Numbered Account (67 page)

“My duty has always been to look after your best interests,” continued Kaiser. “To be honest, I thought bringing you this information would be worth at least forty million francs. That amount should buy us one full percentage point.”

“’One full point?”’ Mevlevi repeated. “You’re giving me Neumann for one full point? Tell me what else he might know. If you’d like me to evaluate your proposition, I need to hear it all.”

“Ask him yourself. It’s not what Nicholas knows, but what his father knew. And wrote down. Some mention of the FBI, I believe. The boy has his father’s diary.”

“Why are you so smug?”

Kaiser lied smoothly. “I’ve seen the pages. I’m in the clear.”

“If Neumann uncovers Goldluxe, you will be hurt worse than I.”

“If I am going to lose the bank to Klaus Konig, I don’t give a damn. Twenty years ago you robbed me of any other life I might have had. If the bank is going down, let me go down with it.”

“You never wanted any other kind of life. If you prefer to use my actions to soothe your guilty conscience, go ahead. In your heart you know you are no different from me.” Mevlevi pushed his plate toward the center of the table. “I am sorry, Wolfgang. Banking is your business. If you can’t protect yourself from those more competitive, perhaps even more competent than yourself, I can’t be to blame.”

Kaiser could feel his face flushing as his desperation increased. “Dammit, Ali. I know you have the money. You’ve got to give me it. You owe me.”

Mevlevi slammed his hand on the table. “I owe you nothing!”

Kaiser’s eyes bulged and his neck grew crimson. He felt as if the floor had been ripped out from under him. How could this be happening?

Mevlevi sat back in his chair, once again the picture of cool restraint. “Still, in appreciation of your telling me the news about young Neumann, I will try and make arrangements. I’ll phone Gino Makdisi tomorrow. He may be able to come to your assistance.”

“Gino Makdisi? The man is a hoodlum.”

“His money is as green as yours.
Pecunia non oelat
. Practically your country’s anthem, isn’t it? Money hath no odor. He’ll be pleased to accept your generous terms.”

“Those terms are for you only. We could never do business with a member of the Makdisi family.”

Mevlevi gave an exasperated sigh, then dabbed at his mouth. “All right, then, I’ll reconsider the loan. But frankly, I don’t see where I’m going to get the cash. I’ll make some calls. I can have an answer for you tomorrow at two P.M.”

“I have an important meeting with one of our oldest shareholders. I won’t be back in the office before three.” Kaiser knew not to expect a reprieve, but couldn’t help himself from jumping at the offer. Hope was difficult to kill.

Mevlevi smiled graciously. “I promise to have an answer for you by that time.”

Ali Mevlevi packed a half-sotted Wolfgang Kaiser into his automobile, then returned to the restaurant’s lounge and ordered a Williams aperitif. For a few seconds he actually pitied the poor fool.
One percent
, Kaiser had practically slobbered, hoping to sell young Neumann like he was chattel slavery. Neumann was worth the price of a single bullet, no more, and that’s how much he’d spend on him.

Give me my one percent.

Mevlevi was tempted to give it to the man, if only to appease his own conscience. After all,
even he
needed to be reminded now and again he possessed one. Chuckling at the thought, he took a long sip of the strong liqueur. Kaiser and his one percent. Young Neumann the investigator. The world was much larger than that, wasn’t it?

In Ali Mevlevi’s view, the world, and his place in it, was infinitely larger.

He finished his drink, paid, and walked into the cold night. He raised his hand and immediately a car started its motor. A silver Mercedes drove forward. He got in the car and shook hands with Moammar-al-Khan, his Libyan majordomo. “You know where you’re going?”

“It is not far. Another few kilometers along the lake and then into the hills. We will make it in fifteen minutes.” Khan brought the gold medallion he wore around his neck to his lips and kissed it. “The prophet willing.”

“I have every confidence,” said Mevlevi, smiling. He knew he could rely on Khan. It had been Khan who had discovered that the heroin being sold in Letten by the Makdisis had not been his own.

Fourteen minutes later, the Mercedes approached a lone cabin at the end of a rutted track deep inside a dark and snowy forest. Three cars were parked in front of the cabin. Lights burned from the front window.

“One of them has yet to arrive,” said Khan. “I don’t see his car.”

Mevlevi guessed who the tardy man was but did not begrudge him his theatricality. He was simply practicing his new role a few days in advance. After all, a chief executive should always be the last to arrive.

Mevlevi stepped from the automobile and crossed through the snow to the cabin. He knocked once, then entered. Hassan Faris was standing by the door. Mevlevi kissed him on each cheek while pumping his hand.

“Faris, tell me the good news,” he said.

“Chase Manhattan and Lehman Brothers have signed a letter of intent for the full amount,” said the svelte Arab. “They’ve already syndicated the loan.”

A taller man approached from the crackling fire. “It’s true,” said George von Graffenried, vice-chairman of the Adler Bank. “Our friends in New York have come up with the cash. We have bridge financing in place for three billion dollars. More than enough to buy every last share of USB stock we don’t already own outright. You kept us waiting until the last minute, Ali. We almost came up a few pennies short.”

“George, I always keep my word. Or Khan keeps it for me.”

Von Graffenried wiped the ridiculous grin off his face.

Mevlevi waved to a thin man standing by the fire. “Mr. Zwicki, it is nice to finally meet you. I appreciate your involvement in our little project. Especially your help these last few days.” On his command, Zwicki, chief of USB’s equity department, had slowed his bank’s purchases of its own shares to a trickle, thus effectively declawing Maeder’s vaunted “liberation plan.”

Sepp Zwicki stepped forward and bowed his head. “A pleasure.”

“We are awaiting your colleague, Dr.—”

The door to the cabin opened suddenly and Rudolf Ott bustled inside. “Mr. Mevlevi, good evening. Sepp, Hassan, George, hello.” He drew Von Graffenried close and whispered, “You received my last memo. Did you contact the Widows and Orphans Fund yet?”

“We’re hoping to know tomorrow, Herr Dr. Ott. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”

“Good evening, Rudolf.” Mevlevi detested the smarmy man, but he was the most important member of their team. “Is everything in place for tomorrow?”

Ott removed his glasses and wiped away the condensation with a clean handkerchief. “Naturally. The loan documents have been prepared. You’ll have your money by noon. Eight hundred million francs is a decent sum. I don’t know if we’ve ever lent so much to an individual.”

Mevlevi doubted it. He had collateral, of course. Approximately three million shares of USB held at the Adler Bank, not to mention another couple hundred thousand at USB itself. In the future, though, calls for collateral would disappear. That was why he was taking the reins of the bank, wasn’t it? The purpose of this entire exercise. Time to become legitimate.

Tomorrow morning Klaus Konig would announce his cash bid for USB: 2.8 billion dollars for the sixty-six percent of USB he didn’t yet control. Tuesday, at USB’s general assembly, Ott would announce his support for the Adler Bank’s bid. He would call for the immediate resignation of Wolfgang Kaiser, and the executive board would support him. Each board member held a hefty packet of USB shares. No one could turn down the huge premium offered by the Adler Bank. For his loyalty (or his betrayal, depending from which side one looked at it), Ott would be installed at the helm of the newly consolidated bank: USB-Adler. Day-to-day operations would be handled by Von Graffenried. Zwicki and Faris would share the equities department. Klaus Konig would retain the nominal position of president, though his real tasks would be confined to fashioning the combined
banks' investment strategy. The man was much too impulsive to head a universal Swiss bank. If he didn’t like it, he could have a heart-to-heart with Khan.

Over time, new employees would be brought in to fill key posts: global treasury operations, capital markets, compliance. Men of Faris’s ilk. Men of Mevlevi’s choosing. New appointments would be made to the executive board. The combined assets of the United Swiss Bank and the Adler Bank would be his. Over seventy billion dollars at his disposal.

The thought brought a broad smile to Ali Mevlevi’s face, and everyone around him smiled too. Ott, Zwicki, Faris, Von Graffenried. Even Khan.

Mevlevi would not abuse his power. At least not for a while. But there were so many good uses to which he could put the bank. Corporate loans to worthy companies in Lebanon, shoring up the Jordani dinar, slipping a few hundred million to his friend Hussein in Iraq. Khamsin was only the first. But in his heart it was the most important.

Mevlevi excused himself and stepped outside to place a call to his operational headquarters at his compound near Beirut. He waited while he was patched through to General Marchenko.

“Da?
Mr. Mevlevi?”

“General Marchenko, I’m calling to inform you that everything is proceeding according to plan on this end. You will have your money no later than noon tomorrow. The baby must be ready to travel at that time. Lieutenant Ivlov’s attack is to begin simultaneously.”

“Understood. Once I have received confirmation of the transfer, it will be only a matter of seconds before the baby can be airborne. I look forward to hearing from you.”

“Twelve o’clock, Marchenko. Not a minute later.”

Mevlevi folded the cellular phone and put it in his pocket. He breathed in the chill night air, enjoying its bite. He felt more alive than ever before.

Tomorrow, the Khamsin would blow.

Nick left Sylvia’s apartment at five-thirty in the morning. She accompanied him to the door and sleep still in her eyes, made him promise to take care of himself. He brushed off the concern in her voice, preferring not to wonder if this might be the last time he’d see her. He kissed her, then buttoned up his coat and set off down the steep hill toward Universitatstrasse. Outside the temperature was well below freezing. The sky was as dark as ink. He caught the first tram of the day and arrived at the
Personalhaus
at five past six. He ran up a flight of terrazzo stairs to the first floor and hurried to his apartment. Inserting the key, he found the door to be unlocked. He pushed it open slowly.

The apartment was a shambles. A thorough hand had ransacked the place.

The desk was overturned. Annual reports and assorted papers were strewn across the floor. The closet was open, every suit chucked onto the carpet. The dresser drawers had been emptied, then discarded. Shirts, sweaters, and socks were everywhere. His bed rested on its side, the worn mattress lying askew, sheets and blankets tangled up in each other. The bathroom was no better. The mirror on the medicine cabinet was shattered, the tile floor littered with broken glass.

Nick saw all of this in a moment.

And then he spotted his holster. It lay in the far corner of the room cached beside the bookshelves. A gleaming black leather triangle. Empty. Side arm missing.

Nick stepped inside the apartment and closed the door behind him. Calmly, he began sorting through his clothing, hoping to feel the hard plane of his gun’s rectangular snout or the stubble of its crosshatched grip. Nothing. He picked up a T-shirt here, a sweater there, praying to catch a glimpse of the dull blue-black sheen of the Colt Commander. Nothing. He grew frantic. He shuffled around the apartment, running his hands along the floor. He lifted the mattress and threw it across the room. He upended the bed frame. Nothing. Shit!

Abruptly, something strange caught his eye. A pile of books lay next to the desk arranged sloppily like a kind of unlit bonfire. In the center of this pile sat a textbook from business school — a large book,
Principles of Finance
by Brealy and Myers. Its cover was open; the pages had been ripped from its spine. Nick picked up another textbook. It had received a similar trashing. He selected a paperback,
The Iliad
, his father’s favorite. Its soft covers were bent backward and its pages fanned. He dropped it on the floor.

Nick stopped searching. He stood up straight, alone in his silent apartment. Mevlevi had been here — or one of his men — and he’d been looking for something specific. What?

Nick checked his watch and with a start saw that a half hour had passed. It was 6:35. He had ten minutes to shower, shave, and put on clean clothes. The limo was scheduled to arrive at 6:45. He was due at the Dolder at seven. He grabbed two dirty dress shirts, fell to his knees, and swept the bathroom floor of glass. Finished, he balled them up and threw them into his closet. He stripped and stepped gingerly across the tile floor. He took a navy shower — thirty seconds under freezing cold water. He shaved in record time, ten swipes of the razor, to hell with anything left over.

Outside, a car honked twice. He brushed back a curtain. The limousine had arrived.

Nick walked to his overturned desk, grabbed two of its legs, and brought it onto its side. He ran a hand along each leg, seeking a small indentation he had made a few weeks ago. He found it, then unscrewed the round metallic foot at its base. He inserted the tips of his right thumb and forefinger delicately into the leg. He felt the tip of a sharp object and breathed easier. He grasped the metal blade and withdrew the knife. His marine issue K-Bar.
Jack the Ripper
. Serrated on one side, razor sharp on the other. Years ago, he had wrapped athletic tape around its handle to reduce any slippage. The tape was stained with age, mottled with sweat and dirt and blood.

Nick rummaged through the debris scattered on the bathroom floor until he found a roll of similar tape. He used it to keep the brace he wore on his right knee in place when he exercised. Working quickly, he cut four strips of tape and laid them on the table’s edge. Then he picked up the knife and pressed it flat (handle down) against a damp patch of skin below his left arm. One by one, he grabbed the lengths of tape and secured the K-Bar to his body, but not too tightly. A firm downward tug would free the knife. The ensuing motion would rip out a man’s guts.