Numbered Account

CHAPTER 64

Ali Mevlevi was angry. He’d been cooped up with this snit of a bureaucrat for far too long answering inane questions. Did he wish to establish his business in Switzerland? If so, how many employees would he be hiring? Would he avail himself of the tax credit offered to newly registered corporations? Would his relatives be coming to live with him? Now he had had enough. For whatever sum Kaiser was paying him, Wenker could fill out the forms himself. Let him invent the goddamned answers.

Mevlevi stood from the couch and buttoned his jacket. “I thank you for your help in this matter, but I’m afraid I’m the victim of a rather pressing schedule. I had been led to believe that this meeting was but a formality.”

“You were misinformed,” snapped Wenker. He waded through a stack of papers on the table, then turned his attention to a leather satchel lying next to him on the sofa. Giving a sigh of relief, he produced a thick manila envelope and handed it to Mevlevi. “A short history of our country. As a Swiss citizen, you will be expected to respect our long democratic tradition. The country was founded in 1291 when three forest cantons, Uri, Schwyz, and Unter—”

“Thank you very kindly,” Mevlevi said brusquely, accepting the sealed envelope and sliding it into his briefcase. Did this jackass actually think he had time for a history lesson? “If we are finished, I must take my leave. Perhaps I can hear the fascinating history of this land at another date.”

“Encore un instant. Not so quickly, Mr. Malvinas. I have one last paper that you must sign—a release from military service. It’s obligatory, I’m afraid.”

Mevlevi threw back his head and sighed. “Please hurry it up.”

Just then, a shy chirp emanated from his briefcase. Thank God, thought Mevlevi. Gino Makdisi calling to tell me everything is going according to schedule. He took the cellular phone out of his briefcase and walked to the far side of the salon before answering. “Yes.”

“Joseph is one of them,” came the harried voice. “I watched it all. The truck was surrounded by police. The driver attempted to escape. He had no chance. Only Joseph lived. Everything is in flames.”

Mevlevi placed a finger in his ear, as if the connection were poor and he could not make out his correspondent’s words. But the connection was clear. And so were the words.

“Calm yourself, Khan,” Mevlevi said in Arabic, checking to see if Wenker was listening. The bureaucrat appeared disinterested. “Repeat that again.”

“The shipment was intercepted at the Chiasso border. As soon as the truck pulled into the inspection bay, it was surrounded by police. They were expecting it.”

Mevlevi felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand tall. The sum of his life rested in the voice at the other end of the telephone. “You said the shipment was destroyed, not captured. Make yourself clear.”

“The driver, Remo, made a run for it. He did not get far. He lost control of the lorry and it exploded. The merchandise was destroyed. More than that I don’t know. I am sorry.”

“And what of Joseph?”

“He survived. I saw him on the ground. The police, they helped him to his feet. I saw an officer hug him. It was he, the informant.”

Not Joseph, Mevlevi screamed mutely. It was Lina. She was the Makdisis’ contact. She helped the Makdisis set him up with the American DEA. Joseph, my desert hawk, is ever loyal. He alone can be trusted.

Khan said, “You must leave the country immediately. If the DEA knows about the shipment, they certainly are aware that you are in Switzerland. Joseph would not tell them one thing without the other. Who knows when they will spring?”

Mevlevi could not speak. Joseph was an informant for the United States Drug Enforcement Administration.

“Did you hear me, Al-Mevlevi? We must secure you safe passage out of the country. Get to Brissago. On the Italian border, outside of Locarno. Be there in one hour. The main square.”

“Yes, Brissago. Main square. One hour.” He hung up the phone.

Wenker was staring at him unabashedly, a look of keen revulsion souring the bureaucrat’s features. Mevlevi followed his gaze to the floor. To his own feet.

A pool of blood was growing steadily on the ivory Berber carpet.

Downstairs, a forest-green Range Rover drew into the circular forecourt of the hotel. The car’s tires squealed painfully as it negotiated a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn and slid to a halt in front of the main entry. The passenger door swung open, and an imposing man in a three-piece charcoal suit descended. Wolfgang Kaiser straightened his jacket and smoothed his bristly black mustache. He checked his reflection in the passenger window and satisfied as to his appearance, marched into the lobby.

“Time?” he called over his shoulder.

“Eleven-fifteen,” answered Reto Feller, rushing to join him.

“Fifteen minutes late,” complained Kaiser. “No doubt the count will be impressed. For that I can thank you, Mr. Feller. And your new automobile.” The fucking car had gotten a flat tire in the middle of the St. Gotthard tunnel. It was a miracle they hadn’t choked to death on the exhaust fumes.

Feller scurried ahead to the front desk, where he rang the arrival bell twice. “We are looking for the Count Languenjoux,” he announced breathlessly. “What room can we find him in?”

A hotelier in black morning coat delivered himself to the polished walnut counter. “Whom may I announce?”

Kaiser presented his business card. “We are expected.”

The hotelier discreetly read the card. “Thank you, Herr Kaiser. The count is in Room 407.” He leaned closer, and in a gesture of implied intimacy, spoke softly from beneath a furrowed brow. “We’ve received a number of calls for you this morning. All extremely urgent. The caller insisted on waiting on the line until you arrived.”

Kaiser arched an eyebrow. He glanced over his shoulder. Feller stood three paces behind him, taking in every word.

“A woman from your office in Zurich,” said the hotelier. “Shall I check if she is still on hold?”

“Do you know her name?” Kaiser asked.

“Fraulein Schon.”

“By all means, please check.” How had she found him here? He had told no one of his trip except Rita.

“Sir, the count is waiting,” said Feller.

Kaiser could imagine the little weasel’s impure thoughts. “Then go keep him company,” he ordered. “I’ll be up in two minutes.”

The hotelier returned to the desk. “The lady is still on the line. I’ll have the call transferred to one of our private cabins. Directly behind you, Herr Kaiser. Booth number one, the first glass door on the left.”

Kaiser thanked the hotelier and walked rapidly to the booth. He closed the glass door and sat down on a stool facing the telephone. The phone jangled in an instant. “Kaiser.”

“Wolfgang, is it you?” asked Sylvia Schon.

“What’s going on? What’s so important that you demean the good name of the bank by calling this hotel in a frenzy? Word will certainly get back to the count.”

“Listen to me,” Sylvia commanded. “You must leave the hotel immediately.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve only just arrived.”

“It’s Nicholas Neumann. He’s arranged some sort of trap. I’ve been trying to reach you all night.”

What nonsense was this? wondered Kaiser. “Nicholas is with an important client of mine,” he said sternly.

Sylvia’s voice grew frantic. “Nick thinks that your friend, Mr. Mevlevi, killed his father. He said you knew all about it. He told me he has proof, but he wouldn’t say any more. Now listen to me and get out of that hotel this second.”

“Who has proof?” demanded Kaiser. The girl was rattling on at a hundred kilometers an hour, and he didn’t care for the gist of her argument.

“Just leave the hotel,” she pleaded. “They’re going to arrest you and Mr. Mevlevi.”

Kaiser took a deep breath, unable to decide if her ranting had merit. “I have an appointment with one of our bank’s most important shareholders. His votes could be crucial to our long-term ability to keep Konig from enacting his plans. I can’t just come back.”

“Haven’t you heard?”

Suddenly Kaiser felt very alone. The concern had fallen from her voice. Pity had replaced it. “What?”

“The Adler Bank has offered five hundred francs a share for the bank. Konig announced it on the radio this morning at nine. A cash bid for all the shares he doesn’t own.”

“No, I hadn’t heard,” Kaiser managed to whisper after a few seconds. Reto Feller had insisted on listening to the Brandenburg Concerto on his new car’s hi-fi. He would kill him.

Sylvia said, “Konig is going to ask for a vote of confidence from the executive board at tomorrow’s general assembly.”

“Oh,” said Kaiser halfheartedly. He was no longer listening. A commotion was brewing in front of the hotel. He could hear car doors slamming and instructions being issued in a flat military tone. Several members of the hotel staff hastened toward the revolving door at the front entry. He brought the phone closer to his ear. “Sylvia, be quiet for a few moments. Stay on the line.”

He pushed open the cabin’s glass door a crack. Outside the hotel, a heavy motor rumbled closer, then quit. Commands were given in excited Italian. A parade of jackbooted feet hit the ground. A bellboy ran into the lobby and disappeared behind the front desk. A moment later the hotel’s general manager appeared, senatorial in dress and demeanor. He nearly jogged to the revolving door and went outside. Seconds later, he returned accompanied by two gentlemen, one of whom Kaiser recognized as Sterling Thorne. The other man, identifiable from countless photos in the daily papers, was Luca Merolli, the Tessin’s crusading prosecuting attorney.

Thorne stopped in the center of the hotel lobby. He bent over the hotel manager and announced in his booming provincial accent, “We’re going to send a dozen men up to the fourth floor. They have loaded guns and their captain’s permission to fire. I don’t want anybody to interfere with them. Understand?”

Luca Merolli repeated Thorne’s words and gave them his own authority.

The general manager bobbed excitedly on his toes. “Si. We have the elevator and the interior stairwell. Come, I show them to you.”

Thorne turned to Merolli. “Bring in your men right away. Kaiser’s up there this very second with Mevlevi. My two rats are sitting in a gilded cage. Hurry up, goddammit. I want both of them.”

“Si, si,” shouted Merolli as he ran out of the lobby.

“Wolfgang?” came a faraway voice. “Are you there? Hello?”

Kaiser stared dumbfounded at the receiver in his hand. She was telling me the truth, he whispered. I’m to be arrested with Ali Mevlevi. Curiously, his concerns were not for himself, but for the bank. What will become of USB? Who’ll protect my beloved institution from that bastard Konig?

“Wolfgang, are you there?” asked Rita Sutter. “Listen to Fraulein Schon’s warnings. You must come home immediately. For the good of the bank, get out of there now.”

Rita’s calm voice awoke in him a rational sense of self-protection. He took stock of just where he was and what was happening. He realized that not only did he have a full and unimpeded view of Sterling Thorne, but that the odious American had an equally unobscured view of him. One glance in his direction and Thorne would spot him. Kaiser removed his foot from the sill of the door, letting it close. He shifted on the velvet stool so that his body faced the interior wall.

“Rita, it appears you were correct. I’ll try and get back as soon as possible. If anyone calls for me, press, television, simply say that I am out of the office and cannot be reached. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, but where will you go? When can we expect—”

Kaiser replaced the receiver and shielded his face as best as possible with his right arm. He didn’t dare look toward the lobby. He focused his gaze on a patch of carpeting near his left foot, where the embers of another guest’s cigarette had burned a neat round hole. Staring at this petty ingratitude, he cringed in expectation of the sharp knock against the transparent door. He imagined the leering visage of Mr. Sterling Thorne staring at him through the window, beckoning him with a crooked finger to give himself up. Wolfgang Kaiser’s life would end at that moment.

But no sharp knock came at the cabin window. No American voice demanded that he vacate the booth. He heard only the orderly procession of a large number of men crossing the marble floor. Tic tac, tic tac, tic tac. Thorne yelled more instructions. Then, thankfully, there was quiet.

Ali Mevlevi looked up from his bleeding leg and said, “I’m afraid I must go immediately.”

Yves-Andre Wenker pointed at the pool of blood. “You can’t go anywhere bleeding like that. Take a seat. Let me get you medical attention. You need to see a doctor.”

Mevlevi limped across the room. He was in terrible pain. “Not today, Mr. Wenker. I haven’t the time.” The leg was the least of his worries. Khan, while frantic, had been every bit justified in his worry. If Joseph was in fact an informant of the DEA, there was no end to what he might have told Thorne. Mevlevi must assume the worst. All his operations in Switzerland had been compromised. His relationship with Gino Makdisi. His control over Wolfgang Kaiser. And most important, his funding of the Adler Bank’s takeover of USB.

Khamsin was in jeopardy.

“I’m not asking you,” said a visibly agitated Wenker. “I’m telling you. Take a seat. I’ll call down to reception. The hotel is very discreet.”

Mevlevi ignored him. He stopped beside the coffee table and threw his phone into the briefcase. He looked back at the trail of bloody footprints he had left on the carpet. He was losing a great deal of blood. Damn you, Neumann.

“At least take the time to sign this last document.” Wenker waved a form in the air. He looked nervous. Sweat was forming on his brow. “Civil service is obligatory. I must have a waiver.”

“I don’t think I will be needing a Swiss passport as soon as I had previously anticipated. Get out of my way. I’m leaving.” Mevlevi secured his briefcase, then swept past Wenker and made his way down the short corridor toward the door. Blood sloshed from his Italian loafers.

“Dammit, Mevlevi,” Wenker yelled in English. “I said you’re not leaving this room.” The lanky bureaucrat charged into the corridor, brandishing a compact pistol. “What the hell have you done to Nicholas Neumann?”

Mevlevi stared at the gun, then at the man. He had been right in suspecting he knew the voice. It belonged to Peter Sprecher, Neumann’s former superior at USB. He didn’t think a banker would shoot an unarmed man. He, on the other hand, would be fully justified in using his pistol. A case of self-defense. But before he could draw his gun, the banker was coming at him, an enraged expression drawn across his features. Sprecher slammed him against the wall, asking again what he had done with Neumann.

Mevlevi was momentarily stunned. He let his body go slack under the larger man’s grip. “I told you, Mr. Sprecher. Neumann was taken ill. A cold. Now let me down. There’s no reason we can’t be civil about this.”

“You’re staying here until you tell me what you’ve done to Nick.”

Mevlevi bucked his left knee into Sprecher’s groin and brought his forehead down upon the man’s nose. It was a neat trick. He’d learned it as a young stowaway on an outbound steamer to Bangkok.

Sprecher reeled and fell against the wall. The pistol dropped to the floor. Mevlevi deftly kicked it away while reaching into his jacket and withdrawing his own Beretta nine millimeter. Bad business to leave bodies behind in a five-star hotel. Changing the linens daily was one thing. Disposing of corpses, quite another. He picked up the briefcase in his left hand and leveled the gun in his right. But Sprecher appeared to have seen this coming. The hand that had been nursing his broken nose shot forward and arrested the pistol’s downward path. The other hand latched on to the briefcase.

Mevlevi grunted and urged the pistol lower, stopping when its muzzle grazed Sprecher’s shoulder. He pulled the trigger and a bullet blew Sprecher across the narrow corridor. His back slapped against the wall. His face registered the greatest surprise. Yet one hand remained fixed to the briefcase, forcing Mevlevi to advance a step. Mevlevi rammed the pistol into Sprecher’s chest, feeling its snout jab the sternum.

Never had a man take three shots and survive, he had told Neumann.

He pulled the trigger twice more in rapid succession. Both times, the chamber clicked on empty. Out of shells. Mevlevi spun the gun in his hand, accepting the warm muzzle as a grip, and raised it high above his head. A few smacks on the cranium would do the trick nicely.

A sharp knock on the door froze his motion.

Sprecher, all too much alive, yelled, “I need help. Come in. Now.”

The door flew open and Reto Feller barged in. He looked at the scene, muttering confusedly, “Sprecher? Where’s the count? Does the Chairman know you’re here?”

Mevlevi’s eyes shifted from one man to the next. With a whiplash snarl, he crashed the pistol’s steel butt across the chubby interloper’s face. The interloper fell to the floor, slamming onto Mevlevi’s injured leg.

Mevlevi yelped and tried to jump back, but Sprecher’s stubborn hand remained in a death grip upon the briefcase handle.

“Bastard,” mumbled Sprecher, who by now had crumpled onto the floor, arm seemingly glued to the briefcase. “You’re staying here.”

Retreat, Mevlevi heard a voice urge him. Get the hell out of here. To Brissago. To the main square. One hour. The situation was messy. A gunshot had been fired. A man had yelled for assistance. The door to the hallway remained open.

Retreat.

Mevlevi extricated his foot from the florid man’s inert body. He gave the briefcase another yank, then abandoned it, holstering his weapon as he stepped into the hallway. He gave Room 407 a last look. One man was unconscious, the other growing weaker by the minute. No threat there. He poked his head outside the room. Elevator a far distance to the left. Interior stairwell a few feet to his right. Exterior stairs at the end of the hall, also to his right.

Mevlevi chose the safer path and hurried to the exterior staircase. Forget the limousine. It was compromised. He’d skirt the hotel entrance and walk the short distance down the main road to the stand of restaurants he had seen when arriving. From there he could call a cab. If his luck held, he could be in Brissago in less than an hour. And across the border a short time thereafter.

Khamsin will live.