“With the woman. She just came home. He’s inside with her now.”
“Just as we thought.” A knowing laugh. “At least he’s predictable. I knew he wouldn’t go to the police. By the way, how does he look?”
“Exhausted,” said the watcher. “He slept in front of her apartment building for an hour.”
“Go home,” said Ali Mevlevi. “He’s one of us now.”
# # #
Nick huddled beneath a fierce shower, enjoying the needles of hot water that pounded his skin. Another hour in here and he’d feel human again. He savored the warmth, willing it to take away his despair. He thought about that afternoon. He had to look at it analytically, to divorce himself from what he had witnessed. He wanted desperately to talk about it with someone, probably just so that he could proclaim his innocence. He considered confiding in Sylvia but decided against it. Knowledge of the Pasha’s actions would serve in the long run only to incriminate her. He didn’t want to share his troubles.
Nick turned his face upward, allowing the bristling water to massage his eyelids and tickle his nose and his mouth. Suddenly, a memory stirred deep inside his confused brain—a souvenir from earlier that afternoon. He closed his eyes and concentrated. A word or two flickered—something sparked by his interest in the activity reports. He tried to coax it out, sure for a split second that he had a letter or two. But no, it kept itself hidden, swimming just below the surface. He gave up. Still, he knew something was there, and its presence fired in him a fierce desire for its discovery.
# # #
A dinner of veal scaloppini and spaetzle went mostly to waste. Nick couldn’t find his appetite. He told Sylvia that plain fatigue had caused him to fall asleep outside her apartment. He just couldn’t keep up with the Chairman. She accepted the explanation without comment, or for that matter, interest. She was too busy replaying her colleagues’ reactions to Marco Cerruti’s suicide. No one could begin to understand why he had taken his own life.
Nick did his best to share her feelings of bewilderment and anguish. “He must have been a brave man. Shooting yourself requires a helluva lot of courage.”
More than Cerruti had, that was for certain.
“He’d been drinking,” Sylvia explained. “Drink enough and you’ll do anything.”
Cerruti drink?The hardest stuff he touched was classic Coke. “Where did you hear that?”
“That he’d been drinking? Nowhere. Someone at the bank mentioned it. Why?”
Nick pretended as if his conscience had been offended, not his memory. “It’s a nasty thought, isn’t it? As if that explains it all. The guy juiced himself up and capped himself in the noggin. I’ll buy it. Now we can forget he even existed. Our consciences are spotless. None of us to blame.”
Sylvia frowned. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about the poor man like that. It’s tragic.”
“Yeah,” Nick agreed. “A crime.”
# # #
A heap of yellow folders covered the dining room table. Each one contained three monthly activity reports submitted by Alex Neumann. Nick selected the folder dated July through September 1978 and drew it toward him. Sylvia slid a chair from the table and sat down. She held the agenda from 1978 close to her chest. “I checked our personnel records on Mr. Burki, first initial C—the executive at USB London who referred Soufi to your father. His name is Caspar Burki. He retired from the bank as a senior vice president in 1988.”
“Still alive?”
“I have an address in Zurich. That’s all. I can’t tell you whether it’s current.”
Nick took his father’s agenda from Sylvia and opened it to the month of April. He turned to the fifteenth of the month and found the first mention of Allen Soufi. Suddenly, the hidden recollection shot to the surface. He saw himself walking alongside Ali Mevlevi in the Platzspitz earlier in the day. He heard the Pasha’s voice complaining about his father:I could never be a derv. The spinning, the chanting. I was only interested in this world.
Nick stared for a moment at his father’s handwriting.“A. Soufi.” He repeated the name several times and felt a jolt of adrenaline fire through his chest. The elusive memory was close. Mevlevi’s voice echoed louder.
“Sylvia, do you know anything about dervs? You know, whirling dervishes?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Are you serious?”
“Humor me. Do you?”
Sylvia put her hand to her chin in a pose of classic cogitation. “Not a thing. Except that they wear some very funny hats.” She lifted her hand high above her head to indicate the height of a fez.
“Do you have an encyclopedia?”
“Just one on CD-ROM. It’s in my p.c. in the bedroom.”
“I need to look at it. Now.”
Five minutes later, Nick was seated at a desk in Sylvia’s bedroom. He stared at the opening screen of the encyclopedia and under “Search” typed in the worddervish. A short definition appeared. “A monastic sect founded by the disciples of Jalal ad-Din ar-Rumi, considered the greatest of Islamic mystic poets, who called themselves whirling dervishes. The basis of Islamic mysticism, called Sufism in Western languages, is to attempt by meditation to capture the nature of . . .”
Nick stopped reading. His eyes returned to the top of the screen, rereading the entry. His eyes stopped again at the same place. “The basis of Islamic mysticism, called Sufism in Western languages . . .”
Taking a breath, he ordered himself to review everything he knew about Ali Mevlevi. The man was a Turk. He had chosen the code word Ciragan Palace for his numbered account—the Ciragan Palace in Istanbul being the home of the last Ottoman sultans during the late nineteenth century. He carried an Argentinean passport that gave his family name as Malvinas and just that afternoon had admitted to living in Argentina. Malvinas, of course, was the Argentinean name for the Falkland Islands. He used the first name Allen as an alias. Allen was the anglicization of the Muslim Ali. And finally the last piece. Mevlevi’s father was a whirling derv, and the dervs belonged to the Sufi sect of Islam,ergo the name Soufi.
Nick swallowed hard. Keep cool, he told himself. You’re not there yet. Still, he could discern a pattern emerging. Ali Mevlevi constantly wove elements of his real life into his fictitious one. Allen Soufi. Allen Malvinas. Ali Mevlevi. The behavior fit. Hadn’t the Pasha also mentioned that he had lived in California? Throw all the facts together in a blender, stir violently, and what came out? Could Nick conclude that eighteen years ago Alexander Neumann had entertained Allen Soufi, better known as Ali Mevlevi, as a client of the Los Angeles branch of USB? Or was it simply a whole lot of coincidence?
It was nothing, Nick told himself. You’ve never believed in coincidence. But for once his skepticism deserted him. He ran the facts through his head one more time, daring himself to believe it. Strangely, part of him was scared to accept his own hypothesis. It reeked of fate and karma and all the things he had fought against his whole life. It was just too improbable.
But was it? If he really thought about it, no. Many clients work with a single bank their entire lives. Many sons work for the same company as their father. He stared at the name written in his father’s script and tossed aside his remaining doubts. “Sylvia,” he said excitedly, “we’ve got to keep looking for this Allen Soufi.”
“What is it? What have you found?”
“Confirmation that he’s our man.” Nick paused to temper his certainty. Humility demanded a modicum of doubt. “At least, I think. It’s still a little iffy. Let’s get back to the monthly activity reports. The answers we need are in there.”
Nick and Sylvia returned to the dining room table. He pulled her chair close to his, and together they scanned the contents of the remaining reports. Each report began with a mention of deposits made by new and existing clients. A description of corporate loan facilities granted and those under consideration followed. Third came logistical questions: salaries, personnel reports, office expenses. And last, a section for miscellaneous information. It was in this f
inal section of the March 1978 activity report that Nick had first found mention of Soufi. He scoured his father’s reports, praying to find further word of the mysterious client. There had to have been a sound reason, a business necessity, that Soufi wished to work with USB Los Angeles.
Nick read through the June report. No mention. July, no mention. August, no mention. He reached for the next dossier. September, nothing. October. He slammed his hand on the table. “There. We’ve got him,” he cried. “Sylvia, October 12, 1978. What does the agenda say?”
Sylvia thumbed through the pages energetically, sharing Nick’s adrenaline rush. She found the correct date, then pushed the agenda closer to him.
The entry for October 12 read: “Dinner at Matteo’s with Allen Soufi. Undesirable.” The wordundesirable was underlined three times and a box drawn around it. Nick looked at the writing and repeated the word.Undesirable. It had been one of Dad’s pet phrases and he had misused it mercilessly. Dessert was undesirable. Anything lower than a B on a report card was undesirable. Television on weeknights was undesirable.
Allen Soufi was undesirable.
“What does the activity report say?” Sylvia demanded.
Nick passed her the notebook. His finger rested on the page at Section IV: Miscellaneous. Item 5.
Sylvia read aloud: “Third meeting held October 12 with Mr. Allen Soufi. Credit facility of $100K offered to Goldluxe, Inc. Additional trade financing as required okayed per instructions USB ZRH. AXN notes for record his opposition to the extension of the credit. Overruled by WAK—division manager.”
Nick held his breath. Allen Soufi was connected to Goldluxe. Alex Neumann had mentioned visiting Goldluxe stores sometime during the early months of 1979. Nick picked up the agenda for 1979 and skimmed through the pages, finding the first referral to Goldluxe on March 13, 1979. Just an address.22550 Lankershim Blvd. He picked up the yellow dossier containing that month and found the corresponding monthly activity report. A related item immediately caught his eye. Under “Trade Financing,” letters of credit totaling over one million dollars had been opened by Goldluxe in favor of El Oro de los Andes, S.A. of Buenos Aires, Argentina.
Allen Malvinas from Argentina.
Nick swallowed hard and kept reading. A note under Goldluxe’s name said, “See attached letter to Franz Frey, senior vice president of international finance.” The subject was listed as a company visit to Goldluxe, Inc. Nick searched the entire report but couldn’t find the letter. It had either been lost or stolen.
Fast-forward to Alex Neumann’s agenda. April 20, 1979. “Dinner with Allen Soufi at Ma Maison,” accompanied by the wordSchlitzohr —the familiar words were made clearer by a matching entry in the April activity report. Alex Neumann calling for the suspension of credit facilities to Goldluxe. A return letter from Franz Frey follows. Frey agrees that USB should sever relations with Goldluxe, but suggests AXN (Alex Neumann) obtain approval of WAK (Wolfgang Andreas Kaiser). The letter contains a handwritten note from Frey. “Interpol trace of A. Soufi located nothing.”
Nick stopped at the mention of Interpol. What had his father found out about Goldluxe that warranted contacting Interpol?
Fast-forward to the June activity report. Wolfgang Kaiser responds in writing. “Continue business with Goldluxe. No grounds for concern.”
Sylvia searched the agenda, stopping on July 17. She held the book out for Nick to read. Four words filled the page.Franz Frey, dead. Suicide.
Jesus, No! thought Nick. How had they killed off Frey? Gunshot wound to the head, slashed his throat, take your pick.
Fast-forward to August. The activity report lists letters of credit issued on behalf of Goldluxe amounting to three million dollars. The beneficiary, the same El Oro de los Andes. Cash balance listed as sufficient to cover the full amount. No outstanding debt. Why then was his father so against working with them? What the hell was Goldluxe’s business, anyway? Obviously they imported large quantities of gold into the United States, but then what? Did they sell gold to jewelry manufacturers or did they make jewelry themselves? Did they mint some type of coin? Were they wholesalers or retailers?
Fast-forward to September. The first of several entries in his father’s agenda that Nick had found frightening. “Lunch at Beverly Wilshire with A. Soufi” and directly below it, written in a forceful hand brimming with rage, “Bastard threatened me!”
November 12. “Soufi to office. 2 P.M.” On the same page, a number for the Los Angeles office of the FBI and the name of Special Agent Raylan Gillette.
Sylvia stopped Nick from turning the page and asked, “When you first saw this entry, did you call the FBI?”
“Only about ten times,” said Nick. “No information given to civilians without proper authorization. Sound familiar?”
November 19. “Head office calls. Keep relations with Goldluxe open at all costs.”
November 20. “Evans Security. 213-555-3367.”
Sylvia pointed at the number. “What about Evans Security? Did you call them?”
“Of course. Evans Security supplies professionally trained limousine drivers, bonded couriers, and personal bodyguards. I figure my father was interested in the bodyguard service. I called them up but they don’t keep records going so far back.”
“Your father seriously thought about employing a bodyguard?”
“Not seriously enough, he didn’t.”
Nick snapped his fingers. He remembered the bait he had left for Armin Schweitzer. “Sylvia, I need to see your phone. I mean your answering machine.” He rose from the table and found the phone. An old dual-cassette answering machine sat next to it. A red light flashed intermittently. “You have some messages. Come over here and play them.”
“They may be private,” she answered fussily.
Nick frowned. “I won’t tell any of your secrets. Now come on, I need to know if the trap I set yesterday afternoon worked. Come on, come on, come on. Let’s see who called.”
Sylvia rewound the machine. The first message was from a squeaky-voiced girlfriend, Vreni. Nick tried not to listen. He tapped his foot impatiently while Vreni spoke. The machine beeped. “This is Mr. Peter Sprecher calling on behalf of the Adler Bank. We would very much like to speak with you as soon as possible regarding the voting of your block of USB shares at the general assembly on Tuesday. Please feel free to call me back at the following number.”
Nick and Sylvia listened to the entire message. The machine beeped. A gruff voice spoke. “Sylvia, are you there?” Sylvia hurriedly turned off the machine. “My father,” she explained. “I think I’ll listen to that one alone.”
“Fine. I can see it’s personal.” The voice echoed in Nick’s head. He decided Sylvia’s father sounded a lot like Wolfgang Kaiser. “Did you hear Peter Sprecher? I was right. Someone at the bank stole the piece of paper I had left on my desk and gave it to the Adler Bank.”
Sylvia fiddled with the machine. “Do you really think it was Armin Schweitzer?”
“My gut feeling says it’s him, but I can’t be sure. Any one of four or five people could walk in my office when I’m not there. I wanted to hear his voice on that machine. Dammit.”
“Schweitzer,” she scowled. “Selling out his own bank.”
“We can’t be sure it’s him,” cautioned Nick. “Not yet. I need to talk to Peter Sprecher first. See if he knows who gave the list to the Adler Bank.”
“Talk to him,” she commanded.
Nick tried to call Peter Sprecher, but there was no answer. He suggested to Sylvia that they move back to the table and return to their work.
Nick read through the contents of the activity reports for October, November, and December 1979. There was no further mention of Allen Soufi or Goldluxe. Nothing. He closed the dossier and reread his father’s entries for the last days of 1979.
December 20: “A. Soufi in office. 3:00 P.M.”
December 21: “Christmas party, Trader Vics, Beverly Hilton.”
December 27: “Move out. 602 Stone Canyon
Rd.”
December 31: “New Year’s Eve. Next year will be better. It has to!”
When Sylvia excused herself to go to the loo, Nick closed the book and traced the golden numbers on its cover with his fingernail. His stomach felt hollow. He was beyond exhausted. He fell into a kind of reverie, where his past, his present, and what might be his future all mingled together. “Burki,” he whispered to himself, recalling the name of the USB executive who had referred Soufi to his father. “The key to this game is Burki.”
Nick laid his head on the cool wooden surface. He shut his eyes. “Burki,” he said. “Caspar Burki.” Over and over he repeated the name, as if during the night he might forget it. He thought of his father and of his mother. He remembered Johnny Burke and Gunny Ortiga. He recalled the awe he felt as he mounted the steps of the United Swiss Bank eight weeks ago. He replayed his first meeting with Peter Sprecher and he laughed. Then his thoughts melted into one another and the world around him darkened. Peace was what he sought. And soon he had it.
CHAPTER
50
Two hundred miles due east of Beirut at a remote military air base deep in the Syrian desert, a Tupolev-154 cargo jet touched down and taxied the length of the runway before laboring to a halt. The flight had lasted only three hours, yet all eight engines were overheated. Fresh oil had not been added for two hundred flying hours—twice the maximum allowable period. The turbine coolers responsible for maintaining a stable running temperature had worked only intermittently. In fact, somewhere over the Caucasus Mountains one engine had failed for fifteen minutes and the pilot had insisted on returning the plane to Alma-Ata. General Dimitri Sergeivitch Marchenko had been firm in his instructions to continue to the Syrian air base. The cargo could not be delayed.
The Tupolev cut its engines and lowered its rear cargo hatch. Four vehicles rumbled down the loading ramp and onto the warm concrete tarmac. Marchenko followed them, greeting the Syrian commander who waited nearby.
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