Numbered Account

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.

Nick took several breaths and readied his next move. He heard the door of the limousine slam and its engine rev to life. He sat still and turned his ear into the wind. The Mercedes' motor ran in idle for several seconds, then revved anew and accelerated. The wind picked up, drowning the sound of the car.

Nick remained where he was, not fully believing that Mevlevi had just up and left. Why would the Pasha leave him here? To freeze? To bleed to death?