Time passed slowly. DZ was deserted. Ten minutes ago, the room had been packed. Now it was empty. Where in the hell had everybody gone? He couldn’t wait here forever. Nick snuck a glance at Karl. The old coot was still staring right at him.
A few minutes later, the door creaked halfway open and then closed. False alarm. Nick blew out his breath anxiously. The last thing he needed was for Feller to start searching all over the place for him. He had to get back to the Fourth Floor. A single bead of sweat formed at the top of his spine. He could feel it roll the length of his back. He lifted his hand from the desk and saw that he had left a moist imprint. He wiped his palm on the seam of his pants.
At 11:05, a dark-haired man walked into the room. He was a clerk returning from the lavatory. Nick waited until he approached the service counter, then counted to three and extracted the transaction confirmations from the Pasha’s dossier. Sure not to raise his head, he brushed the unmailed letters into his lap. With his right hand, he removed the dozen surrogate confirmations from under his thigh and placed them into the dossier. Still keeping his head immobile above the dossier, he arranged the stolen letters into a neat stack and in one assured motion deposited them in the inside pocket of his jacket. Every letter slid in smoothly. Except one. One envelope protruded from his jacket for all the world to see. Nick flung his elbow in a wide arc and repeatedly jammed the envelope into his jacket. Three times he tried to stuff it into his jacket. On the fourth try the letter slipped in.
Nick waited for the alarm to sound. Karl must have noticed. One of the secretaries had to have seen his bungled burglary. Nothing happened. Daring a glance toward the counter, Nick saw that Karl was staring directly at him. Why hadn’t the old codger spotted his brazen theft?
Nick rearranged the Pasha’s dossier so that all was neat and orderly. As he approached the counter, he looked past Karl and saw that the young secretaries behind him were laughing. Nick returned his eyes to the keeper ofDokumentation Zentrale. He was leaning over the counter, his chin resting comfortably on his palm. His bifocals sat precariously at the end of his nose, and his eyes were closed.
Karl was snoring.
# # #
Nick left the office that evening at seven on the dot. He hurried up the Bahnhofstrasse to the Paradeplatz, hoping to catch the next tram. A light snow was falling, and tonight it made Zurich the prettiest city in the world. His step was light and energetic, buoyed by a sense of purpose he hadn’t known since his first day at the bank eight weeks ago. He passed the tram stop that would take him to his grim apartment in the USBPersonalhaus and crossed the square, arriving just in time to board the number two, heading in the opposite direction.
Nick chose a seat near the doorway and settled in for the short ride. He repeated Sylvia’s address in his head as the tram bucked and jostled its way up the Universitatstrasse. He hoped she wouldn’t mind his showing up unannounced—if she was even home. He had tried to call her earlier, but her assistant had said she would be out for the day. A rush of well-being came over him, and he smiled. He didn’t know why he felt so exhilarated. Maybe part of it was because he had pulled off his petty theft; maybe part because he was keeping his word, taking concrete steps to make amends for his poor conduct. Whatever the reason, he felt alive and vital—full of piss and vinegar, his father would have said—and he needed to see Sylvia. He needed to see someone who understood the foreign world into which he had delivered himself.
Nick arrived at the top of Frohburgstrasse twenty minutes later and caught his first glimpse of Sylvia’s apartment. A light was burning in her window. He had a hard time keeping himself from running the short distance to her doorway. Two weeks ago, he’d asked himself what it was about her that he found so attractive and he hadn’t been able to fashion an answer. Yet tonight, he knew it without thinking. She was the first person he’d ever met who kept a tighter rein on her life than he kept on his. For once, he could be the one to let go, to be a little crazy, even whimsical, and relax doing it, knowing that she was in control. It was a role he’d never played before, and he liked it. Then, of course, there was the sex. He didn’t like to admit it, but at first he had enjoyed the taboo implicit in seducing his older female superior. And he thought she did, too. When he was with her, the whole world stopped turning. Everything beyond their immediate periphery ceased to exist. She made him feel complete.
Nick reached the entry to her apartment and pressed the call button. He prayed Sylvia would be at home. He felt too good to be left alone on a Friday night. He tapped his foot nervously.Come on, answer, he said to himself.Open the goddamned door. He pressed the buzzer again, and his spirits began to fade. He took a step back. A voice came from the intercom. “Who is it?”
Nick felt his heart skip a beat. He was nervous and excited at the same time. “It’s Nick. Let me in.”
“Nick? Are you all right?”
He laughed. She was probably wondering if he was as frazzled as he’d been that Friday night not so long past. “Yes, of course.”
The door buzzed and he rushed inside the apartment. He took the stairs two at a time, forgetting all about his sore knee. He just wanted to see Sylvia. She was waiting for him at the door as he came down the final few stairs. She was wearing a white terry-cloth bathrobe, toweling her hair dry. He stopped for a second to stare at her. Her skin was flushed from hot water. Her face was damp and moist. He walked slowly the last few steps, feeling like he needed her more than he’d needed anyone else before in his life. Not knowing why and not caring.
“I was just in the bath. You sur—”
Nick slid an arm inside her bathrobe and drew her toward him. He kissed her firm and hard on the lips. She resisted, trying to wedge a hand in between them. He wrapped his other arm around her back and held her tighter. She relaxed, allowing her head to fall back and opening her mouth to taste him. She moaned. He closed his eyes and drifted to a warm place.
Nick released her and they stepped into the apartment. He shut the door and pulled back to stare into her soft brown eyes. He saw a flicker somewhere inside them, and he knew she was asking herself what he was doing there, why he had kissed her like that. He expected her to speak, maybe even to tell him to get out, but instead she remained silent, standing inches away from him. He could feel the warmth of her body and her slow, heavy breathing. She raised a finger to his lips and brushed it slowly across them. He grew aroused. She turned and led him by the hand down the corridor and into her bedroom. She pushed him down onto the bed and peeled the bathrobe back from her shoulders, allowing it to drop to the floor. He looked at her nude body. He longed to run his hand along every curve, wanted to brush his lips across her stomach and then lower. He lifted his hands and cupped her breasts, running a thumb around her nipples until they hardened. Her breathing slowed and grew shallow. She reached down and touched him, rubbing her hand back and forth over the swelling in his trousers. Then she lowered herself to her knees, and ran her face back and forth across him. She pushed his jacket from his shoulders, then anxiously unbuckled his belt and pulled down his trousers. She caressed him for a moment, her tongue tasting him, then took him into her mouth.
Nick watched her, his pleasure forcing his hips off the bed. He wanted her to take more of him, all of him. He wanted to be inside her, to hold her next to him, to share the same breath.
Sylvia released him and climbed onto the bed. She straddled him, guiding him slowly into her, taking him out, then bringing him in deeper. Her eyes were closed and she moaned each time he touched her. Nick held on to the bed, balling up the sheets in the palms of his hands. He struggled to breathe slower, to feel less. Finally, she lowered herself onto him and shuddered. Nick sat up and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her ravenously. Her mouth was hot and wet with desire. His entire body stiffened, and when he could hold back no longer, he let himself go, arching his back and thrusting himself deep into her. She lowered her head to her chest and her body quaked, an uneven humming drifting from her mouth. Her tremors
increased and she laid both hands on his chest, breathing heavily. Then suddenly her body relaxed. She exhaled loudly, then fell onto the bed.
Sylvia lay down beside him. After a while her breathing calmed and she laughed huskily. She raised herself on an elbow and ran a cool nail down his chest. “Better get some rest, Tiger. We have the whole weekend to get through.”
CHAPTER
39
Sterling Thorne could not erase the grin from his face. He knew he must look like an idiot, smiling and laughing like a six-year-old boy, but he couldn’t help it. He was reading the text of the charges that had been filed against First Lieutenant Nicholas Neumann USMCR for the first time in its entirety. And he was enjoying it. One section was of particular interest, and this he read again and again.
“. . . whereby defendant did willfully and with malice aforethought batter the plaintiff. Said plaintiff did suffer severe bruising to the lower back and hip, two ruptured disks at the 14th and 15th vertebrae, a class-one subdural hematoma, gross swelling of the testicles and concomitant edema.”
That last one made Thorne fidget in his chair.“Gross swelling of the testicles and concomitant edema.” Old Jack Keely had got himself a thorough going-over; his back was half broken, his skull near fractured, and worst, his balls had been throttled so hard they were swollen the size of grapefruits. Not only that, the fucker’scojones were leaking.
Thorne flipped to the next page, and then back again. Nowhere in the file did it specify the reason for the attack. Nowhere did it say what had gotten Neumann so riled at this man Keely, whom the record listed as a “civilian defense contractor.” Read “spook,” Thorne corrected.
Earlier in the day he had finally received the full copy of Neumann’s military personnel file. A buddy had FedExed it over from Headquarters Marine Corps in D.C. The same guy had faxed him a copy of Neumann’s discharge and the final ruling of the board of inquiry that he’d used to set the kid running. Frankly speaking, Thorne wished he’d gotten his eyes on the whole dossier before he’d started putting pressure on the kid. The last thing he needed was a list of injuries like those suffered by Mr. Jack Keely.
Thorne closed the file. Once more he ran the highlights through his head. Neumann had zoomed through OCS, finishing as honor graduate. During Basic School, he had maxed every physical fitness test he’d taken and gotten himself a billet to U.S. Army Ranger school. He’d finished the course, naturally, and earned his tabs. Not at the top this time, but in a class that boasted a seventy percent attrition rate, just finishing the damn thing in one piece was impressive. Next came an assignment to active duty at Camp Pendleton as executive officer of an infantry platoon. That lasted a year. Then he disappeared. No word on his actions for three years. No fitness reports, no senior officer appraisals, no requests for transfer, no nothing. Just the board of inquiry’s summary and a copy of his separation papers. Dishonorable discharge. No wonder the kid came overseas. Probably couldn’t get a job in the States with that monkey on his back.
Thorne grinned in anticipation. Once Wolfgang Kaiser read this report, he’d be too frightened for his physical safety to keep Neumann working by his side. Who cared about the dishonorable discharge? It paled in comparison to Neumann’s capacity to inflict bodily injury. In theory, Thorne had Nick by the short and curlies. All he had to do was tighten his grip. With it, Neumann could be cajoled, convinced, coerced, whatever, into helping him nail Ali Mevlevi. Or could he? Thorne was beginning to realize that Neumann was just as stubborn as he was. A frontal assault might not work.
A door behind him swung open and clattered against the wall.
“Sterling Thorne, good evening,” said Terry Strait. “Or should I say good morning, seeing as how it’s after midnight.” He stood with his hands on his hips and a monstrous shit-eating grin on his face.
Thorne swung around in his chair and stared at the beaming figure in the doorway. Didn’t the guy know how to knock? “Hello, Terry. Back so soon?”
“Afraid so. Mission accomplished.”
“And what mission might that be? To burrow your nose as far into the ambassador’s snatch as possible before she paws you away?”
“She sends you her best regards too.” Strait walked in and sat himself down on Thorne’s desk. “We enjoyed a lively evening together. A glass of sherry at the embassy, dinner at the Bellevue Palace. We were joined by one of our Swiss counterparts, Franz Studer.”
“Counterpart, my ass. That man is the tightest-lipped, slowest-moving prosecutor I have ever come across.”
“Slow moving? Maybe. Tight-lipped?” Strait shook his head. “You must not know him very well. Tonight, Mr. Studer was positively gabby. In fact, he couldn’tstop talking.”
“No doubt you plan on passing on his words of wisdom?”
“You were his favorite topic of conversation. He had a few good yarns up his sleeve. An unannounced visit to the Chairman of the United Swiss Bank. Hijacking an elevator, brutalizing a secretary, and then attempting to blackmail Wolfgang Kaiser. He felt strongly that this was a violation of the accord between his government and ours. Madam Ambassador was in full agreement.”
Thorne leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes. Best let the good reverend have his moment in the pulpit. “Go on.”
“Was that your intention? To expose his son’s death from an overdose of heroin unless he gave up Ali Mevlevi? And I thought you didn’t likeme.”
“To be honest, I don’t.”
Strait squinted incredulously. “What is wrong with you? Are you at war with the entire world?”
Thorne laughed. “You just might have a point there. Maybe I am at that.”
Strait laughed, too. “I hope you won’t mind too much, but since Madam Ambassador’s spirits were already flagging and the evening more or less ruined, I couldn’t resist firing a couple broadsides of my own. The best time to finish a man off is when he’s down on his knees and begging. No mercy. Right, Thorne? Isn’t that one of your maxims?”
“Well, Terry, you got me horny with anticipation. I’m sitting here all hot and bothered. So either fuck me or tuck that big dick back into your pants and get the hell out of here.”
“With pleasure. I think I’ll opt for the former choice, so stand up and bend over. That is the way you country boys like it, isn’t it?”
Thorne jumped from his chair and thrust an open hand at Strait’s throat.
Strait deflected the outstretched arm and hopped away from the desk. He slid a chair between himself and the irate agent. “Just so we’re clear on things, Thorne, let me recite the charges. One, strong-arming one of this country’s most respected businessmen. Two, convincing Studer to place Mevlevi’s account number on the USB surveillance list without the approval of the director. And three, something else I learned yesterday, harassing a U.S. citizen on foreign soil. A Mr. Nicholas Neumann.”
The name stopped Thorne in his tracks. He hadn’t figured on the kid being a tattler.
Strait said, “I have it on good authority that twice you’ve stopped and harassed this individual with the sole intent of gathering information on Ali Mevlevi.”
“Whose authority is that? Did Neumann call you up and cry on your shoulder?”
Strait looked surprised. “Neumann? Of course not. The kid is probably scared stiff. You need to look a little closer to home.” He offered Thorne a smug smile. “Your driver, Agent Wadkins. Next time, make sure you choose your accomplices with greater care. Is it a surprise to learn that your fellow agents don’t share your zeal for flouting the laws of the country in which you’re stationed? That they don’t like disobeying orders?”
Thorne was relieved that Neumann hadn’t ratted him out. The kid represented his last chance at nailing Mevlevi. As for Wadkins, he’d kick his pansy ass later. “Is that what this is about? Breaking a few rules to get a job done?”
“No, Sterling. This is about Eastern Lightning. We won’t let you put the operation into more danger than you already have.”
�
��More danger?” Thorne felt like falling to his knees and clawing the ground. These boys would never understand what it took to get a job done. “It seems to me I am the only man trying to save this op. You’re ready to sit on your hands for the next six months praying that someday you’ll receive a speck of information about his shipments.”
“And you’re ready to flush all our work down the toilet so you can nab a few guns and crow about stopping the next Colonel Qadhafi. This is about drugs, Sterling, not arms, and it’s our opinion that you’re out of control. This operation does not belong exclusively to you. You don’t have the patience necessary to see it out.”
“Patience?” cried Thorne, as if he possessed carloads of the stuff. “Bullshit. I’m a realist. The only one for miles around.”
“We haven’t heard from Jester for ten days. If he’s been compromised, if he’s dead—” Strait took a breath, “and I pray to the Lord that is not the case—it is because of you and you alone.”
“Jester is my agent. I’ve run him since he went in eighteen months ago. Any decision I make, he knows about. He can cover his ass when the time comes.”
“Like Mr. Becker covered his?”
Thorne bit his lip. Only the sharp pain kept him from beating the living hell out of Terry Strait. “He was only doing what his conscience told him.”
Strait smiled smugly. “Believe that if you want to. From this moment onward, Eastern Lightning is officially my baby. Per the director’s instructions. Not only will I handle communications with Jester, I’ll be running the whole show.” He withdrew an envelope from his jacket and tossed it onto the desk beside Thorne. “From now on we’re doing things my way. If you’re caught talking to Neumann or anyone else at USB, you’re getting a one-way ticket back to the States. Destination of your choice ’cause you’re history.”
Numbered Account Page 34