Numbered Account

He drew deeply from the cigarette, allowing the acrid smoke to fill his lungs, feeling its potent nicotine invigorate him. He saw before him the rugged hills and salt plains of Cappadocia. He envisioned his father sitting at the head of the rough wooden table that had dominated the living area, serving as workbench, conjugal bed, and on rare occasion, a formal surface for feasting and celebration. His father would be wearing the tall red fez he so treasured. His elder brother, Saleem, too. Dervishes, both of them. Mystics.

Mevlevi remembered their twirling and spinning, their high-pitched chanting, the hems of their skirts bouncing higher as their worship grew more impassioned. He saw their heads tilt back and watched their jaws fall as they cried out to the prophet. He heard their fevered voices urging their fellow Dervs into a state of ecstatic union with the prophet.

For years, his father had implored him to return home. "You are a rich man," he said. "Turn your heart to Allah. Share your family's love." And for years, Mevlevi had laughed at the notion. His heart had turned away from Allah's love. He had abandoned the religion of his father. Yet, the Almighty had not abandoned him. One day his father wrote to him, claiming he had been commanded by the prophet to bring his second son back to Islam. The note included a short verse, and its words had pierced a soul Mevlevi thought long dead.

Come come, whoever you are,
Wanderer, idolater, worshiper of fire,
Come even though you have broken
your vows a thousand times,
Ours is not a caravan of despair.

Mevlevi had dwelled upon the words. The wealth of Croesus was his. He was master of a small empire. Numbered accounts at a dozen banks across Europe sheltered his money. But what had such material success brought him? The same despair, worry, and indirection quoted in the sacred verse.

With each passing day, his mistrust of his fellow man grew. Man was a putrid creature rarely able to govern his lesser desires, concerned only with acquiring money, power, and position. Interested in fulfilling his greed, sating his lust, and dominating all that surrounded him. Each time Ali Mevlevi regarded himself in the mirror he saw a king among such foul creatures. And it made him sick.

Only his identity as a Muslim could provide solace.

Recalling the moment of his awakening, Ali Mevlevi enjoyed a tremor of inspiration. His body was filled with an uncompromising love for the Almighty and a matching contempt for his own earthly ambitions. To what good could he put his wealth? To what use could he bring his experience? Allah alone provided the answer. To the good of Islam. To the greater glory of Muhammad. To the advancement of his people's cause.

Now, on the verge of proving to his father and his brothers that he was capable of showering Allah with a greater glory than they, with their twirling steps and mystic chants, Mevlevi had unearthed a spy, an enemy of God's will who threatened to destroy all he had worked for these past years.

An enemy of Khamsin.

Mevlevi reminded himself that his inquiries must center on those with access to the precise details of his financial transactions. It could not be someone in Zurich. Neither Cerruti, nor Sprecher, nor Neumann could possibly have known the amount of the transfer before it reached the bank. But that the amount was known beforehand was undisputed. His contacts in Zurich had been most specific. A Mr. Sterling Thorne of the United States DEA had been looking for a transfer of forty-seven million dollars.

The spy, therefore, must be nestled close by. The light of inquiry must be directed inside his compound. Who was permitted free passage through his household? Who might overhear a conversation or gain access to his most private documents? Only two persons came to mind: Joseph and Lina. But why would either betray him? What could motivate his lover and his closest manservant to seek his demise?

Mevlevi burst into laughter at his own naivete. Money, of course. Moral indignation had fled this corner of Western civilization years ago. Only financial gain remained as a plausible motive. And if for financial gain, who was the Caiaphas paying Judas his thirty pieces of silver?

Soon, he would find out. Perhaps even today.

Mevlevi settled into the soft leather seat of his automobile for the remaining drive to Mieh-Mieh. There he would find Abu Abu and discuss with him in a most businesslike manner the details of Joseph's recruitment. His aide's brilliant scar had lost its luster of incorruptibility.

The gleaming black sedan passed Tyre, then Sidon, and after forty-five minutes, the village of Samurad, where it left the highway and descended a gravel road toward a sprawling settlement of whitewashed brick and mud buildings two kilometers distant: Mieh-Mieh.