Numbered Account Page 10

  Nick withdrew the sheet from the file on his desk. Matrix six detailed specific instructions to transfer a given sum, today the tidy amount of forty-seven million U.S. dollars, to banks in Austria, Germany, Norway, Singapore, Hong Kong, and the Cayman Islands.

  “Matrix six involves the transfer of the entire amount to a total of twenty-two banks,” said Nick.

  “That is correct, Mr. Neumann,” the Pasha answered. “You sound hesitant. Is there any problem? Would you like to review the banks to whom you must wire these funds?”

  “No, sir,” Nick said. “No problem.” His eye caught the corner of the account surveillance list peeking from under the Pasha’s file. He did not consider telling the client about the existence of the list or that his account was on it. The bank’s cooperation with the authorities was voluntary. And confidential. “But I would like to review the names of the correspondent banks. To ensure we are one hundred percent correct.” He began with the first bank on the list. “Deutsche Bank, Frankfurt Head Office.”

  “Correct.”

  “South West Landesbank, Munich.”

  “Correct.”

  “Norske Bank, Oslo,” Nick droned, waiting for the impatient grunt that confirmed each name. “Kreditanstalt of Austria, Vienna . . .” His eyes darted around the office. Peter Sprecher, absent. Marco Cerruti, absent. A quote he’d memorized during an endless Pacific float came to mind.“Isolation is the sole crucible in which man’s character may be forged.” He had forgotten who had written the words, but at this instant, he fully understood their meaning.

  “Bank Negara, Hong Kong branch office. Bank Sanwa, Singapore . . .” Nick continued reading the list of banks while the memory of Sterling Thorne’s short speech made a surprise entrance onto the stage.Elephant hunting, rogue males, game wardens. The words provoked an almost physical revulsion in him. He had met one of Thorne’s kind before. Mr. Jack Keely of the Central Intelligence Agency—like Thorne, an overzealous caretaker of his government’s sacred rules and regulations, eager to co-opt others into his service. Nick had responded to the call of Keely’s bugle. He had stepped forward of his own volition, and he had paid the price for his naive pursuit of glory. Never again, he had sworn when the affair was finally over. Not for Keely. Not for Thorne. Not for anyone.

  “I confirm a total of twenty-two institutions,” Nick said, in conclusion.

  “Thank you, Mr. Neumann. Be sure these funds are transferred by the end of your business day. I am not tolerant of errors.”

  The Pasha rang off.

  Nick replaced the receiver in its cradle. He was on his own now, and a stern voice reminded him that was how he liked it. The decision was his. The clock above Sprecher’s desk read 15:06. He moved the transfer of funds form closer, noting the time of the order, then began filling out the necessary details. In the upper left-hand corner, he inscribed the six-digit and two-letter account number. Below it, in a rectangular space requesting the client’s name, he wrote “N.A.,” not available. Under “wire instructions,” he penned “matrix six (per client instructions), see screen CC21B.” And in the box marked “value,” he wrote a forty-seven followed by six zeros. Two boxes remained to be filled in: “validity date”—when the instructions should be executed—and “initials of responsible employee.” He wrote his three-letter employee identification in one box. He left the other box empty.

  Nick rolled his chair back from his desk, slid open the top drawer, and laid the transfer of funds form at the far back corner. He had settled on a course of action.

  For the next two hours, he busied himself checking and double-checking numbered accounts 220.000 AA through 230.999 ZZ for all bonds due to mature in the next thirty days. At 5:30, he refolded the last of the portfolios and stacked them in the cabinet behind him. He collected the remaining papers on his desk and arranged them in some logical order before placing them in the second drawer. All confidential documents were filed away and locked under key for the night. His desk was spotless. Armin Schweitzer rejoiced in patrolling the offices after hours, scouring the deserted building for stray papers carelessly left unfiled or unprotected. Offending parties were sure to catch hell the next morning.

  Just prior to leaving the office, Nick opened his top drawer and withdrew the transfer of funds sheet bearing the Pasha’s account number and wire instructions. He guided his pen to the single box yet to be filled in, that for validity date, and scribbled the next day’s date. His scrawl was unreadable so as to ensure a delay of two to three hours before Pietro in Payments Traffic telephoned for clarification. Given the usual Friday logjam, the transfer would never be made before Monday morning. Satisfied, he walked down the hallway to the department’s mail nook and picked up an intrabank envelope. He addressed it toZahlungs Verkehr Ausland, International Payments Traffic, then slipped the sheet inside and carefully secured the figure-eight clasp. He took a last look at the envelope, then dropped it into the cotton gunnysack that held the bank’s internal mail.

  It was done.

  Having willfully disobeyed the clearest instructions of his superiors and defied the orders of a major Western law-enforcement agency to protect a man he had never met and uphold a policy he did not believe in, Nick extinguished the Hothouse’s nagging lights, certain that he had taken his first step toward the dark heart of the bank and the secrets that lay behind his father’s death.

  CHAPTER

  10

  Ali Mevlevi never tired of watching the sun set over the Mediterranean Sea. In summer, he would take his place in one of the rattan chairs set upon the veranda and let his thoughts drift out across the shimmering water as he kept careful watch of the fiery orb’s descent. In winter, on evenings such as this, he had but a few minutes to enjoy the passing of day through dusk and into night. Looking out over the westernmost edge of the Arab Middle East, he followed the sun as it sank deeper into a nest of billowy clouds huddled close to the horizon. A breeze skittered across the terrace and in its wake spread hints of eucalyptus and cedar.

  Through the darkening haze, Mevlevi could make out the slums, the skyscrapers, the factories, and the freeways of a city bordering the sea, five miles to the southwest. Few neighborhoods were without damage, none fully rebuilt—this, years after the real fighting had ended. He smiled while trying to count the trails of smoke drifting into the evening sky. It was his way of measuring the city’s slow return to civilization. As long as her residents cooked their suppers over an open fire, squatting in the ruins of bombed-out side streets, he would feel safe and at ease. He stopped counting at fourteen, hampered by the failing light. Yesterday evening, he had spotted twenty-four separate plumes. If ever he were to count fewer than ten, he would have to consider finding a new home.

  The Pearl of the Levant was still besieged. Make no mistake. Taking the place of mortars and gunfire were incompetence and lethargy. Water was spotty and power available only six hours a day. Three militias patrolled the streets, and two mayors governed her people. And for this the people crowed like proud parents that their city was reborn. A measure of congratulations he would grant them. Since the billionaire had purchased the reins of power, the country had shifted into first gear. The Hotel St. Georges had reopened her doors. A freeway linking the Christian east and Muslim west sides of the city was practically complete. Flights from major European cities had resumed. And the city’s favorite restaurants prospered.

  Enterprises of a sufficient scale were not averse to providing the prime minister and his cronies an advisory fee of five percent of their revenues to ensure continued prosperity. When the prime minister briefly resigned, and the currency tumbled, it was rumored that only a mild increase in royalty—to seven percent—had secured his return to office. The P.M. was not a greedy man.

  Beirut. She was the world’s whore and he loved her.

  Mevlevi held his breath and watched as the sun gave a final bow between a parted curtain of orange cloud and disappeared for the night. The sea grew frothy with the heat of the falling star
, but he knew this to be an illusion played on his aging eyes by sunlight, water, and distance. The sun, the sea, and the stars: nothing else inspired in him such awe and majesty. Perhaps in a former life, he had been a mariner, a companion to the greatest of Islamic adventurers, Ibn Batutah. In this life, though, another destiny was promised him. As the agent of the Prophet, he would lead the resurgence of his people and give back to them what was rightfully theirs.

  This he knew in his heart.

  # # #

  Later, Ali Mevlevi sat behind his wooden desk studying a map of southern Lebanon and Israel. The map was only a month old, yet it was soft with wear, its creases gray from countless foldings. His eyes found Beirut and the hills where his own compound stood northeast of the city, then moved south across the border. He studied a dozen landmarks, cities and towns, before affixing his eyes to a small dot in the occupied territory of the West Bank. Ariel. A settlement of fifteen thousand Orthodox Jews. Squatters on land that did not belong to them. The town had been built out of the desert. Its nearest neighbor was ten miles in any direction. He opened his desk and found a slim compass. He centered the compass on the settlement, then drew a small circle one inch in diameter around it. “Ariel,” he pronounced grimly, then shook his head. He had decided.

  Mevlevi folded the map carefully and placed it in his desk. He lifted the telephone and dialed a two-digit extension. A moment later, he said softly,”Joseph, come immediately to my study. Bring the traitor and my pistol. And summon Lina. It would be a shame to waste such an instructive event.”

  The sharp cadence of a military footstep sounded from afar and grew nearer.

  Mevlevi rose from his desk and walked to the entrance to his study. “And so, my friend,” he announced loudly enough to be heard across the great hall. “Come now. I am anxious for news of the day.”

  A compact man wearing fresh olive drab utilities walked briskly across the foyer. He did not speak until he stood at attention four feet from his master.

  “Good evening, Al-Mevlevi,” said Joseph, giving a crisp salute. “I am grateful for the opportunity to debrief you on the day’s activities.”

  Mevlevi pulled the uniformed man to his chest and kissed him on each cheek. “You are my eyes and ears. You know how I depend on you. Please begin.”

  Joseph began his recitation with a summary of ongoing security measures. Three-man patrols had been sent out at fifteen-minute intervals throughout the day to survey the compound’s perimeter. A scout followed each. No activity was reported. The height of the fences on the northernmost boundary of the compound was to be increased. However, the work crew did not arrive as scheduled. Christians, no doubt.

  Ali Mevlevi listened attentively while appraising his chief of internal security. He admired the stiff cast of his shoulders and his formal posture. How well they matched the man’s stern appearance: his black hair shorn in a crew cut, his dark face covered with an even darker stubble, and his sad eyes. The eyes of his people.

  He had found Joseph in Mieh-Mieh, as he found all his men.

  Joseph had been in charge of the labor pool for the southern division of the refugee camp that lay twenty miles southeast of Beirut, a bloody stain on Israel’s northern doormat. Fifteen years after the Jews’ invasion, the camp still stood, even thrived. Thousands of Palestinians crowded the camp’s narrow alleyways, fighting daily over meager rations and squalid quarters. A job that creased a man’s hands and crooked his back was the camp’s most valued commodity. Cutting slabs of concrete under a merciless sun for ten hours brought two American dollars, enough to purchase a loaf of bread, three strips of lamb, and two cigarettes. Filling craters dug by countless mortars and car bombs, a twelve-hour shift spent under constant threat of hostile fire, brought the princely sum of four dollars. Two men were killed each week while repairing the city’s roads. Two hundred clamored to take their places.

  Joseph had been brought to Mevlevi’s attention by a godless man, a thorny Syrian, Abu Abu by name, slaver by trade. Abu Abu had a sharp and discerning eye for the ruthless and cunning among the camp’s inhabitants. Most refugees were arrogant; many were strong. Few were intelligent. Fewer still, clever. At the top of this pile of refuse sat Joseph.

  “He is mean as a cobra, yet wise as an owl,” said Abu Abu, before telling with glee of the last aspirant to Joseph’s position. Eyes gouged out, thumbs severed, and tongue spit into a neighbor’s cooking pot, the interloper spent his every day seated on an immaculate Syrian quilt, ten steps from the entrance to Joseph’s tent.

  “This one is special,” whispered Abu Abu. “He has pride.”

  Joseph had been polite in his refusal to leave, but Mevlevi had convinced him. It had taken time, and, in truth, he had revealed more of his plans than he had thought prudent. He spoke of a new praetorian guard; this time they, not the Romans, would be conquerors. He spoke of a new Jerusalem returned to its sole and rightful possessors, and of a world where devotion to God came first, and to man, second.

  Finally, Joseph agreed to join him.

  “Were our esteemed instructors able to keep to their course plan?” Mevlevi demanded, after Joseph had completed his summary. “We cannot afford to lose any more days.”

  “Yes, Al-Mevlevi. All instruction specified for day fifty-seven was carried out. Sergeant Rodenko instructed the men on the proper use of Katyusha rockets in the morning. Emphasis was placed on rapid setup, firing, and deconstruction of the base firing units. So far we have received twenty-one firing platforms. Each assault squadron was able to have a go at it. Unfortunately we were unable to fire live ammunition. Rodenko insisted the heat signature of the rockets would be visible to satellites overhead.”

  Mevlevi said he understood. Heat signatures, satellite overflies, microwave fences—they were all part of his new vocabulary. The lexicon of Khamsin.

  Joseph continued. “In the afternoon, Lieutenant Ivlov delivered a lecture on target selection and the arming of the laser proximity fuses. The men grew bored quickly. They are more comfortable with their Kalashnikovs. They are all anxious to know what use they will put their training to. Ivlov demanded to know once more whether our target would be civilian or military.”

  “Did he?” asked Mevlevi. Lieutenant Boris Ivlov and Sergeant Mikhail Rodenko had arrived along with the equipment two months ago. Both were burned-out veterans of the Afghan war. Trainers for hire supplied in a package deal brokered by General Dimitri Marchenko, late of the Kazakhstani Armed Forces, now president of the quasi-governmental Surplus Arms Warehouse. One of the new breed of post-cold war entrepreneurs. Like many of his country’s wares, Marchenko’s trainers were second-rate, prone to breaking down at inconvenient moments. A vodka-induced stupor had already cost two days of training. And now they were asking questions. Not good.

  “Your target will be made known to you in due time,” Mevlevi said coldly. “We will not be firing blanks much longer. You can be certain of that.”

  Joseph nodded his head respectfully.

  “I am reluctant to inquire about the final matter,” said Mevlevi.

  “Unfortunately, true. Another hornet buzzing in our nest.”

  “It’s been seven months since Mong’s raid. Will the oriental bastard never let up? Not a month has passed when a traitor hasn’t been uncloaked, not a week when we haven’t had to tighten security.” Mevlevi sighed. And not a night when the promise of restful sleep wasn’t dashed by the recollection of the Asian’s aggressive gambit.

  During the predawn still of a July morning, a band of warriors had infiltrated the compound. Fifteen men in all. Their task: Assassinate Ali Mevlevi. Their patron: General Buddy Mong, long Mevlevi’s most trusted business partner, commander of some fifteen thousand irregulars massed along the Thai-Burmese border. Or so Mevlevi had guessed. To this day, he did not know what had prompted the attack and so, in the tortured etiquette of the international narcotics trade, had continued to transact business with Mong on a regular basis. Truth be told he could not afford to stop. Not n
ow.

  Not with Khamsin so close to fruition.

  “Let us give thanks to Allah that we have sufficient strength to guard against further incursions,” said Joseph.

  “Thanks be to Allah.” Mevlevi found it difficult to avoid staring at the terrible scar that ran an unsteady course from the corner of Joseph’s right eye to the base of his jaw. The last wish of Mong’s assassins. Alone among his aides, Joseph could not be questioned as to his loyalty. The scar would not allow it.

  “No mercy can be shown Mong, nor any of his minions. Bring the young Judas to me.”

  Joseph spun on his heel, and walked from the room, bowing slightly before Lina, who lingered in the doorway awaiting Mevlevi’s acknowledgment.

  “Lina,” Mevlevi commanded. “You will join us. Now.”

  He wanted his mistress to witness this demonstration of his authority, crude as it might be. The educational powers of punishment were vastly underrated. Though, in retrospect, he had erred in the case of an old acquaintance, Cerruti the banker, who had visited him on New Year’s Day. Mevlevi had felt it necessary to extinguish an unwelcome streak of independence the banker had recently exhibited. He could not allow an underling, no matter how far removed, to believe himself capable of issuing his master unilateral instructions. The Swiss had not responded well to a brief course of negative reinforcement, unthreatening as it might have been.

  And now there were more developments from the Swiss front. He scoffed at the news that the nation’s banks had entered into a secret agreement to cooperate with the DEA. Such cooperation would prove a minor headache, nothing more. But the smugness with which the American authorities had emasculated Switzerland’s banks begged defiance. And defy them he would. He would pass before the enemy’s eyes unseen, unmolested, and unscathed. The challenge invigorated him.

  He took a breath to sober himself. All actions with regard to his holdings in Switzerland must be carried out with the utmost delicacy. The distant mountain democracy was the key to his ambitious plan. It contained the fuel that would power his legions.