Numbered Account

CHAPTER 44

Nick watched from the backseat of the bank’s Mercedes limousine as the Cessna Citation taxied through the falling snow. The roar of its engines oscillated, alternately whining and growling, as they drove the jet off the skirt of the runway toward an empty patch of tarmac. Abruptly, the jet braked, bouncing off its front wheel as it came to a complete halt. The engines were cut and their purring faded. The door of the jet shuddered and collapsed inward. A flight of stairs descended from the fuselage.

A lone official from customs and immigration climbed the stairs and disappeared into the aircraft. Nick opened the car door and stepped onto the tarmac. He prepared his best welcoming smile while rehearsing his greeting to the Pasha. He felt curiously detached from himself. He wasn’t really going to spend the day playing tour guide to an international heroin smuggler. That was someone else. Another former marine whose knee was so stiff that every step felt like broken glass grinding into his joints.

He walked to within ten yards of the aircraft and waited. The man from customs reappeared a few seconds later. “You may go aboard,” he said. “You’re free to exit the airport directly.”

Nick said thanks, wondering why he had never cleared customs so quickly.

When he turned his head back to the plane, the Pasha was standing at the open door. Nick straightened his shoulders and covered the distance to the plane in four quick steps. “Good morning, sir. Herr Kaiser extends his sincerest greetings, both personally and on behalf of the bank.”

Mevlevi shook the extended hand. “Mr. Neumann. We finally meet. I understand thanks are in order.”

“Not at all.”

“I mean it. Thank you. I commend you on your sound judgment. Hopefully during my stay I can find some better way of expressing my gratitude. I try not to forget those who have done me a service.”

“Really,” said Nick, “it’s not necessary. Please come this way. Let’s get out of the cold.”

The Pasha was hardly the hardened criminal Nick had expected. He was slim and not very tall—maybe five eight or five nine—and weighed no more than one hundred sixty pounds. He was dressed in a navy suit, a bloodred Hermes tie, and polished loafers. In the manner of an Italian aristocrat, he had draped an overcoat over his shoulders.

Put me in a crowd next to this man, thought Nick, and I would take him for a high-ranking executive or the foreign minister of a Latin American country. He could be an aging French playboy or a prince of the Saudi royal family. He did not look like a man who made his business peddling thousands of kilos of refined heroin to the greater European continent.

Mevlevi drew the coat around him and shivered theatrically. “I felt the chill even at thirty thousand feet. I have only two bags. The captain is taking them from the cargo hold.”

Nick showed Mevlevi to the car, then returned to the plane to retrieve the suitcases. The bags were stuffed full and heavy. Lugging them to the limousine, he recalled the Chairman’s orders to do exactly as Mevlevi instructed. In fact, only one appointment had been fixed for the Pasha’s visit. A meeting with the Swiss immigration authorities in Lugano, three days from now, on Monday morning at ten. The subject: issuance of a Swiss passport.

Nick had arranged the meeting at the Chairman’s request but had no interest in attending. The same day he had spent hours cajoling Eberhard Senn, the Count Languenjoux, into moving his discussions with the Chairman forward by at least one day. The count had finally been won over. Monday at eleven would be fine, but only if the meeting could take place at the small hotel he owned on the Lake of Lugano where he made his winter residence. Kaiser agreed, saying that Senn’s six percent were easily worth the three-hour drive to the Tessin. Nick had wanted to be in on the meeting. The Chairman, however, was intractable. “Reto Feller will accompany me in your place. You will escort Mr. Mevlevi. You’ve earned his trust.”

Nick climbed into the limousine, ruing the day he’d taken the actions that had earned him that trust. It didn’t take a genius to know why Kaiser could never escort Mevlevi anywhere. Thorne’s accusations were true. Every one of them.

“First, we go to Zug,” announced Mevlevi. “International Fiduciary Trust, Grutstrasse 67.”

“Grutstrasse 67, Zug,” Nick repeated to the chauffeur.

The limousine set off. Nick didn’t feel like indulging in the usual pleasantries. He’d be damned if he’d kiss the ass of a drug smuggler. Mevlevi remained quiet. For the most part, he kept his eyes directed out the window. Every so often Nick would catch the Pasha staring at him, not unkindly, but from a distance, and he knew he was being sized up. Mevlevi would offer a faint smile and avert his gaze.

The limousine sped through the Sihl valley. The road wound steadily uphill through an endless pine forest. Mevlevi tapped Nick on the knee. “Have you seen Mr. Thorne lately?”

Nick looked him squarely in the eye. He had nothing to hide. “Monday.”

“Ah,” said Mevlevi, nodding his head contentedly, as if they were discussing an old friend. “Monday.”

Nick glanced at Mevlevi, turning the simple question over in his mind, allowing its myriad implications to confirm what he should have known weeks ago. A man like Mevlevi wouldn’t be satisfied keeping an eye only on Thorne. He’d want to know what Nick was up to also. An American in Switzerland. A former United States marine. No matter what Nick had done on his behalf, he hardly merited his trust. And then Nick knew why Mevlevi had really asked the question. Thorne wasn’t the only one being followed. He belonged in the same boat himself. Mevlevi had sent the dapper man in the mountain guide’s hat. Mevlevi had ordered his apartment searched. Mevlevi had been watching him the entire time.

The International Fiduciary Trust was housed on the third and fourth floors of a modest building in downtown Zug. A simple gold nameplate above the doorbell indicated the businesses housed here. Nick pressed the buzzer, and the door swung open immediately. They were expected.

A bent stick of a woman in her late forties asked them to come in and led them to a conference room overlooking the Zugersee. Two bottles of Passugger sat on the table. A glass and coaster, an ashtray, a tablet of paper, and two pens had been placed in front of every chair. The woman offered coffee. Both men accepted. Nick had little idea as to the subject of the meeting. He would sit and listen. Kaiser’s yes-man.

A polite knock and the door opened. Two men entered. The first, tall and jowly with a ruddy complexion. The second, short, thin, and bald, except for a strand of black hair twirled on top of his head like a sticky bun.

“Affentranger,” announced the heavy-set fellow. He approached first Nick and then Mevlevi, offering each a business card and a handshake.

“Fuchs,” said the smaller man, following his partner’s example.

Mevlevi began speaking as soon as all four men were seated around the table. “Gentlemen, it’s a pleasure for me to work with you again. A few years ago I worked with your associate, Mr. Schmied. He was of great assistance in opening a number of corporations for me in the Netherlands Antilles. A sharp man with figures. I trust he’s still with you. Perhaps I could say hello?”

Affentranger and Fuchs exchanged concerned glances.

“Mr. Schmied died three years ago,” said Affentranger, the jowly one.

“Drowned while on vacation,” explained Fuchs, the runt.

“No…” Mevlevi placed the back of one hand to his mouth. “How terrible.”

“I had always thought of the Mediterranean as a calm sea,” said Fuchs. “Apparently it gets quite rough off the coast of Lebanon.”

“A tragedy,” opined Mevlevi, his eyes smiling at Nick.

Fuchs brushed the insignificant matter of his colleague’s passing aside. He smiled broadly to dispel any lugubrious thoughts. “We hope our firm can still be of service, Mr…”

“Malvinas. Allen Malvinas.”

Nick gave his complete attention to Ali Mevlevi, or rather to Allen Malvinas.

Mevlevi said, “I am in need of several numbered accounts.”

Fuchs cleared his throat before replying. “Surely, you realize that you can open such an account at any one of the banks just down the street from us.”

“Of course,” Mevlevi responded politely. “But I was hoping to avoid some of the more unnecessary formalities.”

Affentranger understood perfectly. “The government has grown much too intrusive as of late.”

Fuchs concurred. “And even our most traditional banks, not as discreet as they once were.”

Mevlevi opened his hands as if to say such is the world we live in. “I see we are in agreement.”

“Unfortunately,” Fuchs complained, “we must abide by government regulations. All clients wishing to open a new account of any type in this country must provide legitimate proof of their identity. A passport will do.”

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?”