The fuel that would ignite Khamsin.
And today, a new contact at the bank. For that he must accept at least partial responsibility. He could not suppress a chuckle at the recollection of poor Cerruti’s expression when he was brought to Suleiman’s Pool. At first, the banker had refused to believe what lay beneath the pool’s surface. He had stared into the water, eyes blinking madly while his head shook from side to side. When Joseph provided him a closer look, it had proved too much. The man had gagged, then fainted. At least the damn blinking had stopped.
Mevlevi walked into the gloom of his office and glanced at the handwritten notes on his desk. He picked up the telephone and pressed a single button programmed with the private telephone number of his partner in Zurich. A husky voice answered after the third ring. “Makdisi Trading.”
“Albert?”
“Salaam Aleikhum.Hello, my brother. What can I do for you?”
“Routine checkup. An employee of the United Swiss Bank. Name of Neumann. I don’t know the first name. Good English. He might be an American.”
“Just routine?”
“Very low-key, if you please. Keep an eye on him for a few days. Invisible, understand. Search his apartment. If necessary, we can offer an encouraging hello. But not yet.”
“We’ll start today. Call me in a week.”
Mevlevi hung up the phone and listened as the patter of Lina’s footsteps drifted into the study. “It does my eyes good to see you,” he said when she had entered the room.
“Aren’t you finished with business for the day?” Lina pouted. She was a young woman, only nineteen. A raven-haired beauty with full hips and a generous bust. “It’s nearly seven.”
Mevlevi smiled sympathetically. “Almost,cherie. One last matter to attend to. I want you to watch.”
Lina crossed her arms and said defiantly, “I have no interest watching you pass your hours on the telephone.”
“Alas, then you do not have to worry.” He stood and hugged his Lebanese tigress. She discarded her rebel’s stance and wrapped her arms around him, sighing. He had found her three months ago at Little Maxim’s, a nasty establishment in the back alleys of Beirut’s waterfront district. A discreet conversation with the proprietor had secured her services on a permanent basis. She stayed with him six nights a week and returned to her mother in Jounieh the seventh. She was a Christian, from a Phalangist family. He should be ashamed. Yet even Allah could not control the heart. And her body took him to realms he had never before discovered.
Joseph strode across the marble entryway and into his study. In front of him, head slack on a sunken chest, stood Kamal, a homely boy recruited only two months before to serve as a member of Mevlevi’s private security detail. “He was found in your study, rummaging through your private affairs.”
“Bring him to me.”
Joseph guided the teenager forward. “He has lost the will to speak.”
More likely the ability, thought Mevlevi. With a sack of ripe oranges and an extension of rubber pipe, the dark-skinned devil could make Netanyahu confess his undying love of the prophet Muhammad while leaving the fat Jew’s body unmarked.
“He is in the pay of Mong,” said Joseph. “He has admitted to as much.”
Mevlevi approached the sallow youth and with a firm finger lifted up his chin. “Is what Joseph tells me true? Are you working for General Mong?”
Kamal’s eyelids fluttered. His jaw ground upon itself, but he uttered no sound.
“Only the infinite one’s love can heal the rift you have torn in the heart of Islam. Surrender unto His will. Know Allah and paradise will be yours. Are you ready to accept His mercy?”
Did the youth nod his head?
Mevlevi motioned for Joseph to lead Kamal outside. The prisoner was marched to a round pillar behind which glowed the faint outline of Beirut.
“Assume the position of supplication to the Almighty.”
The teenager kneeled and looked out over the calm expanse of the Mediterranean Sea.
“Let us recite the Ode to Allah.”
As Mevlevi spoke the ancient prayer, Joseph withdrew into the house. Lina remained silent at her master’s side. The last words of the prayer drifted away on the evening’s languorous breeze. A compact pistol was drawn and its silver muzzle laid against the nape of the traitor’s neck. For several seconds the gun grazed among the boy’s downy hairs. The weapon was lowered. Aim was taken. Three rounds were fired into the prisoner’s back.
The boy fell forward, eyes open but unseeing, the torn remnants of his heart bruising the pale stone terrace.
“The punishment for traitors shall be death,” proclaimed Ali Mevlevi. “So sayeth the prophet. And so sayeth I.”
CHAPTER
11
Nick bounded down the stairs leading from the employee entrance of the bank, happy to be freed from the fluorescent confines of the Hothouse. He jogged several yards, shaking off the bank’s behavioral corset, then slowed to gulp down a lungful of the pure Swiss air. The last two hours had dragged on forever. He’d felt like a thief trapped in a museum, waiting for the alarm to go off after he’d stolen a painting. At any moment, he had expected Armin Schweitzer to storm into his office demanding to know what Nick had done with the Pasha’s transfer. Remarkably, no alarm had sounded; Schweitzer had been nowhere to be seen. Nick had escaped.
With an hour until his dinner with Sylvia Schon, he decided to make his way to the head of the Bahnhofstrasse, where the lake of Zurich narrowed and ran into the Limmat River. Bundled in his overcoat, he set off through the alleys that ran parallel to the Bahnhofstrasse. The day’s light was fading fast, and patches of ice were rapidly forming. His thoughts, though, were not on the ground in front of him. Like the snow and mist trawling the deserted back streets, his mind cast about in the hazy events of the day, searching for defenses to his actions and calculating the responses that might follow.
According to Sterling Thorne’s rules, should any account on the bank’s internal account surveillance list receive funds greater than ten million dollars and transfer at least half of that amount to an unrelated financial institution within one business day, the bank would be compelled to report such a transaction to the international authorities. While such cooperation rested on a gentlemen’s agreement, USB could ill afford to violate a peace brokered by the president of Switzerland’s Bundesrat. Just in case they had any ideas in that direction, the DEA had placed agents full-time in the payments-trafficking department of every major bank.
Nick’s decision to delay the transfer of the Pasha’s funds by forty-eight hours meant the transaction would not qualify as one of suspect intent. Thorne would no longer have the right to demand all papers pertaining to the account in question. Nor could he call for the account to be frozen pending investigation. The Pasha would elude the grasp of the DEA. And in so escaping, he would protect the United Swiss Bank from scandal.
Nick continued through the dusky alleys, hands dug into the pockets of his overcoat, chin nestled into his scarf. He passed a gaslight lamp long since converted to electricity and watched an elongated shadow take shape on the pitted concrete wall blocking his path. A left turn here should take him to the Augustinergasse, a right turn to the Bahnhofstrasse. He hesitated, not sure of his way, then took off to the left. The pitted wall continued along his right, but as he was no longer in the lamp’s path, his shadow disappeared. He began climbing the winding street but slowed when he noticed an odd shadow appear on the wall ahead of him. A man, he guessed, with rounded shoulders and a peaked hat. The tremulous form gave the impression of a southern Klansman backlit by faint candlelight. Nick stopped to watch the distorted shadow grow. Abruptly, the shadow halted, then shrunk back and disappeared. Nick shrugged and continued on to the Augustinergasse.
The alley snaked uphill to the right. He passed a bakery, a jewelry store, and a boutique selling down comforters imported from Scandinavia. Strolling past this last storefront, he stopped short to check on the price of a
pair of eiderdown pillows. He took a step backward and bent closer to the window, placing his hand on the glass to deflect a streetlamp’s glare. The rhythmic attack of footsteps that he had been sure were just behind him ceased. It was too strange to consider. Was someone following him?
Without a moment’s thought, Nick ran back along the path he had just covered. After ten strides, he pulled up and looked in both directions. His eyes sought out the darkest corners of the alleyway and searched the entries of apartments and businesses alike. Nothing. He was alone. His breath came in bursts, his heart beating faster than the mild exertion demanded. Around him the snow-streaked windowpanes and barren window boxes drew nearer. The alley, filled in the daylight with rustic, inviting merchants, was now dark and forbidding.
Nick turned and walked up the street. A hundred yards farther along, he stopped again. He hadn’t heard someone behind him so much as felt him. He darted a glance over his shoulder sure he would catch sight of his stalker. Again, there was no one. He stood as stiff as a pillar, listening to the echoes of his own footsteps carom off the cobblestones and dissolve into the misty evening air.Christ, he must be getting paranoid!
Nick hurried down the alley and rejoined the busy street running parallel to him. The Bahnhofstrasse was swollen with thousands of nightly emigres returning home from their posts with the grand banks and major insurance companies. Trams passed in both directions. Vendors hawked bags of hot chestnuts roasted in iron kettles. He forded the stream of businessmen moving north along Zurich’s most famed artery and made his way in the opposite direction, toward the Paradeplatz. Anyone following him would have a harder time of it in the dense pedestrian traffic.
He walked on, head lowered, shoulders slumped forward. Every few steps, he’d peek over his shoulders and scan the crowds. Half-convinced he’d seen the peaked cap somewhere in the sea of bobbing heads behind him, he dashed across the street and hurried his pace. A few paces ahead, the door to a brightly lit boutique opened. He veered sharply to his left, sliding by an impatient husband and his dawdling wife, and entered the store.
Nick was surrounded by watches. Shimmering creations of gold, stainless steel, and diamonds. A touch of class at thirty thousand francs a shot. He had walked into Bucherer, the city’s most renowned watch emporium, now crowded with early evening shoppers. Behind him the glass door offered an easy view to where he stood. Ahead he saw a flight of stairs.
The second floor was calmer. Four showcases were positioned in a square in the center of the room. Nick pretended to study their contents as he slowly circled their perimeter. His eyes shifted quickly between the watches displayed below him and the stairwell before him. Most of the watches cost more than his annual salary. An Audemars Piguet Grande Complication was priced at Sfr. 195,000. Around a hundred fifty thousand dollars. You could barely make out the actual time because of all the individual hands, and dials within dials, and days and dates. Probably someone’s idea of a masterpiece. He pulled back his sleeve and looked at his own watch—a 1961 Patek-Philippe his father had left him. He thought of how much money it was worth and marveled at how he’d managed to keep it out of his mother’s hands.
When Nick looked up again, he noted the arrival of a swarthy man—tall and thick with curly black hair, looking strangely his way. Could be a thug, he thought. Nick glanced up and offered a weak smile, but the ill-shaven man was examining a favorite watch and couldn’t be disturbed.
Nick stopped to study a solid gold wristwatch.Come closer, he dared him.If you’re a customer, like me, you’ll keep walking. He kept his eyes glued to the gaudy watch—nice if you’re a Vegas bookie or a loan shark in Miami Beach. Looking up, he saw that the man had vanished.
“I see that Monsieur is interested in the Piaget,” came a polished voice from behind his right shoulder.
Nick turned and stared into a dazzling smile.
“Frankly, I would recommend something more casual,” said the swarthy salesman. “Maybe even something a little bit rugged. You appear a man of action, a sportsman,non ? Perhaps the Daytona from Rolex? We have a wonderful model in eighteen-karat gold, sapphire crystal, deployment buckle, water resistant to two hundred meters. The finest timepiece in the world for just thirty-two thousand francs.”
Nick raised an eyebrow. If he ever had a spare thirty thousand francs, he wouldn’t spend it on a watch. “Do you have that model with a diamond bezel?”
The salesman registered gross disappointment.“Helas, non. We have just sold our last such model. But may I propose—”
“Maybe another time then,” Nick cut in apologetically before finding the staircase to the ground floor.
He exited the store and headed south toward the lake, staying close to doorways and shop windows. Youare getting paranoid, he told himself. You didn’t see anybody in that alley. You didn’t see any peaked cap trailing behind you. The man in Bucherer was a salesman. Nick asked himself who in the world would have the slightest interest in following him. He had no idea. No logical answer suggested itself.
Relax,he told himself.
In front of him, the Bahnhofstrasse widened. The buildings to his right fell away, revealing a large open square, the Paradeplatz. Trams arrived from all four corners, encircling the kiosk and ticket station that sat shyly in the midst of their more commanding neighbors. To his immediate right stood the headquarters of Credit Suisse, a neo-Gothic edifice reflecting the Victorian era’s pride in the mastery of detail. Farther across the square sat the Swiss Bank Corporation, a masterpiece of postwar anonymity. Immediately to his left, the Hotel Savoy Baur-en-Ville welcomed many a thirsty banker to Zurich’s most elegant watering hole.
Nick crossed the street and turned into the square. He ducked into the entry hall of Credit Suisse where he hid, rather idiotically by his own estimation, behind a potted date tree. Well-dressed eccentrics were apparently quite common in Zurich, for none of the bank’s customers, seeking the services of the twenty-four-hourbancomat, gave him a second glance. He waited five minutes, then deciding he’d studied the date tree’s leaves long enough, left the bank. He paused to allow the number thirteen tram to pull into the Paradeplatz, direction Albisguetli, then trotted across the tracks, daring the number seven, picking up speed rapidly in the other direction,to hit him. With one last stride, he was clear of the tracks and on safe ground. Content that no one was behind him, he walked directly across the square to the Confiserie Sprungli.
As Nick passed through the pastry shop’s doors, he was overwhelmed by a succession of intoxicating aromas, each more seductive than the last. A whiff of chocolate, the tart sniff of lemon, and in a lower register, a note of freshly whipped cream. He made his way to the counter and asked for a box of chocolateluxembergerli, confections of meringue and chocolate cream, each no larger than his thumb and lighter than air. He paid and turned toward the exit.Leave your overactive imagination at the door, he told himself.
Then, for reasons Nick couldn’t quite explain, he turned to take a final look back into the pastry shop. Perhaps he’d wanted to savor the feeling of safety the shop had provided. Or, less sentimentally, and as he would prefer to believe, he had actually felt someone’s eyes upon him. But look back he did. There at the opposite entryway stood a middle-aged man of olive complexion and salt-and-pepper goatee, wrapped in a houndstooth cape. He wore an Austrian mountain guide’s hat, rugged green with a sandy brush extending from its brim. The hat rose like an incomplete mountain, a shallow cleft interrupting its summit. The caped shoulders were rounded.
Nick had found his Klansman.
The man stared intently in his direction for several moments. When he realized that his subject was returning his gaze, his mouth turned upward in an insolent smile. His eyes narrowed, then he rushed from the store. The bastard was letting him know he’d been following him.
Nick remained where he was for perhaps five seconds. The realization had left him too shocked to move. Moments passed. Bewilderment was replaced by anger. Furious, he raced out the nearest
exit to confront his stalker.
The Paradeplatz was jammed with hundreds of people. Nick dashed into a multitude of shoppers, commuters, and tourists. He darted through the crowd, raising himself on his tiptoes to see the people ahead. The evening gloom, the snow and mist, made it impossible to separate one group from the next. Still, he searched for the creased hat, the Holmesian cape. He circled the square twice, looking everywhere for the little man. He had to know why he was being followed. Was the man in the cape just some middle-aged freak with nothing better to do, or had someone put him up to it?
Fifteen minutes later, he decided that further search was futile. His stalker had vanished. Just as bad, sometime during his search, he’d dropped the box of pastries. Nick returned to the Bahnhofstrasse and continued south toward the lake. He noted that the crowds had thinned. Few stores were open. Every tenth step he turned and checked for the presence of his gentlemanly escort. The street was empty. Only the trail of his own footprints in the powdery snow followed him.
Nick heard the whine of an engine approaching behind him. This part of the Bahnhofstrasse was reserved for trams. Automobile traffic was limited to several blocks going north and south. He checked over his shoulder and confirmed the presence of a late-model Mercedes saloon car: black with smoked windows and consular plates. It appeared to have come from the Paradeplatz. The car gunned its motor and pulled up alongside him. The passenger window lowered and an ungoverned head of brown hair popped out.
“Mr. Nicholas Neumann,” called Sterling Thorne. “You’re an American, correct?”
Nick took a step back from the automobile. Wasn’t he popular tonight? “Yes, I am.Swiss and American.”
“We’ve been interested in meeting with you for a few weeks now. Did you know that you’re the only American working at the United Swiss Bank?”
Numbered Account Page 11
