Numbered Account

Tomorrow morning Klaus Konig would announce his cash bid for USB: 2.8 billion dollars for the sixty-six percent of USB he didn't yet control. Tuesday, at USB's general assembly, Ott would announce his support for the Adler Bank's bid. He would call for the immediate resignation of Wolfgang Kaiser, and the executive board would support him. Each board member held a hefty packet of USB shares. No one could turn down the huge premium offered by the Adler Bank. For his loyalty (or his betrayal, depending from which side one looked at it), Ott would be installed at the helm of the newly consolidated bank: USB-Adler. Day-to-day operations would be handled by Von Graffenried. Zwicki and Faris would share the equities department. Klaus Konig would retain the nominal position of president, though his real tasks would be confined to fashioning the combined banks' investment strategy. The man was much too impulsive to head a universal Swiss bank. If he didn't like it, he could have a heart-to-heart with Khan.

Over time, new employees would be brought in to fill key posts: global treasury operations, capital markets, compliance. Men of Faris's ilk. Men of Mevlevi's choosing. New appointments would be made to the executive board. The combined assets of the United Swiss Bank and the Adler Bank would be his. Over seventy billion dollars at his disposal.

The thought brought a broad smile to Ali Mevlevi's face, and everyone around him smiled too. Ott, Zwicki, Faris, Von Graffenried. Even Khan.

Mevlevi would not abuse his power. At least not for a while. But there were so many good uses to which he could put the bank. Corporate loans to worthy companies in Lebanon, shoring up the Jordani dinar, slipping a few hundred million to his friend Hussein in Iraq. Khamsin was only the first. But in his heart it was the most important.

Mevlevi excused himself and stepped outside to place a call to his operational headquarters at his compound near Beirut. He waited while he was patched through to General Marchenko.

"Da? Mr. Mevlevi?"

"General Marchenko, I'm calling to inform you that everything is proceeding according to plan on this end. You will have your money no later than noon tomorrow. The baby must be ready to travel at that time. Lieutenant Ivlov's attack is to begin simultaneously."

"Understood. Once I have received confirmation of the transfer, it will be only a matter of seconds before the baby can be airborne. I look forward to hearing from you."

"Twelve o'clock, Marchenko. Not a minute later."

Mevlevi folded the cellular phone and put it in his pocket. He breathed in the chill night air, enjoying its bite. He felt more alive than ever before.

Tomorrow, the Khamsin would blow.

CHAPTER 61

Nick left Sylvia's apartment at five-thirty in the morning. She accompanied him to the door and sleep still in her eyes, made him promise to take care of himself. He brushed off the concern in her voice, preferring not to wonder if this might be the last time he'd see her. He kissed her, then buttoned up his coat and set off down the steep hill toward Universitatstrasse. Outside the temperature was well below freezing. The sky was as dark as ink. He caught the first tram of the day and arrived at the Personalhaus at five past six. He ran up a flight of terrazzo stairs to the first floor and hurried to his apartment. Inserting the key, he found the door to be unlocked. He pushed it open slowly.

The apartment was a shambles. A thorough hand had ransacked the place.

The desk was overturned. Annual reports and assorted papers were strewn across the floor. The closet was open, every suit chucked onto the carpet. The dresser drawers had been emptied, then discarded. Shirts, sweaters, and socks were everywhere. His bed rested on its side, the worn mattress lying askew, sheets and blankets tangled up in each other. The bathroom was no better. The mirror on the medicine cabinet was shattered, the tile floor littered with broken glass.

Nick saw all of this in a moment.

And then he spotted his holster. It lay in the far corner of the room cached beside the bookshelves. A gleaming black leather triangle. Empty. Side arm missing.

Nick stepped inside the apartment and closed the door behind him. Calmly, he began sorting through his clothing, hoping to feel the hard plane of his gun's rectangular snout or the stubble of its crosshatched grip. Nothing. He picked up a T-shirt here, a sweater there, praying to catch a glimpse of the dull blue-black sheen of the Colt Commander. Nothing. He grew frantic. He shuffled around the apartment, running his hands along the floor. He lifted the mattress and threw it across the room. He upended the bed frame. Nothing. Shit!