Numbered Account

Nick laughed grimly at his predicament. Mevlevi had bought off Gino Makdisi. A wild thought came to him. Fuck it all, then. One man's death was already on his soul. Why not two? Why not three? He stepped toward the Pasha and firmed his grip around the pistol's steel butt. He raised his arm and drew a bead on Ali Mevlevi's face, suddenly absent its smug smile. You killed Cerruti, you son of a bitch. You murdered your partner in cold blood. How many more men have you killed before that? Becker too? Was he snooping around a little too much? And now you want to frame me?

Nick's world narrowed to a tight corridor. His periphery grew dark. Anger spread through every inch of his being. Unconsciously, he increased his pressure on the trigger. The muscles in his forearm contracted and his shoulder hardened. This is what it feels like to do some good, he told himself.

Do some good.

"Think of your father," Mevlevi said, as if reading Nick's mind.

"I am." Nick extended his arm and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. He pulled it again. Metal struck metal.

Ali Mevlevi exhaled noisily. "Quite some feat. I must admit it requires real courage to stare down the barrel of a gun even when you know it to be empty. For a moment there, I forgot how many shots I had given Albert."

Gino Makdisi took a snub-nosed revolver from his jacket and pointed it at Nick. He looked to Mevlevi for instructions. Mevlevi lifted a hand and said, "I'm deciding." Then to Nick, "Please give me the gun. Slowly. Thank you."

Nick looked away from the men to the river running below them. The dry firing of the pistol had shattered the rage pounding inside his skull. He had expected the gun to buck in his hand, to feel the crack of the bullet, to hear the tinkling of the spent shell as it hit the ground. He had expected to kill a man.

Mevlevi tucked the silver pistol back into his jacket. He knelt and collected the spent shell casings. Standing, he whispered in Nick's ear. "I told you this morning that I wanted to thank you. What better way to show my gratitude than to make you a member of my family? Cerruti's passing has left a convenient opening."

Nick stared through him. "I'll never be a member of your family."

"You have no choice. Today, I let you live. I gave you life. Now, you'll do as I ask. Nothing serious. At least, not yet. For the moment I simply want you to do your job."

Gino Makdisi said, "Remember the gun, Mr. Neumann. It carries your fingerprints. I may be a criminal, but in court my word is as good as the next man's." He shrugged his shoulders as if things weren't so bad, then twisted his bulk toward the Pasha. "Can you drop me at the Schiller Bank? We'll have to hurry if we're to make the transfer this afternoon."

The Pasha smiled. "Not to worry. Mr. Neumann is an expert at processing late-arriving transfers. Every Monday and Thursday at three o'clock, right, Nicholas?"

CHAPTER 48

Peter Sprecher drummed his fingers on top of his desk and told himself in a stern voice that he must count to ten before exploding. Silently, he invoked Almighty God, the King James variant, thank you, to pacify the jabbering crowd gathered around the hexagonal trading desk adjacent to his own. He heard Tony Gerber, a rat-faced options specialist, rave about the "strangle" he had put on USB shares. If the shares stayed within five points of their current level, he'd take down a two-hundred-thousand-franc profit in just thirty days. "Go ahead and annualize that return," he heard Gerber brag. "Three hundred and eighty percent. You try and beat it."

Sprecher reached seven before deciding he could stand it no longer. He slid his chair back and tapped his neighbor Hassan Faris, the bank's chief of equities trading, on the shoulder. "I know it is a quiet Friday afternoon but if you wish to continue this infernal racket, take your pack of thieves off to another corner of the cave. I've another dozen calls yet to make and I can't hear myself think."

"Mr. Sprecher," answered Faris over the continuous buzz, "you are sitting in the center of the trading floor of a bank that derives its entire income from buying and selling financial instruments. If you have a problem hearing, I'll be happy to order you a headset. Until then, mind your own fucking business. Okay?"