Numbered Account

A commotion in the vestibule of Burki's apartment building caught Nick's eye. He made out two men grappling each other inside the glass doorway. It was impossible to tell what was going on, so he took a step into the alley to get a better view. Just then, the two men stumbled from the building. The taller of the two, a thin man with gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes, supported the short man, a wan figure in a dark Sunday suit. Jesus Christ, Nick whispered, the short one was Yogi Bauer. He could hear him swearing and cursing as he stumbled out into the alleyway.

"Du kommst mit? You're coming with me, right?" Yogi asked over and over.

Nick retreated into the doorway of the antique shop and pretended to study a Louis XVI chaise. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the taller, gray-haired man, who he figured was Caspar Burki, led Bauer down the street. He bet he knew where they were going. Sure enough, they headed straight for the Keller Stubli. Nick followed at a safe distance, not wanting to confront Burki with Yogi Bauer present. But then a strange thing happened. When the two men reached the Keller Stubli, Burki refused to go inside. He stood there for a few minutes, hearing Bauer's abusive epithets and vehement protestations until Bauer gave up and went inside alone.

Caspar Burki adjusted his overcoat, gathering it tightly around him, then set off at a rapid pace down the Niederdorf. Destination unknown.

CHAPTER 58

Caspar Burki had an appointment to keep. That much Nick knew for certain. The old man walked with his head bowed and his shoulders pressed forward as if fighting a rising wind. The rhythm of his feet assumed a perfect cadence, and Nick fell into his step, matching him stride for stride. He listened to the steady tap of his own feet on the wet cobblestones and remembered learning to march at Brown Field in Quantico, Virginia. He could practically hear the sergeant instructor's strained voice yelling at him, even now.

What are you, Neumann? A walkie-talkie? Keep your mouth shut and your eyes straight ahead. That's right, troop. Hands cupped to the crease of your trousers, heels to the ground! Left, left, left right left.

Nick maintained a cautious distance, imagining a taut fifty-foot rope strung between him and Burki. He followed the spindly man down the Niederdorfstrasse toward Central, and from there across the bridge toward the Bahnhofplatz. He was sure Burki was heading for the main station, but then Burki veered to the right toward the Swiss National Museum. His path skirted the Platzspitz, taking him north along the banks of the river Limmat. Nick had no idea where Burki was going.

The city took on an unsettled feeling. Nick passed an abandoned factory, windows broken and doors boarded up, and a deserted apartment building wrapped in colorful graffiti. He hadn't known Zurich hid such run-down neighborhoods. Clusters of kids, mostly in their teens, cropped up on the sidewalk. Some were headed in the opposite direction, and they stared at Nick, with his short hair and clean clothing, with undisguised contempt. The sidewalk grew dirtier, littered with empty candy wrappers, crushed soda cans, and a million cigarette butts. Soon, he wasn't able to walk without stepping in a pile of refuse.

"He has to be near the source," Yogi Bauer had said.

Nick slowed as he saw Caspar Burki cross a wooden footbridge that spanned the Limmat. A ragged assortment of lowlifes crowded the railing. Ill-shaven men wrapped in scarred leather coats, grubby women bundled in frayed sweaters. Burki hunched his shoulders, as if trying to make himself thinner, less obtrusive than he already was, and walked between them. Nick could hear the planks rattle under the old man's tread, and in their staccato stamp he felt the fluttering of his own hollow stomach. He knew where the bridge led. Letten. The city's public shooting gallery. Caspar Burki's source.

Nick crossed the bridge, working hard not to appear as anxious as he felt. A stubby, bearded man stepped in his path. "Hey, Johnny Handsome," the man said to Nick, "you sure you're in the right place? We don't give manicures around here." He smiled, revealing a dingy set of teeth, then stepped closer. "Fifty francs. That's as low as I'll go. You won't find any better. Not today. Not when there's a drought."

Nick jabbed two fingers into the man's chest, ready to take him down. "I'm already taken care of. Thanks anyway."

He retreated easily, lifting his arms in surrender. "When you come back, it'll be seventy francs. Don't say I didn't warn you."