Nick had arranged the meeting at the Chairman’s request but had no interest in attending. The same day he had spent hours cajoling Eberhard Senn, the Count Languenjoux, into moving his discussions with the Chairman forward by at least one day. The count had finally been won over. Monday at eleven would be fine, but only if the meeting could take place at the small hotel he owned on the Lake of Lugano where he made his winter residence. Kaiser agreed, saying that Senn’s six percent were easily worth the three-hour drive to the Tessin. Nick had wanted to be in on the meeting. The Chairman, however, was intractable. “Reto Feller will accompany me in your place. You will escort Mr. Mevlevi. You’ve earned his trust.”
Nick climbed into the limousine, ruing the day he’d taken the actions that had earned him that trust. It didn’t take a genius to know why Kaiser could never escort Mevlevi anywhere. Thorne’s accusations were true. Every one of them.
“First, we go to Zug,” announced Mevlevi. “International Fiduciary Trust, Grutstrasse 67.”
“Grutstrasse 67, Zug,” Nick repeated to the chauffeur.
The limousine set off. Nick didn’t feel like indulging in the usual pleasantries. He’d be damned if he’d kiss the ass of a drug smuggler. Mevlevi remained quiet. For the most part, he kept his eyes directed out the window. Every so often Nick would catch the Pasha staring at him, not unkindly, but from a distance, and he knew he was being sized up. Mevlevi would offer a faint smile and avert his gaze.
The limousine sped through the Sihl valley. The road wound steadily uphill through an endless pine forest. Mevlevi tapped Nick on the knee. “Have you seen Mr. Thorne lately?”
Nick looked him squarely in the eye. He had nothing to hide. “Monday.”
“Ah,” said Mevlevi, nodding his head contentedly, as if they were discussing an old friend. “Monday.”
Nick glanced at Mevlevi, turning the simple question over in his mind, allowing its myriad implications to confirm what he should have known weeks ago. A man like Mevlevi wouldn’t be satisfied keeping an eye only on Thorne. He’d want to know what Nick was up to also. An American in Switzerland. A former United States marine. No matter what Nick had done on his behalf, he hardly merited his trust. And then Nick knew why Mevlevi had really asked the question. Thorne wasn’t the only one being followed. He belonged in the same boat himself. Mevlevi had sent the dapper man in the mountain guide’s hat. Mevlevi had ordered his apartment searched. Mevlevi had been watching him the entire time.
# # #
The International Fiduciary Trust was housed on the third and fourth floors of a modest building in downtown Zug. A simple gold nameplate above the doorbell indicated the businesses housed here. Nick pressed the buzzer, and the door swung open immediately. They were expected.
A bent stick of a woman in her late forties asked them to come in and led them to a conference room overlooking the Zugersee. Two bottles of Passugger sat on the table. A glass and coaster, an ashtray, a tablet of paper, and two pens had been placed in front of every chair. The woman offered coffee. Both men accepted. Nick had little idea as to the subject of the meeting. He would sit and listen. Kaiser’s yes-man.
A polite knock and the door opened. Two men entered. The first, tall and jowly with a ruddy complexion. The second, short, thin, and bald, except for a strand of black hair twirled on top of his head like a sticky bun.
“Affentranger,” announced the heavy-set fellow. He approached first Nick and then Mevlevi, offering each a business card and a handshake.
“Fuchs,” said the smaller man, following his partner’s example.
Mevlevi began speaking as soon as all four men were seated around the table. “Gentlemen, it’s a pleasure for me to work with you again. A few years ago I worked with your associate, Mr. Schmied. He was of great assistance in opening a number of corporations for me in the Netherlands Antilles. A sharp man with figures. I trust he’s still with you. Perhaps I could say hello?”
Affentranger and Fuchs exchanged concerned glances.
“Mr. Schmied died three years ago,” said Affentranger, the jowly one.
“Drowned while on vacation,” explained Fuchs, the runt.
“No . . .” Mevlevi placed the back of one hand to his mouth. “How terrible.”
“I had always thought of the Mediterranean as a calm sea,” said Fuchs. “Apparently it gets quite rough off the coast of Lebanon.”
“A tragedy,” opined Mevlevi, his eyes smiling at Nick.
Fuchs brushed the insignificant matter of his colleague’s passing aside. He smiled broadly to dispel any lugubrious thoughts. “We hope our firm can still be of service, Mr. . . .”
“Malvinas.Allen Malvinas.”
Nick gave his complete attention to Ali Mevlevi, or rather toAllen Malvinas.
Mevlevi said, “I am in need of several numbered accounts.”
Fuchs cleared his throat before replying. “Surely, you realize that you can open such an account at any one of the banks just down the street from us.”
“Of course,” Mevlevi responded politely. “But I was hoping to avoid some of the more unnecessary formalities.”
Affentranger understood perfectly. “The government has grown much too intrusive as of late.”
Fuchs concurred. “And even our most traditional banks, not as discreet as they once were.”
Mevlevi opened his hands as if to say such is the world we live in. “I see we are in agreement.”
“Unfortunately,” Fuchs complained, “we must abide by government regulations. All clients wishing to open anew account of any type in this country must provide legitimate proof of their identity. A passport will do.”
Nick found the emphasis Fuchs had placed on the wordnew strange.
Mevlevi, though, jumped on the word as if it were the cue he had been looking for.“New accounts, you said. Of course, I understand the need to follow regulations should one wish to open anew account. However, I would prefer an older account, perhaps one registered in the name of your company that you don’t use on a day-to-day basis.”
Fuchs looked to Affentranger. Both men then looked at Nick, who kept a concerned expression on his face. Whatever it was they were seeking from him, he supplied it, for the next moment, Affentranger began talking.
“Such accounts do exist,” he said cautiously, “but they are very expensive to obtain. A dwindling resource, so to speak. Banks insist on certain minimum conditions being met before we are allowed to transfer a numbered account originally opened by our office to a client.”
“Naturally,” said Mevlevi.
Nick felt like telling Fuchs and Affentranger to name their price and get on with it.
“Do you wish to open just the one account?” asked Fuchs.
“Five to be exact. Of course, I have proper identification.” Mevlevi removed an Argentinean passport from his jacket and laid it on the table. “But I prefer to have the account remain anonymous.”
Nick eyed the navy passport and choked down a smile. Mr. Malvinas of Argentina,Malvinas being the Argentinean name for the Falkland Islands. Mevlevi thought himself a pretty clever customer. Sure, he was clever—his men at USB had informed him that the DEA had compromised account 549.617 RR—but he must be desperate too. Why would he leave his safe haven in Beirut and risk arrest to straighten out a banking problem that could just as easily have been remedied by someone here? Kaiser, Maeder, even Nick alone, could have made this trip to Zug. It was hardly adequate reason to flee the security of his prickly nest.
Fuchs asked, “Would accounts at the United Swiss Bank be of interest?”
“No finer institution in the land,” replied Mevlevi, to which Nick just nodded.
Fuchs picked up the phone and instructed his secretary to bring in several account transfer forms.
Affentranger said, “The minimum amount the United Swiss Bank has set for granting a client a preexisting numbered account is five million dollars. Of course as you need five accounts, we can discuss terms.”
“I pr
opose placing four million dollars into each account,” said Mevlevi.
Nick could see Affentranger and Fuchs calculating their commission, somewhere between one and two percent. On this one transaction the august International Fiduciary Trust would garner fees of more than two hundred thousand dollars.
Fuchs and Affentranger answered in unison. “That would be fine.”
# # #
Conversation ebbed as Mr. Malvinas drank his coffee and the necessary paperwork was filled out. Nick excused himself and walked down the corridor to the rest room. He was joined immediately by Affentranger.
“A big fucking fish, that one, eh?”
Nick smiled. “It appears so.”
“You’re new at the bank?”
Nick nodded.
“Usually Kaiser sends Maeder. Don’t care for him much. He bites too hard.” Affentranger slapped his own fat ass. “Right here. Get my drift.”
Nick murmured his understanding. “Oh.”
“And you? You’re okay?” Affentranger asked. Which meant did Nick expect a commission on the business?
“I’m fine.”
Affentranger looked puzzled. “Fine, then. And remember, if you’ve got any more like him, send ’em our way.”
# # #
Inside the conference room, Fuchs rifled through the paperwork. Mevlevi sat at his side and together they filled in the pertinent information, or didn’t fill it in, as was the case. No name was placed on the accounts. Nor an address. All mail for the accounts was to be held at the United Swiss Bank, Main Office, Zurich. All that was required from Mr. Malvinas was two sets of code words. These he gave happily. The primary code word would be Ciragan Palace. The secondary, his birthday, November 12, 1936, to be given orally as day, month, and then year. A signature was required for verification of any written requests he might have, and this Mr. Malvinas kindly supplied. A seismic scrawl was duly inscribed at the bottom of the form. And then the meeting was finished, adjourned with smiles and handshakes all around.
Nick and his client remained quiet as they took the elevator to the ground floor. A Cheshire grin peeked from the corners of Mevlevi’s mouth. And why not? thought Nick. The man held five account transferral receipts in his hand; he possessed five clean numbered accounts to use as he saw fit. The Pasha was back in business.
In the limousine en route to Zurich, Mevlevi finally spoke. “Mr. Neumann, I will need to use the bank’s facilities. I have a small amount of cash that needs to be counted.”
“Of course,” Nick answered. Now the other shoe drops. “How much, approximately?”
“Twenty million dollars,” Mevlevi said coolly, staring at the bleak landscape. “Why do you think those suitcases were so damned heavy?”
CHAPTER
45
At 11:30 the same morning, Sterling Thorne took up position fifty yards from the employee entrance to the United Swiss Bank. He stood inside the pillared entryway of an abandoned church, a drooping concrete assemblage of right angles, more sump house than place of worship. He was waiting for Nick Neumann.
His ideas about Neumann had changed drastically during the last twenty-four hours. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure Neumann was on his side. Out there by the lake, he swore he’d seen a spark of willingness in the kid’s eye. Neumann was this close to jumping on board theFuck Mevlevi express. He’d tell him about Becker if and when he did. Not that there was much to tell.
Thorne had approached Martin Becker in mid-December for no other reason than that he worked in the section that handled Mevlevi—intercepts from the Defense Intelligence Agency noted the bank’s internal departmental reference, FKB4—and that he looked like a weak-willed paper pusher who might actually have a conscience. He was a smiler, and smilers usually liked a cause. Becker didn’t need much prodding to cooperate. He said he’d been thinking about it for a long time and that he’d do his best to bring out papers that would give irrefutable evidence of Mevlevi laundering his money through the United Swiss Bank. A week later he was dead: throat slit ear to ear and no trace of any papers that might help the DEA. Thorne would tell Neumann about him at the right time. No point in scaring the boy off.
A few employees began trickling out of the bank, alone and in pairs, mostly secretaries. Thorne kept his eyes nailed to the stairs, waiting for his boy to show. The fact that somewhere out there Jester was rolling along with a major shipment of refined heroin bound for the Swiss market was terrific, but Neumann’s help would be essential if he wanted to demonstrate USB’s complicity in Mevlevi’s affairs. He thought of Wolfgang Kaiser breezily lying to him about not knowing Mevlevi.Alfie Merlani? he had asked. Arrogant sumbitch. With a start, Thorne realized that he wanted Kaiser’s ass as much as Mevlevi’s. And it made him feel good.
Twenty wasted minutes later, the cellular phone attached to Thorne’s belt rang. The dull electronic chirping took him by surprise, sending a jolt of adrenaline down his spine. He fumbled with the buttons on his leather coat. Jester, he prayed, let that be you. Come through for me, buddy. He freed the phone from his belt and pressed the answer button. “Thorne,” he said calmly.
“Thorne,” Terry Strait yelled. “I want you back in this office immediately. You have taken property belonging to the United States government. Files on running operations are never, I repeatnever, to be removed from secure premises. Eastern Lightning is . . .”
Thorne listened to the good reverend rant and rave for another five, maybe ten seconds, then hung up on him. Worse than a wood tick in your belly button.
The phone rang again. Thorne hefted the compact plastic unit, weighing it as if to judge who might be on the other end. Keep dreaming, Terry. You wanted me out of your hair—I’m out. But one day soon I’m going to intercept a mother lode of refined no. 4 heroin without your help and I am going to put away the Pasha. Eastern Lightning will be a bigger success than any of us thought possible. I’ll be back. And I’ll be gunning for your sorry ass.
The phone rang a second time. What the hell? thought Thorne. If it was Strait, he’d just hang up again. A third ring. “Thorne, here.”
“Thorne? This is Jester. I’m in Milan. At a house belonging to the Makdisi family.”
Thorne nearly crossed himself and fell to his knees. “Good to hear from you. Can you talk? Do you have some time?”
“Yeah, a little.”
“Good boy. Have you got a schedule for me?”
“We’re crossing at Chiasso, Monday morning between nine-thirty and ten-thirty. Far right-hand lane. We’re in a two-trailer rig with British plates. A transnationalroutier. It has the blue shield on the front bumper saying T-I-R. Gray canopies covering the load. The inspector is looking for us. We’ll get a free pass.”
“Go on.”
“Then I guess we’re coming to Zurich. The Makdisis’ boys are driving. We’ll be taking it to their usual drop point. Near a place called Hardturm. I think it’s a soccer stadium. I’m caught in the middle of something here. Everybody is looking at me funny. A lot of phony smiles. I told you I’m only along for the ride because Mevlevi suspects the Makdisis of double dealing. Too big a shipment to let go without a friend nearby. We’re looking at a couple of thousand pounds minimum, maybe more. He is desperate that this go through.”
Thorne interrupted Jester. “Getting our hands on that much product is damned good work, but we have to tie it to Mevlevi, otherwise he’ll just send a bigger load in two weeks’ time. I don’t want a cargo of contraband without the man responsible. I don’t want the bullets without the gun, you understand. The Makdisis don’t mean shit to me.”
“I know, I know . . .” The connection weakened and static filled Thorne’s ear. Jester’s voice came through a garbled mess.
“What did you say? What about Mevlevi? Can you hear me, Joe?”
Jester’s voice returned. “. . . so like I said there will never be a better chance. We can’t miss out on this opportunity.”
“Speak up. I lost you for a second.”
“Who?”
“Mevlevi.”
Thorne felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. “You’re telling me that Ali Mevlevi is in Switzerland?”
“He arrived this morning. He called the house where I’m staying to make sure everything was all right. Told me that after the load came through safely he’d build me my own house at his compound. He’s got a big gig planned for Tuesday. The bank’s meeting. He’s in deep with that bank, I told you a dozen times.”
Thorne pleaded. “You’ve got to give me more than that. What about his army?”
“Khamsin,” said Joseph. “Mevlevi’s operation. He’s moving his men out tomorrow at 0400. He’s kept the target quiet, but I know they’re going south toward the border. He’s got six hundred fanatics revved up for something big.”
“0400 Saturday,” Thorne repeated. “No target, you say?”
“He told no one. Just south. Use your imagination.”
“Dammit,” whispered Thorne. Not now! What was he supposed to do with that information? He was a defrocked government agent, for Christ’s sake. He’d kept a buddy at Langley apprised of his suspicions. He’d give him a call, maybe fax him the latest. He’d have to make it their problem and pray. He just hoped that six hundred men showed up as more than a dot in the midst of all that military traffic on the Lebanese-Israeli border.
Thorne’s mind returned to the problem at hand. “Super work, Joe. But I need something to nail him here.”
“Keep your eye on the bank. He’ll probably stop by some time. I told you he and Kaiser are tight. They go way back.”
Thorne watched a Mercedes limo drive up to the gate and stop. “Never. Mevlevi knows we’re on to him. You think he has the balls to drive right past me?”
“That’s your call. But you have to let me know how you’re going to handle this. I don’t want to be with these guys when the heat comes down. It’ll get ugly fast.”
Numbered Account Page 39