Numbered Account

Mevlevi returned his attention to the stripe of asphalt before him, but it was not long before his mind wandered back to the dilemma that pressed on his heart like a sharpened dagger. A spy, he thought to himself. A spy is lying nearby.

Hours earlier, he had discovered that the United Swiss Bank had failed to transfer forty-seven million dollars of his money according to his precise instructions. Calls to inquire about the delay had revealed the circumstances of his escape. However, no explanation had been given as to which failure in the bank's systems had resulted in his account number's appearing on a surveillance list established by the United States Drug Enforcement Administration. For now, though, that was of minor concern. For not only had the authorities expected the transfer, they had known its exact amount.

"A spy," Mevlevi said, through clenched teeth. "A spy has been peeking over my shoulder."

Normally, he was thankful for the unerring efficiency of the Swiss. No other country oversaw the execution of a client's instructions with such exactitude. The French were arrogant. The Chinese imprecise. The Cayman Islanders- who could trust that colony of self-serving financial leeches? The Swiss were polite, deferential, and exact. They followed orders to the letter. And so his escape, when analyzed, grew more storied. For it was the disobeying of a clearly defined order that had permitted him to flee the grasp of the international authorities. He was indebted to an American: a United States Marine, no less. One whose brethren's blood defiled the holy land over which he now drove.

Mevlevi could not stifle the laugh rising up from deep within his belly. The self-righteous Americans- policing the world, making it safe for democracy; a planet, dictator and drug free. And he was a dreamer?

Mevlevi checked his speed and kept the car pointed south on National Route 1, toward Mieh-Mieh, toward Israel. To his right, barren hillocks of pale alkali grit rose up from the Mediterranean Sea. Occasionally, a settlement dotted the top of a small rise. The low-slung structures were built of cinder block whitewashed to deflect the Levant's bleaching sun. More and more sported ante

General Amos Ben-Ami had led his forces down this very road sixteen years before. Operation Big Pine: the Israeli invasion of Lebanon. American-made tanks, armored perso

The Israelis had bought themselves fifteen years, mused Ali Mevlevi. Fifteen years of blemished peace. Their vacation would soon end. In weeks, another army would travel a path parallel to National Route 1, this time traveling south. A secret army under his guidance. A guerrilla force fighting beneath the green-and-white standard of Islam. Like the fabled khamsin, the violent wind that sprang from the desert without warning and for fifty days devoured all in its path, he would rise unseen and rain fury upon the enemy.

Mevlevi opened a sterling case at his side and withdrew a slim black cigarette, a Turkish Sobranie. One last tie to his homeland: Anatolia- where the sun rises. And where it sets, he thought bitterly, leaving its inhabitants poorer, dirtier, and hungrier than the day before.

He drew deeply from the cigarette, allowing the acrid smoke to fill his lungs, feeling its potent nicotine invigorate him. He saw before him the rugged hills and salt plains of Cappadocia. He envisioned his father sitting at the head of the rough wooden table that had dominated the living area, serving as workbench, conjugal bed, and on rare occasion, a formal surface for feasting and celebration. His father would be wearing the tall red fez he so treasured. His elder brother, Saleem, too. Dervishes, both of them. Mystics.

Mevlevi remembered their twirling and spi

For years, his father had implored him to return home. "You are a rich man," he said. "Turn your heart to Allah. Share your family's love." And for years, Mevlevi had laughed at the notion. His heart had turned away from Allah's love. He had abandoned the religion of his father. Yet, the Almighty had not abandoned him. One day his father wrote to him, claiming he had been commanded by the prophet to bring his second son back to Islam. The note included a short verse, and its words had pierced a soul Mevlevi thought long dead.

Mevlevi had dwelled upon the words. The wealth of Croesus was his. He was master of a small empire. Numbered accounts at a dozen banks across Europe sheltered his money. But what had such material success brought him? The same despair, worry, and indirection quoted in the sacred verse.

With each passing day, his mistrust of his fellow man grew. Man was a putrid creature rarely able to govern his lesser desires, concerned only with acquiring money, power, and position. Interested in fulfilling his greed, sating his lust, and dominating all that surrounded him. Each time Ali Mevlevi regarded himself in the mirror he saw a king among such foul creatures. And it made him sick.

Only his identity as a Muslim could provide solace.

Recalling the moment of his awakening, Ali Mevlevi enjoyed a tremor of inspiration. His body was filled with an uncompromising love for the Almighty and a matching contempt for his own earthly ambitions. To what good could he put his wealth? To what use could he bring his experience? Allah alone provided the answer. To the good of Islam. To the greater glory of Muhammad. To the advancement of his people's cause.

Now, on the verge of proving to his father and his brothers that he was capable of showering Allah with a greater glory than they, with their twirling steps and mystic chants, Mevlevi had unearthed a spy, an enemy of God's will who threatened to destroy all he had worked for these past years.

An enemy of Khamsin.

Mevlevi reminded himself that his inquiries must center on those with access to the precise details of his financial transactions. It could not be someone in Zurich. Neither Cerruti, nor Sprecher, nor Neuma