A Calculated Risk by Katherine Neville (best time to read books .txt) 📗

was wearing a gray suit and gold-rimmed glasses. His ash-blond hair, silver at the temples, glinted in the sunlight streaming through the walls of glass. He rose, watching me expressionlessly as I crossed—as a spider might watch an insect entering its web, indifferent whether it arrived in time for lunch or dinner. Lawrence was a born predator, but not the usual species. He was the kind that killed by instinct, not for survival: it was simply rote mechanism with him.

“Verity, I’m sorry I called you here at such short notice. I’m glad you could make the time to get away.”

Lawrence liked to call you by your first name at once so you’d feel at home, though his tone suggested that without his goodwill, you’d find no other home on this planet.

There’s a protocol associated with power. Take the seating arrangements of the power wielder versus the wieldee. Lawrence’s expansive ash desk placed him at least twelve feet away from his prey, and the seat he motioned for me to take would place his head a foot higher than mine.

“Let’s sit over here so we can talk,” I suggested, indicating a seating area near the far windows, where there’d be no desk between us.

Lawrence made the best of the situation by choosing a chair where the reflections of buildings across the street would form squares on the surface of his gold-rimmed glasses. Seeing this, I did something that was likely unprecedented: I moved my chair so I could look him right in the eye.

Looking Lawrence in the eye was not a pleasant experience; he had the unique knack of seeming to snap his pupils shut—as a cat does—when he didn’t want to reveal what he was thinking.

“I understand you’ve just come back from New York?” he began when we were seated. “Ah—I envy you. My first ten years at the bank were in the Manhattan bureau. Tell me how you passed the time—did you go to the theater?”

This preliminary camaraderie was not to be confused with idle banter. Predators have been known to make friends with their food—toy with it for hours—before they eat it.

“I didn’t have time for that, sir,” I told him. “But I went to many excellent restaurants—as you’ll see when you get my expense report!”

“Ha-ha. I can see that you’ve quite a sense of humor, Verity.”

He was the only person I’d ever met who could laugh without smiling.

“You’re perhaps aware, Verity, that in your absence I received a report from the quality circle you manage?”

“It was sent to you upon my advice, sir,” I told him—as Pearl, Tavish, and I had agreed I should.

“Are you aware, Verity, that this document proposes to remove the quality circle from the hands of those who control production systems? Most specifically, those who direct on-line systems handling financial resources of the bank?”

“I’ve read the report,” I said.

Now, if Lawrence wondered how in hell I could have read a fifty-page memo—when I’d just this moment set foot in the bank after a week’s absence—he didn’t show it; he never missed a beat.

“Then you propose that this quality team—whose activities you yourself initiated—be withdrawn at once from your control?”

I looked directly into Lawrence’s eyes; it was like having an ice pack slapped on my stomach. “It seems to me that’s not the only alternative afforded by this proposal—sir,” I said.

His pupils narrowed briefly, for a flicker. “Indeed? Perhaps you interpreted it differently than I.”

“It says simply that auditors should be separated from what they’re auditing,” I pointed out. “Have you an objection to that?”

His pupils tightened considerably, and I congratulated myself on my choice of seating. But I knew I wasn’t playing the part of the “huntee”—giving no quarter, showing no fear, don’t let them pick up the scent.

“Let’s see if I understand,” he said, inching his way across the crevasse. Lawrence was nobody’s fool; he knew a setup when he saw one. “You mean to say you’re not recommending I take this quality team out of your hands? Perhaps we should review the case so far. You initiate a group to take a hard look at bank security. You approach the Managing Committee for funding—without first obtaining the support of your own management.…”

Hitting below the belt, but I let it pass.

“You travel to New York to garner support from the banking community—Are we tracking so far?”

“We are.”

“In your absence, a report is sent to me—under your auspices, you say—claiming that managers like you, controlling mainframe money systems, should be removed from all involvement in this group’s activities.”

“Correct.”

“Because of possible conflict of interest: to be certain that this group will have no vested interest in examining one system more than others. Or less than others. And yet you’re claiming now that this doesn’t mean you should wash your hands of the quality circle?”

“That’s not the only possibility afforded, sir.”

“You seem to be a person who’s aware of many possibilities,” he said calmly. “The only other path I see is for you to abandon your role as head of money systems altogether.”

“That seems to be it,” I agreed.

He sat there for a moment. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I recognized a look that approached respect—though it quickly turned to something more like calculation. Then he hit me with the left hook.

“Would you recommend that I endorse this proposition, Verity?”

Shit. I should have seen it coming. If I said yes—with no commitments up front—I was screwed. If I said no, I looked like a damned fool, since I was supposedly the one who’d sponsored the proposal.

If I couldn’t get Lawrence to commit, up front, to move me and the team to his department—beyond Kiwi’s control—I’d be at the mercy of whatever prevailing winds might blow. I had to get the ball back in Lawrence’s court—get him to make a serious offer.

“Sir,” I hedged, “what would be your interest in declining this proposal?”

He stared at me. His pupils snapped shut, then opened wide.

“Banks, do you play chess?” he asked, not looking at me.

“Yes, sir—I