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

“You mean Kiwi,” I said. “What have you told him?”

“I don’t work for him; I work for you,” Tavish said. “But he’s curried favor with the others on the team, each and every one. I’m pleased to report they’re not traitors—not yet. But it’s only a question of time before he completely loses control—whatever small measure he possessed to begin with. When will you be back?”

“Tomorrow. Pearl Lorraine’s giving me a ride; can she pick you up on her way to the airport in the morning?”

“Delighted. I hadn’t realized you knew her so well. By the way, she and I have done a bit of politicking in your absence, to try to protect what we could—”

“I’ve just spoken with Pearl,” I told him. “Tell me—have you cracked any files yet?”

“Afraid not, but we’re working on it,” said Tavish. “Perhaps by tomorrow there’ll be better news.”

I was disappointed that Tavish had not been able to decipher the test keys or get into the customer accounts file. Without entry to the latter, I couldn’t even establish accounts for those prestigious names I’d garnered from the Bobbsey Twins’ list.

On the other hand, this might be fortunate. If the quality circle had cracked any files or codes, Kiwi might have learned of it somehow and reported it to management. So he could get the kudos. And take charge of “fixing the problem”—me.

I knew by now it had been a mistake to start up the quality team in my absence, and an even larger error in judgment to let Tavish operate in the dark. He needed to know my real plans, if I wanted to count on him for help. It’s dangerous to have a cog in your wheel that doesn’t know what its job is supposed to be.

But the biggest of all my mistakes had been to turn my back on Kiwi—even for a week. If he succeeded in shipping me off to Germany, my plans were wrecked and my wager lost, before either got off the ground. It was lucky I’d be back tomorrow. Perhaps there was still time for a quick fix.

I splashed myself with powder, brushed my hair, threw on my evening clothes, and headed out to Fifth Avenue for a cab to Lelia’s—to find out how the other half of our wager had progressed.

In honor of Christmas, the lobby of Lelia’s building had been decorated with a giant pink foil tree, and garish red lights obscured the plaster fruit basket and chandeliers. It looked like a design scheme dreamed up by Mary Magdalene, prior to her conversion.

“Pink champagne for the guests,” said Francis the elevator operator, holding out a plastic glass of the bubbly for me.

The maid was in Lelia’s entrance hall, bobbing and bouncing, a little holly wreath circling her brow. She ladled me a crystal cupful from the punch bowl on the entry table. I dumped my plastic champagne, helped myself to some cookies from the big silver platter, and went into the hall. The doors to the Red Room, halfway down, were open.

“We’re dining in half an hour,” Tor informed me as soon as he saw my fistful of cookies.

“Let her eat! She must be fatter!” cried Lelia.

She was ensconced in a red silk chair, her feet propped on an embossed leather ottoman. Tor, standing beside her holding his own cup of grog, was wearing a burgundy velvet dinner jacket with peach silk ascot. His coppery ringlets shone in the firelight. He looked dashing, like someone from another era. I was certain Lelia had had a hand in his attire.

Lelia was even more radiant, sitting there before the thick tree whose branches were laden with crimson satin bows and fat tallow candles. That brocaded, dark red caftan beautifully displayed the two-ton dog collar of canary diamonds that plastered her throat. Her tawny, disheveled mane was pulled back to reveal enormous crystal cabochon earrings, surrounded by cut diamonds, which dangled nearly to her shoulders. When I bent down to kiss her, she smelled of vanilla and cloves.

“You both look great. Where’s Georgian?” I said.

“She prepare the excitement for you,” said Lelia. “She want very much that you will look surprised when you see all the work she has made this week.”

Then she pursed her lips and regarded me sternly. “My darling—again you are wearing the black—but why? No one is dying here; there is no need to arrive in mourning. When I was your age, the young men stopped as I walked on the Champs-Elysées. They brought me flowers and jewels, and kissed my hand, and they suffered if I was forgetting to notice them.”

“Times have changed, Lelia,” I said. “These days, women want more than flowers and jewels.”

“What?” she said, raising her eyebrows. “What more is there? These make the romance. You do not understand—that is clear. You must have a great manque in your life, which causes you to act in this fashion.”

“What—pray tell—is a manque?” Tor asked with a smile.

“A loss … a hole … an absence of something,” I translated.

“Quel sangfroid,” said Lelia. “She has always been très difficile, this one.”

“I should say,” agreed Tor. “She’s très difficile in French, English, or any other language. She isn’t wearing black for grieving, you see. Black is widely regarded as the color of power—and power is what she wants.”

“What is power?” cried Lelia. “Charm is everything. You, for example, are a charming man—très gentil.…”

“Well-mannered, polite,” I told Tor with a smile.

“This charming man—he has only one thought in his mind,” Lelia told me, “and that is to make love with you. But you are so much a fool, you do not see it—and talk of power and being the man, instead!”

Tor wasn’t smiling.

“Indeed?” he told Lelia coolly. “I’d hardly jump to conclusions about my interest in black-clad fiscal wizards. They’re not quite as appealing as some might think. I believe I’ll go see what’s holding things up with Georgian.” And he departed without so much as a glance at me.

“Lelia,