Numbered Account

"Not possible, my friend. Not possible." But as Nick peered through the window at the clothing stores that quilted the Bahnhofstrasse, boutiques selling cashmere sweaters at three thousand francs a shot and Italian leather handbags at twice that amount, he asked himself, "Why not?" Maybe Ali Mevlevi was a thief, a glorified holdup artist? Was it possible to plunder the resources of a bank from within its own walls? Could the Pasha empty the vaults of his own bank under official pretenses? And what if he didn't give a damn for official pretenses?

Nick turned his mind to a more troubling area of inquiry. What would Mevlevi do with the money? He recalled Thorne's rant about the arms and materiel Mevlevi had accumulated at his compound near Beirut. If Mevlevi has that much equipment now, imagine what he could purchase with funds diverted from the Adler Bank and USB.

Since the end of the cold war, arms dealers had been willing to sell their wares to any breathing soul with hard currency. Damn the politics! Mevlevi had only to pick up a telephone to have his choice of the deadliest weapons currently manufactured.

"Simply not possible," Nick assured Peter, if only to allay his own fears. "The Pasha's a pirate all right, but that might be going too far. Anyway, it doesn't matter why he wants it. With what we've got in our possession, we can drop him cold." He enumerated the evidence on the fingers of his right hand. "Proof of his transfers into and out of USB. Signature cards from when the account was first opened, including code words written in his own hand. Copies of the matrices that show to which banks he wires his funds. And now proof of his involvement with Konig and the Adler Bank."

"And what about Thorne? Without him, all we have is a lot of paper and a crazy theory."

"He's solid," said Nick, coaxing himself to believe his own words. "I got ahold of him this morning and he's ready to work with us." Nick didn't bring up the personal leap of faith required to call Sterling Thorne and offer his services. After his dealings with Jack Keely, he had sworn never to work with another agent of the United States government again. But his current situation forbade the luxury of prejudice. Like it or not, Thorne was all he had.

"Fill me in then," said Sprecher. "What have you worked out with him?"

For the next fifty minutes, Nick outlined the rudiments of his plan to Sprecher. He didn't know what to make of his friend's frequent guffaws and laments, but when he had finished, Sprecher extended his hand and said, "I'm in. We've got no better than a fifty-fifty chance, mind you, but you can count on me. First time in my life I feel like I'm doing something worthwhile. It's a new sensation. Can't decide if I like it or not."

Nick paid the bill and both men walked outside. "You've got enough time to make your train?"

Sprecher checked his watch. "Loads of it. Eleven-thirty now. I'm on the 12:07 via Lucerne."

"And you've brought your friend?"

Sprecher winked and patted a slight bulge beneath his arm. "Standard issue of every officer in the Swiss Army. I am a captain, don't forget."

Nick switched to another topic. "How much do you think it will take to convince the front office manager to give you that suite?"

"Top floor, lake view? Five hundred minimum."

"Ouch!" Nick said. "I owe you."

Peter buttoned his coat and tossed the scarf over his shoulder. "Only if I end up with a tag on my toe. Otherwise, consider it my membership fee in your world of responsible and civilized nations."

***

Caspar Burki lived in a grim block of buildings. None was higher than four stories, and each was painted a different color along some invisible boundary. The first was yellow- or had been twenty years ago. The next a glum brown. Burki's building had faded to a mottled dishwater gray. All of them were streaked with soot and caked with dirt washed from their mansard roofs.

Nick took up position in the doorway of a store selling antique furniture across the street from Burki's building. He settled in for a long wait, scolding himself for not having arrived sooner. He had accompanied Peter Sprecher to the main railway station after lunch and while there, had made two telephone calls, one to Sylvia Schon, the other to Sterling Thorne. Sylvia confirmed that their dinner engagement was on as planned. He was to arrive no later than 6:30- she had a roast in the oven and would take no responsibility for its condition should he arrive late. His conversation with Thorne was briefer. As instructed, he had identified himself as Terry. Thorne said only two words: "Green light"- which meant that Jester had checked in and that everything was on as planned.

Nick peered at the sad building. He didn't know whether to ring the bell and wait for an answer or to hide in the shadows in the hope that Burki would come out and be somehow recognizable. Meanwhile Yogi Bauer's words seeped into his mind. "Don't look for him. Has to stay near the source, doesn't he?"