Numbered Account

Nick maintained a light hold on the armrest while looking out the window. The bleak morning had taken on a dusky gloom. He was dismayed to see tufted gray clouds gathering. Snow wasn't far off. He shifted his gaze down the mountain and spotted a single car climbing the tortuous road far below them. It moved with surprising speed, accelerating rapidly along the short straightaways before braking to negotiate the unforgiving hairpin turns. So they weren't the only ones crazy enough to try the pass. He turned his head toward Mevlevi. The frequent sharp turns and constant acceleration and deceleration had turned his complexion yellow. His eyes were focused on the passing landscape. His window was rolled down a crack to allow a stream of freezing air to soothe his confused equilibrium.

Mevlevi leaned forward in his seat and asked the driver, "How much farther to the top?"

"Five minutes," the driver replied. "Almost there. Don't worry. This storm won't hit for a while."

Yet, no sooner had the words escaped the chauffeur's lips than the Mercedes entered a dense cloud bank. Visibility fell from five hundred feet to twenty in the snap of a finger. The car braked sharply.

"Scheisse," whispered the chauffeur in a voice loud enough to alarm his passengers, or at least Nick. The Pasha, however, appeared strangely pleased. The jaundiced tint to his skin had vanished instantly. He tilted his head against the headrest and looked over at Nick.

"Willful disobedience," he stated, as if throwing out a topic for discussion. "It runs in your family, doesn't it? The urge to tell everyone around you to piss off. Do things your own way. You should have made a career on my side of the fence."

Nick smirked. So now even drug dealers had careers? "I like it on my side," he said.

The Pasha smiled broadly. "I have it on good authority that you've developed quite an interest in the bank's files. Mine for one. And others. Files containing information about your father's work at the bank. Monthly activity reports, I believe they are called. Am I correct? Did you need them to corroborate those agendas of his?"

Time stopped. The car no longer moved.

For a moment Nick wondered if he would ever draw another breath. And in that moment, his mind exploded with a thousand questions. Who had told Mevlevi he had been looking at his father's files? Who had mentioned his interest in the file for account 549.617 RR? How did Mevlevi know about the agendas? And why was he confronting Nick now?

Nick told himself to pay the questions no mind, that his sole task was to deliver the Pasha to the Hotel Olivella au Lac where Mr. Yves-Andre Wenker, an underpaid government functionary, would interview him for an hour about why he wished to obtain Swiss citizenship. Get the Pasha to the hotel and the rest of the plan would take care of itself. But the questions remained, cutting into his mind like a dull razor.

"Alexander Neumann," mused Mevlevi. "I knew the man. But I understand you know all that. Did your precious activity reports tell you why he was murdered?"

Nick shot up in his seat. He felt the K-Bar chafing his side. Keep your mouth shut, he wanted to shout. You have no idea how badly I can hurt you. Give me an excuse. Please. Another voice ordered him to remain calm. Let it bounce off of you, it said. He's testing you, seeing what you know. It's all a trick. It can't be Sylvia who told him.

"Shot, wasn't he? Do the reports tell you if it was a single bullet that did the trick, or was it several? Three shots, perhaps? I find that to be the most effective. Never seen a man survive who took three bullets to the chest. Use dumdums. They'll tear his heart out."

Nick only half heard the words. A geyser of anger spurted through his body. His neck flushed and his hands tingled. He saw the world through a crimson veneer. And all the while the K-Bar remained taped beneath his arm, crying, "Use me. End it quickly. Kill him."

He drew back his right arm to deliver a sharp jab to Mevlevi's chin but stopped halfway there. Mevlevi held a silver nine-millimeter pistol in his hand and it was pointed at Nick's heart. He was smiling.

***

Sylvia Schon marched into the Chairman's anteroom and presented herself to Rita Sutter.

"Where is he?" Sylvia demanded. "I have to see him right away."

Rita Sutter glanced up sharply from her typing. "Didn't you pay the slightest attention to what I told you on the phone? I informed you clearly that the Chairman will not be back until mid-afternoon. Until then, he cannot be disturbed."

"He must be disturbed," Sylvia said petulantly. "If you plan on coming to work tomorrow for the same man, I have to speak with him."

Rita Sutter rolled her chair back from her desk and removed her reading glasses. "Calm yourself. The office of the Chairman is no place for hysterics. Or threats."

Sylvia pounded the desk with her fist. She was at her wit's end. "Give me his phone number now. If you care about him or about the bank, you'll tell me where he is."