Numbered Account

Rita Sutter snapped back to attention. "I'm afraid we'll have to wait," she said. "At least a while. They're in Mr. Feller's car and I don't have the number. They should be in Lugano in an hour. The Chairman has a meeting scheduled with Eberhard Se

"Where is the meeting taking place?"

"At the Hotel Olivella au Lac. The count lives there during the winter."

"Give me the number," Sylvia snapped. "Quickly."

"It's on my desk. What do you plan on saying?"

"I'm going to tell the receptionist that Herr Kaiser must phone us as soon as he arrives. When did you say he should arrive?"

"Wolfgang left my house at seven-fifteen," said Rita Sutter. "If it's not snowing, they should be there by ten-fifteen or ten-thirty."

Sylvia was certain she had not heard properly. "Excuse me?" she asked. "Herr Kaiser was with you last night? He spent the night at your home?"

"Why are you so surprised?" Rita Sutter asked. "I've loved Wolfgang my entire life. You asked whether I cared about the bank- of course I do. It's Wolfgang's." She found the phone number of the Hotel Olivella au Lac and held it out in front of her.

Sylvia snatched the number from Sutter's hand. She picked up the phone and dialed the number. When the hotel operator answered she said, "Give me the receptionist. It's an emergency."

Nick kept his eyes on the barrel of Mevlevi's pistol as he lowered himself to one knee. Snow enveloped the asphalt lot crowning the Gotthardo Pass. The limousine was somewhere behind him, the chauffeur waiting at its side. Visibility was near zero. They had arrived less than a minute before. Dutifully, he'd followed Mevlevi's instructions to step from the car and advance several paces into the mist. He knew he should be afraid, but he couldn't get past feeling stupid and ashamed. He'd been presented with a dozen clues and ignored them all. He'd let his heart blind him. No wonder Sylvia had had such easy access to his father's activity reports. No wonder Kaiser had accused Schweitzer. No wonder Mevlevi knew about his father's agendas. The source for their information was all too clear: Dr. Sylvia Schon. Nick applauded their efficient chain of communication.

Mevlevi stood above him, leering. "Thank you for giving me just cause to abandon you here on this inhospitable mountaintop. I trust you'll find your way home. But don't bother trying the restaurant. Its doors remain closed until May. And the phone," he shook his head, "I am sorry. I think you'll find it doesn't work."

Nick stared at the gun. It was the same pistol used to kill Albert Makdisi.

"You see, I can't have a man who cares so little for himself working for me. You really should be a bit more selfish. Kaiser was perfect. Our goals were always the same. It took so little to make him move in the right direction. I imagine he spoiled me."

Nick blocked out the Pasha's rambling soliloquy and his own self-abusive thoughts. He concentrated on when to use the knife, how to distract Mevlevi, and what to do with the chauffeur afterward.

"I thought you'd make a fine soldier," Mevlevi was saying. "Or I should say, Kaiser thought so. He was so pleased at being given the chance to seduce the son of the man who had threatened to betray him. You know the rest. And we can't have that, can we? It is a disappointment. As for Kaiser, I imagine he'll get over your loss soon. Probably Tuesday, when the Adler Bank takes over USB and he's out of a job."

The Pasha leveled the gun at Nick. "I'm sorry, Nicholas. You were right about this morning. I can't be late. I require my Swiss passport. It's my final protection against your compatriot Mr. Thorne."

He stepped forward, placing his shiny loafer directly below his intended victim's jaw. Nick didn't look up. He heard the distinct metallic click of the safety being released. And then he moved. His right hand swept under his shirt, seeking the heft of the knife, finding it, ripping it downward and outward. His arm cut the air in a vicious arc. The knife slashed through the Pasha's trousers, slowing only to open a gash on the man's shin. A bullet was fired and ricocheted. The Pasha fell to a knee and cursed. He brought the pistol up for another shot. Nick sprang to his feet and ran. The chauffeur tried to block his path. He had an arm inside his black jacket. Now it was emerging. A gun.

Nick headed directly for him. He spun the K-Bar in his hand so that the serrated edge saluted the ground. He drew his right arm across his chest and slashed upward, dragging the blade across the man's shoulder, rending the arm from his body. The knife impaled itself on bone, and Nick released it. The chauffeur collapsed, screaming.

Nick ran as fast as he could, the blast of the wind drawing tears from his eyes, freezing them on his cheeks. He heard the crack of a bullet fired, and then another and another. Four. Five. He lost count. He urged his legs to pump higher, to run faster. His lungs burned with the cold air. He tilted his head back and screamed at his body to move.

And then he was falling. His right leg collapsed under him like a broken reed. His body tumbled sideways. His shoulder bounced off the asphalt and he was down.

Suddenly all was quiet. Nothing moved behind the snowy curtain. Nick heard only the pounding of his heart and the whistle of the soulless wind as it skittered across the deserted lot. He stared at his twitching leg, recognizing the pain even before he saw the blood.

He was hit.

CHAPTER 62

Nick stared into the white void.

He waited for the sandpaper shuffle of footsteps to approach from out of the mist and the sarcastic laugh that would follow. He waited for the valedictory exclamation that once again the Pasha had taken his foe. Any second he expected to hear the staccato whine of the nine-millimeter slug as it entered his chest and cauterized his naive, believing heart.

But nothing came. He couldn't hear a thing above the chop of the gathering storm. Just the howling wind.

Nick looked at his leg and saw that the outflow of his blood had slowed. The pool of blood that had formed seconds after he hit the ground had stopped growing. He felt his leg and located the entry wound. He slid a hand under his thigh and it came away slick with blood. The bullet had passed through his leg. No arteries had been severed. He would live. The thought brought a thin smile to his lips and with it, a new realization. He couldn't wait for the Pasha to show himself. To wait was to die, to be an accessory to his own execution. He had to move.

Nick removed his necktie and tied it twice around his upper thigh in an impromptu tourniquet. He took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket, folded it once and then once again, so that it was its thickest, then wedged it as far into his mouth as possible without inducing an involuntary choking reflex. He closed his eyes and took three deep breaths.

One. Sylvia's earnest reply when he had asked her why she was helping him to find his father's activity reports: "I was the selfish one. Every man has a right to learn about his father."

Two. Her astonished voice, laughing, "I could never phone Kaiser directly. I barely know the man."

Three. "Sylvia!"

Nick bit down on the handkerchief and thrust himself to a sitting position. His leg screamed at the motion, though he had only moved it an inch. His vision dimmed and for a second all he saw was a buzzing, electric blackness. He spit out the handkerchief and sucked in the mountain air.

Once more, he told himself. One more try and you'll be on your feet.

He could see the restaurant Mevlevi had mentioned behind him. It was a low-slung building with pockmarked concrete walls. Washed-out letters advertised its name: Alpenblick. The parking lot and the road sat somewhere ahead of him, and beyond that, oblivion- a sheer granite cliff. Somewhere inside the pale of snow stood the Pasha with a neat gash in his leg. Bastard was lucky he hadn't caught the serrated side of the blade.