Numbered Account

"Thanks for your help, Neumann, but you're better off getting yourself patched up." Thorne brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth. "We've got word on where Mevlevi is heading. I'll be downstairs in a minute. Get us a couple squad cars as escort. Some podunk town called Porto Ceresio. Call the local authorities. Tell them we're heading over. Ya hear?"

CHAPTER 67

Ali Mevlevi sat in the backseat of a speeding taxi, furious about the loss of his briefcase. It held everything: his agenda containing all his banking information- accounts, code words, phone numbers; a copy of the weaponry he had purchased from Marchenko; and most important, his cellular phone. He had always liked to think of himself as being calm in the face of danger, but now he knew that was not the case. He was a coward. Why else had he lived his life holed up in a fortified compound in a lawless land? Why else hadn't he chased after Neumann and made sure that he was dead? Why else had he fled the hotel before he wrested the briefcase from that maniac Sprecher's grip? Because he was afraid, that's why.

You're a coward, Ali. For once, he did not try to deny it.

Mevlevi shifted in his seat and asked the taxi driver how much farther to Brissago. The driver said, "Almost there." He'd been saying the same thing for half an hour now. Mevlevi looked out the window. The foothills of the Tessin rose on either side of him. The landscape was a moribund green, similar to that of the Shouf Mountains near his home in Lebanon. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of the lake off to his left. The blue water consoled him. Italy lay on the other side.

Mevlevi sat up straighter and grimaced with pain. His left leg felt as if it were on fire. He lifted his pant leg and looked at the wound. The gash was only three inches long, but he'd been cut deeply, almost to the bone. The blood had tried unsuccessfully to coagulate. He had been moving around too much, first struggling with Peter Sprecher, then running from the hotel to a taxi stand a quarter of a mile up the road. Now the wound had suppurated. The blood had turned a chocolate black and was oozing down his leg.

Damn the leg! Concentrate on how to get yourself out of this mess!

Mevlevi considered what he must do once he reached Brissago. He knew he didn't have much time. The swarm of policemen outside the hotel made clear the involvement of the Swiss authorities. His accounts would be frozen in a day or two. An international arrest warrant bearing his name would be issued any minute. Kaiser was probably already in jail. Who knew what he would tell the authorities?

A curious sense of detachment descended over him. The more he thought about his situation, the freer he felt. He would lose his investment in the Adler Bank as well as his shares at USB and the twenty million in cash he had deposited there only Friday. He was ruined financially. That much was patently clear. He heard his father's voice telling him that if a man had religion he could never be bankrupt; that Allah's love made every man rich. And for the first time in his life, he truly believed it.

Mevlevi had only one thing left to him. The successful implementation of Khamsin.

He drew a deep breath and calmed himself. Ott had promised to credit his account at USB with eight hundred million francs this morning before noon. If he could get the money wired to Marchenko before word of his own escape and Kaiser's arrest leaked out, he could make sure he left the world with at least one lasting legacy. The destruction of the settlement of Ariel. The extermination of fifteen thousand arrogant Jews.

Mevlevi checked his watch. It was twenty minutes before twelve. He set forth in his mind the calls he would have to make. It would be more difficult without his agenda. He would have to improvise. He knew Ott's number at USB. He knew the number of his own communications facility in Lebanon. He just needed the time to make two phone calls.

Mevlevi looked out his window. Despite the terrible pain in his leg, he smiled.

Khamsin will live!

***

Nick raced the Ford along the winding road. He squeezed the steering wheel and asked himself where the hell Brissago was. The map he'd found in the glove compartment gave the distance as forty kilometers. He'd been driving for over half an hour. He should be there by now. He held the car tight into a sharp curve. The wheels complained and the engine revved. He almost missed the white sign that flashed past on his right: "Brissago" with an arrow pointing to the left.

Nick took the next turnoff. The road narrowed and descended a steep hill before coming to Lago Maggiore. He rolled down the window and let in a fresh lake breeze. The air was almost warm; the day, peaceful. Fitting, he thought. It matched the reserve that had come over him since leaving the hotel in Lugano. He allowed himself no feelings for Sylvia, or for himself. He did not think of his father. He was powered by a single emotion. A pure hatred for Ali Mevlevi.