, I told you a dozen times.”

Thorne pleaded. “You’ve got to give me more than that. What about his army?”

“Khamsin,” said Joseph. “Mevlevi’s operation. He’s moving his men out tomorrow at 0400. He’s kept the target quiet, but I know they’re going south toward the border. He’s got six hundred fanatics revved up for something big.”

“0400 Saturday,” Thorne repeated. “No target, you say?”

“He told no one. Just south. Use your imagination.”

“Dammit,” whispered Thorne. Not now! What was he supposed to do with that information? He was a defrocked government agent, for Christ’s sake. He’d kept a buddy at Langley apprised of his suspicions. He’d give him a call, maybe fax him the latest. He’d have to make it their problem and pray. He just hoped that six hundred men showed up as more than a dot in the midst of all that military traffic on the Lebanese-Israeli border.

Thorne’s mind returned to the problem at hand. “Super work, Joe. But I need something to nail him here.”

“Keep your eye on the bank. He’ll probably stop by some time. I told you he and Kaiser are tight. They go way back.”

Thorne watched a Mercedes limo drive up to the gate and stop. “Never. Mevlevi knows we’re on to him. You think he has the balls to drive right past me?”

“That’s your call. But you have to let me know how you’re going to handle this. I don’t want to be with these guys when the heat comes down. It’ll get ugly fast.”

“You hold tight and give me some time to set something up. We have to arrange a welcoming committee on this end.”

“Hurry it up. I can’t call every hour. I got one more chance before we move out of here.”

The gate clanged, stopping at its fully opened position. The limousine advanced into the courtyard of the bank.

“Stay calm, Joe. You give me until Sunday and we’ll set up a nice reception. Take you out of the fire without getting you burned. I have to figure some way to take that product off the streets and still nail Mevlevi. You call me Sunday.”

“Yeah, all right. If that’s the way it’s gotta be.” Jester hung up.

“Hang in there,” Thorne said to the dead line. He exhaled and dropped the phone to his side. “You’re almost home, kid.”

Inside the courtyard of the United Swiss Bank, the taillights of the Mercedes flashed red as the limousine drew to a halt. Thorne looked on as the rear door of the automobile swung open and the top of a head emerged. The gate began closing: a long curtain of black metal rolling along a steel track. He recalled Jester’s words. He and Kaiser are tight. Keep your eye on the bank.

The first man out of the limousine was the chauffeur. He adjusted his jacket, then put on his cap. The back left door opened on its own. A head of black hair peeked out, then dipped back below the smoked glass.

Thorne dipped his head, trying to see past the moving screen. A pair of shiny loafers hit the pavement. He could hear the brush of the heels on the cement. Again the head popped up. The man was turning toward him.

Just a second longer, he begged. Please!

The gate crashed into place.

Thorne jogged toward the bank, curious to learn who had been inside the limousine. A laugh drifted over the wall. A voice said in English, “I haven’t been back for ages. Let’s have a look at the place.” Funny accent. Italian maybe. He stared at the gate for another minute and wondered, What if…? Then he smiled and turned away. No way. Couldn’t be. He had never believed in coincidence. The world’s small. But not that small.