Numbered Account

CHAPTER 63

Ali Mevlevi arrived at the Hotel Olivella au Lac at 10:40. The weather was clear and cool, hazy sunshine pushing its way through a thin stratus of cloud. The temperate Mediterranean winds that lapped against the southern wall of the Alps brought to the Tessin mild, comfortable winters, not altogether different from those of Lebanon. In Zurich, it was said, you spent the winter huddled behind the double-paned windows of overheated offices, while in Lugano you buttoned up your sweater and took only a single espresso outdoors in the Piazza San Marco. Certainly, that was the case today—but there would be no time for espresso.

Mevlevi slammed the front door of the limousine and walked deliberately into the hotel, taking care to conceal his limp. He had wrapped his leg with a bandage he had found in the limousine’s first-aid kit. It would hold until he could get to a proper doctor and have the ugly gash stitched up. He approached the reception area and asked the clerk in which room he could find Mr. Yves-Andre Wenker. The clerk checked the register. Room 407. Mevlevi offered his thanks and directed himself to the elevators. He clenched his jaw, biting back the pain. One thought consoled him. By now, Neumann should be buried deep in the mountain snow, his disappearance to be solved only by a late spring thaw. There is no nobility in being honest and dead, Nicholas. That is a lesson you should have learned from your father long ago.

Mevlevi took the elevator to the fourth floor. He found Room 407 and rapped twice on the door. One lock disengaged, then a second. The door swung open revealing a tall gentleman in a gray pinstripe suit. He wore pince-nez spectacles and had the terminal stoop and begrudging squint of a deskbound clerk.

“Veuillez entrer. Do come in, please,” the slim man beckoned. “Monsieur…”

“Malvinas. Allen Malvinas. Bonjour.” The Pasha extended his hand. He detested speaking French.

“Yves-Andre Wenker. Swiss Passport Office.” Wenker pointed the way toward an expansive sitting area. “You’re alone? I was told you would be accompanied by a Mr. Neumann, an assistant to Herr Kaiser.”

“Alas, Mr. Neumann could not join us. He was taken ill quite suddenly.”

Wenker frowned. “Is that so? To be frank, I was beginning to doubt whether you would arrive at all. I expect my clients to respect our scheduled meeting times regardless of the weather. Even if they are referred to me by so eminent a businessman as Herr Kaiser.”

“Rain, sleet, poor visibility. We had a long ride from Zurich.”

Wenker eyed him skeptically, then showed him into the sitting room. “Herr Kaiser informs me you are a native of Argentina.”

“Buenos Aires.” Mevlevi eyed him uncomfortably. There was something vaguely familiar about this man. “Do you by any chance speak English?”

“I am sorry, but no,” Wenker replied, inclining his head deferentially. “I favor only the Romance languages of the European continent. French, Italian, a little Spanish. English is such a vulgar language.”

Mevlevi said nothing. He knew the voice, he was sure of it, but its provenance eluded him.

“Eh bien. Shall we get down to business?” Wenker checked his watch and sat down on the sofa. He had laid out a succession of manila folders on the coffee table in front of him. Tabs indicated their contents as “Work History,” “Residence,” and “Financial Information.” “The usual application process requires seven years provided proof of Swiss residence has been established. As we’re hastening the process, quite a few documents will have to be filled out during our meeting. Please try to be patient.”

Mevlevi nodded, though he was hardly listening. His thoughts were an hour behind him, stranded atop the misty mountaintop. He had hit Neumann with at least one of the shots. He had heard the boy cry and fall down. Why, then, hadn’t he gone after him? Had he been surprised that the boy had put up a little resistance? Not at all like his father, who had stood as if hypnotized, staring into the barrel of the gun. Had he been scared that somewhere in the blanket of mist he might find Neumann all too alive, and not like what the boy had in mind for him? Neumann was, after all, a marine. Where else did one learn to chop off a man’s arm with a single blow? Not that the chauffeur would need it any longer. He’d had to put him out of his misery. Bastard should be thankful. Didn’t feel a thing. Slug to the back of the neck. Bang, it’s over.

“Have you brought three photographs with you?” Wenker asked again.

“Of course.” Mevlevi reached into his briefcase and withdrew his passport and a wax paper envelope holding three small portraits.

Wenker examined them quickly. “You must sign the back of each one.”

Mevlevi hesitated, then bowed to the man’s demands. The damned Swiss—punctilious to a fault, even in their most corrupt dealings.

Wenker accepted the signed photos and placed them in an open folder. “May we begin with the questions?”

“Please,” the Pasha answered gallantly. He turned his head to look out at the lake. The view of dappled palms swaying in the morning breeze did little to dispel the unease chewing at his stomach. He could not relax until he had word about Neumann.

Thirty kilometers south of Lugano, a tangled braid of traffic slowed to a crawl as it neared the southernmost Swiss border at Chiasso. The border crossing was considered the country’s busiest, one of only three portals through which the industrial output of northern Italy could reach the mighty economies of Germany and France. Trucks of every size, shape, and vintage traversed the flat stretch of superhighway. Among their number this morning was an eighteen-wheel Magirus rig bravely hauling two trailers. Her cab was painted a royal blue. Her chrome grille sported a white badge with the letters TIR. Trans Internationale Routier.

Joseph Habib sat inside the truck’s cabin, wedged uncomfortably between two mafiosi, low-level thugs who worked the Italian side of things for the Makdisi family. Eighteen months he’d been under. Eighteen months since he’d tasted his mother’s spicy mezza. Just a few more minutes, keep these hotheads calm until the rig pulls into the checkpoint, and it would go down like clockwork. He only wished he could be there to see Ali Mevlevi’s face when he learned he’d lost his shipment.

The portico came into view a few hundred yards ahead. Traffic was stop-and-go.

“I told you to pull into the right lane,” Joseph said to Remo, the driver. “Do as I say.”

“It’s backed up halfway to Milano. You want I should take that lane, we never get to Zurich.” Remo was a young tough, black hair pulled into a ponytail, shirtsleeves rolled up to show off his chiseled biceps.

Joseph turned his shoulders toward him. “I’ll tell you one more time. The right lane or we turn around and go home. Why do you insist on disobeying Mr. Makdisi’s orders?”

The traffic stopped. Remo lit a cigarette. “What does he know about crossing this border?” he asked, blowing smoke into the cramped cabin. “I’ve done it a thousand times. No one has ever given us a second look.”

Joseph shifted his gaze to the slovenly man in the passenger seat. “Franco, tell your friend. We go to the right or we go home.” He knew Franco was scared of him. The unkempt slob was always looking over at him, his eyes practically swallowing the scar on his cheek. You could see the man shudder, wondering how he had gotten it.

Franco leaned across Joseph and tapped the driver on the arm. “Remo. Right lane. Pronto.”

“How much time?” asked Remo.

“Twenty minutes,” said Joseph. “No problem. Our man doesn’t leave the booth until ten-thirty.”

“What’s taking so long this morning?” Remo asked, tapping the giant steering wheel impatiently. “Take a look.”

Franco reached for a leather case holding a pair of binoculars that sat on the floor. He grunted. The girth of his stomach prevented him from reaching it. He smiled at Joseph. “Per favore.”

Joseph unlatched the box and handed him the field glasses. This was crunch time. Stay calm and the others will stay calm, too.

Franco rolled down the passenger window. He labored to place his head and shoulders outside the cab of the eighteen-wheeler.

Remo sucked on his cigarette. “Eh?” he inquired loudly.

“Only two lanes open,” answered Franco, after pulling his body inside the cabin.

Remo tapped his forehead. “Two lanes. This explains why we go so slow.”

“Which one is closed?” asked Joseph coldly. Say it’s the left one. Keep everything according to plan.

“The left one,” said Franco. “Everybody is being funneled into the center and right lane.”

Joseph exhaled.

Remo blasted his horn and drew the big rig into the right lane.

Thirty meters behind the juggernaut, an undistinguished white Volvo turned on its blinker and followed suit. The driver played with a small gold medallion hanging from his neck. “Almost there,” Moammar al Khan whispered, bringing the medallion to his mouth and kissing it lightly. “Inshallah, God is great.”

“Your name?” asked Yves-Andre Wenker. He sat primly on the couch, forms splayed across his lap.

“Allen Malvinas. Must I introduce myself twice? The essentials are there, in my passport. You have it on the table.”

Wenker eyed the travel document resting on the coffee table. “Thank you, Mr. Malvinas. However, I prefer a personal response. Date of birth?”

“November 12, 1936.”

“Present address?”

“It is in the passport. On the third page.”

Wenker made no move to pick up the passport. “Address?”

Mevlevi scooped up the passport and read off the address. “Satisfied?”

Wenker kept his head lowered and painstakingly filled out his precious form. “Years at this address?”

“Seven.”

“Seven?” Sharp blue eyes peeked out from behind the thin spectacles. A strand of blond hair fell across his brow.

“Yes, seven,” Mevlevi insisted. His leg was killing him. Suddenly, he was unsure. He swallowed hard and rasped, “Why not seven?”

Wenker smiled. “Seven is fine.” He returned his attention to the paper resting in his lap. “Occupation?”

“Import and export.”

“What exactly do you import and export?”

“I concentrate on precious metals and commodities,” said Mevlevi. “Gold, silver, the like.” Hadn’t Kaiser told him a damned thing? This drab functionary was beginning to get on his nerves. Not the questions, so much, but the decidedly nasty tinge to his voice.

“Income?”

“That is none of your concern.”

Wenker removed his eyeglasses from the bridge of his nose. “We do not sponsor wards of the state to immigrate to Switzerland.”

“I hardly qualify as a ward of the state,” Mevlevi objected loudly.

“Of course not. Regardless, we must have—”

“And who said anything about immigrating?”

Wenker slapped the stack of forms onto the coffee table. He lifted his chin, ready to deliver a stern rebuke. “Mr. Neumann told me specifically that you wished to purchase property in Gstaad in order to establish a permanent residence in this country. While on certain occasions we make exceptions for the granting of a Swiss passport, permanent residence is an absolute requirement. Are you, or are you not, planning on maintaining a permanent residence in Switzerland?”

Ali Mevlevi coughed, then poured himself a glass of mineral water from a bottle set upon the table. He preferred a country where a bent official at least had a little respect. “I misunderstood you. Mr. Neumann was absolutely correct. I shall be making Gstaad my principal residence.”

Wenker sat lower in his chair. He offered Mevlevi a starched smile while he scribbled away at his form. “Income?”

“Five hundred thousand dollars per annum.”

Wenker raised his eyebrows. “Is that all?”

The Pasha stood up, his face flushed and his lips quivering. “Isn’t that enough?”

Wenker remained unruffled. His pen slid across paper. “That is enough,” he said to his questionnaire.

Mevlevi grimaced and returned to his seat. He sensed his wound tear. A warm trail of blood inched down his leg. Just a little longer, he told himself. Then you can walk to the telephone, call Gino Makdisi, and find out what you already know—that your precious cargo is safely across the border and that Nicholas Neumann is dead.

Wenker glanced offhandedly at his wristwatch and then returned his attention to the form spread across his lap. He cleared his throat noisily. “Communicable diseases?”

Remo jerked his head into the cabin of the truck. His eyes played between Joseph and Franco. “They are checking every truck,” he said. “No one is getting a free pass.”

“Calm down,” Joseph ordered, as much for his nerves as theirs. “Listen, both of you. Everything is going as planned. Who gives a good goddamn if they are checking manifests? Maybe they do it every Monday morning. We’ve got our man in the far right booth. He is looking for us. Relax and we’ll get through this.”

Remo looked out the window. The peaks of the Swiss Alps loomed before them like a distant gray specter. “I am not going back inside,” he said. “Three years was enough.”

Two trucks separated them from the probing eyes of the customs inspectors. All incoming vehicles were forced to pass under a broad portico designed primarily to measure the height of freight carriers entering Switzerland. A small office built from sturdy blue steel sat to the right of each lane. A customs inspector, walkie-talkie in hand, stood next to each office, waving the next trucks forward.

Joseph scanned the booths and beyond. He felt his shoulders tighten. Ten police cars were parked on the shoulder of the highway about two hundred yards up the road. Why so much firepower for a simple bust? he wondered. Three men and a lousy truck. What were they expecting? An army?

The gasoline tanker in front of them roared forward, belching exhaust.

Remo considered the empty space in front of his rig.

Joseph nudged him in the ribs. “Go on. Don’t make us look conspicuous.”

Remo eased his foot onto the accelerator, and the truck groaned forward, foot by foot.

The customs inspector jumped onto the running board of the gasoline tanker directly in front of them. He thrust his head inside its cabin and emerged a moment later, cargo manifest in hand. He used the antenna of his walkie-talkie to skim the manifest. He was a tall, thin man wearing a green jacket. He had unruly brown hair and pitted cheeks. He shot a casual glance at their rig, and Joseph spotted the dark rings under his eyes. Sterling Thorne looked as crappy as ever.

Thorne returned the manifest to the driver of the truck currently in bay and directed his attention toward the blue Magirus eighteen-wheeler bearing British license plates and a white TIR tag, next in line. He raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth and issued what appeared to be heated instructions.

Franco shot forward in his seat, pointing a finger at Thorne. “He eyeballed us. He’s got us picked out already.”

“Keep calm,” said Joseph. He could feel the tension ratcheting up inside their cabin.

“I saw it, too,” said Remo. “The fucker at the booth. He’s got us pegged. Christ, it’s a setup. They know exactly what they’re looking for and it’s us.”

“Keep your mouths closed,” shouted Joseph. “We’ve got nowhere to go but forward. There’s no other way out. We are holding a legitimate manifest. We are transporting a legitimate cargo. It would take a genius to find our merchandise.”

Remo stared at Joseph. “Or a tip.”

Franco kept his arm pointed at Sterling Thorne. “The cop at the booth. He took one look at our rig and scrambled his team. And look! Look up there! They got ten cruisers ready for us.”

“You’re wrong,” said Joseph. “They’re not scrambling anything.” He had to keep these losers calm until they didn’t have any other choice but to give up peacefully. Get the truck under the portico. Just another minute or two. “Just sit back and shut up.”

At that moment, both rearview mirrors lit up with revolving red and blue lights. A brace of police cars drew up twenty yards in back of them. The tanker ahead was waved through. When it cleared the portico, a team of twelve policemen rushed forward forming a tight phalanx behind Sterling Thorne. Each policeman wore dark blue body armor and brandished a blunt submachine gun.

“We’re screwed,” said Remo, hysteria cracking his voice. He was rocking off the steering wheel like a hyperactive child. “I told you. No more unpaid vacations. I can’t go back.”

“Listen to me,” Joseph pleaded. “We have to call their bluff. That’s our only chance of getting out of here.”

“There is no chance of getting out of here,” exploded Remo. “Someone has set a trap and we’re the catch.”

Joseph thrust a finger into Remo’s chest. “We have two tons of my boss’s merchandise sitting in the back of this rig. I won’t allow us to lose it because your nerves can’t stand a little heat. We are not caught until they slam the cuffs on our wrists.”

Remo wiped his nose, staring at the empty space in front of them and at the tall inspector waving them forward. His fear was palpable. “We’re caught,” he yelled. “I know it and Franco knows it. Why the fuck don’t you?” He cocked his arm and threw an elbow, which caught Joseph in the temple. “You don’t know it because you want us to pull into that little party they’ve set up for us, you fucking sand nigger. The Makdisis told me not to trust you. They were right. You’ve done this, haven’t you?” Another elbow flew, this one smashing the bridge of Joseph’s nose, crushing bone and cartilage and releasing a violent stream of blood. “‘Right lane,’ you said. ‘Right fucking lane.’ Well, here we are and it’s the wrong fucking lane.”

Remo rammed his foot onto the accelerator and the eighteen-wheeler jerked forward.

Franco uttered a whooping war cry.

Sterling Thorne stood in front of the juggernaut, his arm extended and his palm upraised. Through a veil of refracted light, Joseph saw Thorne’s expression turn from surprise to confusion, and finally, terror, as the rig advanced on him. Thorne froze, unable to decide which way to move. The twenty-four-cylinder engine roared. Remo blasted the horn. Thorne dove under the chassis of the diesel monster.

Joseph grabbed at the steering wheel. He kicked at the gear shift with his right leg and thrust the fingers of his left hand backward into Franco’s face, seeking his adversary’s eyes. Franco bellowed madly, screaming for his friend to free him of the crazed Arab. Remo yelled “Kill him” as he put the rig back into gear.

Gunfire erupted to the rear of the truck. Tires exploded as bullets passed through coiled rubber and punctured pressurized inner tubes. The giant truck listed to the left. Still, Remo accelerated. Bullets showered the rear trailer, sounding like a sheet of rain passing over a tin roof. The policemen found their mark, and the benign rain turned to a murderous hail. A curtain of lead struck the driver’s door. The windshield shattered in an ejaculatory burst of glass.

Joseph dug his fingers into Franco’s eyes. He sheared an eyeball from its optic nerve and dashed it to the floor. Franco screamed louder and brought both hands to his ravaged face. Joseph reached over the wounded man’s heaving belly and pushed open the passenger door. He lowered his shoulder and shoved him out of the cabin.

Remo was wounded. Cables of rosy phlegm dangled from his mouth. A bullet hole in his gut spurted blood. His face was dotted with a dozen pinpricks where burs of glass had torn the flesh. Still, he concentrated on the road before him with the blind fury of a wounded bull.

Joseph wedged one arm against the dashboard and the other against the seat back. He swung his legs up and lashed out at Remo’s head. The heels of his work boots caught the ailing driver flush in the jaw and slammed him against the steel door frame. Remo made a last effort at defending himself, throwing his right arm weakly in his attacker’s direction. Joseph dodged the blow. He recoiled and brought his legs up to batter the injured mafioso. Again he landed a solid kick to the driver’s head. Remo tottered in his seat. He spit out a patch of blood before falling forward against the steering wheel, either dead or unconscious.

The truck gained speed. It veered precipitously to the right, accelerating toward the column of police cars camped on the dirt shoulder. Joseph lifted Remo’s inert body off of the steering column and fought to dislodge his leaden foot from the accelerator. The constant jostling of the truck rendered every effort ineffective. Each thrust served only to pinion Remo’s foot more tightly onto the accelerator.

The line of police cars drew nearer. Twenty yards separated the renegade juggernaut from the automobiles. Ten, five…

Joseph realized that no action could prevent the truck from striking the cars. He threw open the passenger door and launched himself from the cabin. He landed running and managed to place both feet on the ground before momentum swept him forward and propelled him across the pavement.

The juggernaut plowed into the first police car. Its tires crushed the automobile’s hood and thrust the truck skyward. The rig rolled on, careering over one car and then another. Windows shattered, metal tore, and sirens exploded. The downward force with which one gasoline tank was crushed provoked an incendiary spark, instantaneously igniting its contents. The blast lifted the automobile off the ground, overturning the truck’s rear trailer and setting off a chain reaction of high-octane explosions as gasoline tank after gasoline tank succumbed to the fireball. The smuggler’s rig toppled onto its side and was itself engulfed in flame.

Police surrounded Joseph. Sterling Thorne broke through the circle of officers and bent down beside him. “Welcome back to civilization,” he said.

Joseph nodded. He didn’t appreciate being at the business end of twelve automatic rifles.

“You have something for me,” Thorne asked.

Joseph looked up at Thorne, remembering all over again what an asshole he was. The guy didn’t even ask if he was okay. He fished in his pocket for a scrap of paper. It read “Ali Mevlevi. Hotel Olivella au Lac. Room 407. USB account 549.617 RR.” Exactly as Thorne had dictated.

Thorne took the scrap of paper from Joseph, raising the walkie-talkie to his lips even as he read it. “We have conducted a search of the suspect and discovered evidence of an incriminating nature. We have probable cause to believe that a suspect involved in the importation of a large shipment of heroin is currently residing at the Hotel Olivella au Lac in room four zero seven. Proceed with caution.”

A last gas tank exploded on the road behind them. A fireball rose into the morning sky.

Thorne covered his head. He extended his hand and helped Joseph to his feet. “You didn’t have to make my job so much harder,” he said. “A lot of very convincing evidence is going up in smoke.”

Moammar al Khan stared transfixed at the black and orange plume. He fumbled for the cellular phone, his right hand blindly patting the passenger seat. Look at that smoke, he thought to himself, cringing. A ton of Al-Mevlevi’s product in flames. Allah have mercy.

A customs inspector banged the hood of the car and motioned for him to pass through the portico. Khan offered an Italian passport, but it was waved away.

“Drive. Don’t look,” said the customs official before moving off down the line of stalled automobiles.

Khan ignored his instructions, slowing the car to a crawl as he passed the flaming wreckage. A circle of policemen had surrounded a lone man lying prostrate on the ground. The man was injured. Blood poured from his nose. His clothing was torn, his face blackened by smoke. It was Joseph. He was alive. Inshallah! God is great! A gangly man wearing the green jacket of the customs inspectors broke through the circle of policemen. He bent himself upon one knee and spoke to Joseph.

Khan leaned over the passenger seat to look closer.

Thorne. The American agent. There was no mistaking it. The hair. The gaunt face. The DEA had intercepted Al-Mevlevi’s shipment.

And then something strange happened. Thorne offered a hand to Joseph and hoisted him to his feet. He gave Joseph a pat on the shoulder, then leaned his head back and laughed. All the policemen were smiling, too. Their guns were lowered. Even Joseph was grinning.

Khan pulled the gold pendant from his shirt and kissed it.

Joseph is an informant.

Khan accelerated madly, driving for two minutes before pulling to the shoulder of the highway and stopping the car. He picked up the cellular phone and dialed the number Mevlevi had given him in case of emergency. Three rings passed. Finally, a voice answered.

Khan pressed the phone to his mouth. He drew in several sharp breaths, not knowing where to begin. Only one phrase came to mind.

“Joseph is one of them.”