“I have every confidence,” said Mevlevi, smiling. He knew he could rely on Khan. It had been Khan who had discovered that the heroin being sold in Letten by the Makdisis had not been his own.
Fourteen minutes later, the Mercedes approached a lone cabin at the end of a rutted track deep inside a dark and snowy forest. Three cars were parked in front of the cabin. Lights burned from the front window.
“One of them has yet to arrive,” said Khan. “I don’t see his car.”
Mevlevi guessed who the tardy man was but did not begrudge him his theatricality. He was simply practicing his new role a few days in advance. After all, a chief executive should always be the last to arrive.
Mevlevi stepped from the automobile and crossed through the snow to the cabin. He knocked once, then entered. Hassan Faris was standing by the door. Mevlevi kissed him on each cheek while pumping his hand.
“Faris, tell me the good news,” he said.
“Chase Manhattan and Lehman Brothers have signed a letter of intent for the full amount,” said the svelte Arab. “They’ve already syndicated the loan.”
A taller man approached from the crackling fire. “It’s true,” said George von Graffenried, vice-chairman of the Adler Bank. “Our friends in New York have come up with the cash. We have bridge financing in place for three billion dollars. More than enough to buy every last share of USB stock we don’t already own outright. You kept us waiting until the last minute, Ali. We almost came up a few pennies short.”
“George, I always keep my word. Or Khan keeps it for me.”
Von Graffenried wiped the ridiculous grin off his face.
Mevlevi waved to a thin man standing by the fire. “Mr. Zwicki, it is nice to finally meet you. I appreciate your involvement in our little project. Especially your help these last few days.” On his command, Zwicki, chief of USB’s equity department, had slowed his bank’s purchases of its own shares to a trickle, thus effectively declawing Maeder’s vaunted “liberation plan.”
Sepp Zwicki stepped forward and bowed his head. “A pleasure.”
“We are awaiting your colleague, Dr.—”
The door to the cabin opened suddenly and Rudolf Ott bustled inside. “Mr. Mevlevi, good evening. Sepp, Hassan, George, hello.” He drew Von Graffenried close and whispered, “You received my last memo. Did you contact the Widows and Orphans Fund yet?”
“We’re hoping to know tomorrow, Herr Dr. Ott. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”
“Good evening, Rudolf.” Mevlevi detested the smarmy man, but he was the most important member of their team. “Is everything in place for tomorrow?”
Ott removed his glasses and wiped away the condensation with a clean handkerchief. “Naturally. The loan documents have been prepared. You’ll have your money by noon. Eight hundred million francs is a decent sum. I don’t know if we’ve ever lent so much to an individual.”
Mevlevi doubted it. He had collateral, of course. Approximately three million shares of USB held at the Adler Bank, not to mention another couple hundred thousand at USB itself. In the future, though, calls for collateral would disappear. That was why he was taking the reins of the bank, wasn’t it? The purpose of this entire exercise. Time to become legitimate.
Tomorrow morning Klaus Konig would announce his cash bid for USB: 2.8 billion dollars for the sixty-six percent of USB he didn’t yet control. Tuesday, at USB’s general assembly, Ott would announce his support for the Adler Bank’s bid. He would call for the immediate resignation of Wolfgang Kaiser, and the executive board would support him. Each board member held a hefty packet of USB shares. No one could turn down the huge premium offered by the Adler Bank. For his loyalty (or his betrayal, depending from which side one looked at it), Ott would be installed at the helm of the newly consolidated bank: USB-Adler. Day-to-day operations would be handled by Von Graffenried. Zwicki and Faris would share the equities department. Klaus Konig would retain the nominal position of president, though his real tasks would be confined to fashioning the combined banks’investment strategy. The man was much too impulsive to head a universal Swiss bank. If he didn’t like it, he could have a heart-to-heart with Khan.
Over time, new employees would be brought in to fill key posts: global treasury operations, capital markets, compliance. Men of Faris’s ilk. Men of Mevlevi’s choosing. New appointments would be made to the executive board. The combined assets of the United Swiss Bank and the Adler Bank would be his. Over seventy billion dollars at his disposal.
The thought brought a broad smile to Ali Mevlevi’s face, and everyone around him smiled too. Ott, Zwicki, Faris, Von Graffenried. Even Khan.
Mevlevi would not abuse his power. At least not for a while. But there were so many good uses to which he could put the bank. Corporate loans to worthy companies in Lebanon, shoring up the Jordani dinar, slipping a few hundred million to his friend Hussein in Iraq. Khamsin was only the first. But in his heart it was the most important.
Mevlevi excused himself and stepped outside to place a call to his operational headquarters at his compound near Beirut. He waited while he was patched through to General Marchenko.
“Da?Mr. Mevlevi?”
“General Marchenko, I’m calling to inform you that everything is proceeding according to plan on this end. You will have your money no later than noon tomorrow. The baby must be ready to travel at that time. Lieutenant Ivlov’s attack is to begin simultaneously.”
“Understood. Once I have received confirmation of the transfer, it will be only a matter of seconds before the baby can be airborne. I look forward to hearing from you.”
“Twelve o’clock, Marchenko. Not a minute later.”
Mevlevi folded the cellular phone and put it in his pocket. He breathed in the chill night air, enjoying its bite. He felt more alive than ever before.
Tomorrow, the Khamsin would blow.
CHAPTER
61
Nick left Sylvia’s apartment at five-thirty in the morning. She accompanied him to the door and sleep still in her eyes, made him promise to take care of himself. He brushed off the concern in her voice, preferring not to wonder if this might be the last time he’d see her. He kissed her, then buttoned up his coat and set off down the steep hill toward Universitatstrasse. Outside the temperature was well below freezing. The sky was as dark as ink. He caught the first tram of the day and arrived at thePersonalhaus at five past six. He ran up a flight of terrazzo stairs to the first floor and hurried to his apartment. Inserting the key, he found the door to be unlocked. He pushed it open slowly.
The apartment was a shambles. A thorough hand had ransacked the place.
The desk was overturned. Annual reports and assorted papers were strewn across the floor. The closet was open, every suit chucked onto the carpet. The dresser drawers had been emptied, then discarded. Shirts, sweaters, and socks were everywhere. His bed rested on its side, the worn mattress lying askew, sheets and blankets tangled up in each other. The bathroom was no better. The mirror on the medicine cabinet was shattered, the tile floor littered with broken glass.
Nick saw all of this in a moment.
And then he spotted his holster. It lay in the far corner of the room cached beside the bookshelves. A gleaming black leather triangle. Empty. Side arm missing.
Nick stepped inside the apartment and closed the door behind him. Calmly, he began sorting through his clothing, hoping to feel the hard plane of his gun’s rectangular snout or the stubble of its crosshatched grip. Nothing. He picked up a T-shirt here, a sweater there, praying to catch a glimpse of the dull blue-black sheen of the Colt Commander. Nothing. He grew frantic. He shuffled around the apartment, running his hands along the floor. He lifted the mattress and threw it across the room. He upended the bed frame. Nothing. Shit!
Abruptly, something strange caught his eye. A pile of books lay next to the desk arranged sloppily like a kind of unlit bonfire. In the center of this pile sat a textbook from business school—a large book,Principles of Finance by Breal
y and Myers. Its cover was open; the pages had been ripped from its spine. Nick picked up another textbook. It had received a similar trashing. He selected a paperback,The Iliad, his father’s favorite. Its soft covers were bent backward and its pages fanned. He dropped it on the floor.
Nick stopped searching. He stood up straight, alone in his silent apartment. Mevlevi had been here—or one of his men—and he’d been looking for something specific. What?
Nick checked his watch and with a start saw that a half hour had passed. It was 6:35. He had ten minutes to shower, shave, and put on clean clothes. The limo was scheduled to arrive at 6:45. He was due at the Dolder at seven. He grabbed two dirty dress shirts, fell to his knees, and swept the bathroom floor of glass. Finished, he balled them up and threw them into his closet. He stripped and stepped gingerly across the tile floor. He took a navy shower—thirty seconds under freezing cold water. He shaved in record time, ten swipes of the razor, to hell with anything left over.
Outside, a car honked twice. He brushed back a curtain. The limousine had arrived.
Nick walked to his overturned desk, grabbed two of its legs, and brought it onto its side. He ran a hand along each leg, seeking a small indentation he had made a few weeks ago. He found it, then unscrewed the round metallic foot at its base. He inserted the tips of his right thumb and forefinger delicately into the leg. He felt the tip of a sharp object and breathed easier. He grasped the metal blade and withdrew the knife. His marine issue K-Bar.Jack the Ripper. Serrated on one side, razor sharp on the other. Years ago, he had wrapped athletic tape around its handle to reduce any slippage. The tape was stained with age, mottled with sweat and dirt and blood.
Nick rummaged through the debris scattered on the bathroom floor until he found a roll of similar tape. He used it to keep the brace he wore on his right knee in place when he exercised. Working quickly, he cut four strips of tape and laid them on the table’s edge. Then he picked up the knife and pressed it flat (handle down) against a damp patch of skin below his left arm. One by one, he grabbed the lengths of tape and secured the K-Bar to his body, but not too tightly. A firm downward tug would free the knife. The ensuing motion would rip out a man’s guts.
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 th
e 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.”
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