Numbered Account

Before Nick could respond, Mevlevi was up, coming at him. He'd lost his fragile mien. He held a small crescent-shaped knife in his hand and with it he slashed viciously at Nick's belly. Nick jumped backward, parrying the blow with his left hand, and pinned the attacking arm to the glass wall. With his right hand, he whipped the phone cord around Mevlevi's neck, using the metal coil as a garrote. Mevlevi's eyes bulged as the cord was pulled tight. Still he didn't drop the knife. His knee fired into Nick's groin. Sonuvabitch had plenty of fight left in him. Nick swallowed the pain. He gave the cord a ferocious tug, pulling Mevlevi off his feet. He felt a distinct snap.

Mevlevi wilted. His larynx was crushed, his esophagus blocked. He collapsed to his knees, eyes blinking wildly as he fought to draw in a breath. The opium harvester's knife clattered to the floor. He brought both hands to his neck, trying to dislodge the cord fastened around his neck, but Nick held it firm. Time passed. Ten seconds, twenty. Nick stared at the dying man. He felt only a grim determination to end his life.

Suddenly, Mevlevi bucked. His back arched and in a last mad paroxysm, he crashed his head three times against the wall, cracking the glass. Then he was still.

Nick unwrapped the cord from his neck and brought the receiver to his own ear.

The same irritated voice asked, "What is the account number? You have given me only three digits. I need more. Please Mr. Mev-"

Nick hung up the telephone.

Above him, the church bell tolled the midday hour.

***

Moammar al Khan drove his rented white Volvo slowly past the town's main square desperately searching for his master's figure. The square was empty. The only people he saw was a group of old men gathered near the lake. He flicked his wrist and checked the time. It was exactly twelve o'clock. He prayed that Al-Mevlevi had been able to reach Brissago. It pained him to see his master in such difficulty. Betrayed by one so close to him. Chased from this country as if he were a common criminal. The Western Infidel knew no justice!

Inshallah. God is great. Bless Al-Mevlevi.

Khan turned the car around and drove back past the square. He continued down the main street hoping to see his master. Maybe he had misunderstood his instructions. Khan arrived at the entrance to Brissago, then decided to drive back to the square and find a place to park. He would go stand near the fountain so that Al-Mevlevi would not miss him when he arrived.

Khan checked his rearview mirror for any traffic following him. The road was clear. He spun the wheel and directed the Volvo back through the small town. He slowed once again as he passed the square, even rolling down his window and craning his neck outside. He saw no one. He accelerated down the straightaway toward a gravel car park about a hundred yards ahead. On the other side of the road, a man was limping slowly toward the car park. Khan turned his head and looked at him. It was Nicholas Neumann.

Khan shot his eyes to the road in front of him, then realized that Neumann had never seen him. Neumann should be dead. If he was here it could only mean that he knew of Al-Mevlevi's plan to escape across the border. But why had he come alone? The Arab's neck grew taut. To kill Al-Mevlevi, of course.

Khan drove the car into the parking lot. The only other automobile there was a red Ford Cortina. He guessed that it belonged to the American. He parked the Volvo at the opposite end of the lot. He watched Neumann approach in the rearview mirror, waiting until he opened the door of the red car and lowered himself into it.

Khan needed no instructions for what had to be done. He opened the door and stepped from the car. He crossed the gravel slowly, not wanting to alert Neumann to his presence. Behind him a black Mercedes pulled into the lot and parked next to his car. He kept his attention on the Ford. If there were witnesses, too bad. He'd kill them too. He unbuttoned his leather jacket and reached a hand inside for his weapon. He felt cold steel and smiling, petted the grip. He lengthened his stride. The world around him shrank to a constricted tunnel. Only Neumann at the end of that tunnel was in focus. Everything else was a blur. A distraction.

Neumann started the engine. The car shuddered and a puff of exhaust came from the tailpipe.

Khan drew his pistol and placed the tip of the barrel against the driver's window.

Neumann looked into the gun. His eyes opened wide but he did not move. He took his hands from the steering wheel.

Khan allowed him a final moment of terror, then increased his pressure on the trigger. He did not feel the bullet that drilled a hole into his brain, blasting away the entire left side of his skull. He saw a flash of bright light, then his world went dark. The pistol dropped from his hand and thudded to the ground. He collapsed against the car, then fell onto the gravel. Dead.

***