A Calculated Risk by Katherine Neville (most difficult books to read txt) 📕

yet finished—and we have something we wish for you to sign. It is not a contract, though.”

“What’s going on here, Baroness?” asked one of the bankers, his eyes riveted on the frothing Lawrence.

“We are just going to do the screwings in you like a nail,” she said sweetly, and she poured some more champagne.

“Do you like it?” Tor asked, studying me in the candlelight.

“This is the most disgusting stuff I’ve ever tasted,” I told him, spitting over the wall.

“One must acquire a taste for retsina,” Pearl said.

“It tastes like chlorine from a swimming pool,” I told her.

“It’s pine resin,” Tor explained. “The ancient Greeks used to seal their wine in pine barrels to discourage the Romans from stealing it.”

“Right,” said Georgian. “Give me a shooter of absinthe any day.”

She was balanced on the seawall, wearing a dark red caftan, the sky beyond a pearly orchid, the sea dipped in flamingo. The candles had melted down in the walls, the few remaining flames flickering and sputtering. The musicians sat around in a small circle, the soft tinkling of the santouri mingling with the sweetish strains of the bouzouki. Tor had been teaching Lelia the complex steps of a dance as the rest of us watched the candles burn out one by one.

“That little flute is a floghera, and the soft drum is a defi,” said Georgian. “We listened to them every week down in the harbor before you arrived. I hate to think of leaving this place—it’s lucky we could stay an extra week while Tor went up to Paris with the Vagabonds to get back our bonds.”

“Do you think they’ll ever let Lawrence out of that nuthouse in Lourdes?” asked Pearl. “I guess when you’re that emotionally constipated, it just eats away your brain.”

“He certainly did flip out,” I agreed. “But his colleagues seemed to see the reasonableness of our case. They’ve returned our collateral, unloaded their ‘takeover stock,’ and signed those confessions of their intent to defraud—all without a glitch. Just so we’d put all the stolen money back where it belongs and take it out of their names. But even though they’ll be hauled upon charges, they’ll surely get off easily. And they’re bound to blame it all on Lawrence, since he can hardly speak for himself.”

“We gave them a little push in the right direction—just in case.” Georgian laughed. “Pearl and I took them to the hot pool while you were here chatting. I’ve got some rather nice Polaroids to show you.…”

She handed over the glossy photos—there were the dozen Vagabonds, splashing about in the buff and pouring champagne on Pearl! They were having a hell of a time.

“We thought it best to have some insurance of blackmail, in the event things didn’t work out with you,” said Georgian, admiring her handiwork. “Look at that resolution! You can see every drop of champagne on her tits! I had to hide in the bushes to take these, too.”

“You two are ruthless.” I laughed.

“The deadlier of the species,” agreed Pearl. “You taught me that.”

At midnight, when the musicians had wrapped up to go, we sat in the cool, damp darkness and watched the first of the procession ascend the mountain. The candles were massed below us at the sea, and we could see against the plum-and-silver-tinted waters the silhouettes of figures as they broke and moved single file slowly, singing, up the hill.

“It’s called the Akathistos,” Tor whispered as he sat with his arm around me. “One of the kontakion—the only one that’s remained intact. It was written by Serge the Patriarch on the eve of the deliverance of Constantinople from the Persians—a hymn of thanksgiving. But they sing it at midnight here each Easter.”

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured.

Lelia was rising from her seat.

“Now we will go to hear the Mass,” she said. But as the others rose Tor restrained me with a hand.

“Not the two of us,” he said, and turning to the others, he explained, “We’ve still some unfinished business.”

So the others trooped down to the cart to follow the procession across the cone of Omphalos to the little church. When we could no longer see the lights of the procession, Tor turned to me.

“Today is the last day of our wager,” he told me. “And I believe you’ve won. At least, I assume you came a bit closer than I in gathering the thirty million we’d agreed upon. I’d like to discuss our settlement. But first, I’d like to discuss us.”

“I don’t know if I can even think about this,” I said. “It seems my life’s been ripped away and a new one put in its place—one I’m hardly familiar with just yet. I want to be with you, but four months ago, I couldn’t even imagine having a relationship.”

“I don’t want a relationship with a capital R,” he assured me, studying me carefully in the dim moonlight. “What about starting out with a small-r relationship?”

“How about no r at all?” I suggested with a smile. “Then it will be an relationship.”

“Absolutely.” He smiled. “But if I get you that job at the Fed, you’ll be in Washington, and I’ll still be in New York. Haven’t we had enough years apart already? Tell me—exactly how old are you now?”

“I must confess that I am on the dark side of twenty. Why do you ask?”

“Old enough to know that very few people are graced—as we’ve been—with what we have. I’d like to shed some light on the matter. Just a moment; I’ll be right back.”

He went into the house, leaving me out on the parapet with the bottle of cognac and glasses. I poured myself a drink and watched the clouds scudding across the moon and listened to the waves softly lapping at the fortifications below. When Tor returned, he was carrying a large portfolio. He dumped the contents out on the tiles and lit a match. I saw his coppery hair illuminated in the glow, then glanced at the pile on the ground just as he