Numbered Account

by Christopher Reich

  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 onlyones 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?”

  Time stopped. The car no longer moved.

  For a moment Nick wondered if he would ever draw another breath. And in that moment, his mind exploded with a thousand questions. Who had told Mevlevi he had been looking at his father’s files? Who had mentioned his interest in the file for account 549.617 RR? How did Mevlevi know about the agendas? And why was he confronting Nick now?

  Nick told himself to pay the questions no mind, that his sole task was to deliver the Pasha to the Hotel Olivella au Lac where Mr. Yves-Andre Wenker, an underpaid government functionary, would interview him for an hour about why he wished to obtain Swiss citizenship. Get the Pasha to the hotel and the rest of the plan would take care of itself. But the questions remained, cutting into his mind like a dull razor.

  “Alexander Neumann,” mused Mevlevi. “I knew the man. But I understand you know all that. Did your precious activity reports tell you why he was murdered?”

  Nick shot up in his seat. He felt the K-Bar chafing his side. Keep your mouth shut, he wanted to shout. You have no idea how badly I can hurt you. Give me an excuse. Please. Another voice ordered him to remain calm. Let it bounce off of you, it said. He’s testing you, seeing what you know. It’s all a trick.It can’t be Sylvia who told him.

  “Shot, wasn’t he? Do the reports tell you if it was a single bullet that did the trick, or was it several? Three shots, perhaps? I find that to be the most effective. Never seen a man survive who took three bullets to the chest. Use dumdums. They’ll tear his heart out.”

  Nick only half heard the words. A geyser of anger spurted through his body. His neck flushed and his hands tingled. He saw the world through a crimson veneer. And all the while the K-Bar remained taped beneath his arm, crying,“Use me. End it quickly. Kill him.”

  He
drew back his right arm to deliver a sharp jab to Mevlevi’s chin but stopped halfway there. Mevlevi held a silver nine-millimeter pistol in his hand and it was pointed at Nick’s heart. He was smiling.

  # # #

  Sylvia Schon marched into the Chairman’s anteroom and presented herself to Rita Sutter.

  “Where is he?” Sylvia demanded. “I have to see him right away.”

  Rita Sutter glanced up sharply from her typing. “Didn’t you pay the slightest attention to what I told you on the phone? I informed you clearly that the Chairman will not be back until mid-afternoon. Until then, he cannot be disturbed.”

  “He must be disturbed,” Sylvia said petulantly. “If you plan on coming to work tomorrow for the same man, I have to speak with him.”

  Rita Sutter rolled her chair back from her desk and removed her reading glasses. “Calm yourself. The office of the Chairman is no place for hysterics. Or threats.”

  Sylvia pounded the desk with her fist. She was at her wit’s end. “Give me his phone number now. If you care about him or about the bank, you’ll tell me where he is.”

  Rita Sutter flinched at the insult. She flew from her seat and rounded her desk, grasping Sylvia tightly by the forearm and forcing her to a grouping of sofa and chairs huddled low against the wall. “How dare you speak to me that way? What could you know about the feelings I have for the bank? Or for Herr Kaiser? Tell me this instant what’s gotten into you.”

  Sylvia swung her arm free of the secretary’s firm grip and sat down on the sofa. “Herr Kaiser is going to be arrested this morning. Happy? Now tell me where he’s gone. Somewhere in the Tessin. Is it Lugano or Locarno? Bellinzona? We have offices in all those cities.”

  “Who is going to arrest Herr Kaiser?”

  “I don’t know. Probably Thorne—the American.”

  “Who has done this? Is it Mr. Mevlevi? I’ve always known he was a bad man. Has he implicated Wolfgang?”

  Sylvia stared at the older woman as if she were mad. “Mevlevi? Of course not. He’s going to be arrested with the Chairman. It’s Nicholas. Nicholas Neumann. He’s arranged it all. I think he’s working with the DEA.”

  Rita Sutter smiled incredulously; then she shook her head and her features sagged. “So he knows? Oh, dear. What has he said?”

  “That Kaiser helped Mevlevi kill his father. That he’s going to stop both of them.” Sylvia clenched her fists, willing the older woman to action. All she cared about was getting Wolfgang Kaiser away from the police and ensuring that no matter what, Rudolf Ott did not succeed him as Chairman of USB. “Tell me where we can reach him.”

  Rita Sutter snapped back to attention. “I’m afraid we’ll have to wait,” she said. “At least a while. They’re in Mr. Feller’s car and I don’t have the number. They should be in Lugano in an hour. The Chairman has a meeting scheduled with Eberhard Senn, the Count Languenjoux.”

  “Where is the meeting taking place?”

  “At the Hotel Olivella au Lac. The count lives there during the winter.”

  “Give me the number,” Sylvia snapped. “Quickly.”

  “It’s on my desk. What do you plan on saying?”

  “I’m going to tell the receptionist that Herr Kaiser must phone us as soon as he arrives. When did you say he should arrive?”

  “Wolfgang left my house at seven-fifteen,” said Rita Sutter. “If it’s not snowing, they should be there by ten-fifteen or ten-thirty.”

  Sylvia was certain she had not heard properly. “Excuse me?” she asked. “Herr Kaiser was with you last night? He spent the night at your home?”

  “Why are you so surprised?” Rita Sutter asked. “I’ve loved Wolfgang my entire life. You asked whether I cared about the bank—of course I do. It’s Wolfgang’s.” She found the phone number of the Hotel Olivella au Lac and held it out in front of her.

  Sylvia snatched the number from Sutter’s hand. She picked up the phone and dialed the number. When the hotel operator answered she said, “Give me the receptionist. It’s an emergency.”

  # # #

  Nick kept his eyes on the barrel of Mevlevi’s pistol as he lowered himself to one knee. Snow enveloped the asphalt lot crowning the Gotthardo Pass. The limousine was somewhere behind him, the chauffeur waiting at its side. Visibility was near zero. They had arrived less than a minute before. Dutifully, he’d followed Mevlevi’s instructions to step from the car and advance several paces into the mist. He knew he should be afraid, but he couldn’t get past feeling stupid and ashamed. He’d been presented with a dozen clues and ignored them all. He’d let his heart blind him. No wonder Sylvia had had such easy access to his father’s activity reports. No wonder Kaiser had accused Schweitzer. No wonder Mevlevi knew about his father’s agendas. The source for their information was all too clear: Dr. Sylvia Schon. Nick applauded their efficient chain of communication.

  Mevlevi stood above him, leering. “Thank you for giving me just cause to abandon you here on this inhospitable mountaintop. I trust you’ll find your way home. But don’t bother trying the restaurant. Its doors remain closed until May. And the phone,” he shook his head, “I am sorry. I think you’ll find it doesn’t work.”

  Nick stared at the gun. It was the same pistol used to kill Albert Makdisi.

  “You see, I can’t have a man who cares so little for himself working for me. You really should be a bit more selfish. Kaiser was perfect. Our goals were always the same. It took so little to make him move in the right direction. I imagine he spoiled me.”

  Nick blocked out the Pasha’s rambling soliloquy and his own self-abusive thoughts. He concentrated on when to use the knife, how to distract Mevlevi, and what to do with the chauffeur afterward.

  “I thought you’d make a fine soldier,” Mevlevi was saying. “Or I should say, Kaiser thought so. He was so pleased at being given the chance to seduce the son of the man who had threatened to betray him. You know the rest. And we can’t have that, can we? It is a disappointment. As for Kaiser, I imagine he’ll get over your loss soon. Probably Tuesday, when the Adler Bank takes over USB and he’s out of a job.”

  The Pasha leveled the gun at Nick. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. You were right about this morning. I can’t be late. I require my Swiss passport. It’s my final protection against your compatriot Mr. Thorne.”

  He stepped forward, placing his shiny loafer directly below his intended victim’s jaw. Nick didn’t look up. He heard the distinct metallic click of the safety being released. And then he moved. His right hand swept under his shirt, seeking the heft of the knife, finding it, ripping it downward and outward. His arm cut the air in a vicious arc. The knife slashed through the Pasha’s trousers, slowing only to open a gash on the man’s shin. A bullet was fired and ricocheted. The Pasha fell to a knee and cursed. He brought the pistol up for another shot. Nick sprang to his feet and ran. The chauffeur tried to block his path. He had an arm inside his black jacket. Now it was emerging. A gun.

  Nick headed directly for him. He spun the K-Bar in his hand so that the serrated edge saluted the ground. He drew his right arm across his chest and slashed upward, dragging the blade across the man’s shoulder, rending the arm from his body. The knife impaled itself on bone, and Nick released it. The chauffeur collapsed, screaming.

  Nick ran as fast as he could, the blast of the wind drawing tears from his eyes, freezing them on his cheeks. He heard the crack of a bullet fired, and then another and another. Four. Five. He lost count. He urged his legs to pump higher, to run faster. His lungs burned with the cold air. He tilted his head back and screamed at his body to move.

  And then he was falling. His right leg collapsed under him like a broken reed. His body tumbled sideways. His shoulder bounced off the asphalt and he was down.

  Suddenly all was quiet. Nothing moved behind the snowy curtain. Nick heard only the pounding of his heart and the whistle of the soulless wind as it skittered across the deserted lot. He stared at his twitching leg, recognizing the pain even before he saw the blood.


  He was hit.

  CHAPTER

  62

  Nick stared into the white void.

  He waited for the sandpaper shuffle of footsteps to approach from out of the mist and the sarcastic laugh that would follow. He waited for the valedictory exclamation that once again the Pasha had taken his foe. Any second he expected to hear the staccato whine of the nine-millimeter slug as it entered his chest and cauterized his naive, believing heart.

  But nothing came. He couldn’t hear a thing above the chop of the gathering storm. Just the howling wind.

  Nick looked at his leg and saw that the outflow of his blood had slowed. The pool of blood that had formed seconds after he hit the ground had stopped growing. He felt his leg and located the entry wound. He slid a hand under his thigh and it came away slick with blood. The bullet had passed through his leg. No arteries had been severed. He would live. The thought brought a thin smile to his lips and with it, a new realization. He couldn’t wait for the Pasha to show himself. To wait was to die, to be an accessory to his own execution. He had to move.

  Nick removed his necktie and tied it twice around his upper thigh in an impromptu tourniquet. He took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, folded it once and then once again, so that it was its thickest, then wedged it as far into his mouth as possible without inducing an involuntary choking reflex. He closed his eyes and took three deep breaths.

  One. Sylvia’s earnest reply when he had asked her why she was helping him to find his father’s activity reports:“I was the selfish one. Every man has a right to learn about his father.”

  Two. Her astonished voice, laughing,“I could never phone Kaiser directly. I barely know the man.”

  Three. “Sylvia!”

  Nick bit down on the handkerchief and thrust himself to a sitting position. His leg screamed at the motion, though he had only moved it an inch. His vision dimmed and for a second all he saw was a buzzing, electric blackness. He spit out the handkerchief and sucked in the mountain air.