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

the interest, but simply use them to secure a line of credit. And you wish this account in your daughter’s name?”

“No—in my name only,” said Lelia. “And I want to take the moneys from it as often as I wish—now, for example.”

“Well, that is somewhat different, then,” said Veerboom. “You want to establish not only a line of credit—but an opening balance, in the form of a loan, which naturally will involve interest payments. If I understand correctly, you’ll give your daughter drafts as she requires from this initial amount—thus you will retain full control of the money. Quite sensible, if I may say so.”

“Then this is possible for you?”

“But of course, nothing simpler, my dear lady. And how much did you wish as a loan, to establish the opening balance?”

“It is this reason that I wished only to speak directly with you, Monsieur Veerboom. It is somewhat a large amount.”

“And how large a sum are we dealing with, my dear baroness?” asked Veerboom, smiling politely.

“Twenty million dollars American, my dear Monsieur Veerboom.”

Veerboom stared at her for a moment—then recovered his charm.

“Why, certainly. And what did you plan to use as collateral to secure this loan?”

“Will forty million be enough?” she asked sweetly.

“Forty million to secure an advance of twenty?” asked Veerboom, wondering whether his ears were working correctly. “This will be no problem whatever, my dear baroness. But perhaps—as it’s a holiday, and the bank is closing now—I might ask you to sign a few papers today, and contact you in a week or so at Baden-Baden, where I understand you are—”

“This will not be possible,” Lelia assured him. “I wish to take several millions with me now—today. Because of this need, I have brought the security—collateral—with me.”

Lelia opened the large bag she carried, and pulled out the stack of genuine bearer bonds, copies of which were now sitting—gathering dust—within the vaults of the Depository Trust in New York. She fanned them out across the table as Veerboom tried not to gape.

Just then, the valet entered.

“Tea for madame,” Veerboom told him; he was practically choking, his throat was so dry. “And would you bring me brandy? Bring a decanter, in fact. Madame, you would join me in some brandy, perhaps?”

Lelia nodded her assent, and smiled sweetly.

“Oh—and Hans,” Veerboom added as an afterthought, “will you have Peter telephone my six o’clock appointment, and tell the gentleman that I shall be late? Thank you so much.”

THE FINANCING

Under no economic system earlier than the advent of the machine industry does profit on investment seem to have been accounted a normal or unquestionably legitimate source of gain.

—Thorstein Veblen,

THE MACHINE AGE

Sunday, December 20, was nearly one month after my night at the opera. This day, for the matinee, the German gods had vacated in favor of that famous French fortune hunter Manon. It seemed a fitting tribute to that earlier, inspired evening.

I love the scene where Manon throws over her life as queen of Paris and—dripping in diamonds—rushes to Saint Sulpice, to seduce her former lover on the eve of his entry into the priesthood.

Manon is a girl who’s torn between love of men and love of money. But as usual in opera, money wins out in the end. As she’s dying, in poverty and exile, even the stars above her head remind her of those diamonds she used to wear when she was rolling in cash.

I went home somewhat cheered not only by the charm of the music; but by the fact that it was Manon who had taken the fall, not I.

The fog enveloped my apartment like a white sock. I went out to the terrace and clipped a few of my winter orchids to bring inside. From out there, the fog was so dense I couldn’t even make out that phallic tower Lillie Coit had erected atop Telegraph Hill, as a tribute to those firemen she used to chase around town.

I was inside making myself some tea when the phone rang.

“Good evening, my dear,” said the soft, familiar voice. “I phoned because I thought you might want to wish me a happy birthday.”

“Is today your birthday?” I asked. “I knew it was Beethoven’s.”

“Great minds are guided by the same planets,” Tor agreed. “And it seems I’ve got plenty to celebrate today: we’re right on schedule.”

Damn. Did that mean he’d gotten all the bonds he needed in order to start phase two—the investment? And I wasn’t even off first base. Since Tavish and the crew hadn’t yet cracked a single code, I couldn’t get my hands on a nickel. The entire idea of this bet suddenly began to depress me.

“So what have you three been doing to celebrate?” I asked him, to change the subject.

“Georgian and I are still working, of course,” he told me. “We should be finished with the printing later this week. But Lelia’s gone off to Europe to help us get a jump on the gun.”

So there was good news and bad news. The good, of course, was that they weren’t yet through—I still had a week to catch up. But the bad news … I thought I’d better find out.

“You sent Lelia to Europe all alone?” I asked. “I hope you understand what you’re doing.”

“She can’t get into much trouble,” he assured me. “She’s taken those bonds—the genuine ones we replaced with our forgeries—and she’s establishing lines of credit at various banks on the continent. No one would question a woman of her standing, in any country, with opening accounts of that size. But she’s not actually taking out cash—just setting things up so the money’s available when we’re ready to draw on it.”

“I hope this gun you’re ‘getting a jump on’ won’t backfire and blow your head off,” I warned. “I’ve known Lelia longer than you have. She likes to handle things her own way.”

“Let me worry about that,” he said blithely. “Besides, someone had to start the ball rolling. By the time we’ve finished printing and substituting