Numbered Account

Mevlevi limped across the room. He was in terrible pain. "Not today, Mr. Wenker. I haven't the time." The leg was the least of his worries. Khan, while frantic, had been every bit justified in his worry. If Joseph was in fact an informant of the DEA, there was no end to what he might have told Thorne. Mevlevi must assume the worst. All his operations in Switzerland had been compromised. His relationship with Gino Makdisi. His control over Wolfgang Kaiser. And most important, his funding of the Adler Bank's takeover of USB.

Khamsin was in jeopardy.

"I'm not asking you," said a visibly agitated Wenker. "I'm telling you. Take a seat. I'll call down to reception. The hotel is very discreet."

Mevlevi ignored him. He stopped beside the coffee table and threw his phone into the briefcase. He looked back at the trail of bloody footprints he had left on the carpet. He was losing a great deal of blood. Damn you, Neumann.

"At least take the time to sign this last document." Wenker waved a form in the air. He looked nervous. Sweat was forming on his brow. "Civil service is obligatory. I must have a waiver."

"I don't think I will be needing a Swiss passport as soon as I had previously anticipated. Get out of my way. I'm leaving." Mevlevi secured his briefcase, then swept past Wenker and made his way down the short corridor toward the door. Blood sloshed from his Italian loafers.

"Dammit, Mevlevi," Wenker yelled in English. "I said you're not leaving this room." The lanky bureaucrat charged into the corridor, brandishing a compact pistol. "What the hell have you done to Nicholas Neumann?"

Mevlevi stared at the gun, then at the man. He had been right in suspecting he knew the voice. It belonged to Peter Sprecher, Neumann's former superior at USB. He didn't think a banker would shoot an unarmed man. He, on the other hand, would be fully justified in using his pistol. A case of self-defense. But before he could draw his gun, the banker was coming at him, an enraged expression drawn across his features. Sprecher slammed him against the wall, asking again what he had done with Neumann.

Mevlevi was momentarily stunned. He let his body go slack under the larger man's grip. "I told you, Mr. Sprecher. Neumann was taken ill. A cold. Now let me down. There's no reason we can't be civil about this."

"You're staying here until you tell me what you've done to Nick."

Mevlevi bucked his left knee into Sprecher's groin and brought his forehead down upon the man's nose. It was a neat trick. He'd learned it as a young stowaway on an outbound steamer to Bangkok.

Sprecher reeled and fell against the wall. The pistol dropped to the floor. Mevlevi deftly kicked it away while reaching into his jacket and withdrawing his own Beretta nine millimeter. Bad business to leave bodies behind in a five-star hotel. Changing the linens daily was one thing. Disposing of corpses, quite another. He picked up the briefcase in his left hand and leveled the gun in his right. But Sprecher appeared to have seen this coming. The hand that had been nursing his broken nose shot forward and arrested the pistol's downward path. The other hand latched on to the briefcase.

Mevlevi grunted and urged the pistol lower, stopping when its muzzle grazed Sprecher's shoulder. He pulled the trigger and a bullet blew Sprecher across the narrow corridor. His back slapped against the wall. His face registered the greatest surprise. Yet one hand remained fixed to the briefcase, forcing Mevlevi to advance a step. Mevlevi rammed the pistol into Sprecher's chest, feeling its snout jab the sternum.

Never had a man take three shots and survive, he had told Neumann.

He pulled the trigger twice more in rapid succession. Both times, the chamber clicked on empty. Out of shells. Mevlevi spun the gun in his hand, accepting the warm muzzle as a grip, and raised it high above his head. A few smacks on the cranium would do the trick nicely.

A sharp knock on the door froze his motion.

Sprecher, all too much alive, yelled, "I need help. Come in. Now."

The door flew open and Reto Feller barged in. He looked at the scene, muttering confusedly, "Sprecher? Where's the count? Does the Chairman know you're here?"

Mevlevi's eyes shifted from one man to the next. With a whiplash snarl, he crashed the pistol's steel butt across the chubby interloper's face. The interloper fell to the floor, slamming onto Mevlevi's injured leg.

Mevlevi yelped and tried to jump back, but Sprecher's stubborn hand remained in a death grip upon the briefcase handle.

"Bastard," mumbled Sprecher, who by now had crumpled onto the floor, arm seemingly glued to the briefcase. "You're staying here."

Retreat, Mevlevi heard a voice urge him. Get the hell out of here. To Brissago. To the main square. One hour. The situation was messy. A gunshot had been fired. A man had yelled for assistance. The door to the hallway remained open.

Retreat.