Numbered Account

Nick didn't answer right away. He kept his face passive, while inside him Thorne's bell clanged mercilessly. Account 549.617 RR. The Pasha.

"It does, doesn't it?" continued Thorne. "Has to be hard for a poor city boy to forget seeing so much money being moved around."

Impossible, if you really want to know, Nick replied silently. "I can't comment on either a client's identity or account activity. You know that. It's confidential information. Bank secrecy and all that."

"Account 549.617 RR," Thorne repeated. "I believe you fellas call him the Pasha."

"Never heard of him."

"Not so quick, Neumann. I'm asking you a favor. I'm as close to falling onto my knees as I'm ever going to get. I'd like to give you a chance to do some good."

Nick smiled inadvertently. He couldn't help it. A government agent doing good was in his experience the most fundamental of oxymorons. "I'm sorry. I can't help you."

"The Pasha is a bad man, Nick. His name is Ali Mevlevi. He's a Turk by birth but lives in a monumental private compound just outside of Beirut. He's an important player in the world's heroin trade. We estimate he's responsible for the importation into Europe and the former Soviet Union of about twenty tons of refined number four heroin- China White, in our lingo- each and every year. Twenty tons, Nick. This is no dilettante we're talking about. Mevlevi is the real thing."

Nick put up both hands in front of him, signaling Thorne to stop. "And so? If he is, what about it? How does that concern me or the bank? Haven't you gotten it through your skull that I am prohibited by law to discuss anything I do for USB with you, or with anybody else for that matter? I'm not admitting that this Pasha fellow is my client. I'm not saying he is, or he isn't. Doesn't matter. I could have Satan calling me twice a day and still I couldn't tell you."

Thorne just nodded his head and kept talking as if the sheer brunt of his evidence would eventually win over Nick's essentially good soul. It was a good strategy.

"Mevlevi's got himself a private army of about five hundred souls in his backyard. Trains them morning, noon, and night. And he's got a mountain of materiel on top of that. Russian T-72s, a few Hinds, plenty of rockets, mortars, you name it. A ready mobile battalion of mechanized infantry. That's what's got us worried. You remember what happened to our boys at the marine barracks in Beirut. Several hundred good men had their lives taken by a lone suicide bomber. Imagine what five hundred of them could do."

Nick leaned closer, the infantry officer in him cognizant of the havoc to be wreaked by such a force. Still, he did not speak.

"We have hard-copy proof of the transfers Mevlevi's been making to and from your bank for the last eighteen months. Irrefutable evidence that your bank is laundering his dough. Our problem, Nick, is that the Pasha has gone under. Three days after we put his name on your bank's internal account surveillance list, Mr. Ali Mevlevi has stopped making his weekly payments. We were expecting about forty-seven million dollars to hit his account on Thursday. Did it?"

Nick kept his mouth closed. There it was. No more whacking around whether the DEA had the right man or not. They even knew how much he was transferring day in, day out. Mr. Ali Mevlevi- the Pasha- was squarely in their sights. Time to line up the crosshairs. Time for First Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann to help them pull the trigger.

As if sensing Nick's impending acquiescence, Thorne leaned closer, and when he spoke his voice acquired a conspiratorial edge. "There's a human aspect to this case also. We have an agent on the inside. Someone we planted a long time ago. You know the trick?"

Nick nodded, seeing where Thorne was going. He could feel the mantle of responsibility the agent wanted to lay on his shoulders. A second ago he had been ready to sympathize with Thorne, maybe even help him. Now he hated him.

"Our man- let's call him Jester- has also disappeared. He used to call us twice a week to give us Mevlevi's weekly take. I'll let you guess which days. Yep. Monday and Thursday. Jester hasn't called, Nick. E.T. did not phone home. Hear what I'm saying?"

"I understand your dilemma," said Nick. "You've put a man into a hot situation. You're scared he may be compromised and now you can't get him out. In short, you've left him hanging on a two-penny string in a shitstorm and you want me to salvage your operation and save your man."

"That's about right."

"I appreciate the situation"- Nick paused for effect-"but I am not going to spend the next couple of years in a Swiss jail so that you can get your next promotion and maybe, just maybe, save the skin of your man."

"We will get you out of here. I give you my word."