Numbered Account

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.