"If you'll sign at the bottom of the paper, we can put this messy situation behind us."

Ali Mevlevi hands Wolfgang Kaiser a receipt issued by the Beirut representative office of the United Swiss Bank for the sum of twenty million U.S. dollars. Where he has procured the official paper is a mystery. As is so much else.

Kaiser meticulously refolds his handkerchief and places it in his pocket before reaching forward to accept the document. He places the receipt on top of a stack of color photographs, eight by tens. Photographs of which he, Wolfgang Andreas Kaiser, is a prominent subject, one might even say the star. He and a horribly mutilated transvestite he has learned carried the name Rio.

Kaiser signs his name to the document, knowing with each loop of the pen that this "messy situation" will never be behind him. Mevlevi watches with detached interest. He points to three worn duffel bags stuffed to bursting slumped in the entryway. "Either you discover a way to deposit the money within three days or I will report it stolen. Your country looks rather harshly upon bank fraud, does it not? Lebanon is no different. But I fear her jails are not so comfortable as your own."

Kaiser straightens his back. His eyes are puffy and his nose stuffed. He tears off the top copy of the receipt, places it in an empty plastic tray, then gives the yellow copy to Mevlevi. The Swiss banker's refuge is order; procedure, his sanctuary. The pink copy, he says, will stay in this office. The white copy will go to Switzerland. "With the money," he adds, managing a smile.

"You are a remarkable man," says Mevlevi. "I see I have chosen the proper partner."

Kaiser nods perfunctorily. Now they are partners. What torture will this relationship hold in store for him?

Mevlevi speaks again. "You may tell your superiors that I have agreed to pay a special fee of two percent of funds deposited to handle the administrative costs of opening my account. Not bad. Four hundred thousand dollars for a day's work. Or should I say a night's?"

Kaiser does not comment. He strains to keep his back pinned to his chair. If he loses contact with the hard surface, if the pressure against his spine slackens, he will go mad.

The next morning the branch manager boards a flight to Zurich, via Vienna. In his four suitcases he has packed twenty million one hundred forty-three thousand dollars. Mevlevi had lied. There were three one-dollar bills.

At passport control, Kaiser is waved through. At customs, though pushing a cart laden with a mountain of bulging suitcases, he does not receive a second glance. The passenger following him, while carrying only a small valise, is detained. Kaiser signals his understanding to the immigration official. What else is one to do with a dirty Arab?

Gerhard Gautschi, chairman of the United Swiss Bank, is too stunned to speak. Kaiser explains that he could not turn down the opportunity to generate so substantial a profit for the bank. Yes, there was a risk. No, he cannot envision committing such a foolhardy act again. All the same, the money is safely deposited in the bank. A sizable commission has been earned. Better yet, the client wishes to invest in securities. His first purchase? Shares of the United Swiss Bank.

"Who is he?" asks Gautschi, referring of course to Kaiser's new client.

"A well-respected businessman," answers Kaiser.

"Naturally," laughs Gautschi. "Aren't they all?"

Kaiser leaves the Chairman's throne room, but not before Gautschi has a last word.

"Next time, Wolfgang, let us send the plane for you."

A smattering of snow slapped the windshield and brought Wolfgang Kaiser back to the present. A sign ahead indicated that he had reached Thalwil. Seconds later he sped through the shadow of the Lindt and Sprungli chocolate manufacturer, an industrial monstrosity painted a lavender blue. He slowed the car, lowering his window and extinguishing the heat. A numbing cold invaded the cabin.

Sick of him, aren't you? Kaiser asked himself, referring of course to Ali Mevlevi, the man who had destroyed his life. Of course I am. I'm sick of the midnight calls, of the tapped phones, of the unilateral orders. I am sick of living under another man's heel.

He sighed. With luck, that might soon change. If Nicholas Neumann was as willful as he estimated, if he was as mean-spirited as his military records indicated, Mevlevi might soon be a memory. Tomorrow young Neumann would be introduced to the guileful ways of Ali Mevlevi. Mevlevi himself had stated that he planned to make sure Neumann was "one of us." Kaiser could well imagine what those words meant.

For the past month, he had allowed himself the fantasy of using Nicholas Neumann to get rid of Mevlevi. He knew that Neumann had spent time in the Marine Corps, but his record of service was a mystery. Some of the bank's better clients were higher-ups at the U.S. Department of Defense- procurement analysts. Rich bastards. A little digging had yielded some startling answers. Neumann's military record had been officially sealed, labeled "Top Secret." More interesting, the boy had received a dishonorable discharge. Three weeks prior to his discharge on medical grounds, he had ruthlessly attacked a civilian defense contractor named John J. Keely. Beaten the man senseless, apparently. Rumor said it was retribution for a failed operation. All very hush-hush.

No more information was forthcoming, but to Kaiser it was more than enough. A soldier with a bad temper. A trained killer with a short fuse. Of course, he could never ask the boy outright to kill another man, a client, to boot. But he could see to it that someone with a bent toward mayhem came up with the idea himself.

After that, it had been easy. Assign Neumann to FKB4. Give him some time working with account 549.617 RR. Cerruti's illness and Sprecher's departure had been marvelous coincidences. The arrival of Sterling Thorne, even better. Who better to prime Neumann on Mevlevi than the United States Drug Enforcement Administration? And now Mevlevi actually coming to Zurich. His first visit in four years. If Kaiser were a religious man, he would call it a miracle. Being a cynic, he called it fate.

At 9:15, Kaiser parked the car in a private lot abutting the lake. He placed the weighty oilskin in his lap and turned it over and over until the weapon's silver skin flashed in the darkness. Cupping the pistol in the craw of his left hand, he drew back the slide and chambered a round. With his thumb, he clicked the safety to its off position. He looked in the mirror and was relieved to find the man with dull, lifeless eyes staring back at him.

First, one chore.

A block from the apartment building, Kaiser slowed his pace and sucked in the brittle air. Lights burned in every corner of the penthouse. Was that a shadow crossing the window? He lowered his head and walked on. His hand stroked the smooth metal object in his pocket, as if like some magical talisman it might deliver him from this circumstance. He reached the door too soon. The voice that blurted from the speaker was nervous and high-strung. Kaiser could already see the blinking eyes.

"Thank God you're here," said Marco Cerruti.