Numbered Account Page 49

  Marchenko found a crowbar in the back of the truck and opened the crate. He peered inside. A stainless steel canister three feet high and two feet in diameter rested in a bed of foam rubber. He slipped a hand under one end and eased it from its housing. The canister weighed just thirty pounds. He grunted as he lifted it from the crate and set it down on the smooth hangar floor.

  The bomb itself was not much to look at. Marchenko thought it resembled a large tear gas canister with one end domed and the other flat. Height: twenty-eight inches. Diameter: nine inches. Weight: eleven pounds. Its casing was made from unpolished high-tensile steel. It was an altogether unimpressive-looking object.

  But it could kill.

  The Kopinskaya IV carried four hundred grams of enriched plutonium 238 that when detonated had the explosive force of two thousand tons of high-grade TNT. A measly throw weight in terms of the big birds, but devastating nonetheless to any object, either living or inert, within a one-mile radius of ground zero. Anything within five hundred yards would be instantly vaporized. Inside of a thousand yards the bomb achieved a ninety-five-percent kill rate at detonation. The other five percent would die within two hours from a lethal dose of gamma radiation. The kill rate tapered off dramatically at a mile out. At three thousand yards, only twenty percent would be killed by the detonation, and those mostly by the debris blown outward from the epicenter: shards of glass, splinters of wood, chunks of concrete all propelled through the air at speeds over a thousand miles an hour. A city provided its own shrapnel.

  Three latches held the canister closed. He opened them one at a time, then carefully removed the lid. He gave it to a soldier, then returned his attention to the bomb. The plutonium core was housed in a titanium casing. A chain reaction necessary to detonate the fissionable material could be initiated only when the firing rod had been inserted into the plutonium core, and the firing rod could be inserted only after the proper code had been entered in the bomb’s central processing unit. Marchenko would not enter the proper code until he had received acknowledgment that Mr. Ali Mevlevi had transferred eight hundred million Swiss francs to his account at the First Kazakhi Bank in Alma-Ata.

  Until then the bomb was worthless scrap.

  He took the bomb in his hand and turned it upside down. The soldier assisting him removed six screws at the base of the weapon. Marchenko put the screws in his pocket, then lifted off the inferior lid. He was pleased to see a small dot at the bottom right-hand corner of a red liquid crystal display winking at him. Below the LCD was a keypad with nine digits. He entered in the number 1111 and waited as the unit performed its self-diagnostics. Five seconds later, a green light lit up in the center of the keypad. The bomb was functioning perfectly. All he needed to do now was program the detonation altitude and key in the seven-digit code that would activate the device.

  Marchenko replaced the inferior lid, carefully screwing in each of the six titanium screws. He closed the device and set it down in its foam-rubber casing. He stopped his work and listened. It was quiet here. Almost serene. He looked over his shoulder, suddenly expecting to hear the shrill whistle of a squadron of Israeli F-16s swooping in to obliterate the compound. His soldiers stood casually around him, their weapons hanging loosely on their chests. Colonel Hammid loitered a few paces away, his gaze held by the dull metallic weapon sitting on the hangar floor. He laughed at his paranoia, then turned his thoughts down more promising avenues.

  Marchenko imagined his portrait hanging in every government office in Kazakhstan. He reminded himself that in less than twenty-four hour she would have brought his country a princely sum in hard currency. And himself a small one percent commission—eight million Swiss francs. Maybe this is what the Americans meant when they said “rags to riches.”

  CHAPTER

  57

  The phone rang a second time.

  Nick shot up in bed. It was dark and the room was cold. Still too early for the central heating to be turned on. He looked at his watch, squinting a second as the hands came into focus. Barely six. His hand fumbled for the receiver, finding first the bedside lamp, then a glass of water, before falling on the phone. “Hello.”

  “Hi, you. It’s me.”

  “Hey you,” he responded groggily. “Whatcha doin’?” It was their greeting and he was surprised to discover it still a reflex after three months. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and scratched at his hair.

  “Just wanted to call,” said Anna Fontaine. “See how you were doing. It’s been a while.”

  He was awake now, her voice reverberating inside of him, coming at him from a dozen directions. “Um, let me check,” he said. “I don’t know yet really. It’s only six o’clock over here.”

  “I know. I’ve been trying to reach you for a week. I figured if ever you’d be home, it would be now.”

  “You didn’t try the office? Remember where I work, don’t you?”

  “Of course I remember. I also remember a very serious former marine who would not appreciate social calls interrupting his work.”

  Nick could imagine her sitting cross-legged on her bed, the phone in her lap. It was a Sunday, so she’d be wearing ratty blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a white button-down untucked. Maybe even one of his. “Come on,” he protested, “I wasn’t that serious. You can call me anytime at work. Deal?”

  “Deal,” she answered. “And how is it? Work, I mean?”

  “Fine. Busy. You know, the usual trainee stuff.” He stifled a sarcastic laugh. Jeez, Anna, if you only knew the shit I was up to . . .

  “What about your dad?” she asked, cutting off his self-mocking commentary. “Is that panning out?”

  “Could be,” he said, not wanting to get into it with her. “I might know something real soon. We’ll see. And how are you? How are things at school?”

  “Just fine,” she said. “Midterms in two weeks. Then the final push to the end. I can’t wait.”

  “Well, you’ll have a couple months off before you start in New York. You are still taking the job down there?”

  “Yes, Nick, I am still taking the job. Some of us still think it’s a decent place to work.”

  He heard hesitation in her voice, like she wanted to get around to something but she didn’t know exactly how. Might as well help her along. After all, there could be only one reason she was calling. “You’re not working too hard, are you? I don’t want you pulling all-nighters.”

  “No, and by the way, you were the one to pull all-nighters. I was the organized one who studied ahead of time.”

  “Are you getting out any?” There it was, a fastball right down the middle.

  Anna paused. He heard a batch of white noise fill the line. “Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I’ve met someone.”

  Nick was suddenly alert. “You have. That’s good. I mean, if you like him.”

  “Yes, Nick, I like him.”

  Nick didn’t hear her answer. He sat still, looking around his room. In that instant, he had become acutely aware of his surroundings. He could hear the bedside clock ticking and the radiator groaning as it sprang to life. He could make out the rustling of the pipes in the ceiling above him as another early riser ran a bath. He suddenly noticed that his boxers were chafing at the waist and he decided that he really did have to lose some weight. Yes, the world was still there. But somehow his position on it had been altered.

  “How serious?” he asked suddenly, interrupting her.

  “He’s asked me to go to Greece with him this summer. He’s working for an insurance company in Athens while he gets his master’s degree in international relations. Actually, you may know him. His name is Paul MacMillan. Lucy’s older brother.”

  “Yeah, Lucy. Sure. Wow.” It was a robot talking. Not him. He remembered no such person and she knew it. For some reason, she’d decided a degree of social proximity was necessary, as if a partial acquaintance might be more palatable than a total stranger. Her way of not wanting to break it to him too hard. Why was she calling anyway
? Did she want his approbation? Did she expect a ringing endorsement of Mr. Paul MacMillan, some schmuck who thought he could provide for a girl like Anna by working in Greece?

  Nick tried to find more grist for his enmity, but his fuel had run dry. He was aground on his single bed, sitting in the darkness in his one-room apartment. The time was 6:02. He was marooned in Zurich.

  “Anna,” he started. “Don’t . . .”

  “Don’t what?” she asked, too quickly, and for a second he wasn’t sure if he’d heard hope in her voice. Or maybe it was just annoyance.

  Nick didn’t know what he wanted to say. He was aghast to find that she had retained such a large claim to his heart. It was none of his business whether she went to Greece with Paul MacMillan or Paul McCartney, and it was a little late to think he still had a claim on her.

  “Don’t forget to study hard for your test,” he said. “Gotta keep that four-point average. You still have to get into a decent business school.”

  “Oh, Nick . . .” Anna didn’t continue. It was her turn to leave him hanging.

  “I’m glad you met someone,” he said, without feeling.I gave you up and it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. You can’t come back now. You can’t reappear at the precise moment when I need to be my strongest. But in his heart, he was mad only at himself. He knew that she had never really left.

  “Are you there?” she asked, and he realized he hadn’t spoken for a few seconds.

  “Just don’t do anything stupid, Anna. I have to go now.” He hung up the phone.

  # # #

  Nick spotted Peter Sprecher walking toward Sprungli from the kiosk in the Paradeplatz. He was carrying a newspaper in one hand and his briefcase in the other. He wore a dark suit under a navy overcoat and had a white scarf wrapped around his neck. “Don’t look so surprised,” he said,by way of greeting. “It’s not a holiday, is it? I mean, we are going to work.”

  Nick patted him on the back, checking his own garb in return. Blue jeans, a sweatshirt, and a forest-green parka. “Depends on what kind of work you had in mind.” He opened the door to Sprungli for his friend and followed him up the stairs to the main dining room. They chose a table in the far left corner, not far from the lavish breakfast buffet. They waited until a waitress arrived to take their orders before getting down to business.

  Nick shot a glance at the briefcase. “Did you take a minute this morning and compare our man’s transfers through USB with the purchases made for the Ciragan Trading account?”

  “Did better than that.” Sprecher opened the briefcase and withdrew a ledger sheet. He had drawn a line down its center and written the wordsUSB transfers to the left andCiragan Trading Purchases to the right. He handed Nick the sheet, saying, “We’re close, but it’s not a hundred percent. Mevlevi transferred over eight hundred million through his account at USB since last June.”

  “And Konig’s purchases of USB stock?”

  “Started small in July and kicked into full gear in November. I’m surprised Kaiser hadn’t taken note of someone snapping up such large blocks of shares.”

  “Could’ve been anyone. Pension fund managers, mutual funds, individual investors. How was he to know?”

  Sprecher raised an eyebrow, not ready to dismiss Kaiser’s gaffe. “Anyhow, we’re a hundred million off in total.”

  Nick studied the sheet. “Yeah, but look. For twenty-odd weeks, the value of shares purchased by the Adler Bank exactly matches Mevlevi’s transfers. Maybe the final tally’s not a hundred percent, but it’s darned close.”

  Nick continued to examine the ledger. He was excited to have obtained what he believed would pass for proof that Mevlevi was behind the Adler Bank’s takeover of USB. Yet, he realized that so far nothing had truly been accomplished. Yes, he had the ammunition he needed. But the real battle would take place tomorrow. . . ifthe proper generals arrived at the proper battlefields at the proper times. Three skirmishes would be fought across two fronts separated by forty kilometers, and the one enemy could not be engaged before the other had been vanquished. The time for celebration was far off.

  “I don’t fancy being in Klaus’s shoes,” said Sprecher, “not when his ship gets taken out from under him. Do you think he knows exactly who the Pasha is?”

  “Of course he knows,” Nick said. “Everyone knows. The secret is pretending you don’t, and keeping a straight face when you deny it.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Come on. Mevlevi’s fingerprints are all over the Adler Bank. My only fear is not knowing exactly what he’s trying to pull off. Why does Ali Mevlevi want to control the United Swiss Bank?”

  “Why does he want to control the Adler Bank?” Sprecher countered.

  “Banks. That’s where the money is.’ Willie Sutton said that. Back in the twenties, he was a pretty decent bank robber.”

  Sprecher spread his arms and tilted his head toward Nick as if to say “Case closed.” “Tack on sixty years, change the color of the passport, and update the wardrobe. Voila: it’s still the same man. One more well-dressed hood.”

  Nick wasn’t convinced. “So the Pasha is a bank robber? If that’s the case, this has to be the most sophisticated heist in history. Not to mention the most expensive!”

  “Look at it this way, put up a billion francs in order to get back ten billion. Call me old-fashioned, but that’s a fair return on your investment.”

  “Not possible, my friend. Not possible.” But as Nick peered through the window at the clothing stores that quilted the Bahnhofstrasse, boutiques selling cashmere sweaters at three thousand francs a shot and Italian leather handbags at twice that amount, he asked himself, “Why not?” Maybe Ali Mevlevi was a thief, a glorified holdup artist? Was it possible to plunder the resources of a bank from within its own walls? Could the Pasha empty the vaults of his own bank under official pretenses? And what if he didn’t give a damn for official pretenses?

  Nick turned his mind to a more troubling area of inquiry. What would Mevlevi do with the money? He recalled Thorne’s rant about the arms and materiel Mevlevi had accumulated at his compound near Beirut. If Mevlevi has that much equipment now, imagine what he could purchase with funds diverted from the Adler Bank and USB.

  Since the end of the cold war, arms dealers had been willing to sell their wares to any breathing soul with hard currency. Damn the politics! Mevlevi had only to pick up a telephone to have his choice of the deadliest weapons currently manufactured.

  “Simply not possible,” Nick assured Peter, if only to allay his own fears. “The Pasha’s a pirate all right, but that might be going too far. Anyway, it doesn’t matter why he wants it. With what we’ve got in our possession, we can drop him cold.” He enumerated the evidence on the fingers of his right hand. “Proof of his transfers into and out of USB. Signature cards from when the account was first opened, including code words written in his own hand. Copies of the matrices that show to which banks he wires his funds. And now proof of his involvement with Konig and the Adler Bank.”

  “And what about Thorne? Without him, all we have is a lot of paper and a crazy theory.”

  “He’s solid,” said Nick, coaxing himself to believe his own words. “I got ahold of him this morning and he’s ready to work with us.” Nick didn’t bring up the personal leap of faith required to call Sterling Thorne and offer his services. After his dealings with Jack Keely, he had sworn never to work with another agent of the United States government again. But his current situation forbade the luxury of prejudice. Like it or not, Thorne was all he had.

  “Fill me in then,” said Sprecher. “What have you worked out with him?”

  For the next fifty minutes, Nick outlined the rudiments of his plan to Sprecher. He didn’t know what to make of his friend’s frequent guffaws and laments, but when he had finished, Sprecher extended his hand and said, “I’m in. We’ve got no better than a fifty-fifty chance, mind you, but you can count on me. First time in my life I feel like I’m doing something worthwhi
le. It’s a new sensation. Can’t decide if I like it or not.”

  Nick paid the bill and both men walked outside. “You’ve got enough time to make your train?”

  Sprecher checked his watch. “Loads of it. Eleven-thirty now. I’m on the 12:07 via Lucerne.”

  “And you’ve brought your friend?”

  Sprecher winked and patted a slight bulge beneath his arm. “Standard issue of every officer in the Swiss Army. I am a captain, don’t forget.”

  Nick switched to another topic. “How much do you think it will take to convince the front office manager to give you that suite?”

  “Top floor, lake view? Five hundred minimum.”

  “Ouch!” Nick said. “I owe you.”

  Peter buttoned his coat and tossed the scarf over his shoulder. “Only if I end up with a tag on my toe. Otherwise, consider it my membership fee in your world of responsible and civilized nations.”

  # # #

  Caspar Burki lived in a grim block of buildings. None was higher than four stories, and each was painted a different color along some invisible boundary. The first was yellow—or had been twenty years ago. The next a glum brown. Burki’s building had faded to a mottled dishwater gray. All of them were streaked with soot and caked with dirt washed from their mansard roofs.

  Nick took up position in the doorway of a store selling antique furniture across the street from Burki’s building. He settled in for a long wait, scolding himself for not having arrived sooner. He had accompanied Peter Sprecher to the main railway station after lunch and while there, had made two telephone calls, one to Sylvia Schon, the other to Sterling Thorne. Sylvia confirmed that their dinner engagement was on as planned. He was to arrive no later than 6:30—she had a roast in the oven and would take no responsibility for its condition should he arrive late. His conversation with Thorne was briefer. As instructed, he had identified himself as Terry. Thorne said only two words: “Green light”—which meant that Jester had checked in and that everything was on as planned.