Mevlevi wilted. His larynx was crushed, his esophagus blocked. He collapsed to his knees, eyes blinking wildly as he fought to draw in a breath. The opium harvester's knife clattered to the floor. He brought both hands to his neck, trying to dislodge the cord fastened around his neck, but Nick held it firm. Time passed. Ten seconds, twenty. Nick stared at the dying man. He felt only a grim determination to end his life.

Suddenly, Mevlevi bucked. His back arched and in a last mad paroxysm, he crashed his head three times against the wall, cracking the glass. Then he was still.

Nick unwrapped the cord from his neck and brought the receiver to his own ear.

The same irritated voice asked, "What is the account number? You have given me only three digits. I need more. Please Mr. Mev-"

Nick hung up the telephone.

Above him, the church bell tolled the midday hour.

Moammar al Khan drove his rented white Volvo slowly past the town's main square desperately searching for his master's figure. The square was empty. The only people he saw was a group of old men gathered near the lake. He flicked his wrist and checked the time. It was exactly twelve o'clock. He prayed that Al-Mevlevi had been able to reach Brissago. It pained him to see his master in such difficulty. Betrayed by one so close to him. Chased from this country as if he were a common criminal. The Western Infidel knew no justice!

Inshallah. God is great. Bless Al-Mevlevi.

Khan turned the car around and drove back past the square. He continued down the main street hoping to see his master. Maybe he had misunderstood his instructions. Khan arrived at the entrance to Brissago, then decided to drive back to the square and find a place to park. He would go stand near the fountain so that Al-Mevlevi would not miss him when he arrived.

Khan checked his rearview mirror for any traffic following him. The road was clear. He spun the wheel and directed the Volvo back through the small town. He slowed once again as he passed the square, even rolling down his window and craning his neck outside. He saw no one. He accelerated down the straightaway toward a gravel car park about a hundred yards ahead. On the other side of the road, a man was limping slowly toward the car park. Khan turned his head and looked at him. It was Nicholas Neumann.

Khan shot his eyes to the road in front of him, then realized that Neumann had never seen him. Neumann should be dead. If he was here it could only mean that he knew of Al-Mevlevi's plan to escape across the border. But why had he come alone? The Arab's neck grew taut. To kill Al-Mevlevi, of course.

Khan drove the car into the parking lot. The only other automobile there was a red Ford Cortina. He guessed that it belonged to the American. He parked the Volvo at the opposite end of the lot. He watched Neumann approach in the rearview mirror, waiting until he opened the door of the red car and lowered himself into it.

Khan needed no instructions for what had to be done. He opened the door and stepped from the car. He crossed the gravel slowly, not wanting to alert Neumann to his presence. Behind him a black Mercedes pulled into the lot and parked next to his car. He kept his attention on the Ford. If there were witnesses, too bad. He'd kill them too. He unbuttoned his leather jacket and reached a hand inside for his weapon. He felt cold steel and smiling, petted the grip. He lengthened his stride. The world around him shrank to a constricted tunnel. Only Neumann at the end of that tunnel was in focus. Everything else was a blur. A distraction.

Neumann started the engine. The car shuddered and a puff of exhaust came from the tailpipe.

Khan drew his pistol and placed the tip of the barrel against the driver's window.

Neumann looked into the gun. His eyes opened wide but he did not move. He took his hands from the steering wheel.

Khan allowed him a final moment of terror, then increased his pressure on the trigger. He did not feel the bullet that drilled a hole into his brain, blasting away the entire left side of his skull. He saw a flash of bright light, then his world went dark. The pistol dropped from his hand and thudded to the ground. He collapsed against the car, then fell onto the gravel. Dead.

Nick did not move. He heard the pop of a high-caliber pistol and watched helplessly as the gunman's body pounded into the window, then slid to the ground. Ten feet behind him stood Sterling Thorne, gun extended.

Thorne approached the car, holstering his side arm as he walked.

For a moment, Nick sat still. He stared straight ahead of him. He thought the lake was very beautiful. He was alive.

Thorne knocked on the window and opened the car door. He was grinning.

"Neumann, you are one piss-poor liar."

CHAPTER 68

Nick arrived at the Kongresshaus at ten-forty-five, fifteen minutes before the general assembly was scheduled to commence. The auditorium, which seated several thousand persons, was filling rapidly. Reporters from the world's major financial publications dashed up and down the aisles, speaking to stockbrokers, speculators, and shareholders alike. In the wake of allegations that Wolfgang Kaiser had actively maintained close ties with a notorious Middle Eastern drug lord, all ears strained to learn who would assume control of the United Swiss Bank. But Nick had no illusions. After a spate of apologies and promises of tighter controls, business would continue as usual. The fact that Ali Mevlevi was dead and the flow of heroin into Europe slowed, at least for a little while, did little to console him. Thorne had his victory, but Nick's was tainted. Nearly twenty-four hours after his escape from the Hotel Olivella au Lac, Wolfgang Kaiser had not yet been apprehended.

Nick walked to the front of the auditorium and looked back on the sea of faces streaming in. No one paid him special notice. His role in the affair was unknown- at least for now. Angry and frustrated, he wondered if Ott and Maeder and all the others would conduct the meeting as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred yesterday. He imagined what Peter Sprecher would say:…but Nick, nothing out of the ordinary has. And his anger and frustration grew.

Still, he had half a notion that Kaiser just might show up. Self-preservation would dictate he stay far away from the general assembly, but Nick didn't think the idea of being caught had ever surfaced on Kaiser's private radar. The Chairman of the United Swiss Bank forced to flee Switzerland? Never! Even now he probably believed that he had done nothing wrong.

Nick spotted Sterling Thorne slouching near a fire exit to the left of the stage. Thorne caught Nick's glance and nodded. Earlier, he had given Nick a copy of that morning's Herald Tribune. A small article on the inside front cover was circled. "Israeli Jets Knock Out Guerrilla Strongholds." The story said that a renegade faction of Lebanese Hezbollah loyalists had been captured as they massed near the Israeli border, an unknown number killed. A final paragraph stated that their base in the hills above Beirut had been bombed and destroyed. "So much for Mevlevi's private army," Thorne had said, smirking. Though when Nick asked him about the battlefield nuclear weapon, his smile vanished and he shrugged as if to say "We'll never know."

Directly in front of Nick, a yellow rope was strung across ten chairs in the first row. Each chair held a white index card bearing the name of its occupant. Sepp Zwicki, Rita Sutter, and others he knew as residents of the Fourth Floor. Looking to his right, he caught sight of Sylvia Schon making a slow march up the aisle. She was counting heads, spotting how many of her precious charges had attended the meeting. Even now, she was following the Chairman's orders.