Numbered Account (76 page)

Khan drove the car into the parking lot. The only other automobile there was a red Ford Cortina. He guessed that it belonged to the American. He parked the Volvo at the opposite end of the lot. He watched Neumann approach in the rearview mirror, waiting until he opened the door of the red car and lowered himself into it.

Khan needed no instructions for what had to be done. He opened the door and stepped from the car. He crossed the gravel slowly, not wanting to alert Neumann to his presence. Behind him a black Mercedes pulled into the lot and parked next to his car. He kept his attention on the Ford. If there were witnesses, too bad. He’d kill them too. He unbuttoned his leather jacket and reached a hand inside for his weapon. He felt cold steel and smiling, petted the grip. He lengthened his stride. The world around him shrank to a constricted tunnel. Only Neumann at the end of that tunnel was in focus. Everything else was a blur. A distraction.

Neumann started the engine. The car shuddered and a puff of exhaust came from the tailpipe.

Khan drew his pistol and placed the tip of the barrel against the driver’s window.

Neumann looked into the gun. His eyes opened wide but he did not move. He took his hands from the steering wheel.

Khan allowed him a final moment of terror, then increased his pressure on the trigger. He did not feel the bullet that drilled a hole into his brain, blasting away the entire left side of his skull. He saw a flash of bright light, then his world went dark. The pistol dropped from his hand and thudded to the ground. He collapsed against the car, then fell onto the gravel. Dead.

Nick did not move. He heard the pop of a high-caliber pistol and watched helplessly as the gunman’s body pounded into the window, then slid to the ground. Ten feet behind him stood Sterling Thorne, gun extended.

Thorne approached the car, holstering his side arm as he walked.

For a moment, Nick sat still. He stared straight ahead of him. He thought the lake was very beautiful. He was alive.

Thorne knocked on the window and opened the car door. He was grinning.

“Neumann, you are one piss-poor liar.”

Nick arrived at the Kongresshaus at ten-forty-five, fifteen minutes before the general assembly was scheduled to commence. The auditorium, which seated several thousand persons, was filling rapidly. Reporters from the world’s major financial publications dashed up and down the aisles, speaking to stockbrokers, speculators, and shareholders alike. In the wake of allegations that Wolfgang Kaiser had actively maintained close ties with a notorious Middle Eastern drug lord, all ears strained to learn who would assume control of the United Swiss Bank. But Nick had no illusions. After a spate of apologies and promises of tighter controls, business would continue as usual. The fact that Ali Mevlevi was dead and the flow of heroin into Europe slowed, at least for a little while, did little to console him. Thorne had his victory, but Nick’s was tainted. Nearly twenty-four hours after his escape from the Hotel Olivella au Lac, Wolfgang Kaiser had not yet been apprehended.

Nick walked to the front of the auditorium and looked back on the sea of faces streaming in. No one paid him special notice. His role in the affair was unknown — at least for now. Angry and frustrated, he wondered if Ott and Maeder and all the others would conduct the meeting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred yesterday. He imagined what Peter Sprecher would say:
. . . but Nick, nothing out of the ordinary has
. And his anger and frustration grew.

Still, he had half a notion that Kaiser just might show up. Self-preservation would dictate he stay far away from the general assembly, but Nick didn’t think the idea of being caught had ever surfaced on Kaiser’s private radar. The Chairman of the United Swiss Bank forced to flee Switzerland? Never! Even now he probably believed that he had done nothing wrong.

Nick spotted Sterling Thorne slouching near a fire exit to the left of the stage. Thorne caught Nick’s glance and nodded. Earlier, he had given Nick a copy of that morning’s
Herald Tribune
. A small article on the inside front cover was circled. “Israeli Jets Knock Out Guerrilla Strongholds.” The story said that a renegade faction of Lebanese Hezbollah loyalists had been captured as they massed near the Israeli border, an unknown number killed. A final paragraph stated that their base in the hills above Beirut had been bombed and destroyed. “So much for Mevlevi’s private army,” Thorne had said, smirking. Though when Nick asked him about the battlefield nuclear weapon, his smile vanished and he shrugged as if to say “We’ll never know.”

Directly in front of Nick, a yellow rope was strung across ten chairs in the first row. Each chair held a white index card bearing the name of its occupant. Sepp Zwicki, Rita Sutter, and others he knew as residents of the Fourth Floor. Looking to his right, he caught sight of Sylvia Schon making a slow march up the aisle. She was counting heads, spotting how many of her precious charges had attended the meeting. Even now, she was following the Chairman’s orders.

He walked toward her, his choler growing with each step. A portion of it was directed at himself — for believing, for trusting, maybe even for loving, all when he should have known better. But most took Sylvia as its target. She had traded on his life for her own benefit, and for that he could never forgive her.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be helping the Chairman find the next flight to the Bahamas? Come to think of it, I thought you might even be there already.”

Sylvia moved closer to him, trying on a sad smile. “Nick, I’m sorry. I had no idea that—”

“What happened?” he cut in, unable to stomach her false apology. “Did you discover that getting someone out of a hotel is a helluva lot easier than getting him out of the country — especially when the whole world’s after him? Or are you planning on joining him after this whole mess cools down a little?”

Sylvia narrowed her eyes, and her face grew rigid. In that instant, any feelings they had shared for each other disappeared forever. “Go to hell,” she snapped. “Just because I helped the Chairman doesn’t mean I’d run off with him. You’ve got the wrong woman.”

Nick found an unoccupied seat three rows from the stage and laid his cane on the floor. He sat down awkwardly and adjusted his leg. Doctors had cleaned and sutured the wound to his lower thigh. He wouldn’t be doing the samba anytime soon, but at least he could walk.

The lights dimmed, and Rudolf Ott rose from the table and walked to the dais. A heckler from the rear of the auditorium yelled, “Where is the Chairman?” His cry was quickly picked up by others. Nick craned his neck in the direction of the catcalls, then after a moment, returned his gaze to the stage. Two rows in front of him, all seats were filled but one. Only Rita Sutter had not yet arrived.

Ott placed a sheaf of papers on the lectern, then removed his glasses and laboriously polished them as he waited for the jeers to die off. He adjusted the microphone and very audibly cleared his throat. The audience quieted and soon an uncomfortable silence filled the room.

Waiting for Ott to begin, Nick couldn’t keep Sylvia’s words from playing over and over in his head. “
You’ve got the wrong woman
.” Where was Rita Sutter? he began to wonder in earnest. Why wasn’t she attending the most important general assembly in the bank’s history? He recalled the photograph of Rita Sutter kissing Kaiser’s hand at his father’s going-away party in 1967. Had it been more than just a show for the camera? He remembered wondering why Rita Sutter would settle for a job as Kaiser’s secretary when she was clearly capable of so much more.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ott said, finally, “normally, I would open the proceedings with a brief welcome followed by a summary of the past year’s activities. However, recent events dictate that I depart from our traditional schedule. I have news of a special nature that frankly, I cannot keep to myself any longer.”

Nick sat up straighter, as did every other living, breathing being in the auditorium.

“Following the directives of Klaus Konig, the Adler Bank no longer wishes to present its own slate of candidates for election to the executive board of the United Swiss Bank. Therefore, I am pleased to hereby nominate all sitting members to a term of one year.”

A cheer erupted from the gathered employees. It rippled through the hall and spilled into the foyer and washed out onto the street. A string of reporters ran from the auditorium. An orgy of flashbulbs exploded.

With one sentence, the monster had been defanged.

No explanation was given, though Nick figured he knew why. All shares held in the Ciragan Trading account had been indefinitely frozen by the Swiss federal prosecutor’s office. The Adler Bank would be prohibited from exercising its proxy on the shares until such time as rightful ownership could be determined — meaning that for the next several years the shares would be without any voting power. When it could be proved that the shares belonged to Mr. Ali Mevlevi, a heroin-smuggling murderer, now deceased, the Adler Bank would file claim to their unfortunate client’s assets in Federal Court — as would the United States Drug Enforcement Administration and any other agency that had the least bit to do with the pursuit of Mevlevi. No decision regarding the ultimate disposition of the shares would be made for a decade. The United Swiss Bank could rest easy until then.

Nick remained seated while everyone around him stood and cheered. He told himself he should be happy too. USB was rid of Kaiser and free of Mevlevi. The bank would stand alone as it had for the past one hundred twenty-five years. Its continued independence might be his only victory.

In front of him, Martin Maeder pumped Sepp Zwicki’s hands. Ott paraded up and down the dais, patting his fellow board members on the back.
The king is dead
, Nick thought, staring at his pudgy figure.
Long live the king
.

Nick lowered his eyes and found himself staring at Rita Sutter’s empty chair. Practically the entire bank was here, but not her.

“You’ve got the wrong woman.”

And then he knew.

Abruptly, Nick rose and made his way to the aisle. He had to get to the bank. Wolfgang Kaiser was there. Now. Forcing his way through the exuberant crowd, Nick ran his suppositions through his mind over and over again. Kaiser had never expected to be a fugitive from justice. Faced with the prospect of an uncertain term in a Swiss jail or flight to a country with lax extradition laws, he would choose the latter. Nick had been foolish to think Kaiser might show up at the general assembly, but he was certain that the Chairman wouldn’t flee before learning that Konig had lost his battle for seats on USB’s board. Kaiser was too prideful for that. Before leaving, he would need to retrieve some belongings — cash, passport, who knew what — from the bank. And this was the only time that had been left him. The bank would be nearly deserted, with only a skeleton staff on duty. And one very efficient executive assistant.

Nick reached the end of the row and started up the aisle. His leg argued for him to slow. He ignored it and moved even faster, passing through a pair of swinging doors into the foyer. The long, low room was packed to bursting with the overflow crowd. Reporters hovered in every corner, urgently filing dispatches by cellular phone. Nick threaded his way through all of them. He had a strong desire to yell at the top of his lungs for every goddamned person to get out of his way, but somehow he was able to check it, and after another minute he was outside. He rushed down the broad flight of granite stairs. A fleet of taxis had assembled along the curb. He jumped into the first in line and barked his instructions. “Take me to the United Swiss Bank.”

Three minutes later, the taxi lurched to a halt in front of the imperious gray building. Nick paid the driver and got out. He hurried up the stairs, noting the uniformed policemen loitering on the pavement nearby.

Hugo Brunner stood behind the lectern inside the lobby, and when he saw Nick, he came forward shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Neumann. I have strict orders you are not to be allowed into the bank.”

Nick leaned on his cane, a little out of breath. “From who, Hugo? The Chairman? Is he here?”

“That is none of your business, sir. Now if you please . . .”

Nick stood up straight and slugged Brunner in the stomach. The hall porter gasped, and as he doubled over, Nick rewarded him with a jab to the chin. Brunner collapsed to the marble floor and lay still. Apologizing silently to the older man, Nick bent forward and dragged him behind the lectern. The bank was so quiet that not a soul had noticed.

The Emperor’s Lair was deserted. Lights burned in offices on either side of the corridor, but all were empty. Nick limped toward the Chairman’s anteroom, his only company the echo of his own uneven gait. The double doors to the Chairman’s office were closed. Nick took a deep breath, then placed his ear against the smooth paneling and listened. He heard a rustle inside, then something heavy hitting the floor. He gripped the handle and turned it slowly. It was locked. He took a step backward, lowered his shoulder, and threw himself at the door. It buckled inward and he stumbled into the room, unable to stop himself from falling to one knee.

Wolfgang Kaiser stood a few feet away, a surprised look pasted on his face. His skin was gray and haggard. Dark pouches supported his eyes. He had removed the canvas of the Renoir oil from its gold leaf frame and was rolling it up tightly. A cardboard cylinder sat on the couch next to him.

“It’s the best I can do,” he said, in a light tone inappropriate for the occasion. “I haven’t put aside any cash, and I imagine my accounts have already been frozen.” He motioned with the rolled-up canvas. “In case you’re wondering, it belongs to me, not to the bank.”

Nick found his cane and pushed himself to his feet. “Of course. I know you wouldn’t dream of stealing from the bank.”

Kaiser stuffed the canvas into the cardboard cylinder, then popped on a plastic top. “I suppose I should thank you for killing Mevlevi.”