Numbered Account

CHAPTER 39

Sterling Thorne could not erase the grin from his face. He knew he must look like an idiot, smiling and laughing like a six-year-old boy, but he couldn’t help it. He was reading the text of the charges that had been filed against First Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann USMCR for the first time in its entirety. And he was enjoying it. One section was of particular interest, and this he read again and again.

“… whereby defendant did willfully and with malice aforethought batter the plaintiff. Said plaintiff did suffer severe bruising to the lower back and hip, two ruptured disks at the 14th and 15th vertebrae, a class-one subdural hematoma, gross swelling of the testicles and concomitant edema.”

That last one made Thorne fidget in his chair. “Gross swelling of the testicles and concomitant edema.” Old Jack Keely had got himself a thorough going-over; his back was half broken, his skull near fractured, and worst, his balls had been throttled so hard they were swollen the size of grapefruits. Not only that, the fucker’s cojones were leaking.

Thorne flipped to the next page, and then back again. Nowhere in the file did it specify the reason for the attack. Nowhere did it say what had gotten Neumann so riled at this man Keely, whom the record listed as a “civilian defense contractor.” Read “spook,” Thorne corrected.

Earlier in the day he had finally received the full copy of Neumann’s military personnel file. A buddy had FedExed it over from Headquarters Marine Corps in D.C. The same guy had faxed him a copy of Neumann’s discharge and the final ruling of the board of inquiry that he’d used to set the kid running. Frankly speaking, Thorne wished he’d gotten his eyes on the whole dossier before he’d started putting pressure on the kid. The last thing he needed was a list of injuries like those suffered by Mr. Jack Keely.

Thorne closed the file. Once more he ran the highlights through his head. Neumann had zoomed through OCS, finishing as honor graduate. During Basic School, he had maxed every physical fitness test he’d taken and gotten himself a billet to U.S. Army Ranger school. He’d finished the course, naturally, and earned his tabs. Not at the top this time, but in a class that boasted a seventy percent attrition rate, just finishing the damn thing in one piece was impressive. Next came an assignment to active duty at Camp Pendleton as executive officer of an infantry platoon. That lasted a year. Then he disappeared. No word on his actions for three years. No fitness reports, no senior officer appraisals, no requests for transfer, no nothing. Just the board of inquiry’s summary and a copy of his separation papers. Dishonorable discharge. No wonder the kid came overseas. Probably couldn’t get a job in the States with that monkey on his back.

Thorne grinned in anticipation. Once Wolfgang Kaiser read this report, he’d be too frightened for his physical safety to keep Neumann working by his side. Who cared about the dishonorable discharge? It paled in comparison to Neumann’s capacity to inflict bodily injury. In theory, Thorne had Nick by the short and curlies. All he had to do was tighten his grip. With it, Neumann could be cajoled, convinced, coerced, whatever, into helping him nail Ali Mevlevi. Or could he? Thorne was beginning to realize that Neumann was just as stubborn as he was. A frontal assault might not work.

A door behind him swung open and clattered against the wall.

“Sterling Thorne, good evening,” said Terry Strait. “Or should I say good morning, seeing as how it’s after midnight.” He stood with his hands on his hips and a monstrous shit-eating grin on his face.

Thorne swung around in his chair and stared at the beaming figure in the doorway. Didn’t the guy know how to knock? “Hello, Terry. Back so soon?”

“Afraid so. Mission accomplished.”

“And what mission might that be? To burrow your nose as far into the ambassador’s snatch as possible before she paws you away?”

“She sends you her best regards too.” Strait walked in and sat himself down on Thorne’s desk. “We enjoyed a lively evening together. A glass of sherry at the embassy, dinner at the Bellevue Palace. We were joined by one of our Swiss counterparts, Franz Studer.”

“Counterpart, my ass. That man is the tightest-lipped, slowest-moving prosecutor I have ever come across.”

“Slow moving? Maybe. Tight-lipped?” Strait shook his head. “You must not know him very well. Tonight, Mr. Studer was positively gabby. In fact, he couldn’t stop talking.”

“No doubt you plan on passing on his words of wisdom?”

“You were his favorite topic of conversation. He had a few good yarns up his sleeve. An unannounced visit to the Chairman of the United Swiss Bank. Hijacking an elevator, brutalizing a secretary, and then attempting to blackmail Wolfgang Kaiser. He felt strongly that this was a violation of the accord between his government and ours. Madam Ambassador was in full agreement.”

Thorne leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes. Best let the good reverend have his moment in the pulpit. “Go on.”

“Was that your intention? To expose his son’s death from an overdose of heroin unless he gave up Ali Mevlevi? And I thought you didn’t like me.”

“To be honest, I don’t.”

Strait squinted incredulously. “What is wrong with you? Are you at war with the entire world?”

Thorne laughed. “You just might have a point there. Maybe I am at that.”

Strait laughed, too. “I hope you won’t mind too much, but since Madam Ambassador’s spirits were already flagging and the evening more or less ruined, I couldn’t resist firing a couple broadsides of my own. The best time to finish a man off is when he’s down on his knees and begging. No mercy. Right, Thorne? Isn’t that one of your maxims?”

“Well, Terry, you got me horny with anticipation. I’m sitting here all hot and bothered. So either fuck me or tuck that big dick back into your pants and get the hell out of here.”

“With pleasure. I think I’ll opt for the former choice, so stand up and bend over. That is the way you country boys like it, isn’t it?”

Thorne jumped from his chair and thrust an open hand at Strait’s throat.

Strait deflected the outstretched arm and hopped away from the desk. He slid a chair between himself and the irate agent. “Just so we’re clear on things, Thorne, let me recite the charges. One, strong-arming one of this country’s most respected businessmen. Two, convincing Studer to place Mevlevi’s account number on the USB surveillance list without the approval of the director. And three, something else I learned yesterday, harassing a U.S. citizen on foreign soil. A Mr. Nicholas Neumann.”

The name stopped Thorne in his tracks. He hadn’t figured on the kid being a tattler.

Strait said, “I have it on good authority that twice you’ve stopped and harassed this individual with the sole intent of gathering information on Ali Mevlevi.”

“Whose authority is that? Did Neumann call you up and cry on your shoulder?”

Strait looked surprised. “Neumann? Of course not. The kid is probably scared stiff. You need to look a little closer to home.” He offered Thorne a smug smile. “Your driver, Agent Wadkins. Next time, make sure you choose your accomplices with greater care. Is it a surprise to learn that your fellow agents don’t share your zeal for flouting the laws of the country in which you’re stationed? That they don’t like disobeying orders?”

Thorne was relieved that Neumann hadn’t ratted him out. The kid represented his last chance at nailing Mevlevi. As for Wadkins, he’d kick his pansy ass later. “Is that what this is about? Breaking a few rules to get a job done?”

“No, Sterling. This is about Eastern Lightning. We won’t let you put the operation into more danger than you already have.”

“More danger?” Thorne felt like falling to his knees and clawing the ground. These boys would never understand what it took to get a job done. “It seems to me I am the only man trying to save this op. You’re ready to sit on your hands for the next six months praying that someday you’ll receive a speck of information about his shipments.”

“And you’re ready to flush all our work down the toilet so you can nab a few guns and crow about stopping the next Colonel Qadhafi. This is about drugs, Sterling, not arms, and it’s our opinion that you’re out of control. This operation does not belong exclusively to you. You don’t have the patience necessary to see it out.”

“Patience?” cried Thorne, as if he possessed carloads of the stuff. “Bullshit. I’m a realist. The only one for miles around.”

“We haven’t heard from Jester for ten days. If he’s been compromised, if he’s dead-” Strait took a breath, “and I pray to the Lord that is not the case—it is because of you and you alone.”

“Jester is my agent. I’ve run him since he went in eighteen months ago. Any decision I make, he knows about. He can cover his ass when the time comes.”

“Like Mr. Becker covered his?”

Thorne bit his lip. Only the sharp pain kept him from beating the living hell out of Terry Strait. “He was only doing what his conscience told him.”

Strait smiled smugly. “Believe that if you want to. From this moment onward, Eastern Lightning is officially my baby. Per the director’s instructions. Not only will I handle communications with Jester, I’ll be running the whole show.” He withdrew an envelope from his jacket and tossed it onto the desk beside Thorne. “From now on we’re doing things my way. If you’re caught talking to Neumann or anyone else at USB, you’re getting a one-way ticket back to the States. Destination of your choice ’cause you’re history.”

Thorne picked up the white envelope and looked at it. He knew what the letter would say. Take a step down the ladder. Do as we tell you and keep your big yap closed. He slid his thumb under the flap and tore it open. A fax from the director’s office. Shit, not even a letter. He read the text. It confirmed what he suspected, what he should have guessed the second he saw Strait’s grinning mug. Demotion to second banana.

Thorne tossed the letter into the trash. “So this is how it’s going to be?”

“No,” answered Strait. “This is how it is.”

“Congratulations, Terry. Welcome back to the field.” Thorne offered his hand. “Or have you ever been out of admin before?”

Strait waved away the hand. “Clear out of my office now. Get your crap and move. There’s a desk for you across the hall. The one next to the trash can.”

“Terry, you can be a real s.o.b.,” Thorne said mockingly.

“It’ll do you good to take orders again. And believe me, I have plenty for you. Tomorrow, I’m seeing Franz Studer to go over how we might patch up the mess you’ve made.”

“Be sure to give him your bank account in case any of his buddies want to give you an early Christmas present.”

“Fuck you, Thorne.”

“Careful now, Terry. God won’t let you into heaven if you use the F word.”

Strait stalked out of the office.

Sterling Thorne placed his hands behind his head and looked out the window. Snow fell, dusting the cars parked along the street. A low cloud cover gave the night a downy softness. For a moment, he considered packing it in. Strait wanted Eastern Lightning, let him have it.

“No, goddammit!” Thorne said out loud, crashing his fist onto the desktop in booming punctuation. “The Pasha is mine.”

Thorne watched as the good reverend shuffled down the pathway, afraid to lift a foot too high off the walk for fear he’d discover a hidden sheet of ice. Slow and cautious. Mr. Routine. Move him to Zurich, give him responsibility for the operation, what’s that going to get you? A surefire recipe for disaster. If Jester wasn’t in danger before, he sure as hell was now.

One thing was for certain. He would not work under Terry Strait. No sir-fuckin’-ree Bob!

So deep was he in his thoughts that he didn’t hear the telephone in the other room until it had rung a second time. He walked into Wadkins’s office and picked up the phone.

“Yeah,” he answered, too tired to wonder who the hell was calling at one in the morning.

“Sterling Thorne, please.”

“This is Thorne.” He heard money being added to a pay phone.

“Agent Thorne, this is Joe Habib.”

Thorne felt as though he’d been struck by lightning. “Jester? That you? You’re alive?” Thought Mevlevi had taken care of you, he almost added. “Why the hell haven’t you checked in? You’ve missed two call-ins.”

“I don’t have enough coins to talk for a long time, so listen. I am in Brindisi, Italy. We’re unloading over two tons of product. It’s been secreted into a shipment of cedar paneling. We are bringing it over the border in two or three days’ time. Through Chiasso and then to Zurich.”

“Slow down, boy.” Thorne checked the window again. Strait rounded the corner and disappeared from view. “Joe, take this number. It’s for my private phone. Don’t call the main number again. Ever. The line may not be secure. We have to chance it with a cellular. Contact me directly. Is that clear?” Thorne read off the number to his cellular.

“Why? I was told in case of emerg—”

“Don’t argue with me, Joe. Do as you’re told.”

“Yes sir, I understand.”

A bell bleated repeatedly in Thorne’s earpiece. Jester was running out of change. “Now tell me again about this shipment. What are you doing in Italy?”

“It’s Mevlevi. He doesn’t trust the Makdisis anymore. I’m supposed to be his watchdog. Thorne, we finally got our break. The shipment is coming to Zurich.”

“Where is he?” Thorne asked, unable to keep the desperation from his voice. “Where is Mevlevi? What about his army?”

“Mevlevi is—”

“Joe?” The line was dead.

Thorne put the phone down. And though he hadn’t been able to question Jester about Mevlevi or the arms, he felt as if God had just whispered in his ear. A shipment was coming into Zurich. Hallelujah!

Thorne ran to his office and set to work with a determined glee. Working methodically, he gathered all the papers he would need. Transcripts of Jester’s messages, historical files on Mevlevi, “top secret” intercepts from the Defense Intelligence Agency confirming wire transfers, both incoming and outgoing, to and from Mevlevi’s accounts at USB. Anything and everything that might be useful in the coming days was crammed into his worn briefcase. This done, he scribbled a note to Strait stating his decision to voluntarily retire from the case. “Adios, Terry,” he wrote. “She’s all yours.”

Thorne threw on his overcoat, grabbed his tired briefcase, and marched down the narrow path leading from Wildbachstrasse 58. As he walked, one word buzzed and crackled in his head. It rang sweet and clear in his ears, and tasted even better on his lips. It promised him the world. It gave him another chance at Neumann and a final shot at Mevlevi. Oh, God, how he loved that word!

Redemption.