Numbered Account

Mevlevi is smoking another of his filthy Turkish cigarettes. Black tobacco bombs expelling rivers of blue smoke. His glass is full. Isn't it always?

***

The raven-haired waif has insisted that Kaiser accompany her to her apartment. Who is he to deny? After all, it is only three blocks from the club, and the grand Mevlevi has given his benediction, a fraternal pat on the back and a sly wink that all would be taken care of at Little Maxim's. The girl asks for a drink and points to the bar. Kaiser splashes liberal helpings of Scotch into two glasses. He knows he has drunk too much but is not sure if he cares. Perhaps recklessness becomes him. She puts the glass to his lips and he takes a sip. She swallows the rest in one fearsome gulp. She staggers and searches the folds of her handbag. Something is awry. An unpleasant cast crosses her features. Suddenly, she is smiling. The problem is resolved. An immaculate pile of white powder sits on the underside of a perfectly manicured fingernail. She sniffs and then offers the like to her evening's companion. He shakes his head, but she insists. He bends forward and sniffs. "The white pony," she giggles and offers him another pile.

The banker from Zurich is growing disoriented. He has never felt such a roar of blood through his veins. The pressure builds in his head, only to be replaced a moment later by relief. His chest tingles. Warmth suffuses his entire body. He wants only to sleep, but a greedy hand rouses him, its kneading grip drawing the heat from his chest to his loins. Through glazed eyes, he sees the lovely woman from Little Maxim's undoing his pants and taking him into her mouth. He has never been harder. His vision blurs and he realizes he has forgotten her name. He opens his eyes to ask. She is before him, her dress peeled down to her waist. Her chest is flat, her nipples too small and pale and surrounded by tufts of black hair. Kaiser sits up, yells for this woman… for this man to stop, but another pair of hands holds him back. He struggles drunkenly, vainly. He neither sees nor feels the needle that enters the prominent blue vein running across the top of his shrunken left hand.

***

"If you'll sign at the bottom of the paper, we can put this messy situation behind us."

Ali Mevlevi hands Wolfgang Kaiser a receipt issued by the Beirut representative office of the United Swiss Bank for the sum of twenty million U.S. dollars. Where he has procured the official paper is a mystery. As is so much else.

Kaiser meticulously refolds his handkerchief and places it in his pocket before reaching forward to accept the document. He places the receipt on top of a stack of color photographs, eight by tens. Photographs of which he, Wolfgang Andreas Kaiser, is a prominent subject, one might even say the star. He and a horribly mutilated transvestite he has learned carried the name Rio.

Kaiser signs his name to the document, knowing with each loop of the pen that this "messy situation" will never be behind him. Mevlevi watches with detached interest. He points to three worn duffel bags stuffed to bursting slumped in the entryway. "Either you discover a way to deposit the money within three days or I will report it stolen. Your country looks rather harshly upon bank fraud, does it not? Lebanon is no different. But I fear her jails are not so comfortable as your own."

Kaiser straightens his back. His eyes are puffy and his nose stuffed. He tears off the top copy of the receipt, places it in an empty plastic tray, then gives the yellow copy to Mevlevi. The Swiss banker's refuge is order; procedure, his sanctuary. The pink copy, he says, will stay in this office. The white copy will go to Switzerland. "With the money," he adds, managing a smile.

"You are a remarkable man," says Mevlevi. "I see I have chosen the proper partner."

Kaiser nods perfunctorily. Now they are partners. What torture will this relationship hold in store for him?

Mevlevi speaks again. "You may tell your superiors that I have agreed to pay a special fee of two percent of funds deposited to handle the administrative costs of opening my account. Not bad. Four hundred thousand dollars for a day's work. Or should I say a night's?"

Kaiser does not comment. He strains to keep his back pinned to his chair. If he loses contact with the hard surface, if the pressure against his spine slackens, he will go mad.

***

The next morning the branch manager boards a flight to Zurich, via Vienna. In his four suitcases he has packed twenty million one hundred forty-three thousand dollars. Mevlevi had lied. There were three one-dollar bills.

At passport control, Kaiser is waved through. At customs, though pushing a cart laden with a mountain of bulging suitcases, he does not receive a second glance. The passenger following him, while carrying only a small valise, is detained. Kaiser signals his understanding to the immigration official. What else is one to do with a dirty Arab?

***