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

to Kiwi or agree to my suggestion. Instead, he sat there with my report in his hands and said nothing. And then—after something more than a mere pause—he actually smiled!

“The auditors?” he said, raising a brow as if he found the idea a novelty. “I really can’t see why they should be involved at all.”

Wrong answer, my dear. And that will cost you queen and castle.

The right answer—as director of the largest division of the bank—was that we should call in the auditors at once. It was he who should stress that our lingerie was lily white—not I. It was he who should insist we had nothing to hide—not I. It was he who should pick up the phone at once and refer the whole matter to the boys in blue—not I.

The fact that he did none of the above meant we most assuredly did have something to hide. I wondered what in hell it could be.

Now he was standing up behind his desk, smiling and extending his hand for a shake as he slipped my report surreptitiously into his drawer. I hadn’t a clue what was happening, but I got to my feet as well.

“I don’t like to haul in the auditors to solve our problems, Banks,” he told me. “Not until we’ve a solution of our own to propose. I’ll tell you what—take a little time, a month or so, perhaps—and have a really good look at those security systems of ours. Be ruthless, if you like. Who knows? Maybe we need to start from scratch and design some brand-new security, even if it means a little extra spending. And let me know if you need any staff to help.”

“Okay,” I told him, totally confused. “I’ll write up a schedule and plan and leave them for you tomorrow.”

“No rush,” he assured me, seeing me to the door. “We want to do this thing right.”

I made my way down the glassed-in corridor in a daze. This was the man who’d told me—only week before last—to wrap up my project and put my staff in the pasture, who’d told me two minutes ago he was sick of proposals and studies. Suddenly he’d stopped the clocks, halted time, told me money was no object. My head was spinning as I approached my own office.

“Are you still employed?” asked Pavel. “You seem to have come out intact; have you counted your fingers and toes?”

“My fingers and toes are all there—but something’s definitely missing. You can unpack the boxes while I try to figure it out. Looks like we’re staying awhile.”

I went into my office, closed the door, and looked out at the layer of fog sitting on the bay. A cabin cruiser broke through the mist. I watched it until it passed under the Bay Bridge. It reminded me of the one Tor and I had taken to the island. That seemed a hundred years ago. Where was he, and why hadn’t he called? I needed to talk to someone who was a master at analyzing people and their motivations—and that certainly wasn’t me.

I knew, as I sat there alone in the fog, that Lawrence had no interest in our security at the bank. He was even less interested in what the auditors thought of that security. This had nothing to do with security or the auditors; it had nothing to do with me. What it had to do with was Lawrence himself.

I reviewed Lawrence’s accounts for weeks, until nearly the end of February, but could find nothing amiss. It was driving me crazy. He seemed clean as a whistle. Why would a guy like Lawrence, who got half a million in preferred stock in his Christmas sock each year, do anything to rock the sleigh?

Perhaps he wasn’t doing anything—maybe it was something he was about to do. But how could I figure out what was on the agenda? I considered sending Pavel into his office for a peek at the calendar—but recalled that Lawrence kept everything in his mind and nothing on his desk.

But there was a correspondence file that wasn’t in any drawer—and I had the key. It was the mail message file, used by every officer at the bank to send electronic memos via computer. If Lawrence was as nervous as his behavior had suggested, it must be something he was planning to do quite soon. I read two hundred boring memos before I found it.

It was just a half-page memo to the Managing Committee, entitled: “Shelter of Investable Funds.” The subject was parking—of a kind that had nothing to do with cars. It had to do with money, and it was illegal. Nevertheless, nearly all banks did it, and camouflaged it as something else until they got caught.

At the end of each banking day, they moved their offshore profits to a tax haven, like the Bahamas, by having their branches there “buy up” those profits. That way, everything was transferred off the books before it was taxed. Was it mere coincidence that this memo pertained to exactly the sort of investment scheme being set up right now by my mentor—Dr. Zoltan Tor?

I was about to delve into the subject further, when I received an unannounced visit to my office by Lee Jay Strauss—director of internal audit.

Lee Jay Strauss was more than an audit manager. His key job was to resolve unusual discrepancies in our Federal Reserve deposits. The accounting department handled the usual ones; that Lee was in my office meant some hanky-panky was suspected.

“Verity—may I call you Verity?” he asked, looking at me with droopy, sad-dog eyes though his horn-rim glasses. I told him that would be fine.

“This is just an informal visit—off the record,” he assured me. “It seems we’ve a small glitch in our reserve position for last month. I’m sure it can be easily explained. Probably just a ripple in the system.”

He laughed at his own witticism.

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about the Federal Reserve,” I told him. “I don’t even