Numbered Account (18 page)

Thorne’s gaze wandered to the building across the street. From an upstairs window, an elderly woman viewed his men’s activity with a bitter eye. Two cars belonging to the DEA were pulled onto the sidewalk. Empty filing boxes were being loaded into the trunk. Like a hungry rat emerging from its hole, the wizened lady leaned far out over the window ledge and surveyed all below.

“Chief, Skouras here. Mr. Schweitzer is checking the accounts now. I can verify that he put in the right numbers. We’re waiting on a hard-copy printout.”

Without so much as a knock, the door to Thorne’s office swung open and rebounded noisily off the wall. The heavy cadence of a single individual’s footsteps approached. Thorne turned and stared into the sweating face and knotted brow of a stocky black man.

“Thorne,” the visitor spat out, “I’ll wait till you get off the phone and then I want an explanation of what in the name of good Christ is going on here.”

Thorne shook his head. A knowing smile brightened his features. “The Reverend Terry Strait. Surprise, surprise. Sinners, fall to your knees and repent! Hello, Terry. Here to fuck up another operation, or just to make sure our hallowed rules are properly obeyed?”

Strait pulled on the pockets of his vest and rolled on the balls of his feet while Thorne placed a hand to his lips and motioned to be quiet.

“Mr. Thorne,” said Schweitzer. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but we report no activity in any of the accounts on our list.”

“Nothing, in or out?” Thorne scratched the back of his neck and glared at Strait, who remained less than a foot away.

“Absolutely nothing,” said Schweitzer.

“You’re sure?” Thorne squinted his eyes.
Impossible
, he thought.
Jester’s never wrong
.

“Are you suggesting we at the United Swiss Bank are not telling the truth?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. But seeing as how we have Skouras right next to you, I can’t exactly accuse you of holding back on us.”

“Do not push your luck, Mr. Thorne,” said Schweitzer. “The bank is doing its best to extend a courteous welcome to you. You should be content that you’ve managed to place one of your watchdogs inside our premises. I shall ask my secretary to see that Mr. Skouras continues to receive a copy of every wire instruction given to our payments-trafficking department. If you have any further questions, do not hesitate to call me. In the meantime, good day.” Schweitzer rang off.

Thorne slammed the phone onto its cradle. He faced his unannounced visitor. “What in the hell are the desk jockeys doing in Switzerland?”

Terry Strait glared at Thorne. “I’m here to make sure you follow the game plan we established a long time ago.”

Thorne crossed his arms and leaned against his desk. “What makes you think I wouldn’t?”

“You,”
boomed Strait. “You never have in the past. And I can see you aren’t now.” He withdrew a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and held it in front of Thorne.
Internal Account Surveillance List
was printed in bold letters across USB stationery. “What the hell is going on? How did this account number get on this paper?”

Thorne took the paper, examined it briefly, and showing no emotion, handed it back to Strait.

“I imagine this is what you were yapping to Schweitzer about,” Strait said. “Account 549.617 RR. Am I correct?”

“Righto, Terry. On the ball as usual.”

Strait held the surveillance list as if it gave off a foul odor. “I am actually afraid to ask how this account ended up on that bank’s watch list. I don’t think I want to know.”

Thorne stared blankly ahead, one corner of his mouth peaked in a silent smirk. He hadn’t told Strait a thing, and already he was tired of explaining. “I hate to break it to you, Terry, but it’s legit.”

“Legit? Franz Studer allowed you to place this account on USB’s surveillance list? You’ve got to be kidding!” Strait shook his head as if it couldn’t be true. “Why, Sterling? Why are you jeopardizing the operation? Why do you want to scare our man out of the net?”

““The net’?” Thorne exclaimed in disbelief. “Is that what you think we’ve set up here? If we’ve got a net, Terry, then it’s got a hole big enough for Moby fucking Dick to swim through, ’cause that’s what our man has been doing these last eighteen months.”

“You’ve got to give Eastern Lightning time. Every operation has its own schedule.”

“Well, this schedule is coming to an end. Eastern Lightning is my baby. I set her up. I put her into play.” Thorne pushed himself off his desk and began pacing the room. “Let me remind you of our tactical goals. One: Staunch the flow of heroin into southern Europe. Two: Force the party responsible, and we know damn well who that is, out of his mountain hideaway and into a Western nation where we can arrest him. And three: Seize the sonuvabitch’s assets so we have sufficient resources to pay for our dream holiday here in Switzerland. After all, every op’s got to be self-financing, these days. Am I right so far?”

“Yes, Sterling, you’re right, but what about—”

“Shut up, then, and let me finish.” Thorne rubbed his forehead and continued his pacing. “How long has this op been green lighted? Nine months? A year? Try twenty months. Two zero months. Hell, it took us a year just to get Jester in place. Since then, what have we got? Have we stopped the flow of heroin into Europe? Even one damned shipment?”

“That’s Jester’s fault,” Strait protested. “Your source is supposed to supply us with details regarding our man’s shipments.”

“And so far he hasn’t. Put the blame on my shoulders. They may be narrow, but I’ll be proud to carry the load.”

“This is not about placing blame, Sterling.”

“You’re right,” said Thorne. “It’s about getting results. As for our first goal — interdict the flow of heroin — strike one. As for our second — flush the bird from its covey — let me ask you this: Has that sonuvabitch Mevlevi even looked in our direction? Has he even blinked?”

Strait said nothing, so Thorne continued.

“Instead of getting scared, the bastard’s hunkering down for the long haul, tightening security, doubling the size of his army. Christ, he has enough firepower up there to take back the West Bank. Jester says he has something big planned. You’ve read my reports.”

“That’s what has us scared. You’re more interested in broadening the scope of this operation than in bringing its original mandate to a successful conclusion. We passed on your information to Langley. Let them handle it.”

Thorne beseeched the ceiling for divine intervention. “Face it, Terry, we aren’t ever going to force our man into a friendly nation where we can arrest him. And so we’re left with goal number three: Seize the motherfucker’s assets. Hit him where it hurts. You know what I’m saying? Grab ’em by the balls and their hearts and minds will follow. That’s all we got left going for us. The only information that Jester has given us is regarding our target’s finances. Let’s use it.”

Terry Strait stood very still, refusing to be caught up in Thorne’s emotional outburst. “We have discussed this before,” he said quietly. “Proper evidence must be submitted to the office of the Swiss federal prosecutor. Evidence that must first substantiate the target’s involvement with illegal narcotics—”

“Beyond any reasonable doubt,” Thorne cut in.

“Beyond any reasonable doubt,” confirmed Strait.

“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.