Numbered Account (38 page)

“Medusa tells it all,” Maeder had gushed, as if describing the bells and whistles of a high-end stereo. “Direct access to every account.” And then, like a drunk whose loose tongue had revealed one secret too many, he had grown surly and defensive. “And I’ll remind you of the promise you made to the Chairman. You’ll guard these secrets with your life.”

Maeder was probably looking for Nick even now, anxious to begin issuing sell orders and generate the cash that would keep Wolfgang Kaiser’s hand firmly on the bank’s tiller. Nick wished he could tell Maeder the truth. “Sorry, Marty, I needed some fresh air to help me figure out what in the hell I’m doing to my life” or “Gee, Marty, give me a few minutes and let me figure if there’s a way off of this bucket of bolts. What did you say her name was? The
Titanic
?” He had a dozen pithy excuses to explain his flight from the constricting corridors of the bank. In the end, he had simply told Rita Sutter that he was running out for a quick errand.

He hadn’t mentioned that it was his soul he’d be searching for.

Looking out over the snow-covered roofs of the old town, Nick felt the realization creep over him that he had gone too far, that in his quest to locate information that might shed light on his father’s murder he’d strayed from the boundaries of decent behavior. When he’d first taken Peter Sprecher’s place, he had justified his actions by saying he was just doing as others before him had done. Shielding the Pasha from the DEA had simply been an extension of that philosophy, though secretly he had hoped that such an act would gain him the confidence of his superiors. He had rationalized his behavior by arguing that he had had no idea as to the true identity of the man who held numbered account 549.617 RR and that his disobeying of the instructions spelled out on the account surveillance sheet was a reaction to his bitter experience with Jack Keely.

But he could no longer permit himself such moral leeway. The scope of the larceny proposed at this afternoon’s meeting obliterated any remaining doubt. Nicholas A. Neumann was standing on the dark side of the legal fence. He couldn’t lie to himself anymore. He had willingly abetted a criminal wanted by the drug enforcement authorities of several Western nations. He had lied to an agent of the United States government working to bring that man to justice. And now he stood on the brink of helping a bank commit an act of financial fraud unparalleled in recent history.

No more, Nick swore to himself. Like a bowstring drawn too far, he would spring reflexively in the opposite direction. He would make up for what he had done wrong. He thought for a minute about resigning his post, about running to the Swiss authorities. He imagined himself arriving at police headquarters brimming with good intentions, so eager to expose the corruption that was at this moment, Officer, devouring the United Swiss Bank. Nick laughed at himself. Some ploy! The word of an employee at the bank all of seven weeks, a foreigner in spite of his Swiss passport, pitted against that of Wolfgang Kaiser, the nearest thing to a folk hero this land of gold and chocolate had to offer.

Proof, young man! Where is your proof?

Nick laughed disconsolately, realizing that only one course of action was left open to him. He would have to stay at the bank and conduct his investigations from within. He would partition his soul and show Kaiser its dark side. He’d slip deeper into the evil tapestry being woven inside the Emperor’s Lair. And all the while, he’d keep an alert eye peeled for his moment. He didn’t know how or when. Just that he had to do everything within his power to obtain enough evidence of wrongdoing to warrant the freezing of the Pasha’s accounts.

Nick spun on his heels and walked up the rickety gangway. A pair of hungry swans and a lonely mallard followed him. He raised his head and noticed a black Mercedes sedan lolling at the curb. Before long, the passenger door opened and Sterling Thorne stepped out. He was wearing his trench coat, collar turned up against the cold.

“Hello, Neumann.” Thorne’s hands remained conspicuously in his pockets.

“Mr. Thorne.”

“Call me Sterling. I think it’s about time we became friends.”

Nick couldn’t smother a smile. “That’s okay. I’m happy with our relationship the way it is.”

“Sorry about that letter.”

“Does that mean you’ll take it back? Maybe toss in an apology?”

Thorne smiled grimly. “You know what we want.”

“What? To crucify the man I work for? To help sink United Swiss Bank?” Saying the words, knowing that yes, they were exactly what he himself had pledged to do, made Nick feel tired. Tired of defending the bank from Konig’s takeover. Tired of Thorne’s persistent interference. Tired of his own nagging doubts. Still, as if allergic to Thorne, he said, “Sorry, that isn’t going to happen.”

“I made myself a promise that we’re going to stay calm today,” Thorne said. “We aren’t going to argue like a couple of alley cats. You heard what I told Kaiser the other day. I saw by your eyes that you believed me.”

Christ, Nick thought, the guy never said die. “That was some scene you made up there. Uncle Sam would be real proud of you.”

“Sounded like an encyclopedia, didn’t I? All those dates and figures. Only stating the truth. I don’t enjoy hound-dogging you like this. It’s just my job.”

“Is blackmail part of your job, too?”

“If necessary,” said Thorne innocently, as if blackmail were just another form of friendly persuasion. “I’m sorry to hurt your feelings, but your pride means a damn sight less to me than getting my hands on Ali Mevlevi. I told you the other night about Jester — the agent we had in place next to Mevlevi.”

“Has he turned up yet?” Whoever Jester was, Nick felt for him. He’d been in the same lousy position.

“He hasn’t and we’re worried about him. Before he went under, Jester swore that your boss and Mevlevi were real close. Apparently, they go way back. Seems Mevlevi was one of your boss’s first clients in Beirut when Kaiser was setting up the bank’s office over there in the Middle East. I think I remember hearing Kaiser deny that, don’t you? How do you like your boss palling around with one of the biggest smugglers of heroin in this hemisphere?”

Nick didn’t like it one bit, but he’d be damned if he’d let Thorne know.”Let me stop you right here,” he said, placing a hand on the agent’s jacket.

Thorne grabbed his wrist and stepped closer to him. “You are working for a man who kisses the ass of the scum who killed his son! A low-life bastard who values money over his own blood. You are aiding and abetting the worst men on the face of this planet.”

Nick pulled his hand free and retreated several steps. His position was untenable. “Maybe you’re right, this guy, Mevlevi, the Pasha, whoever, is a major heroin smuggler and he does his banking at USB. I agree, that stinks. I’m on your side here. But do you expect me to rifle through the bank’s papers, to request duplicates of his transfer confirmations, to steal his mail from his post box?”

Thorne looked deeper into Nick’s eyes, as if he had spotted the glimmer of something promising. “I see you’ve been thinking about it.”

Nick’s carefully constructed defenses were crumbling. “It can’t be done,” he said. “Not by me, not by anyone, except Kaiser or Ott or one of that group. And even if I did get you the info, it’s illegal for me to turn it over. I’d go to jail.”

“We can get you to America on the next plane.”

“So you told me. And then what? I hear whistleblowers are warmly welcomed by corporate America.”

“We’d keep your name secret.”

“Bullshit!”

“Dammit, this is about more than your career at the bank.”

Thorne had never spoken truer words. “And what about Mevlevi himself, or his cohorts?” Nick asked. “You think they’re going to just let me go? If he’s as bad as you say, he’s not going to let me walk away, free and easy. If you want this guy so badly, why don’t you just get out there and arrest him?”

“I’ll tell you why. Because Mr. Mevlevi lives in Beirut and never comes out. Because we can’t crawl within ten miles of the Lebanese border without violating a dozen treaties. Because he’s got himself holed up in a compound with more firepower than the First Marine Division. That’s why! It’s a shitty situation. The only way we can get him is by freezing his money. We need your help to do that.”

Nick had already decided what needed to be done, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to invite Thorne along for the ride. Thorne was his cover. Nick didn’t want to be treated like one of the good guys. “Sorry, no go. I am not ruining my life so you can nail one of ten thousand bad guys out there. Now excuse me, I have to go.”

“Dammit, Neumann, I’m giving you the word of the United States government. We will protect you.”

The word of the United States government.

Nick tried to find an answer that would put off Thorne once and for all. But he had lost his concentration. He couldn’t stop Thorne’s pledge from reverberating in his head.

The word of the United States government. We will protect you.

He stared at Sterling Thorne and for just a second, he swore he was looking into the slack-jowled face of Jack Keely.

“Neumann, it’s good to see you here,” says Jack Keely. He is nervous, fidgeting on the balls of his feet. “Colonel Andersen called my superiors, said something about you augmenting. You want to be a lifer, eh? Congratulations. Said you’re interested in Intelligence? Maybe a liaison position between Quantico and Langley?”

First Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann sits at a table in the visitors’ entry hall at the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency in Langley, Virginia. It is a large room with a high ceiling and fluorescent lighting. On this hot June day, the air conditioners labor to keep the building cool. Nick wears his class A “alpha” dress greens. Two new ribbons adorn his breast — one for duty in the Pacific theater of operations, the other for meritorious service. The second is a surrogate for the Bronze Star awarded for valor in combat during an operation that never officially took place. He balances a black cane in his right hand. The cane is a step up from the crutches he wore out during his four-month stay at Walter Reed Hospital. The truth is that he has been declared NPQ — not physically qualified — for further duty. He cannot become a career officer, even if he wanted to. In ten days he will be discharged from the United States Marine Corps. Colonel Sigurd Andersen, of course, knows this. As he knows about all of Keely’s intrigues.

“Thanks for finding the time to see me,” says Nick, motioning as if to stand.

Keely waves him down. “So your wounds have healed?” he asks lightly, as if a quarter pound of shrapnel, like a bad haircut, is only a temporary nuisance.

“Getting there,” says Nick. He rubs his leg gingerly to show that there is still a long way to go.

Keely relaxes, now that he has assessed Neumann and found him not to be a physical threat. “Any specific posting you have in mind?”

“I’m interested in assuming the type of role you played aboard the
Guam
,” says Nick. “Coordinating incursions onto foreign soil. Marines are more comfortable having one of their own run an operation. I thought maybe you could talk to me about what it takes to do that kind of a job. I mean, since you did such a fine job with my team.”

Keely grimaces. “Boy, that was a screwup. I’m sorry I couldn’t talk to you about it more aboard ship. Regulations. Of course, you were hardly in a condition to speak with anyone when they hauled you aboard.”

“Sure,” says Nick, squinting his eyes, remembering.

“Radio malfunction,” continues Keely. “I’m sure Colonel Andersen told you. We didn’t pick up your distress signals until you were patched through the open airport communications channel. In the future, remember to guard that as a last resort. Not a secure com link.”

Nick swallows his hatred of this man. His anticipation grows. He tells himself it won’t be long now. “We had a man down,” he says evenly. “We were being pursued by a superior enemy force. Operations command had not responded to our signals in over seven hours. Does that count as enough of a
last resort
?”

Keely rummages in his breast pocket for a cigarette. He slumps in his chair, assuming his usual arrogant posture. “Look, Lieutenant, no one likes to dredge up the past. The basic intel was on the money. You took out Enrile. We achieved the mission goal. We still don’t have a clue as to who set up the ambush. Anyway, your boys fucked the extraction. It was a navy job to maintain the ship’s communications equipment in proper working order. If one of your radios was on the fritz, what was I supposed to do about it?”

Nick smiles and says that he understands. Behind the smile, he maps out the progress of his assault. He plans every blow that he will deliver to this man’s lying body. He has chosen Langley for an express purpose — so that Keely will never feel safe again, so that for the rest of his life he’ll cower before turning a corner and hesitate before opening a door, so that he’ll always wonder who’ll be there to meet him and pray it won’t be Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann.

“What’s past is past,” Nick says amicably. “The reason I came, Mr. Keely, is to get a tour of the navy liaison facility. I’m sure Colonel Andersen mentioned it. I thought maybe you’d give me some pointers about which channels would be most receptive to my requests for duty.”

“Sure thing, Neumann. Follow me.” Keely throws the butt of his cigarette into a cold cup of coffee, which had been left on the table. He stands up and tucks his creeping belly into his pants. “You okay on that leg?”

Nick follows Keely down a featureless corridor: linoleum floor, eggshell walls, all strictly government issue. They are returning to the visitor center after having visited the Satellite Imaging Department — run by a former marine named Bill Stackpole, a close friend of Colonel Andersen’s.

“Jack, I’ve got to use the head,” says Nick as they approach a rest room. “I might need a hand.” The visit has gone well. Nick and Keely are now friends. Keely insists he be called by his first name.

“A hand?” asks Keely, and when Nick offers an embarrassed grin, Keely obliges. “Sure thing
. . . Nick
.”