Numbered Account (74 page)

“DEA,” Nick said, paying no attention to the guard’s disgusted expression.

The guard softened his demeanor and nodded. “
Prego, signore
. Fourth floor.
Camera quattro zero sette
.” Room 407.

The corridor was quiet. A single policeman stood guard at the elevator landing. Another waited next to an open door at the far end of the hallway. Miles of blue carpeting lay in between. Nick could smell the cordite even at this distance. Gunshots had been fired.
Who was dead? Who was wounded? Who had suffered from the failure of his ill-conceived plan
?

Nick gave his name and waited while the policeman walkie-talkie’d for approval to an unseen poobah in the room at the end of the hallway. A two-syllable response blurted from the walkie-talkie, and Nick was allowed to proceed.

He was halfway down the corridor when Sterling Thorne emerged from the room. The drug enforcement agent was wearing a drab green jacket, and his face was streaked with grime. If possible, his hair was more disheveled than usual. All in all, it was an improvement.

“Who do we have here? The prodigal son himself. ’Bout time you showed up.”

“Sorry,” said Nick, deadpan. “Traffic.”

Thorne began to smile, then as if seeing him for the first time, grimaced. “Jesus, Neumann. What happened to you? Looks like you’ve been in a fight with an alley cat. And lost.” He pointed at the bloody shirt. “I’ll have to tell the boys to order up another ambulance. How bad is it?”

Nick kept limping toward the room. No point in going into the details now. “I’ll live. What happened here?”

“Your buddy took a cap in the shoulder. He’s all right, but he won’t be pitching in the World Series. Lost a lot of blood.”

“Mevlevi?”

“Gone.” Thorne pointed to the emergency exit at the end of the hall. “We found some of his blood going down the stairs. Some more in the hotel room. The police have sealed the borders and are searching the hotel and the surrounding towns for him.”

Nick was furious. How could Thorne have allowed a wounded man to escape? He had known all along that the Pasha would be at the hotel. Why hadn’t he positioned his men here before Mevlevi’s arrival? He could already hear Thorne’s excuse.
The Swiss police won’t move until they have proof of wrongdoing on their own soil. We had to wait for Jester
.

“Was it you that cut him?” Thorne asked.

“We had a personal disagreement,” said Nick, checking his anger. “He wanted to kill me. I didn’t think it was such a great idea. He had a gun. I had a knife. It was almost a fair fight.”

“Tell you the truth, we all thought you were dead. We found the limo you were supposed to have come in downstairs. Chauffeur was in the trunk. Arm near torn off and a bullet in the back of his neck. I’m glad to see you alive.” Thorne laid a hand on Nick’s shoulder. “That’s a treasure trove of financial impropriety you collected. Mevlevi’s file from USB, proof of his accounts at the Adler Bank, even photographs with his signature on the back of them. Not to mention his phony passport. Not bad, Neumann. We’ll have his accounts frozen in less than forty-eight hours.”

Nick shot him a burning look. In forty-eight hours, Mevlevi would have wired every last dime he had out of this country. In forty-eight hours, he would be back in his Lebanese mountain hideaway, safe and sound.
In forty-eight hours, I’ll probably be dead
.

Thorne caught his stare. “I know we should have gotten him.” He raised a finger. “And that’s as close to an apology as you’re going to get from me.”

“Jester?”

“Alive. The contraband was lost in the arrest. Burned up.” Thorne dragged a thumb across his sooty cheek and held it up for inspection. “That’s about the only thing left of it. But we have our tie to Mevlevi nonetheless. Thanks to you, we finally managed to get the Swissies’ cooperation. Kaiser’s going down. Your colleague Mr. Feller says he was here but stopped to take a call in the lobby from a Miss Schon. Must’ve been a warning because he never came up. We can’t find him anywhere. The Swiss won’t issue an APB until formal charges have been filed.”

Nick let the mention of Sylvia’s name pass right through him. He’d have plenty of time later to tell himself what a fool he’d been. “I thought you said they were cooperating.”

Thorne shrugged. “In fits and spurts. Mevlevi is one thing. Wolfgang Kaiser another. Right now I’m taking what I can get.”

Nick started toward the open door. He felt incredibly sad. The whole plan had fucked up. The police hadn’t gotten Mevlevi or Kaiser. “I want to see my friend.”

“Go ahead. The ambulance is on its way, so hurry it up.”

Peter Sprecher lay on the floor of the large salon. He was conscious. His eyes were open, darting around the room. Bath towels had been placed under his shoulder. A police officer sat beside him, keeping pressure on the wound in an effort to stanch the bleeding. Nick eased himself to the floor, sure to keep his right leg extended, and relieved the officer of his duty.

Sprecher lifted his head and gave the weakest of laughs. “Didn’t get you either?”

“No, he didn’t.” Nick kept his hand firmly on Sprecher’s shoulder. “How are you,
chum
?”

“I may be taking a smaller jacket size. But, I’ll live.”

Nick was worn out. “Well, we tried.”

“I diddled him as long as I could. Had to come up with a dozen excuses. It wasn’t easy. I couldn’t help but imagine what had happened to you. When he got word his shipment had been taken down, that was that. He wanted out.”

“You did good, Peter. Real good.”

Sprecher smiled slyly. “I did better than that, chum.” Wincing, he lifted himself from the floor and whispered, “I know where he’s gone. Didn’t want to tell Thorne. Tell you the truth, I never trusted him. Five minutes earlier and he’d have gotten the Pasha.”

Nick leaned closer, putting his ear to Sprecher’s lips.

“I heard Mevlevi talking on the phone. He didn’t know I spoke his lingo. Brissago. Main square in an hour. He’s meeting someone there. Pissant of a town, smack on the Italian border.”

“It’s eleven-thirty right now. When did he leave?”

“Fifteen minutes ago. You just missed him, schmuck.”

“And Kaiser? A no-show?”

“Don’t know where the Chairman was. Ask Feller. They’ve already taken him out of here. Mevlevi pistol-whipped the poor chap. Bleeding worse than I was. Don’t tell him, but I think he saved my life. Now go on. Get out of here. Find Mevlevi and give him my best regards.”

Nick took his friend’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “I’ll find him, Peter. And don’t worry, I’ll let Mevlevi know just how you feel about him. You can count on it.”

Sterling Thorne was waiting for Nick at the doorway.

“Neumann, before we pack you off to the hospital with your buddy, I wanted to share something we found in Mevlevi’s briefcase.”

“What is it?” Nick wasn’t going to any hospital. At least not yet. And he was in no mood to stand around shooting the shit. Every second put more distance between him and the Pasha. Every second lengthened the odds of his capture.

Thorne handed him a sheaf of papers attached at the upper-left-hand corner by a gold paper clip. Three words in bold Cyrillic script ran across the top of the page. The documents were addressed to Mr. Ali Mevlevi, address a post office box in Beirut. Below Mevlevi’s name, written in English, was a devil’s lexicon of modern armaments. Aircraft, helicopters, tanks, missiles. Quantities, prices, availability dates.

Despite his impatience, Nick could not help but give the pages his utmost attention. “This list includes a battlefield nuclear weapon. Who the hell is selling this stuff?”

Thorne scowled. “Our new Russian allies, who else? Do you have any idea what Mevlevi can do with this?”

“Didn’t you say he had a private army?”

“I said “private army,’ as in half-assed militia. There’s a dozen of those already in Lebanon. This here constitutes enough firepower for the First Marine Division. I don’t even want to think of what Mevlevi would do with a nuke. I’ve been on the horn to Langley. I imagine they’ll get in touch with the Mossad.”

Nick studied the sheets. He could practically feel the tumblers fall into place as his mind unlocked this one last puzzle. Why did the Pasha want to fund a takeover of the United Swiss Bank? Why had he peopled the Adler Bank with Middle Eastern executives? Why his urgency to get Gino Makdisi’s forty-million-dollar prepayment? Why had he come all the way to Zurich?

Nick sighed. Because the Adler Bank wasn’t good enough for him. Because the Pasha needed USB as well. Because he required the combined cash and securities held by both banks to buy his Easter basket of shit-hot, state-of-the-art weaponry. God only knew to what use he’d put them.

Nick handed back the papers to Thorne. “Sprecher told me something that might interest you. He thinks he knows where Mevlevi’s headed.”

Thorne cocked his head, sniffing the air as if he had the scent of his prey. “He didn’t mention it to me.”

Nick considered telling Thorne the truth, then thought the better of it. If he wanted to pursue Mevlevi, he had to move Thorne out of the way. Thorne would insist Nick go to the hospital directly. Or he’d say that Nick was a civilian, something about how Thorne couldn’t allow his life to be endangered. Bottom line: Thorne would do anything to have Mevlevi to himself.

And so would Nick.

“Peter thought you might have been responsible for the screwup. I set him straight. Told him that you didn’t know Mevlevi was on to me.” Nick paused, allowing Thorne to dangle a little longer.

“Goddammit, Neumann. Where in the hell did he say Mevlevi was heading?”

“Porto Ceresio. It’s east of here, on the Italian border. But don’t run off, I’m coming with you.”

Thorne shook his head. He was already reaching for his walkie-talkie. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you aren’t going anywhere with that leg. You stay put until the ambulance gets here.”

Nick decided more resistance was needed. “You’re not leaving me here. I gave you this information. Mevlevi tried to kill me. It’s personal now. I want a shot at him.”

“Exactly why you’re staying here. I want Mevlevi alive. Dead he does us no good whatsoever.”

Nick lowered his head and muttered to himself, as if exhaustion had won him over. He raised an arm in protest, then allowed it to drop.

“Thanks for your help, Neumann, but you’re better off getting yourself patched up.” Thorne brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “We’ve got word on where Mevlevi is heading. I’ll be downstairs in a minute. Get us a couple squad cars as escort. Some podunk town called Porto Ceresio. Call the local authorities. Tell them we’re heading over. Ya hear?”

Ali Mevlevi sat in the backseat of a speeding taxi, furious about the loss of his briefcase. It held everything: his agenda containing all his banking information — accounts, code words, phone numbers; a copy of the weaponry he had purchased from Marchenko; and most important, his cellular phone. He had always liked to think of himself as being calm in the face of danger, but now he knew that was not the case. He was a coward. Why else had he lived his life holed up in a fortified compound in a lawless land? Why else hadn’t he chased after Neumann and made sure that he was dead? Why else had he fled the hotel before he wrested the briefcase from that maniac Sprecher’s grip? Because he was afraid, that’s why.

You’re a coward, Ali.
For once, he did not try to deny it.

Mevlevi shifted in his seat and asked the taxi driver how much farther to Brissago. The driver said, “Almost there.” He’d been saying the same thing for half an hour now. Mevlevi looked out the window. The foothills of the Tessin rose on either side of him. The landscape was a moribund green, similar to that of the Shouf Mountains near his home in Lebanon. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of the lake off to his left. The blue water consoled him. Italy lay on the other side.

Mevlevi sat up straighter and grimaced with pain. His left leg felt as if it were on fire. He lifted his pant leg and looked at the wound. The gash was only three inches long, but he’d been cut deeply, almost to the bone. The blood had tried unsuccessfully to coagulate. He had been moving around too much, first struggling with Peter Sprecher, then running from the
hotel to a taxi stand a quarter of a mile up the road. Now the wound had suppurated. The blood had turned a chocolate black and was oozing down his leg.

Damn the leg! Concentrate on how to get yourself out of this mess!

Mevlevi considered what he must do once he reached Brissago. He knew he didn’t have much time. The swarm of policemen outside the hotel made clear the involvement of the Swiss authorities. His accounts would be frozen in a day or two. An international arrest warrant bearing his name would be issued any minute. Kaiser was probably already in jail. Who knew what he would tell the authorities?

A curious sense of detachment descended over him. The more he thought about his situation, the freer he felt. He would lose his investment in the Adler Bank as well as his shares at USB and the twenty million in cash he had deposited there only Friday. He was ruined financially. That much was patently clear. He heard his father’s voice telling him that if a man had religion he could never be bankrupt; that Allah’s love made every man rich. And for the first time in his life, he truly believed it.

Mevlevi had only one thing left to him. The successful implementation of Khamsin.

He drew a deep breath and calmed himself. Ott had promised to credit his account at USB with eight hundred million francs this morning before noon. If he could get the money wired to Marchenko before word of his own escape and Kaiser’s arrest leaked out, he could make sure he left the world with at least one lasting legacy. The destruction of the settlement of Ariel. The extermination of fifteen thousand arrogant Jews.

Mevlevi checked his watch. It was twenty minutes before twelve. He set forth in his mind the calls he would have to make. It would be more difficult without his agenda. He would have to improvise. He knew Ott’s number at USB. He knew the number of his own communications facility in Lebanon. He just needed the time to make two phone calls.