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ZURICH, SWITZERLAND
A bel stepped off the train, covered his mouth with a handkerchief, and thanked a God he didn’t believe in for the formation of the European Union. Gone were the days of customs and immigration checkpoints at every border and port of entry. Now they were all one big happy family and they could pass freely from one country to the next without going through any hassle. This all suited Abel’s new lifestyle very well. He’d taken the train from Venice to Milan where he spent the night in a completely forgettable hotel near the train station. He’d dined by himself at a small café. Gone were the expensive wine and food and hotels. If Rashid didn’t come through with the money by noon all of his hard work, and this entire gamble, would be for nothing.
He’d taken the first express train north in the morning. Fortunately it was far nicer than the run-down, soiled Ferrovie dello Stato train he’d taken from Venice. They made one stop at Chiaso and then crossed the border. The train continued on its way, rumbling through the beautiful countryside all morning long, winding its way north, coming out of the mountains and making a straight run for Zurich. Abel devoured five separate newspapers looking for information on Saeed’s death. All of the articles were thin on facts. It was too early to know for sure what had happened, but Abel knew it had been Rapp.
The train pulled into Zurich a few minutes before noon. His eyeglasses were in his pocket and his handkerchief covered his face as he passed under a tinted security camera pod. Abel walked briskly with his medium-sized wheeled suitcase rolling behind him. He did not go straight for the taxi line. He crossed the street and walked south down Bahnhofstrasse toward the lake. Abel knew the city as well as any in the world. He kept an apartment here that doubled as an office. He wouldn’t be going anywhere near the place, though.
After a brisk ten-minute walk he was in the heart of one of the world’s most upscale shopping districts. Abel turned east and took one of the low-slung bridges across the Limmat. He found a bench on the east bank and turned on his PDA. While he waited for the color screen to come to life he glanced up at the sky. It was a blanket of gray. No clouds, just flat gray blotting out the warm sun. A cool gust of wind kicked off the river and Abel turned up the collar of his trench coat.
The screen sprang to life and the tiny speaker announced that the device was ready with a few musical notes. Abel’s thumbs began working furiously. He found the bank’s Web site, entered his account number, and passed through three separate security portals until the account balance appeared on the screen. Abel paused, frowned, and then swore. The amount in the account was one million dollars. Not eleven.
Abel stood, took several laps around the park bench, and then sat back down and typed out the instructions to his banker. He wanted the money moved out of the account before he made his next call. He sent the instructions with all the proper passwords and then logged off. He called Rashid’s office. The prince was not in, but he w
as expecting the call. The assistant gave Abel a number to dial. Abel hung up without thanking the man and turned off his phone. He wondered if this was some kind of a trap. He decided to use a pay phone to make the call.
Half a block away he found one and punched in his calling card number followed by the new number. After a series of whirs and clicks a man answered on the other end.
“Prince Muhammad, now.”
“May I ask who is calling?”
“Just put him on the phone,” Abel snapped. He looked over both shoulders, up and down the riverbank, and counted the seconds.
“Erich?” the prince asked. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Vienna,” he lied. “Where are you?”
“Southern Spain.”
Abel shook his head. Rashid loved to talk about Spain and how someday again it would be Muslim. “I just checked the account. You are ten million dollars short.”
“I have some bad news for you. The Americans already know that you were working for Saeed.”
“You are lying.”
“No, I am not.”
“Who told you?”
“Their director of National Intelligence…Ross.”
“I don’t believe you.” Abel tried to sound calm even though his head was pounding.
“It is true. In fact I don’t think Vienna is a good place for you to be. Fly to Saudi Arabia and I will protect you.”
Fly to Saudi Arabia and you’ll kill me, Abel thought to himself. “How did the Americans find out about me? Saeed would have told them nothing.”
“The assassins you hired have been talking.”
“They were caught?” Abel asked in disbelief.
“No. Not that I know of. All I was told was that the CIA has been in contact with the banks that you and Saeed used. Director Kennedy herself flew to Zurich and met with the bankers. Saeed did not take your money. The CIA did.”
“I don’t care who took my money. Our deal still stands. Eleven million dollars. You owe me ten.”
“Yes I do,” Rashid said in a reasonable voice, “and you will get it. Every six months I will wire you another million.”
“That’ll take five years.”
