Numbered Account (69 page)

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.

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.

Once more, he told himself. One more try and you’ll be on your feet.

He could see the restaurant Mevlevi had mentioned behind him. It was a low-slung building with pockmarked concrete walls. Washed-out letters advertised its name: Alpenblick. The parking lot and the road sat somewhere ahead of him, and beyond that, oblivion — a sheer granite cliff. Somewhere inside the pale of snow stood the Pasha with a neat gash in his leg. Bastard was lucky he hadn’t caught the serrated side of the blade.

Nick took several breaths and readied his next move. He heard the door of the limousine slam and its engine rev to life. He sat still and turned his ear into the wind. The Mercedes’ motor ran in idle for several seconds, then revved anew and accelerated. The wind picked up, drowning the sound of the car.

Nick remained where he was, not fully believing that Mevlevi had just up and left. Why would the Pasha leave him here? To freeze? To bleed to death?

The cough of another engine interrupted his thoughts. The car came closer, now somewhere just beyond the mountain’s crest. Its engine whined, straining in second gear as it climbed the final incline.

Nick recalled seeing a car from the limousine window. It had been far below on one of the short straightaways that separated the endless series of hairpin turns. Was this that same automobile? Had its pending arrival prompted the Pasha to get the hell out of there?

Nick didn’t know. But he needed someone to find him in a hurry. He didn’t have gloves or an overcoat. He could survive a few hours, maybe until night. Longer than that he couldn’t guarantee. His leg was already stiffening. Left without any treatment, it would freeze up and he would be incapable of moving it. He required medical attention, someone to swab out the wound and dress it with sulfa and gauze bandages. Most of all, he needed a car to go after the Pasha. He would not allow the sonuvabitch to get away.

Nick heard the screeching of the car’s tires as it made its way around the last hairpin turn. The engine fired more confidently as the incline lessened. He rolled to his right so that he could place his left leg under himself. Thousands of shredded nerve endings ignited. Tears came to his eyes. And then he froze. He asked himself who else would be so foolish to come up this road in the dead of winter, braving a wild snowstorm? Was it just some adventurous tourist? Or a local so familiar with the roads that even near whiteout conditions did not daunt him? He didn’t think so. Odds were it was a chase car sent by Gino Makdisi to clean up after his business partner.