Numbered Account

CHAPTER 63

Ali Mevlevi arrived at the Hotel Olivella au Lac at 10:40. The weather was clear and cool, hazy sunshine pushing its way through a thin stratus of cloud. The temperate Mediterranean winds that lapped against the southern wall of the Alps brought to the Tessin mild, comfortable winters, not altogether different from those of Lebanon. In Zurich, it was said, you spent the winter huddled behind the double-paned windows of overheated offices, while in Lugano you buttoned up your sweater and took only a single espresso outdoors in the Piazza San Marco. Certainly, that was the case today- but there would be no time for espresso.

Mevlevi slammed the front door of the limousine and walked deliberately into the hotel, taking care to conceal his limp. He had wrapped his leg with a bandage he had found in the limousine's first-aid kit. It would hold until he could get to a proper doctor and have the ugly gash stitched up. He approached the reception area and asked the clerk in which room he could find Mr. Yves-Andre Wenker. The clerk checked the register. Room 407. Mevlevi offered his thanks and directed himself to the elevators. He clenched his jaw, biting back the pain. One thought consoled him. By now, Neuma

Mevlevi took the elevator to the fourth floor. He found Room 407 and rapped twice on the door. One lock disengaged, then a second. The door swung open revealing a tall gentleman in a gray pinstripe suit. He wore pince-nez spectacles and had the terminal stoop and begrudging squint of a deskbound clerk.

"Veuillez entrer. Do come in, please," the slim man beckoned. "Monsieur…"

"Malvinas. Allen Malvinas. Bonjour." The Pasha extended his hand. He detested speaking French.

"Yves-Andre Wenker. Swiss Passport Office." Wenker pointed the way toward an expansive sitting area. "You're alone? I was told you would be accompanied by a Mr. Neuma

"Alas, Mr. Neuma

Wenker frowned. "Is that so? To be frank, I was begi

"Rain, sleet, poor visibility. We had a long ride from Zurich."

Wenker eyed him skeptically, then showed him into the sitting room. "Herr Kaiser informs me you are a native of Argentina."

"Buenos Aires." Mevlevi eyed him uncomfortably. There was something vaguely familiar about this man. "Do you by any chance speak English?"

"I am sorry, but no," Wenker replied, inclining his head deferentially. "I favor only the Romance languages of the European continent. French, Italian, a little Spanish. English is such a vulgar language."

Mevlevi said nothing. He knew the voice, he was sure of it, but its provenance eluded him.

"Eh bien. Shall we get down to business?" Wenker checked his watch and sat down on the sofa. He had laid out a succession of manila folders on the coffee table in front of him. Tabs indicated their contents as "Work History," "Residence," and "Financial Information." "The usual application process requires seven years provided proof of Swiss residence has been established. As we're hastening the process, quite a few documents will have to be filled out during our meeting. Please try to be patient."

Mevlevi nodded, though he was hardly listening. His thoughts were an hour behind him, stranded atop the misty mountaintop. He had hit Neuma

"Have you brought three photographs with you?" Wenker asked again.

"Of course." Mevlevi reached into his briefcase and withdrew his passport and a wax paper envelope holding three small portraits.

Wenker examined them quickly. "You must sign the back of each one."

Mevlevi hesitated, then bowed to the man's demands. The damned Swiss- punctilious to a fault, even in their most corrupt dealings.

Wenker accepted the signed photos and placed them in an open folder. "May we begin with the questions?"

"Please," the Pasha answered gallantly. He turned his head to look out at the lake. The view of dappled palms swaying in the morning breeze did little to dispel the unease chewing at his stomach. He could not relax until he had word about Neuma

Thirty kilometers south of Lugano, a tangled braid of traffic slowed to a crawl as it neared the southernmost Swiss border at Chiasso. The border crossing was considered the country's busiest, one of only three portals through which the industrial output of northern Italy could reach the mighty economies of Germany and France. Trucks of every size, shape, and vintage traversed the flat stretch of superhighway. Among their number this morning was an eighteen-wheel Magirus rig bravely hauling two trailers. Her cab was painted a royal blue. Her chrome grille sported a white badge with the letters TIR. Trans Internationale Routier.

Joseph Habib sat inside the truck's cabin, wedged uncomfortably between two mafiosi, low-level thugs who worked the Italian side of things for the Makdisi family. Eighteen months he'd been under. Eighteen months since he'd tasted his mother's spicy mezza. Just a few more minutes, keep these hotheads calm until the rig pulls into the checkpoint, and it would go down like clockwork. He only wished he could be there to see Ali Mevlevi's face when he learned he'd lost his shipment.

The portico came into view a few hundred yards ahead. Traffic was stop-and-go.

"I told you to pull into the right lane," Joseph said to Remo, the driver. "Do as I say."

"It's backed up halfway to Milano. You want I should take that lane, we never get to Zurich." Remo was a young tough, black hair pulled into a ponytail, shirtsleeves rolled up to show off his chiseled biceps.

Joseph turned his shoulders toward him. "I'll tell you one more time. The right lane or we turn around and go home. Why do you insist on disobeying Mr. Makdisi's orders?"

The traffic stopped. Remo lit a cigarette. "What does he know about crossing this border?" he asked, blowing smoke into the cramped cabin. "I've done it a thousand times. No one has ever given us a second look."

Joseph shifted his gaze to the slovenly man in the passenger seat. "Franco, tell your friend. We go to the right or we go home." He knew Franco was scared of him. The unkempt slob was always looking over at him, his eyes practically swallowing the scar on his cheek. You could see the man shudder, wondering how he had gotten it.

Franco leaned across Joseph and tapped the driver on the arm. "Remo. Right lane. Pronto."

"How much time?" asked Remo.

"Twenty minutes," said Joseph. "No problem. Our man doesn't leave the booth until ten-thirty."

"What's taking so long this morning?" Remo asked, tapping the giant steering wheel impatiently. "Take a look."