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

will just involve their turning over the keys to you. By the way, where’s your new candidate to the club this evening? Kislick Willingly. I somehow expected he might be here tonight.”

“I’ve withdrawn his name from membership,” said Lawrence. The other glanced at him quickly, in surprise, for such a thing was never done. “After all, anyone might blackball him when it came to the vote. He needn’t know it was I.”

The dim elevator light glinted on his gold-rimmed glasses. His companion thought with a sudden chill that he’d never seen eyes quite so cold. The elevator stopped, and they moved to the lounge with the others.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” he asked Lawrence.

“He really isn’t one of us,” Lawrence said.

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 17

The rue de Berri angled like a narrow alley off the Champs-Elysées, only a short distance from the Arc de Triomphe.

On the top floor of a three-story building, about a block down the street, was nestled the exclusive private watering hole La Banque—the bankers’ club. In the corner of the main club room, across a sea of faded green carpeting, sat Tor, sipping a fizzy reddish drink and gazing out the window.

Across the street were the chestnut trees, unthawing after their long winter sleep. The stiff branches packed with tight red buds tapped gently against the boatlike windows of le bateau—Picasso’s old Paris studio. The late-afternoon sun coated its dingy windows in gold.

Tor glanced at his watch, had another sip, and looked at the door. A man in a dove-gray suit entered, glanced once about the room, and sighting Tor, crossed to his table.

“Sorry I’m late—don’t bother,” he said as Tor was about to rise. “What’s that you’re drinking?”

“Cassis and soda,” Tor replied.

“I’ll have scotch on the rocks,” he told the waiter who’d come up. As soon as the waiter had left he added, “Everything’s nearly wrapped up. We just need your signature on these papers, and the transfer’s complete.”

“Not quite,” said Tor, watching the cubes of sunlight reflect on the surface of the other’s gold-rimmed glasses. “There’s the little matter of payment, I believe.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Lawrence coldly. “You see, we’ve acquired your paper: all your loans are now in our hands. Technically, we own the island—the entire operation—already. You may repossess your collateral when you sign these papers.”

“I see,” said Tor, squinting a bit from the glitter of the spectacles. He paused as the waiter arrived with the scotch and departed. “And the thirty million you committed to? After all, you’re buying a successful business, not just a chunk of rock with a view.”

“We’ve reconsidered,” said Lawrence. “After all, you operate under a shady legality—any country nearby might claim that rock—now that it’s got some measure of value—to cut in on the action. We know they did in the past, though perhaps not with the same tenacity as was done with Cyprus. We’ve no assurance that what we’re buying will continue to thrive. But to expedite things, as your creditors, we’ll give you one million in cash to keep us from making a public display in court—and as well, we’re willing to waive those prepayment penalties you seem to have gotten yourself into on those loans.”

“One million instead of thirty—that’s far from the bargain you struck,” said Tor in cold anger. “Your proposal is unacceptable.”

“It’s not a proposal,” Lawrence told him, washing down his scotch. “It’s final. One million is plenty; we’re asking nothing of you but a smooth transition—your name on the dotted line.”

“I’m sorry,” said Tor with a bitter smile. “I’m not the right chap for you, under these revised circumstances. You should have let me know. I came here with power of attorney, thinking you planned to honor your commitments. But the key investors whom I represent couldn’t guess you would break your word.”

“This has nothing to do with honor—it’s simply business,” said Lawrence. “My colleagues expect to assume control of your operation in roughly a week. You must bring your investors around by then, or we’ll attach your property in court the first time you make a wrong move on any loan in any country.”

Tor knew there was little advantage in pointing out that their loans weren’t secured by the island or the business. Lawrence wasn’t a fool—he’d have noticed the callable bonds by now, and the fact there’d been no move yet to redeem them. Coupled with Tor’s request to accelerate this deal, even a blind man could see that they couldn’t cover those loans without selling out. He had to do something to play for time and cover himself.

“There’s only one investor that counts—the principal and genius behind our whole enterprise,” he told Lawrence with a smile. “If you can defer your trip by a week—say March thirty-first—perhaps I’ll have time to discuss and gain consensus on these new terms of yours.”

“Very well,” Lawrence agreed, standing up to depart. “But not a moment longer. Who is this principal, anyway? It’s the first I’ve heard mention of him.”

“It’s the Baroness von Daimlisch,” said Tor. “I think you might find her quite a challenge—but then, who knows?”

LIQUIDATING ASSETS

Money is like a reputation for ability—more easily made than kept.

—Samuel Butler,

THE WAY OF ALL FLESH

I was at home, changing from my work clothes, when I got the call from Tavish in New York.

“Hi there, my former boss,” he greeted me. “How’s things around the bank—same old bloodbaths and political assassinations?”

“Count yourself fortunate you’re in nirvana,” I told him. “How’s Charles Babbage doing?”

“Keeping track of all our investments very well, thank you,” he said. “I didn’t tell you—but some of those bonds of Dr. Tor’s were on the call list last week. They never asked for our help, though. And now it seems they’ve other plans altogether.”

“How do you know?” I asked, excited. It was nearly ten weeks since I’d heard a word from any of them. They might have dropped off the earth.

“They’re operating in a veil of mystery, as