Numbered Account

Sylvia spun away from Nick, walking to the picture window that led onto her terrace. "I don't believe you," she said stubbornly.

"Who do you think killed my father?" Nick argued bitterly. "It was Ali Mevlevi. Only then he called himself Allen Soufi, just like now he's calling himself Allen Malvinas. Maybe Kaiser didn't pull the trigger, but he knew what was going on. He tried his best to force my father into working for Mevlevi, and when my father refused, he didn't do a damn thing to stop Mevlevi from killing him. You saw the activity reports. 'Continue business with Soufi. Do not end relations.' Why didn't Kaiser warn my father? They grew up on the same street, for Christ's sake. They'd known each other their entire lives! Why didn't Kaiser do anything?"

Nick stopped speaking as a terrible realization flooded his senses. He'd known all along why Kaiser hadn't done anything. He'd known since Marco Cerruti had talked about the competition between the two men; since Rita Sutter had mused whether if his father were alive today she might be working for him instead of Wolfgang Kaiser; since bearing witness to Armin Schweitzer's unflagging jealousy of Nick's elevated position inside the Emperor's Lair. Alexander Neumann was the only man who could keep Wolfgang Kaiser from ascending to the chairmanship of the United Swiss Bank. It was about a job. Kaiser had simply done nothing to prevent the elimination of his fiercest rival. It was all just business.

"Those are terrible accusations," said Sylvia. She looked crestfallen, as if she had been the one charged with the crimes.

"It's the truth," Nick railed, buoyed by the certainty that he had forged the last link of a twisted and sordid chain. "And I'm going to make both of them pay for it." He was sick of everyone's offended sensibilities, sick of Sprecher's willful naivete and of Sylvia's stubborn loyalty to the bank. His father had died to assure another man's position. The banality of it nauseated him.

Sylvia put her arms around Nick and drew herself close to him. "Don't do anything crazy. Don't get yourself in trouble."

In trouble? He already was in trouble. More trouble than he'd known in his entire life. Now he had to get out of it.

"Tomorrow morning I'm driving to the Tessin with Mevlevi. I'm going to…" Nick hesitated. He had an urge to tell Sylvia his entire plan, to lay it out for her and pray that she would think it viable, maybe even give him her blessing. But her opinion wouldn't change things one way or the other. Grudgingly, he acknowledged the real reason that prevented him from revealing his scheme. The specter of too many unanswered questions kept tapping his shoulder, taunting him with her guilt. No matter how much he wanted to tell her, he couldn't.

"And I'm going to put an end to this business," he said simply. "If Mevlevi escapes tomorrow, you can measure the rest of my life on a stopwatch." Along with my ashes.

Later, Nick and Sylvia walked through the forest that ran from her back door. A new moon sat high in the northern sky. A carpet of snow glowed in the faint light. Neither of them spoke, the dry crunch of the snow fitting punctuation to their silent conversation.

That night, he stayed with Sylvia. He held her in his arms and together they warmed the oversize bed. They made love slowly and with great care. He moved with her and she with him, each devoted only to the other. Lying so close to her body, the magic of their shared intimacy filling the room, Nick knew his feelings were undiminished by his lingering suspicions. He told himself that love was about caring for another person without ever really knowing all of them. But deep down he wondered if this was just an excuse, and if he was staying with Sylvia only to spite Anna.

Nick realized then that there was no point thinking any longer about the past or the future. All he had to do was get to the other side of tomorrow alive. Beyond that he didn't know. And so for one night, he let himself go.

CHAPTER 60

"Bring us another bottle," Wolfgang Kaiser ordered, grimacing at the ferric aftertaste. "This wine has turned. Tastes like piss and vinegar."

The Kunststube sommelier inclined his head in mute query and poured a sample of the Corton-Charlemagne 1975 into his sterling tasting cup. He sipped the wine, swishing it across his palate, then swallowing it. "I do not share Monsieur's opinion. It is rare for a Corton to turn. Rarer still for two bottles of different vintage. I beg Monsieur to clean his palate with some fresh bread and try the wine again."

"Balls!" retorted Kaiser after sipping the wine. "Tastes like it was poured from the barrel of a gun. Bring us another." He was drunk and he knew it. Scotch never sat well with him, and he had finished two straight up while waiting for Mevlevi to show his face. The gall! Disappearing from his hotel for the entire weekend. Telephoning on a Sunday afternoon to suggest a private dinner just the two of them, then arriving an hour late.