Numbered Account (68 page)

Nick flitted through his scattered belongings looking for some clean clothes. He came up with a shirt and suit just back from the laundry. Despite their mistreatment, they were relatively unwrinkled, and he put them on. One tie remained in his closet. He grabbed it, then bolted from the apartment.

Inside the limousine, Nick checked his watch over and over again. Morning traffic was heavy, slower than it had ever been. The black Mercedes rolled past Bellevue and climbed the Universitatstrasse. It mounted the Zurichberg and passed through the forest. The dovecote tower of the Dolder Grand appeared high above his left shoulder. His heart beat faster.

Calm down, he told himself. You’re on.

Nick forced himself to wait until the limousine had made a full stop before opening the door. He was livid with himself for being late. Only ten minutes — but today timing was everything. He climbed the maroon carpeted stairs two at a time and rushed through the revolving door. He spotted the Pasha at once.

“Good morning, Nicholas,” the Pasha said quietly. “You’re late. Let’s make a quick start. Mr. Pine, the night manager, informs me that snow may be on the way. We do not want to be caught at the Gotthardo in a blizzard.”

Nick advanced a step and shook Mevlevi’s hand. “There shouldn’t be any problem. The St. Gotthard tunnel is always open, even in the worst conditions. The driver assures me we should have no problems making it to Lugano in time. The car has four-wheel drive and chains.”

“It will be you helping to attach the chains, not me.” Mevlevi smiled, then climbed into the backseat of the limousine, nodding once to the chauffeur, who manned the rear door.

Nick followed suit, allowing the chauffeur to shut the door behind him. He was determined to be the perfect functionary. Polite, amiable, never intrusive. “Do you have your passport and three photos?” he asked the Pasha.

“Of course.” Mevlevi handed Nick both. “Have a look. Friends of mine at British Intelligence passed it along to me. They tell me it’s the real thing. The Brits prefer to use the Argentinean variety. Add a little salt to open wounds. I chose the name myself. Clever, don’t you think?”

Nick opened the Argentinean passport. It was the same one used at International Fiduciary Trust in Zug on Friday, issued in the name of one Allen Malvinas, resident of Buenos Aires. Home to El Oro de los Andes. “Didn’t you say that you had lived in Argentina?”

“Buenos Aires. Yes, but only briefly.”

Nick handed the passport back without further comment.
Soufi, Malvinas, Mevlevi. I know who you are
.

Mevlevi slipped the passport into his jacket pocket. “Of course, it’s not the only name I’ve ever used.”

Nick unbuttoned his jacket, and his arm brushed against the forged steel blade. He smiled to himself.
And you know I know
.

An early-morning silence enveloped the car as it sped through the Tal Valley. The Pasha appeared to be sleeping. Nick kept one eye on his watch and the other on the passing scenery. The sky had faded from its earlier pale blue to a paler, watery gray. Still, no snow fell, and for that he was grateful.

The Mercedes hummed along nicely for another hour, its powerful engine sending a comforting vibrato through the chassis. The sleek automobile passed through the quaint lakeside village of Kussnacht before climbing onto a narrower road that followed the steep northern rim of the Vierwaldstatter See toward the St. Gotthard Pass. A few low-lying clouds blanketed the lake. From Nick’s vantage point high above its misty surface, he had the impression of a schooner’s mainsail torn by a hurricane wind into a thousand tattered strips. It made him think of a shipwreck. If he were a superstitious man, he would consider it a bad omen. Seconds later the car passed into the first of a series of isolated showers, and the lake was lost from view.

At the same time that Nick was passing through Kussnacht, Sylvia Schon tucked the telephone under her chin and dialed the Chairman’s home number for the fourth time. The line connected immediately. The phone rang and rang and rang. Twenty-seven times she allowed it to sound before banging the receiver into its cradle. Tears of frustration streamed down her face. Twice during the night, she had crept from her bed to call. Neither time had there been an answer.

Where were you, Wolfgang Kaiser, at three o’clock on a Sunday morning?

Sylvia stalked into the kitchen and rummaged through her drawers for a cigarette. She found a crushed pack of Gauloises and pulled one from the wrinkled blue sheath.

She puffed madly on the harsh cigarette, desperate to rid her apartment of Nick’s lingering scent. I’m not betraying you, she explained to his memory. I’m saving myself. I could have loved you. Can’t you understand that? Or are you too wrapped up in your personal crusade to notice that I have one of my own? Don’t you know what will happen if Kaiser is arrested? Rudolf Ott will take over. Ott — my rival for the Chairman’s affection. Ott — who tried his best to deny me my chance to move up. It’s him, Nick. He’s the one responsible.

Sylvia acknowledged a pang of guilt but wasn’t sure who it was for. For Nick. For herself. Anyway, it didn’t matter. She had chosen her path a long time ago.

Sylvia stubbed out her cigarette and checked her watch. Another ten minutes until Rita Sutter arrived in the office. She was like a clock, Kaiser had said. In at 7:30 on the dot every day for the past twenty years. His most obedient servant. Rita Sutter would know where to find the Chairman. He didn’t do anything without telling her.

Sylvia pinched the bridge of her nose and shuddered, suddenly nauseated from the unfiltered nicotine. She consulted her watch yet again. And though it was eight minutes too early, she picked up the phone and called the Emperor’s Lair.

The road had assumed a gentler incline. It rose along the icy banks of the river Reuss and wandered up a majestic valley leading deep into the craggy heart of the Swiss Alps. Nick glanced out the window, numb to the beauty around him. He was keeping his fingers crossed it would not snow, wondering where Thorne was right now. He prayed that Kaiser had left Zurich on time to make his eleven o’clock meeting with the count. A sign for Altdorf flashed past and then ones for Amsteg and Wassen, these last small villages made up of a dozen stone houses sitting alongside the highway.

Approaching the village of Goschenen, Ali Mevlevi asked the chauffeur to leave the highway so that he might stretch his legs. The driver obliged, following the next exit off of the highway and driving into the center of a picturesque village, where he halted the automobile next to a gurgling water fountain. All three men climbed out.

“Look at the time,” the Pasha said, making an elaborate show of examining his wristwatch. “At this rate we’ll arrive an hour ahead of schedule. Tell me once again what time our meeting is set for.”

“Ten-thirty,” answered Nick, instantly on edge. He hadn’t foreseen any stops. This was supposed to be the express train. Nonstop intercity.

“Ten-thirty,” Mevlevi repeated. “We have over two hours. I do not wish to sit in an overheated room twiddling my thumbs waiting for this flunky. I can promise you that right now.”

“We can phone Mr. Wenker, the man from the passport office, and ask him to meet us earlier.” Nick had dreaded the prospect of being late. So much so, in fact, that he had never stopped to consider what might happen if they were early.

“No, no. Best not to disturb him.” Mevlevi appraised the gray sky. “I have another idea. I say we take the old route over the top. I’ve never been through the pass itself.”

Over the top? That was insane. It was a skating rink up there.

“The road is extremely dangerous,” Nick said, trying to keep a docent’s steady tone. “Steep, curvy. There’s likely to be quite a bit of ice. It’s not a good idea.”

A shadow crossed the Pasha’s brow. “I think it is a wonderful idea. Ask the driver how long it will take.”

The chauffeur, who had been casually smoking a cigarette by the water fountain, volunteered an answer. “With no snow, we can be up and down in an hour.”

“See, Neumann,” the Pasha said enthusiastically. “One hour. Perfect! We can add a little scenery to the trip.”

A shrill warning bell sounded in Nick’s head. He gazed at the dramatic panorama. The Alpine valley rose steeply on both sides of them, its walls lined with outcroppings of rock and stands of snow-covered pines. Jagged peaks of a dozen lesser mountains stared down through swirling mist and cloud. He had never seen a more spectacular vista. Yet now the Pasha wanted to see even more “scenery.” Out of the fucking question!

“I have to insist that we stay on the highway. The weather can change suddenly in the mountains. By the time we reach the pass, we could be trapped in a blizzard.”

“Neumann, if you knew how rarely I leave my arid little country, you would gladly allow me this pleasure. If we keep Mr. Wenker waiting a little, so be it. He won’t mind — not for the fee Kaiser is undoubtedly paying him.” Mevlevi walked to the chauffeur and clapped him on the back. “Can we make it to Lugano by ten-thirty, my good man?”

“No problem,” came the driver’s answer. He crushed the cigarette under his boot and adjusted his cap.

Nick smiled nervously at the Pasha. Tardy arrival to the meeting with Mr. Wenker of the Swiss Passport Office was a luxury they simply did not possess. The entire plan depended on precise timing. Nick and the Pasha were due at 10:30. And at 10:30, they must arrive.

He opened the car door, pausing for a final breath of air before climbing in. Mevlevi had planned this detour. The chauffeur was one of his. Had to be. No one in his right mind would drive on the old road to the Gotthard Pass in this weather. A midwinter ascent was folly. The road would be icy and ungroomed. Worse, the weather was threatening. It could begin snowing at any second.

Mevlevi strode to the automobile. Before climbing inside, he looked Nick in the eye and tapped the roof of the car twice. “Shall we go then?”

Sylvia Schon screamed at the female operator manning the bank switchboard, “I don’t care if the line is busy. Put me through on another extension. This is an emergency. Do you understand?”

“Mrs. Sutter is occupied on the telephone,” the operator explained patiently. “You may call back later.
Auf Wiederhoren
.”

The line went dead.

Exasperated but not defeated, Sylvia found a new dial tone and tried the Chairman’s secretary for the third time. Finally, she heard the clipped ringing she so desired.

“Secretariat Herr Kaiser,
Sutter.”

“Mrs. Sutter,” Sylvia began, “where is the Chairman? I must speak with him at once.”

“I take it this is Fraulein Schon,” answered a cold voice.

“Yes,” Sylvia responded. “Where is he?”

“The Chairman is out. He cannot be reached until this afternoon.”

“I must know where he is,” Sylvia blurted. “It’s an emergency. Please tell me where I can find him.”

“Of course,” Sutter answered, ever formal. “You may find him in his office this afternoon at three P.M. Not before. May I be of service to you?”

“No, dammit. Listen to me. The Chairman is in danger. His safety and his freedom are in jeopardy.”

“Calm yourself, young lady,” Rita Sutter ordered. “What do you mean by “in danger’? If you wish to help Herr Kaiser, you must tell me. Or would you prefer to speak with Dr. Ott?”

“No!” Sylvia pinched her arm to remain calm. “Please, Mrs. Sutter.
Please, Rita
. You have to believe me. You must tell me where I can reach him. It’s for the good of us all that I find the Chairman.”

I’m sorry, Nick,
she explained to the persistent shadow that would not leave her shoulder.
This is my home. My life.

Rita Sutter cleared her throat. “He will be back in the office this afternoon at three o’clock. Good-bye.”

“Wait,” Sylvia Schon screamed to the dead receiver.

Nick maintained a light hold on the armrest while looking out the window. The bleak morning had taken on a dusky gloom. He was dismayed to see tufted gray clouds gathering. Snow wasn’t far off. He shifted his gaze down the mountain and spotted a single car climbing the tortuous road far below them. It moved with surprising speed, accelerating rapidly along the short straightaways before braking to negotiate the unforgiving hairpin turns. So they weren’t the
only ones crazy enough to try the pass. He turned his head toward Mevlevi. The frequent sharp turns and constant acceleration and deceleration had turned his complexion yellow. His eyes were focused on the passing landscape. His window was rolled down a crack to allow a stream of freezing air to soothe his confused equilibrium.

Mevlevi leaned forward in his seat and asked the driver, “How much farther to the top?”

“Five minutes,” the driver replied. “Almost there. Don’t worry. This storm won’t hit for a while.”

Yet, no sooner had the words escaped the chauffeur’s lips than the Mercedes entered a dense cloud bank. Visibility fell from five hundred feet to twenty in the snap of a finger. The car braked sharply.

“Scheisse,”
whispered the chauffeur in a voice loud enough to alarm his passengers, or at least Nick. The Pasha, however, appeared strangely pleased. The jaundiced tint to his skin had vanished instantly. He tilted his head against the headrest and looked over at Nick.

“Willful disobedience,” he stated, as if throwing out a topic for discussion. “It runs in your family, doesn’t it? The urge to tell everyone around you to piss off. Do things your own way. You should have made a career on my side of the fence.”

Nick smirked. So now even drug dealers had careers? “I like it on my side,” he said.

The Pasha smiled broadly. “I have it on good authority that you’ve developed quite an interest in the bank’s files. Mine for one. And others. Files containing information about your father’s work at the bank.
Monthly activity reports
, I believe they are called. Am I correct? Did you need them to corroborate those agendas of his?”