Numbered Account

Nick sat up and stared at the damaged face. He had no doubt it was the same man who had pursued him up the Bahnhofstrasse four weeks ago. He could practically see the cocky smirk the man had offered him that night in Sprungli. He picked up the gun and put it in his pocket, then rummaged through the man's pockets. No wallet. No cellular phone. No car keys. Just a few hundred francs in currency.

Nick leaned to his right and drew his left leg under him. Somehow his anger had lessened the pain. Grimacing, he stood, then limped to the car. A Ford Cortina. The keys were in the ignition. Thankfully it was an automatic. He leaned into the driver's seat, peering around the interior for any sign of a first-aid kit or a telephone. He opened the glove compartment and checked inside. Nothing. A hump on the console behind the rear seat gave him hope. He hobbled backward and opened the passenger door. Lowering himself to the rear seat, he opened the small compartment and found an unused first-aid kit. Inside was adhesive tape, gauze, Mercurochrome, and aspirin. Not bad for a start.

Fifteen minutes later, Nick had cleaned and bandaged his leg. The stalker lay on his side, immobile. Probably had a fractured cheek and a few broken teeth. That would be the least of his problems once he'd discovered he'd been left up here without a car. Nick took a survival blanket from the first-aid kit and threw it at the prostrate form. The Mylar blanket would keep him warm enough until he figured out a way down. Nick might even call the police later and report a pedestrian stranded at the St. Gotthard Pass. Then again, he might not. Right now, though, he had more important matters to tend to.

Nick moved to the front door of the Ford and lowered himself delicately into the driver's seat. He would have to drive with his left leg. He started the engine. The gas tank was three-quarters full. He checked his watch: 10:30. The Pasha was thirty minutes ahead of him.

Time to fly.

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, Neumann should be buried deep in the mountain snow, his disappearance to be solved only by a late spring thaw. There is no nobility in being honest and dead, Nicholas. That is a lesson you should have learned from your father long ago.

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. Neumann, an assistant to Herr Kaiser."

"Alas, Mr. Neumann could not join us. He was taken ill quite suddenly."

Wenker frowned. "Is that so? To be frank, I was beginning to doubt whether you would arrive at all. I expect my clients to respect our scheduled meeting times regardless of the weather. Even if they are referred to me by so eminent a businessman as Herr Kaiser."

"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."