Numbered Account (52 page)

Nick listened, wondering what Kaiser had put the Pasha’s money into.

Mevlevi asked Kaiser, “And if this Adler Bank gains seats on your board?”

“We will not allow that to happen.”

“They’re close, no?”

Kaiser looked up at Nick, only now registering his return to the office. “Neumann, what’s the official tally? Take a seat. Here, give me that dossier.”

Reluctantly, Nick handed Mevlevi’s file to Wolfgang Kaiser. “The Adler Bank has stalled at thirty-one percent of outstanding votes. We are holding fifty-two percent. The rest are uncommitted.”

Mevlevi pointed to the dossier sitting on Kaiser’s lap. “And what percentage of the votes do I control?”

“You hold exactly two percent of our shares,” said Kaiser.

“But an
important
two percent. Now I understand why you need my loan so badly.”

“Think of it as a guaranteed private placement.”

“Loan, placement, call it what you like. The terms you are offering still stand? Ten percent net after ninety days?”

“For the full two hundred million,” Kaiser confirmed. “The offer still stands.”

Nick grimaced at the usurious terms the Chairman so blithely offered.

Mevlevi asked, “Would this loan be used to buy shares?”

“Naturally,” said Kaiser. “It will raise our holdings to sixty percent. Konig’s bid will be effectively blocked.”

Mevlevi crinkled his brow, as if he had been misinformed. “But should the Adler Bank’s offer unravel, the price of your shares would plummet. I may stand to earn the ten percent you are offering on the two hundred million, but the value of my shares will decrease. We both stand to lose a good deal of money.”

“Only temporarily. We’ve taken steps to drastically improve our operating ratios and lift the year-end net profit. As soon as they’re in place, the price of our shares will far surpass their current level.”

“You hope,” cautioned Mevlevi.

“Markets are unpredictable,” said Kaiser, “but seldom illogical.”

“Perhaps I should sell my shares while I’m ahead.” The Pasha motioned toward his private file. “May I?”

Kaiser extended it halfway to his client, then drew it back. “If arrangements for the loan could be made this afternoon, I would be most grateful.”

Nick held his breath. His eyes were riveted to the dossier, while an inner chorus demanded to know who had discovered the transfer confirmations beneath his desk.

“This afternoon?” said the Pasha. “Not possible. I have pressing business. Mr. Neumann will be required. I’m afraid I can’t give you a response until Monday morning. Now, I’d like to take a moment and leaf through my papers. See what mail I’ve received.”

Kaiser handed Mevlevi the dossier.

Nick rubbed his forehead. His eyes examined the carpet under his feet. All his senses were directed inward. He listened to his heart beating steadily. Surprisingly, his pulse was hardly elevated. His fate was sealed.

Mevlevi opened the dossier and picked up an envelope, one of Nick’s phonies. He flipped it over and placed his thumb under the flap, digging a smooth nail along the seal.

Nick watched him intently. He could hear the envelope being opened. He could feel the paper tearing. Then he shut his eyes. He was not aware of Rita Sutter’s presence until she was halfway into the Chairman’s office.

Kaiser rose sharply to his feet. “What is it?” he asked.

Rita Sutter appeared shaken. Her skin was gray and her face cast with grim resolve. As she neared, she extended her hand as if seeking a wall to steady herself.

“What is it, woman? What in God’s name is the matter with you?”

Rita Sutter took a step back, visibly hurt by his brusque indifference. “Cerruti,” she whispered. “Marco Cerruti. He’s killed himself. The police are outside.”

Like two deer caught in an automobile’s headlights, Kaiser and Mevlevi stared at each other for one interminable second, and the acknowledgment of conspirators passed between them.

Suddenly, the room was in motion. Mevlevi threw the half-opened letter into the dossier and closed the cover. “This will keep for another time.”

Kaiser gestured toward the private elevator. “We can speak this evening.”

Mevlevi walked with measured strides to the concealed elevator. “Perhaps. I may be busy with other matters. Neumann, come with me.”

Nick hesitated. Something told him not to leave the bank. Cerruti was dead. Becker was dead. Hanging around the Pasha did not improve your life expectancy.

Rita Sutter hugged her chest as if to console herself. “I can’t understand it. You told us Marco was getting so much better.”

Kaiser paid the disconsolate woman no heed. “Nicholas,” he ordered. “Go with Mr. Mevlevi and do as he says. Now!”

Nick stopped considering whether or not to go. The defender of the faith had no choice. He walked to the elevator and slid in alongside Mevlevi. The door closed and he caught a last glimpse of Wolfgang Kaiser. The Chairman had draped an arm around Rita Sutter and was speaking softly to her. Nick could only make out a few of his words.

“My dear friend, Marco,” he was saying. “Why would he do such a thing? I wouldn’t have thought him capable of it. Did he leave a note? A terrible tragedy.”

And then the elevator door slammed shut.

For the next quarter of an hour, Nick’s life passed in a blur. He was presented with a succession of hazy images, as if watching a separate self through the fogged window of a fast-moving train. Nick descends in the cramped elevator with the Pasha; Nick climbs into the waiting limousine; Nick offers appropriate noises while Mevlevi issues the first in a string of hollow laments over Marco Cerruti’s death. And when the Pasha instructs the chauffeur to take them to the Platzspitz, instead of voicing his concern, Nick remains silent. He is too busy replaying in his mind’s eye the interplay between Wolfgang Kaiser and Ali Mevlevi at the moment Rita Sutter informed them of the unfortunate banker’s death. He is convinced of their complicity.

The limousine sped down Talackerstrasse. Nick sat in the backseat watching the city pass by. As they drove past the
Hauptbahnhof
, he took note of the Pasha’s instructions and running them once more through his head, spoke up. “The Platzspitz isn’t open to the public anymore,” he said. “The gates are locked. It’s off-limits.”

The chauffeur pulled the limousine to the curb, then turned in his seat to offer a like opinion. “This is correct. The park has been closed for eight years. Too many bad memories.”

The Platzspitz was Zurich’s infamous “needle park.” Ten years ago the place had been a junkie’s paradise. An assembly point for the forlorn and forgotten of Europe. The Pasha’s private gold mine.

“I’ve been assured we’ll have no problem entering,” said Mevlevi. “Give us forty minutes. We just want to have a stroll through the grounds.” He climbed out of the car and walked to a gate cut into the heavy wrought iron fence that surrounded the park. He tried the handle and the gate swung open. He cast a last glance at Nick. “Come on, then.”

Nick jumped from the car and followed. He had a presentiment that something bad was going to happen. What business could bring Mevlevi to the park? Who had assured him the gate would be open? And been right?

Nick passed through the gate and followed the Pasha along a gravel pathway bisecting triangular patches of grass dusted with snow. Giant pines towered above their heads. Behind them loomed the Gothic tower and cleft battlements of the Swiss National Museum.

Mevlevi paused long enough to allow him to catch up. “You decided to join me.”

“The Chairman asked that I accompany you,” said Nick evenly, though to his own ear he lent his words a combative ring. In his heart he had given up the amoral preserves of banking for the riskier estates of law enforcement. If he couldn’t intervene directly, then he would bear witness, he would record, he would make himself a living testament to this man’s crimes. And if that meant he had to become an accomplice, and later pay the necessary price, then so be it.

“Ordered you was more like it,” said Mevlevi as he set off at a leisurely pace. “Still, he thinks highly of you. He told me your father was at the bank before you. You respect your heritage, following in his footsteps like a good son. My father always wished for as much, but I could never be a derv. The spinning, the chanting. I was only interested in this world.”

Nick walked alongside the Pasha, barely hearing his words. His mind was filled only with plans and plots and schemes to end the man’s reign.

Mevlevi said, “Family is important. I’ve come to think of Wolfgang as a brother. Without my help I doubt the bank would have grown at such a rapid pace. Not because of my money. What I gave him was the spark to succeed. Without the proper encouragement it’s surprising what an intelligent man
cannot
do. All of us are capable of great acts. It’s the motivation we so often lack, don’t you agree?”

Nick suppressed a caustic grin and managed to say yes, though he was certain his definition of “great acts” differed wildly from the Pasha’s. What spark had Mevlevi provided Kaiser to succeed? What did he have in store for Nick?

Mevlevi said, “Soon it will be time for the next generation to see to the bank. It’s a pleasure to know that some of that responsibility may fall on your shoulders, Mr. Neumann. Or may I call you Nicholas?”

“Mr. Neumann is fine.”

“I see.” The Pasha waved a finger at Nick as if scolding him. “More Swiss than the Swiss themselves. A good strategy. I know it well. I’ve lived in other men’s countries my entire adult life. Thailand, Argentina, the States, now Lebanon.”

Nick asked where he had lived in the States.

“Here and there,” said Mevlevi, as if it were the title of a catchy tune. “New York, California.” Suddenly, he walked faster. “Ah, my colleagues have arrived.”

Ahead, on a park bench facing the river Limmat sat two heavily dressed men. Shadows cast by the boughs of an overhanging pine masked their faces. One was short and stocky, the other larger, plain obese.

“This shouldn’t take long,” said Mevlevi. “Feel free to join me. In fact, I insist. Kaiser expects me to provide you with a bit of a business education. Consider this the first lesson: How to maintain a proper relationship between supplier and distributor.”

Nick steeled himself. Be silent, he told himself. Be vigilant. And above all, remember every goddamned word spoken.

“Albert, Gino, I am thrilled to see you again.
Salaam Aleikhum
.” Ali Mevlevi kissed each man three times — left cheek, right cheek, left cheek — all the while pumping their hands.

“Salaam Aleikhum,
Al-Mevlevi,” each said in turn.

Albert was the smaller of the two men, a tired accountant one audit past his prime with wiry gray hair and mottled yellow skin. “You must tell us the latest news of our homeland,” he said. “We have heard encouraging reports.”

Next to him, Gino, a lumbering giant going three hundred pounds easy, nodded his head as if he had also wanted to ask the question.

“Most is true,” said Mevlevi. “Skyscrapers going up everywhere. A new freeway nearing completion. And still the traffic is absolutely terrible.”

“Always,” laughed Albert, too loudly.

“Perhaps the nicest development has been the reopening of the St. Georges. Better than before the war.”

“Tea dancing?” Gino asked in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Speak up,” exhorted Albert. He averted his gaze from his brother and spoke to an invisible gallery in the sky. “The size of an elephant and he talks like a mouse.”

“I asked if tea dances were still held at the St. Georges?”

“More splendid than ever,” said Mevlevi. “Thursdays and Sundays at four on the esplanade. A wonderful string quartet.”

Gino smiled wistfully.

“There, you’ve made my brother happy,” said Albert. He put a hand on the Pasha’s shoulder and whispered in his ear.

“Yes, of course,” replied Mevlevi. He took a step backward and placed his hand in the lee of Nick’s back, nudging him forward. “This is a new member of my staff. Mr. Nicholas Neumann. In charge of financing for our operations. Neumann, meet Albert and Gino Makdisi, brethren long absent from Lebanon.”

Nick stepped forward and shook each man’s hand. He knew who they were. A corner of the local papers was practically reserved for their portraits. And it wasn’t the society column.

Albert Makdisi guided the group toward the river. “We spoke this morning with our colleagues in Milan. All is well. Monday at this time the shipment will be in Zurich.”

“Joseph tells me your men appeared nervous. “Skittish,’ he said. Why?”

“Who is this Joseph?” asked Albert. “Why do you send a man to accompany your shipment? Look at me, Al-Mevlevi. We are not nervous. We are thrilled to see you once again. It’s been too long. Nervous? No. Surprised? Happily!”

The Pasha lost his easy banter. “Not as surprised as I, when I learned that you had sent the lovely Lina to Max Rothstein. You knew I had an eye for her sort, didn’t you? You always were a clever one, Albert.”

Nick could feel the tension between the two men ratchet up a notch.

Albert Makdisi dabbed at the corner of his eyes with a white hankie. Both lower eyelids sagged horribly, revealing vitreous crescents. “What are you talking about? Lina? I don’t know a woman named Lina. Tell me about her.”

“With pleasure,” said Mevlevi. “A spirited girl from Jounieh. A Christian. She came to live with me these last nine months. Alas, she has recently departed. I understand you spoke together every Sunday.”

Albert Makdisi grew red in the face. “Utter nonsense. Who is Lina? Really, this is beyond any of my imaginings. Let us talk sense. We have a shipment due in. Business to discuss.”

Gino huffed his agreement, keeping his eyes locked on his brother.

Mevlevi adopted a conciliatory tone of voice. “You’re right, Albert. Very important business. It is to that end that we must dedicate ourselves. Personal differences? Let’s put them in the waste bin. I’m willing to give you an opportunity to apologize for your past actions. I want us to restart our business relationship on its former solid ground.”