"You have a moral responsibility to assist us in our investigation," Thorne had argued. "You are not just an employee of a dishonest bank. If you insist on keeping your mouth closed, you're also an employee of Ali Mevlevi, a criminal just like him. I don't plan on resting until I stop him. And after he's sitting in a black hole forty feet underground, I'm coming after you. Count on it."

Funny, Thorne so concerned about Mevlevi being a big wheel in the heroin trade. Didn't he know about the guns? Cerruti was a major in the Swiss Army- intelligence, of course- but he knew his way around the standard armaments of a light infantry battalion. He had never imagined that a private individual could purchase the monumental store of arms and munitions, the near mountain of materiel he had seen only two months ago at the Pasha's compound: crates of machine guns, ammunition, pistols, grenades- both antipersonnel and incendiary. And that was the small stuff. He had seen several Stinger ground-to-air missiles, three anti-tank guns, and at least a dozen mortars, some large enough to lob a projectile five kilometers. Enough, Cerruti concluded, for a very messy little war.

He reached for the glass of water on his night table. Recalling his last visit to Ali Mevlevi's compound in the foothills above Beirut led inexorably to the root of his distress, the cause for his psychic dysfunction. Suleiman's Pool.

He had never in his life borne witness to so horrific a sight. He winced at the memory of the smell: the rank odor of a hundred midnight laboratories. He shut his eyes against the recollection of the pale bodies drifting in the pool. He covered his ears to muffle the laugh. Mr. Mevlevi howling with glee as poor Marco fainted.

Cerruti sat up in his bed for the second time that night. Perhaps Thorne was right. Perhaps Mevlevi did have to be stopped. The guns, the pool, heroin, too, according to the DEA. What more did he need to recognize a villain?

Cerruti clutched the sheets to his chin as the nightmare returned. The black water. The demons lurking just beyond the periphery of his vision. He couldn't go back to sleep with the dream awaiting him. Instead, he rocked gently back and forth moaning "Suleiman's Pool." He repeated the words like a mantra. Suleiman's Pool. Switzerland had a law for just such a situation. And even though it remained more or less untested years after its inclusion in the country's legal tomes, he knew that no one qualified more aptly as "a client whose activities lead the employee to infer illegal business practices" than Mr. Ali Mevlevi.

Cerruti drew in several deep breaths. Tomorrow morning he would call Mr. Thorne and show him the papers that sat in his desk. He would turn over evidence of the Pasha's accounts at the United Swiss Bank and confirmations of the transfers made twice each week. He would help the international authorities bring the scoundrel Mevlevi to justice.

"No, Mr. Thorne, I am not a criminal," he declared aloud to the silent walls, and then quietly to himself, "I don't want to go to prison."

Cerruti sat upright in his bed, proud of his decision. Slowly, though, the faint smile faded. He couldn't make such a momentous decision alone. Discussion was required. But whom could he share his feelings with at this late hour? He had no relatives, none at least who would understand such complex issues. Friends? None. Colleagues? He wouldn't consider it.

Cerruti lay in his bed thinking, and soon a damp sweat bathed his entire body. There was only one man with whom he could talk about this. The man who had helped him make so many of the major decisions in his life. Only he could help Marco rid himself of the nightmare.

For the second time in a quarter of an hour, Cerruti turned back the sheets and rose from his bed. He padded to the closet and pulled out a terry-cloth robe. He walked through the apartment turning on all the lights, stopping last in his small study, where he sat himself down behind his desk. He opened the drawer and removed a slim gray book- his personal phone directory- which he laid on his desk beside the telephone. His hand shook only a little as he found the proper page and located the number. He stared at the book, and though the apartment was heated to a mild seventy degrees, he began to shiver. For while he recognized the first number listed on the page, and had in fact called it on a hundred occasions during his long career, he had never called the second number. For emergencies, Marco, he heard the stentorian baritone tell him. For the closest of friends in the direst of times.

Cerruti pondered his decision- whether this was an emergency, whether it was in fact the direst of times- and when after a few minutes of this he found himself unable to fight back an onslaught of tears, he knew he had his answer.

At 1:37 A.M., he picked up the telephone and dialed his savior.

Wolfgang Kaiser picked up the phone on the second ring.

"Now what is it?" he asked, keeping his head on the pillow and his eyes closed. A dial tone answered noncommittally. Nearby, a phone rang again.

Kaiser dashed off the bedcovers and swung his feet to the floor. Kneeling, he grasped the handle of the bedside cabinet and flung open the door. A black telephone sat on a sliding drawer. His hand found the receiver as the phone rang once more.

"Kaiser," he announced in a gruff tone.

"Please engage now." A command.

Kaiser pressed a transparent cube on the base of the special phone, engaging the Motorola Viscom III Scrambler. Static tickled his ear. The line bulged with white noise. A moment passed and the line regained its clarity.

"Kaiser." This time he spoke quietly, deferentially.

"I will be arriving in two days," said Ali Mevlevi. "Make the usual arrangements. Eleven A.M. Zurich Airport."

Kaiser placed the phone on his left shoulder, using his right hand to cover the mouthpiece. "Out," he hissed to the lump on the far side of his bed. "Go to the bathroom, shut the door, and turn on the bathwater. Now!" He removed his hand from the phone. "Eleven A.M.," he repeated. "Unfortunately, I cannot be there to welcome you."

"I would not dream of disturbing the day of such an influential man. I hope I am not disturbing your night." A hoarse laugh.

Kaiser pressed the phone against his chest and grunted at the form next to him, "Hurry up. Raus!"

A woman rose from the bed and walked unclothed to the bathroom. He watched her go. After all this time, he still enjoyed her lush figure. The woman closed the door without a backward glance.

Kaiser said, "Ali, this is a crazy time to come to Zurich. Thorne and his team are sure to be maintaining surveillance on the bank."

"Thorne is a nuisance easily disposed of. Surely you don't view him as a threat?"

"The man is a representative of the United States government. Any other time, we could shoo him away. Today?" Kaiser sighed. "You know too well the situation we are in."

"No matter. He must be neutralized."

"You don't mean…"

"Growing squeamish, are we?" Mevlevi asked. "Don't lose the qualities I used to admire in you. Ruthless. Relentless. Remorseless. You were unstoppable."

Kaiser wanted to say that he still possessed these qualities. But such a response would be construed as defensive and thus weak. So he said nothing.

"Get this man off of my back," said Mevlevi. "I don't care how you choose to do it. If you prefer a more genteel method, so be it. But make no mistake, he is your responsibility."

Kaiser could imagine the Pasha sitting in his study at five in the morning, smoking his filthy Turkish cigarettes, musing about the future. "Understood. And regarding your arrival, I'll have Armin Schweitzer meet you at the airport."