Numbered Account

The road veered from the lake and passed through a tunnel of elm trees. The town of Brissago commenced at the other side. Nick slowed the Ford and drove along the main street. Small buildings lined the road, all with red tile roofs and whitewashed facades. The street was deserted. He passed a bakery, a kiosk, and a bank. All were closed. He remembered that many smaller towns kept their stores shuttered on Mondays until one o'clock. Thank God. In his perfect blue suit, Mevlevi would stick out like a sore thumb.

Brissago, Sprecher had said. Twelve o'clock. Main square.

Nick looked at his watch. Five minutes to go. He drove to the end of the main drag and followed the road as it turned sharply to the right. The town square opened up to his left. It was a large piazza with a modest fountain in its center. A less modest church sat at the opposite side of the square and next to it, a cafe. Perfect for those who needed something stronger than Communion wine. The lake ran along the far side of the church. Closer to him, a few old men were playing boccie ball on a small dirt court. He slowed the car, scanning the square for the Pasha. He saw an old woman walking her dog. Two kids sat around the fountain smoking cigarettes. No sign of Mevlevi.

Nick pulled into a gravel parking lot fifty yards up the road. He eased himself out of the car and walked back to the square. His approach provided no place to hide, no buildings where he might conceal himself. He was out in the open without any weapon. He'd be an easy target if Mevlevi caught sight of him. Funny, right now, he didn't really care. He moved as if in a trance, his eyes glued to the wide-open piazza in front of him. Mevlevi might not even be here. He'd left the hotel on foot just ten minutes before Nick had arrived. He hadn't had a car waiting. That meant he would have had to either steal a car or find a taxi.

Nick walked to the fountain and looked around. The place was as quiet as the grave. No cars approached from either direction. The old-timers playing boccie didn't glance in his direction. He could hear the breeze whistling by, and somewhere far off a dog barking.

As quiet as the grave.

He crossed the square to the church and pushed open its massive wooden doors. He stepped inside and leaned his back against the wall. After a few seconds, his eyes grew accustomed to the dark and he looked up and down the nave, seeing if Mevlevi was seated somewhere in the pews. A few women dressed in black occupied the front rows. A priest came out of the sacristy and adjusted his clerical vestments, preparing for the midday service.

Nick left the church. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he walked to his right toward the lake, then stopped at the corner of the church. For a moment he watched the men playing boccie. Another world, he thought. He looked out at the lake, a few feet away. The surface was ruffled by a steady southerly breeze.

He decided he could keep a good eye on any activity in the square from here. He pressed his shoulder against the wall and told himself to be patient. He looked over his shoulder. There was a phone booth about ten steps away, tucked in by the walls that fronted the apse. He returned his attention to the square. A white Volvo drove by, then nothing. He checked over his shoulder again, his interest drawn to the phone booth. A man stood inside it, his back turned to him. Medium height, dark hair, navy overcoat.

Nick took a step toward the booth. The man turned and faced him, eyes opening wide.

The Pasha.

***

Ali Mevlevi had reached Brissago's main square at ten minutes before twelve. He walked to the fountain and looked to all four corners, expecting Khan to show his face, then realized that his assistant had had to cover a greater distance. The extra time made Mevlevi happy. He needed to find a phone booth and call Ott in Zurich. He made a tour of the square and had just about given up when he spotted a silver booth with a yellow PTT sign pasted to its window alongside the church. He rushed to the booth and called the United Swiss Bank. Several minutes passed before the vice chairman of the bank could be located.

Mevlevi held the phone to his ear, praying that word of the police action in Lugano had not yet filtered back to Zurich. He would know the instant he heard Ott's voice.

"Ott, Guten Morgen." The voice was its usual officious self. Thanks be to Allah.

"Good morning, Rudolf. How are you today?" Mevlevi asked in his most casual voice. The Swiss could smell desperation miles away, even over the phone. Something in their blood.

"Mr. Mevlevi, a pleasure. I imagine you are calling regarding your loan. Everything is in order. We've credited the entire amount to your new account."

"Wonderful news," said Mevlevi. He realized some small talk was mandatory. "And Konig's announcement this morning, how did your staff take it?"