“I hardly qualify as a ward of the state,” Mevlevi objected loudly.
“Of course not. Regardless, we must have—”
“And who said anything about immigrating?”
Wenker slapped the stack of forms onto the coffee table. He lifted his chin, ready to deliver a stern rebuke. “Mr. Neumann told me specifically that you wished to purchase property in Gstaad in order to establish a permanent residence in this country. While on certain occasions we make exceptions for the granting of a Swiss passport, permanent residence is an absolute requirement. Are you, or are you not, planning on maintaining a permanent residence in Switzerland?”
Ali Mevlevi coughed, then poured himself a glass of mineral water from a bottle set upon the table. He preferred a country where a bent official at least had a little respect. “I misunderstood you. Mr. Neumann was absolutely correct. I shall be making Gstaad my principal residence.”
Wenker sat lower in his chair. He offered Mevlevi a starched smile while he scribbled away at his form. “Income?”
“Five hundred thousand dollars per annum.”
Wenker raised his eyebrows. “Is that all?”
The Pasha stood up, his face flushed and his lips quivering. “Isn’t that enough?”
Wenker remained unruffled. His pen slid across paper. “That is enough,” he said to his questionnaire.
Mevlevi grimaced and returned to his seat. He sensed his wound tear. A warm trail of blood inched down his leg. Just a little longer, he told himself. Then you can walk to the telephone, call Gino Makdisi, and find out what you already know—that your precious cargo is safely across the border and that Nicholas Neumann is dead.
Wenker glanced offhandedly at his wristwatch and then returned his attention to the form spread across his lap. He cleared his throat noisily. “Communicable diseases?”
# # #
Remo jerked his head into the cabin of the truck. His eyes played between Joseph and Franco. “They are checking every truck,” he said. “No one is getting a free pass.”
“Calm down,” Joseph ordered, as much for his nerves as theirs. “Listen, both of you. Everything is going as planned. Who gives a good goddamn if they are checking manifests? Maybe they do it every Monday morning. We’ve got our man in the far right booth. He is looking for us. Relax and we’ll get through this.”
Remo looked out the window. The peaks of the Swiss Alps loomed before them like a distant gray specter. “I am not going back inside,” he said. “Three years was enough.”
Two trucks separated them from the probing eyes of the customs inspectors. All incoming vehicles were forced to pass under a broad portico designed primarily to measure the height of freight carriers entering Switzerland. A small office built from sturdy blue steel sat to the right of each lane. A customs inspector, walkie-talkie in hand, stood next to each office, waving the next trucks forward.
Joseph scanned the booths and beyond. He felt his shoulders tighten. Ten police cars were parked on the shoulder of the highway about two hundred yards up the road. Why so much firepower for a simple bust? he wondered. Three men and a lousy truck. What were they expecting? An army?
The gasoline tanker in front of them roared forward, belching exhaust.
Remo considered the empty space in front of his rig.
Joseph nudged him in the ribs. “Go on. Don’t make us look conspicuous.”
Remo eased his foot onto the accelerator, and the truck groaned forward, foot by foot.
The customs inspector jumped onto the running board of the gasoline tanker directly in front of them. He thrust his head inside its cabin and emerged a moment later, cargo manifest in hand. He used the antenna of his walkie-talkie to skim the manifest. He was a tall, thin man wearing a green jacket. He had unruly brown hair and pitted cheeks. He shot a casual glance at their rig, and Joseph spotted the dark rings under his eyes. Sterling Thorne looked as crappy as ever.
Thorne returned the manifest to the driver of the truck currently in bay and directed his attention toward the blue Magirus eighteen-wheeler bearing British license plates and a white TIR tag, next in line. He raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth and issued what appeared to be heated instructions.
Franco shot forward in his seat, pointing a finger at Thorne. “He eyeballed us. He’s got us picked out already.”
“Keep calm,” said Joseph. He could feel the tension ratcheting up inside their cabin.
“I saw it, too,” said Remo. “The fucker at the booth. He’s got us pegged. Christ, it’s a setup. They know exactly what they’re looking for and it’s us.”
“Keep your mouths closed,” shouted Joseph. “We’ve got nowhere to go but forward. There’s no other way out. We are holding a legitimate manifest. We are transporting a legitimate cargo. It would take a genius to find our merchandise.”
Remo stared at Joseph. “Or a tip.”
Franco kept his arm pointed at Sterling Thorne. “The cop at the booth. He took one look at our rig and scrambled his team. And look! Look up there! They got ten cruisers ready for us.”
“You’re wrong,” said Joseph. “They’re not scrambling anything.” He had to keep these losers calm until they didn’t have any other choice but to give up peacefully. Get the truck under the portico. Just another minute or two. “Just sit back and shut up.”
At that moment, both rearview mirrors lit up with revolving red and blue lights. A brace of police cars drew up twenty yards in back of them. The tanker ahead was waved through. When it cleared the portico, a team of twelve policemen rushed forward forming a tight phalanx behind Sterling Thorne. Each policeman wore dark blue body armor and brandished a blunt submachine gun.
“We’re screwed,” said Remo, hysteria cracking his voice. He was rocking off the steering wheel like a hyperactive child. “I told you. No more unpaid vacations. I can’t go back.”
“Listen to me,” Joseph pleaded. “We have to call their bluff. That’s our only chance of getting out of here.”
“There is no chance of getting out of here,” exploded Remo. “Someone has set a trap and we’re the catch.”
Joseph thrust a finger into Remo’s chest. “We have two tons of my boss’s merchandise sitting in the back of this rig. I won’t allow us to lose it because your nerves can’t stand a little heat. We are not caught until they slam the cuffs on our wrists.”
Remo wiped his nose, staring at the empty space in front of them and at the tall inspector waving them forward. His fear was palpable. “We’re caught,” he yelled. “I know it and Franco knows it. Why the fuck don’t you?” He cocked his arm and threw an elbow, which caught Joseph in the temple. “You don’t know it because you want us to pull into that little party they’ve set up for us, you fucking sand nigger. The Makdisis told me not to trust you. They were right. You’ve done this, haven’t you?” Another elbow flew, this one smashing the bridge of Joseph’s nose, crushing bone and cartilage and releasing a violent stream of blood. ““Right lane,’ you said. “Right fucking lane.’ Well, here we are and it’s thewrong fucking lane.”
Remo rammed his foot onto the accelerator and the eighteen-wheeler jerked forward.
Franco uttered a whooping war cry.
Sterling Thorne stood in front of the juggernaut, his arm extended and his palm upraised. Through a veil of refracted light, Joseph saw Thorne’s expression turn from surprise to confusion, and finally, terror, as the rig advanced on him. Thorne froze, unable to decide which way to move. The twenty-four-cylinder engine roared. Remo blasted the horn. Thorne dove under the chassis of the diesel monster.
Joseph grabbed at the steering wheel. He kicked at the gear shift with his right leg and thrust the fingers of his left hand backward into Franco’s face, seeking his adversary’s eyes. Franco bellowed madly, screaming for his friend to free him of the crazed Arab. Remo yelled “Kill him” as he put the rig back into gear.
Gunfire erupted to the rear of the truck. Tires exploded as bullets passed through coiled rubber and punctured pr
essurized inner tubes. The giant truck listed to the left. Still, Remo accelerated. Bullets showered the rear trailer, sounding like a sheet of rain passing over a tin roof. The policemen found their mark, and the benign rain turned to a murderous hail. A curtain of lead struck the driver’s door. The windshield shattered in an ejaculatory burst of glass.
Joseph dug his fingers into Franco’s eyes. He sheared an eyeball from its optic nerve and dashed it to the floor. Franco screamed louder and brought both hands to his ravaged face. Joseph reached over the wounded man’s heaving belly and pushed open the passenger door. He lowered his shoulder and shoved him out of the cabin.
Remo was wounded. Cables of rosy phlegm dangled from his mouth. A bullethole in his gut spurted blood. His face was dotted with a dozen pinpricks where burs of glass had torn the flesh. Still, he concentrated on the road before him with the blind fury of a wounded bull.
Joseph wedged one arm against the dashboard and the other against the seat back. He swung his legs up and lashed out at Remo’s head. The heels of his work boots caught the ailing driver flush in the jaw and slammed him against the steel door frame. Remo made a last effort at defending himself, throwing his right arm weakly in his attacker’s direction. Joseph dodged the blow. He recoiled and brought his legs up to batter the injured mafioso. Again he landed a solid kick to the driver’s head. Remo tottered in his seat. He spit out a patch of blood before falling forward against the steering wheel, either dead or unconscious.
The truck gained speed. It veered precipitously to the right, accelerating toward the column of police cars camped on the dirt shoulder. Joseph lifted Remo’s inert body off of the steering column and fought to dislodge his leaden foot from the accelerator. The constant jostling of the truck rendered every effort ineffective. Each thrust served only to pinion Remo’s foot more tightly onto the accelerator.
The line of police cars drew nearer. Twenty yards separated the renegade juggernaut from the automobiles. Ten, five . . .
Joseph realized that no action could prevent the truck from striking the cars. He threw open the passenger door and launched himself from the cabin. He landed running and managed to place both feet on the ground before momentum swept him forward and propelled him across the pavement.
The juggernaut plowed into the first police car. Its tires crushed the automobile’s hood and thrust the truck skyward. The rig rolled on, careering over one car and then another. Windows shattered, metal tore, and sirens exploded. The downward force with which one gasoline tank was crushed provoked an incendiary spark, instantaneously igniting its contents. The blast lifted the automobile off the ground, overturning the truck’s rear trailer and setting off a chain reaction of high-octane explosions as gasoline tank after gasoline tank succumbed to the fireball. The smuggler’s rig toppled onto its side and was itself engulfed in flame.
Police surrounded Joseph. Sterling Thorne broke through the circle of officers and bent down beside him. “Welcome back to civilization,” he said.
Joseph nodded. He didn’t appreciate being at the business end of twelve automatic rifles.
“You have something for me,” Thorne asked.
Joseph looked up at Thorne, remembering all over again what an asshole he was. The guy didn’t even ask if he was okay. He fished in his pocket for a scrap of paper. It read “Ali Mevlevi. Hotel Olivella au Lac. Room 407. USB account 549.617 RR.” Exactly as Thorne had dictated.
Thorne took the scrap of paper from Joseph, raising the walkie-talkie to his lips even as he read it. “We have conducted a search of the suspect and discovered evidence of an incriminating nature. We have probable cause to believe that a suspect involved in the importation of a large shipment of heroin is currently residing at the Hotel Olivella au Lac in room four zero seven. Proceed with caution.”
A last gas tank exploded on the road behind them. A fireball rose into the morning sky.
Thorne covered his head. He extended his hand and helped Joseph to his feet. “You didn’t have to make my job so much harder,” he said. “A lot of very convincing evidence is going up in smoke.”
# # #
Moammar al Khan stared transfixed at the black and orange plume. He fumbled for the cellular phone, his right hand blindly patting the passenger seat. Look at that smoke, he thought to himself, cringing. A ton of Al-Mevlevi’s product in flames. Allah have mercy.
A customs inspector banged the hood of the car and motioned for him to pass through the portico. Khan offered an Italian passport, but it was waved away.
“Drive. Don’t look,” said the customs official before moving off down the line of stalled automobiles.
Khan ignored his instructions, slowing the car to a crawl as he passed the flaming wreckage. A circle of policemen had surrounded a lone man lying prostrate on the ground. The man was injured. Blood poured from his nose. His clothing was torn, his face blackened by smoke. It was Joseph. He was alive.Inshallah! God is great! A gangly man wearing the green jacket of the customs inspectors broke through the circle of policemen. He bent himself upon one knee and spoke to Joseph.
Khan leaned over the passenger seat to look closer.
Thorne. The American agent. There was no mistaking it. The hair. The gaunt face. The DEA had intercepted Al-Mevlevi’s shipment.
And then something strange happened. Thorne offered a hand to Joseph and hoisted him to his feet. He gave Joseph a pat on the shoulder, then leaned his head back and laughed. All the policemen were smiling, too. Their guns were lowered. Even Joseph was grinning.
Khan pulled the gold pendant from his shirt and kissed it.
Joseph is an informant.
Khan accelerated madly, driving for two minutes before pulling to the shoulder of the highway and stopping the car. He picked up the cellular phone and dialed the number Mevlevi had given him in case of emergency. Three rings passed. Finally, a voice answered.
Khan pressed the phone to his mouth. He drew in several sharp breaths, not knowing where to begin. Only one phrase came to mind.
“Joseph is one of them.”
CHAPTER
64
Ali Mevlevi was angry. He’d been cooped up with this snit of a bureaucrat for far too long answering inane questions. Did he wish to establish his business in Switzerland? If so, how many employees would he be hiring? Would he avail himself of the tax credit offered to newly registered corporations? Would his relatives be coming to live with him? Now he had had enough. For whatever sum Kaiser was paying him, Wenker could fill out the forms himself. Let himinvent the goddamned answers.
Mevlevi stood from the couch and buttoned his jacket. “I thank you for your help in this matter, but I’m afraid I’m the victim of a rather pressing schedule. I had been led to believe that this meeting was but a formality.”
“You were misinformed,” snapped Wenker. He waded through a stack of papers on the table, then turned his attention to a leather satchel lying next to him on the sofa. Giving a sigh of relief, he produced a thick manila envelope and handed it to Mevlevi. “A short history of our country. As a Swiss citizen, you will be expected to respect our long democratic tradition. The country was founded in 1291 when three forest cantons, Uri, Schwyz, and Unter—”
“Thank you very kindly,” Mevlevi said brusquely, accepting the sealed envelope and sliding it into his briefcase. Did this jackass actually think he had time for a history lesson? “If we are finished, I must take my leave. Perhaps I can hear the fascinating history of this land at another date.”
“Encore un instant.Not so quickly, Mr. Malvinas. I have one last paper that you must sign—a release from military service. It’s obligatory, I’m afraid.”
Mevlevi threw back his head and sighed. “Please hurry it up.”
Just then, a shy chirp emanated from his briefcase. Thank God, thought Mevlevi. Gino Makdisi calling to tell me everything is going according to schedule. He took the cellular phone out of his briefcase and walked to the far side of the salon before answering. “Yes.”
&nb
sp; “Joseph is one of them,” came the harried voice. “I watched it all. The truck was surrounded by police. The driver attempted to escape. He had no chance. Only Joseph lived. Everything is in flames.”
Mevlevi placed a finger in his ear, as if the connection were poor and he could not make out his correspondent’s words. But the connection was clear. And so were the words.
“Calm yourself, Khan,” Mevlevi said in Arabic, checking to see if Wenker was listening. The bureaucrat appeared disinterested. “Repeat that again.”
“The shipment was intercepted at the Chiasso border. As soon as the truck pulled into the inspection bay, it was surrounded by police. They were expecting it.”
Mevlevi felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand tall. The sum of his life rested in the voice at the other end of the telephone. “You said the shipment was destroyed, not captured. Make yourself clear.”
“The driver, Remo, made a run for it. He did not get far. He lost control of the lorry and it exploded. The merchandise was destroyed. More than that I don’t know. I am sorry.”
“And what of Joseph?”
“He survived. I saw him on the ground. The police, they helped him to his feet. I saw an officer hug him. It was he, the informant.”
Not Joseph, Mevlevi screamed mutely. It was Lina. She was the Makdisis’ contact. She helped the Makdisis set him up with the American DEA. Joseph, my desert hawk, is ever loyal. He alone can be trusted.
Khan said, “You must leave the country immediately. If the DEA knows about the shipment, they certainly are aware that you are in Switzerland. Joseph would not tell them one thing without the other. Who knows when they will spring?”
Mevlevi could not speak. Joseph was an informant for the United States Drug Enforcement Administration.
“Did you hear me, Al-Mevlevi? We must secure you safe passage out of the country. Get to Brissago. On the Italian border, outside of Locarno. Be there in one hour. The main square.”
“Yes, Brissago. Main square. One hour.” He hung up the phone.
Wenker was staring at him unabashedly, a look of keen revulsion souring the bureaucrat’s features. Mevlevi followed his gaze to the floor. To his own feet.
Numbered Account Page 56
