Numbered Account

Nick resumed his slow walk to Sylvia's apartment. He hadn't wanted to go home after work. He couldn't face the cramped one-room apartment. He thought of it as a cell and of Mevlevi as his jailer. Arriving at the crest of the hill, he paused and turned to study the slope behind him. His eyes skimmed hedges and fences, trees and entryways. He was looking for a phantom he knew must be somewhere behind him- a shadow sent by Mevlevi with instructions to stop any sudden and ill-advised flight to the police.

Nick was exhausted when he reached the entrance to Sylvia's building. Cold, confused, and out of breath. He checked his wristwatch and saw it was only 5:30. He doubted she would be home but rang the buzzer anyway. No one answered. She was probably still at work. He longed to be inside the glass door where he could wait in the warmth and relative comfort of her hallway. Sighing, he closed his eyes and pressed his back against the wall, then slid down until his bottom rested on the crusty snow. Sylvia would be home any minute, he told himself. Relax. His shoulders sagged.

Just a few minutes more till she gets home.

***

Somewhere over the horizon the earth was shaking. The ground rent itself into towering slabs of concrete that threatened to topple onto his prostrate form. A blunt object poked him in the ribs. Someone shook his shoulders. "Nick, get up," his mother called. "You're blue."

Nick opened his eyes. Sylvia Schon was hunched over him. She felt his cheek with her warm hands. "Are you all right? How long have you been here? My God, you're frozen stiff."

She had too many questions to wait for any one answer.

Nick shook himself and stood up. His back was sore and his right knee a rock. He checked his wristwatch and groaned. "It's almost seven. I sat down at five-thirty."

Sylvia clucked like a mother hen. "Get inside right now and take a hot shower. Get those clothes off." She gave him a quick kiss. "You're cold as ice. You'll be lucky not to catch pneumonia."

Nick followed her into the apartment. He took note of the faded yellow dossiers she carried under her arm. "You were able to get more activity reports?"

"Of course," Sylvia said proudly. "I have the rest of 1978 and all of 1979. We have the entire weekend, don't we?"

Nick smiled and said they did. He marveled at the facility with which Sylvia checked information into and out of the bank. He wondered briefly if she had told Kaiser about their lunch yesterday, then dismissed the thought. It had probably been Rita Sutter or that asshole Schweitzer- either one of them might have overheard his conversation. Be happy you have at least one person on your side, he told himself. He started to thank her for the reports, but before he could she began peppering him with questions. Where had he been all day? Had he heard the dreadful news about Marco Cerruti? Why hadn't he called if he had planned on joining her for dinner?

Nick sighed and allowed himself to be led into the bathroom.

***

The watcher stood fifty yards from the apartment hidden in a copse of tall pines. He punched a number into his cellular phone, keeping his eyes pasted to the entry of the apartment building. The desired party answered after a dozen rings. "Where is he?"

"With the woman. She just came home. He's inside with her now."

"Just as we thought." A knowing laugh. "At least he's predictable. I knew he wouldn't go to the police. By the way, how does he look?"

"Exhausted," said the watcher. "He slept in front of her apartment building for an hour."

"Go home," said Ali Mevlevi. "He's one of us now."

***

Nick huddled beneath a fierce shower, enjoying the needles of hot water that pounded his skin. Another hour in here and he'd feel human again. He savored the warmth, willing it to take away his despair. He thought about that afternoon. He had to look at it analytically, to divorce himself from what he had witnessed. He wanted desperately to talk about it with someone, probably just so that he could proclaim his innocence. He considered confiding in Sylvia but decided against it. Knowledge of the Pasha's actions would serve in the long run only to incriminate her. He didn't want to share his troubles.

Nick turned his face upward, allowing the bristling water to massage his eyelids and tickle his nose and his mouth. Suddenly, a memory stirred deep inside his confused brain- a souvenir from earlier that afternoon. He closed his eyes and concentrated. A word or two flickered- something sparked by his interest in the activity reports. He tried to coax it out, sure for a split second that he had a letter or two. But no, it kept itself hidden, swimming just below the surface. He gave up. Still, he knew something was there, and its presence fired in him a fierce desire for its discovery.

***