Numbered Account

Mr. Mevlevi is undaunted. "Did I mention the fee I am willing to pay for you to accept this deposit? Is four percent adequate?"

Kaiser cannot hide his astonishment. Four percent? Eight hundred thousand dollars. Double his projected profit for the entire operating year! What is he to do? Pack it in his suitcase and transport it to Switzerland himself. The thought crosses his mind, lingering a moment longer than wise. His throat has dried and he requires some water. He forgets to offer a glass to his fabulously wealthy client.

Mevlevi pays the faux pas no heed. "Perhaps you should discuss how you wish to treat the deposit with your superiors. Will you join me this evening for a late supper? Mr. Rothstein, a close friend, manages a charming establishment. Little Maxim's. Do you know it?"

Kaiser smiles graciously. Does he know it? Every man in Beirut short of the hundred-dollar entry fee and the clout to gain admittance knows Little Maxim's. An invitation? The branch manager does not hesitate. The bank would insist he accept. "It would be a pleasure."

"I hope to have a favorable response by then." Mevlevi offers a soft handshake and departs.

Little Maxim's at the height of the Lebanese civil war. A sultry Friday evening. Wolfgang Kaiser is wearing his favorite garment, a tailored silk dinner jacket, its ivory color chosen to offset his burnished skin, suitably darkened by the Levantine sun. A burgundy kerchief flares from his breast pocket. His hair is rich with brilliantine, his mustache impeccably groomed. He waits at the side entrance. His appointment is for ten P.M. He is twelve minutes early. Timeliness outranks godliness on the banker's list of virtues.

At the appointed hour he mounts the stairs. The club is dimly lit, some corners nearly obscure. His eyes swallow a dozen objects at once. The voluptuous blonde on stage twirling quite naked around a ceiling-high silver pole. The hostess walking to greet him whose scant silver tunic covers only one breast. The tuxedoed gentleman drawing deeply from a hookah of gigantic proportions. He stares until a rough hand lands on his shoulder and guides him to a smoky corner of the club. Ali Mevlevi remains seated, gesturing to an unoccupied chair across the table.

"Have you spoken to your colleagues in Zurich? Mr. Gautschi, I believe."

The young branch manager smiles nervously and unbuttons his jacket. Mevlevi is well informed. "Yes, I reached them late this afternoon. I am sorry to say that we cannot help you in this instance. The risk of losing our banking license is simply too great. Believe me, it is painful for us to pass up the opportunity to initiate a business relationship with an eminent businessman such as yourself. Should you, however, wish to deposit your funds in Switzerland, we would be more than happy to assist your banking needs."

Kaiser fears his host's response. He has asked around about Mevlevi. It seems he is involved in all manner of activities, some of them even legitimate: money brokering, real estate, textiles. But rumor suggests his primary means of income derives from the international transport of heroin. In no uncertain terms, he is a dangerous man.

"The money is here!" Mevlevi brings a hand down on the table, upsetting a glass of Scotch. "Not in Switzerland. How am I to take my money to your bank? Do you think your customs officials welcome a Turk from Lebanon with open arms?" He scoffs. "You think we are all members of the Black September. I am an honest businessman. Why do you not wish to help us?"

Kaiser has delivered his canned response. He is at a loss for words. Mevlevi's unflinching gaze tears into him. He fumbles for something to say, and when he speaks his tongue has reacquired the clumsy accent of his country. "We must follow regulations. There are so few alternatives."

"You mean no alternatives. Do you expect me to leave my money with this bunch of thieves?"

Kaiser shakes his head no, confused. It is his first lesson in the topsy-turvy calculus of Middle Eastern business practice.

Mevlevi leans across the table and grabs Kaiser's withered arm. "I can see that you wish to help me."

Kaiser is shocked at the affront to his deformity. But it is his eyes, not his arm, that feel Mevlevi's grasp, and as if hypnotized, he nods yes.

Mevlevi calls for a waiter and orders a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label. The Scotch arrives. He proposes a toast. "To the spirit of enterprise. The world belongs to those who fashion it in their image!"

***

An hour or two or three later, Kaiser enjoys the attentions of a slim young woman. A waif, he would call her. Long black hair frames a sensuous face. Frail dark eyes flash from under thick lashes. Another drink and the strap of a sequined cocktail dress dangles off a soft but well-muscled shoulder. Her English is impeccable. She asks in a throaty voice for him to move closer. He cannot draw himself away from her probing fingers and her sweet breath. She insists on saying the nastiest things.