Numbered Account (70 page)

Nick turned over the situation in his mind. He had to allow the driver to find him. If it was a local, he’d be safe and on his way in a few minutes. If it was a cohort of Mevlevi’s, the solution might be messier. One thing was certain: he needed a car to follow Mevlevi.

Nick ran his hands over the asphalt searching for a stone or rock that he might be able to use, if necessary. The lot was scattered with loose gravel. Spotting a decent-size rock — probably a piece of granite from the underlying rock strata — he pulled himself a few feet to his left and grabbed hold of the stone. Then he scooted back to where he had fallen. He ran his hand through the puddle of blood and wiped it across his white shirt. After only a few passes, even he was sickened by the gory sight. His shirt was pasty and crimson — like his father’s, the last time he had seen him.

Nick laid down on the ground as the car forded the crest of the mountain. He rested his cheek on the asphalt and focused his eyes on an iron safety pylon intermittently visible through the swirling snow. Keeping his gaze thus directed, he couldn’t see what type of car it was that was approaching so slowly. Only that it was red. He tensed as the headlights brushed his eyes. He thought they flashed to bright, then returned to normal but could not be sure. The engine died, and the car came to a halt at the edge of his peripheral vision.

A door opened. Steps approached. Nick kept his eyes glued to the iron pylon. Dead man’s stare. He breathed shallowly. It was hard as hell, seeing as how his heart was doing at least a hundred a minute. He was scared and powerless. He waited for a second door to open, but the sound didn’t come. Whoever was standing ten feet away from him had come alone.

The steps recommenced. A shape took form in his periphery. Medium-size man. Dark clothing. Approaching cautiously. Why don’t you say something? Nick asked himself. Ask me how I am, if I’m alive. He tightened his grip on the rock cupped beneath his hand. The man took another step. Now he was leaning over Nick’s body. He jabbed a foot into Nick’s lower back.

Definitely not a local.

Nick kept his gaze on the pylon. His eyes itched terribly, and he needed to blink. Still, no voice. The man bent down lower. Nick knew he was staring at his bloody shirt and sizing up his lifeless gaze. Any second now he’d put his hand in front of Nick’s mouth and feel the warm breath, and then he’d know. The face was directly above him. Nick smelled expensive cologne. Could almost make out the features. Gray beard, closely cropped. Thick eyebrows.

Then Nick saw the hat. The man held it in his right hand, which had fallen directly in front of Nick’s eyes. It was a rugged, dark green affair. A pinsel brush extended from its band.

An Austrian mountain guide’s hat.

Nick snapped his head to the right and stared into the surprised face of his gentleman stalker. The man yelped. But before he could rise, Nick’s hand arced through the air, delivering the stone to his cheek. The man gasped, then tumbled onto his side, unconscious. He held a snub-nosed revolver in his left hand.

Nick sat up and stared at the damaged face. He had no doubt it was the same man who had pursued him up the Bahnhofstrasse four weeks ago. He could practically see the cocky smirk the man had offered him that night in Sprungli. He picked up the gun and put it in his pocket, then rummaged through the man’s pockets. No wallet. No cellular phone. No car keys. Just a few hundred francs in currency.

Nick leaned to his right and drew his left leg under him. Somehow his anger had lessened the pain. Grimacing, he stood, then limped to the car. A Ford Cortina. The keys were in the ignition. Thankfully it was an automatic. He leaned into the driver’s seat, peering around the interior for any sign of a first-aid kit or a telephone. He opened the glove compartment and checked inside. Nothing. A hump on the console behind the rear seat gave him hope. He hobbled backward and opened the passenger door. Lowering himself to the rear seat, he opened the small compartment and found an unused first-aid kit. Inside was adhesive tape, gauze, Mercurochrome, and aspirin. Not bad for a start.

Fifteen minutes later, Nick had cleaned and bandaged his leg. The stalker lay on his side, immobile. Probably had a fractured cheek and a few broken teeth. That would be the least of his problems once he’d discovered he’d been left up here without a car. Nick took a survival blanket from the first-aid kit and threw it at the prostrate form. The Mylar blanket would keep him warm enough until he figured out a way down. Nick might even call the police later and report a pedestrian stranded at the St. Gotthard Pass. Then again, he might not. Right now, though, he had more important matters to tend to.

Nick moved to the front door of the Ford and lowered himself delicately into the driver’s seat. He would have to drive with his left leg. He started the engine. The gas tank was three-quarters full. He checked his watch: 10:30. The Pasha was thirty minutes ahead of him.

Time to fly.

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.