Numbered Account (50 page)

Nick found the emphasis Fuchs had placed on the word
new
strange.

Mevlevi, though, jumped on the word as if it were the cue he had been looking for. “
New accounts
, you said. Of course, I understand the need to follow regulations should one wish to open a
new
account. However, I would prefer an older account, perhaps one registered in the name of your company that you don’t use on a day-to-day basis.”

Fuchs looked to Affentranger. Both men then looked at Nick, who kept a concerned expression on his face. Whatever it was they were seeking from him, he supplied it, for the next moment, Affentranger began talking.

“Such accounts do exist,” he said cautiously, “but they are very expensive to obtain. A dwindling resource, so to speak. Banks insist on certain minimum conditions being met before we are allowed to transfer a numbered account originally opened by our office to a client.”

“Naturally,” said Mevlevi.

Nick felt like telling Fuchs and Affentranger to name their price and get on with it.

“Do you wish to open just the one account?” asked Fuchs.

“Five to be exact. Of course, I have proper identification.” Mevlevi removed an Argentinean passport from his jacket and laid it on the table. “But I prefer to have the account remain anonymous.”

Nick eyed the navy passport and choked down a smile. Mr. Malvinas of Argentina,
Malvinas
being the Argentinean name for the Falkland Islands. Mevlevi thought himself a pretty clever customer. Sure, he was clever — his men at USB had informed him that the DEA had compromised account 549.617 RR — but he must be desperate too. Why would he leave his safe haven in Beirut and risk arrest to straighten out a banking problem that could just as easily have been remedied by someone here? Kaiser, Maeder, even Nick alone, could have made this trip to Zug. It was hardly adequate reason to flee the security of his prickly nest.

Fuchs asked, “Would accounts at the United Swiss Bank be of interest?”

“No finer institution in the land,” replied Mevlevi, to which Nick just nodded.

Fuchs picked up the phone and instructed his secretary to bring in several account transfer forms.

Affentranger said, “The minimum amount the United Swiss Bank has set for granting a client a preexisting numbered account is five million dollars. Of course as you need five accounts, we can discuss terms.”

“I propose placing four million dollars into each account,” said Mevlevi.

Nick could see Affentranger and Fuchs calculating their commission, somewhere between one and two percent. On this one transaction the august International Fiduciary Trust would garner fees of more than two hundred thousand dollars.

Fuchs and Affentranger answered in unison. “That would be fine.”

Conversation ebbed as Mr. Malvinas drank his coffee and the necessary paperwork was filled out. Nick excused himself and walked down the corridor to the rest room. He was joined immediately by Affentranger.

“A big fucking fish, that one, eh?”

Nick smiled. “It appears so.”

“You’re new at the bank?”

Nick nodded.

“Usually Kaiser sends Maeder. Don’t care for him much. He bites too hard.” Affentranger slapped his own fat ass. “Right here. Get my drift.”

Nick murmured his understanding. “Oh.”

“And you? You’re okay?” Affentranger asked. Which meant did Nick expect a commission on the business?

“I’m fine.”

Affentranger looked puzzled. “Fine, then. And remember, if you’ve got any more like him, send ’em our way.”

Inside the conference room, Fuchs rifled through the paperwork. Mevlevi sat at his side and together they filled in the pertinent information, or didn’t fill it in, as was the case. No name was placed on the accounts. Nor an address. All mail for the accounts was to be held at the United Swiss Bank, Main Office, Zurich. All that was required from Mr. Malvinas was two sets of code words. These he gave happily. The primary code word would be Ciragan Palace. The secondary, his birthday, November 12, 1936, to be given orally as day, month, and then year. A signature was required for verification of any written requests he might have, and this Mr. Malvinas kindly supplied. A seismic scrawl was duly inscribed at the bottom of the form. And then the meeting was finished, adjourned with smiles and handshakes all around.

Nick and his client remained quiet as they took the elevator to the ground floor. A Cheshire grin peeked from the corners of Mevlevi’s mouth. And why not? thought Nick. The man held five account transferral receipts in his hand; he possessed five clean numbered accounts to use as he saw fit. The Pasha was back in business.

In the limousine en route to Zurich, Mevlevi finally spoke. “Mr. Neumann, I will need to use the bank’s facilities. I have a small amount of cash that needs to be counted.”

“Of course,” Nick answered. Now the other shoe drops. “How much, approximately?”

“Twenty million dollars,” Mevlevi said coolly, staring at the bleak landscape. “Why do you think those suitcases were so damned heavy?”

At 11:30 the same morning, Sterling Thorne took up position fifty yards from the employee entrance to the United Swiss Bank. He stood inside the pillared entryway of an abandoned church, a drooping concrete assemblage of right angles, more sump house than place of worship. He was waiting for Nick Neumann.

His ideas about Neumann had changed drastically during the last twenty-four hours. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure Neumann was on his side. Out there by the lake, he swore he’d seen a spark of willingness in the kid’s eye. Neumann was this close to jumping on board the
Fuck Mevlevi
express. He’d tell him about Becker if and when he did. Not that there was much to tell.

Thorne had approached Martin Becker in mid-December for no other reason than that he worked in the section that handled Mevlevi — intercepts from the Defense Intelligence Agency noted the bank’s internal departmental reference, FKB4 — and that he looked like a weak-willed paper pusher who might actually have a conscience. He was a smiler, and smilers usually liked a cause. Becker didn’t need much prodding to cooperate. He said he’d been thinking about it for a long time and that he’d do his best to bring out papers that would give irrefutable evidence of Mevlevi laundering his money through the United Swiss Bank. A week later he was dead: throat slit ear to ear and no trace of any papers that might help the DEA. Thorne would tell Neumann about him at the right time. No point in scaring the boy off.

A few employees began trickling out of the bank, alone and in pairs, mostly secretaries. Thorne kept his eyes nailed to the stairs, waiting for his boy to show. The fact that somewhere out there Jester was rolling along with a major shipment of refined heroin bound for the Swiss market was terrific, but Neumann’s help would be essential if he wanted to demonstrate USB’s complicity in Mevlevi’s affairs. He thought of Wolfgang Kaiser breezily lying to him about not knowing Mevlevi.
Alfie Merlani
? he had asked. Arrogant sumbitch. With a start, Thorne realized that he wanted Kaiser’s ass as much as Mevlevi’s. And it made him feel good.

Twenty wasted minutes later, the cellular phone attached to Thorne’s belt rang. The dull electronic chirping took him by surprise, sending a jolt of adrenaline down his spine. He fumbled with the buttons on his leather coat. Jester, he prayed, let that be you. Come through for me, buddy. He freed the phone from his belt and pressed the answer button. “Thorne,” he said calmly.

“Thorne,” Terry Strait yelled. “I want you back in this office immediately. You have taken property belonging to the United States government. Files on running operations are never, I repeat
never
, to be removed from secure premises. Eastern Lightning is . . .”

Thorne listened to the good reverend rant and rave for another five, maybe ten seconds, then hung up on him. Worse than a wood tick in your belly button.

The phone rang again. Thorne hefted the compact plastic unit, weighing it as if to judge who might be on the other end. Keep dreaming, Terry. You wanted me out of your hair — I’m out. But one day soon I’m going to intercept a mother lode of refined no. 4 heroin without your help and I am going to put away the Pasha. Eastern Lightning will be a bigger success than any of us thought possible. I’ll be back. And I’ll be gunning for your sorry ass.

The phone rang a second time. What the hell? thought Thorne. If it was Strait, he’d just hang up again. A third ring. “Thorne, here.”

“Thorne? This is Jester. I’m in Milan. At a house belonging to the Makdisi family.”

Thorne nearly crossed himself and fell to his knees. “Good to hear from you. Can you talk? Do you have some time?”

“Yeah, a little.”

“Good boy. Have you got a schedule for me?”

“We’re crossing at Chiasso, Monday morning between nine-thirty and ten-thirty. Far right-hand lane. We’re in a two-trailer rig with British plates. A transnational
routier
. It has the blue shield on the front bumper saying T-I-R. Gray canopies covering the load. The inspector is looking for us. We’ll get a free pass.”

“Go on.”

“Then I guess we’re coming to Zurich. The Makdisis’ boys are driving. We’ll be taking it to their usual drop point. Near a place called Hardturm. I think it’s a soccer stadium. I’m caught in the middle of something here. Everybody is looking at me funny. A lot of phony smiles. I told you I’m only along for the ride because Mevlevi suspects the Makdisis of double dealing. Too big a shipment to let go without a friend nearby. We’re looking at a couple of thousand pounds minimum, maybe more. He is desperate that this go through.”

Thorne interrupted Jester. “Getting our hands on that much product is damned good work, but we have to tie it to Mevlevi, otherwise he’ll just send a bigger load in two weeks’ time. I don’t want a cargo of contraband without the man responsible. I don’t want the bullets without the gun, you understand. The Makdisis don’t mean shit to me.”

“I know, I know . . .” The connection weakened and static filled Thorne’s ear. Jester’s voice came through a garbled mess.

“What did you say? What about Mevlevi? Can you hear me, Joe?”

Jester’s voice returned. “. . . so like I said there will never be a better chance. We can’t miss out on this opportunity.”

“Speak up. I lost you for a second.”

“Jesus,” Jester rasped, sounding out of breath. “I said he’s in Switzerland.”

“Who?”

“Mevlevi.”

Thorne felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. “You’re telling me that Ali Mevlevi is in Switzerland?”

“He arrived this morning. He called the house where I’m staying to make sure everything was all right. Told me that after the load came through safely he’d build me my own house at his compound. He’s got a big gig planned for Tuesday. The bank’s meeting. He’s in deep with that bank, I told you a dozen times.”

Thorne pleaded. “You’ve got to give me more than that. What about his army?”

“Khamsin,” said Joseph. “Mevlevi’s operation. He’s moving his men out tomorrow at 0400. He’s kept the target quiet, but I know they’re going south toward the border. He’s got six hundred fanatics revved up for something big.”

“0400 Saturday,” Thorne repeated. “No target, you say?”

“He told no one. Just south. Use your imagination.”

“Dammit,” whispered Thorne. Not now! What was he supposed to do with that information? He was a defrocked government agent, for Christ’s sake. He’d kept a buddy at Langley apprised of his suspicions. He’d give him a call, maybe fax him the latest. He’d have to make it their problem and pray. He just hoped that six hundred men showed up as more than a dot in the midst of all that military traffic on the Lebanese-Israeli border.

Thorne’s mind returned to the problem at hand. “Super work, Joe. But I need something to nail him here.”

“Keep your eye on the bank. He’ll probably stop by some time. I told you he and Kaiser are tight. They go way back.”

Thorne watched a Mercedes limo drive up to the gate and stop. “Never. Mevlevi knows we’re on to him. You think he has the balls to drive right past me?”

“That’s your call. But you have to let me know how you’re going to handle this. I don’t want to be with these guys when the heat comes down. It’ll get ugly fast.”

“You hold tight and give me some time to set something up. We have to arrange a welcoming committee on this end.”

“Hurry it up. I can’t call every hour. I got one more chance before we move out of here.”

The gate clanged, stopping at its fully opened position. The limousine advanced into the courtyard of the bank.

“Stay calm, Joe. You give me until Sunday and we’ll set up a nice reception. Take you out of the fire without getting you burned. I have to figure some way to take that product off the streets and still nail Mevlevi. You call me Sunday.”

“Yeah, all right. If that’s the way it’s gotta be.” Jester hung up.

“Hang in there,” Thorne said to the dead line. He exhaled and dropped the phone to his side. “You’re almost home, kid.”

Inside the courtyard of the United Swiss Bank, the taillights of the Mercedes flashed red as the limousine drew to a halt. Thorne looked on as the rear door of the automobile swung open and the top of a head emerged. The gate began closing: a long curtain of black metal rolling along a steel track. He recalled Jester’s words.
He and Kaiser are tight. Keep your eye on the bank
.

The first man out of the limousine was the chauffeur. He adjusted his jacket, then put on his cap. The back left door opened on its own. A head of black hair peeked out, then dipped back below the smoked glass.

Thorne dipped his head, trying to see past the moving screen. A pair of shiny loafers hit the pavement. He could hear the brush of the heels on the cement. Again the head popped up. The man was turning toward him.

Just a second longer,
he begged.
Please!

The gate crashed into place.

Thorne jogged toward the bank, curious to learn who had been inside the limousine. A laugh drifted over the wall. A voice said in English, “I haven’t been back for ages. Let’s have a look at the place.” Funny accent. Italian maybe. He stared at the gate for another minute and wondered,
What if . . .
? Then he smiled and turned away. No way. Couldn’t be. He had never believed in coincidence. The world’s small. But not that small.