A Calculated Risk

by Katherine Neville

  I started going through my “in” basket and opening the mail as if he weren’t there.

  “Perhaps you could clue me in,” I said nonchalantly. “I’ve been in New York for a week—”

  “And plotting against me all the while, there and here!” he cried. “Don’t try to be Little Mary Sunshine with me!”

  Though this time his paranoia had some basis in reality, it annoyed me nonetheless.

  “Don’t you think you’re being a bit extreme?” I asked him. “Why don’t you say what’s bothering you—so we can stop playing these games?”

  “You’re the one who should tell me,” he said, his voice wavering out of control. “If you’re so blameless, why haven’t you mentioned that you’ve just been to Lawrence’s office—how about that? What were you doing there, half the morning?”

  Jesus Christ—Kiwi had spies everywhere. Just then, my intercom buzzed.

  “Urgent call, Miss Banks,” Pavel’s voice came through. “Pick up on line six, please.”

  “Excuse me,” I told Kiwi politely.

  He had to dislodge his carcass from my chair so I could get behind the desk to answer the phone. He moved to a chair opposite, and glared at me as I picked it up.

  “Hello, my friend—guess what we’re doing?” Georgian’s husky voice came through the line. Good Lord, it was a real phone call!

  “What are you doing?”

  I glanced up at Kiwi. Even through those sunglasses, I could feel the heat of his anger. It seemed he was staying.

  “You sound preoccupied,” said Georgian. “Should I call back later?”

  “In situations like this, I think matters should be handled very differently,” I told her.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” she said. “Is someone there with you right now?”

  “My point precisely,” I told her. “I’m glad you’ve perceived the problems we’re having on our end.”

  “Someone is there—but you don’t want me to hang up,” she said. “So what should I do?”

  “Take your time—explain carefully what you’ve accomplished so far,” I told her. “I need the facts so I can present the situation to my boss—who happens to be sitting right here.”

  Though Kiwi was soon to be my ex-boss, I had to play for time until Lawrence could inform him of the fact. I raised my eyebrows meaningfully at him, as though something really critical were going on at the other end of the line.

  “Your boss? You’re not in any trouble, I hope?” said Georgian. “Gosh, I feel like a heavy-duty espionage agent or something. Are you sure he can’t hear me?”

  “I think we should take every precaution to make sure nothing like that will occur,” I told her.

  Even at a whisper, Georgian sounded like Tallulah Bankhead playing Radio City Music Hall.

  “Thor’s been here all week,” she told me, “hovering over me and my printing or out cooking in the kitchen with Mother—his potato latkes are divine.”

  “Get to the point,” I said, knowing Kiwi wouldn’t hold forever. “How is your project going?”

  “Last night I made a breakthrough,” she said. “I got the idea to print watermarks on the paper, using a glycerine-type oil. When you hold it to the light, it’s translucent, just like a real watermark. You could only detect it through X ray, I think. They surely don’t inspect them that carefully.…”

  Kiwi had picked up a magazine and was leafing through it in irritation, crossing and uncrossing his legs as if he could hardly contain his impatience.

  “And Thor’s been moving my equipment around—industrial engineering, he calls it—so we now can get eight certificates on a single photo plate. If we print hundred-thousand-dollar bonds, that’s nearly a million bucks per photo! Not bad, compared with fashion layouts, I’d say.”

  I was doodling on my desk pad, keeping one eye on Kiwi, as she rattled on about expenses and complexities. I found it hard to concentrate, when Kiwi was about to blow.

  He stood up, tossed down the magazine, and started pacing back and forth, coming a little closer to the phone each time. I tried to muffle the receiver in my shoulder, and began reducing my replies to monosyllabic grunts—but he was nearly breathing down my neck.

  “So—what’s the bottom line?” I interrupted, to shut her up. “Are you going to meet the schedule? Are you ready for the next phase?”

  “We’ll be ready next week—maybe earlier,” she assured me.

  Shit, and I hadn’t even cracked one file.

  “But, Verity, now that we’re close, I’m really getting panicky, you know? I mean—it’s illegal if we get caught before we’re through. Do I really want to do this? How do you feel?”

  “Me too,” I said.

  “I mean, we’re not keeping the money. My only excuse is, we’re doing something honorable.”

  “Me too.”

  “Of course—there is the aspect of adventure. When Zoltan told me about the bet, I said what the hell. I think your life could certainly use some improvement.”

  “Me too.”

  “On the other hand, if we did get caught, I think we should give all the profits to Mother Teresa—it would make me feel happier about going to prison, maybe.”

  “Me too.”

  Kiwi skidded to a halt before me, breathing in my face. He yanked off the sunglasses and glared at me.

  “Me too, me too, me too!” he exploded. “What kind of conversation is this?”

  “Excuse me,” I told Georgian, “an emergency has just arisen in my office.” Turning to Kiwi, I said, “I am speaking on the telephone. Perhaps we could schedule an appointment to continue this chat when it’s a little more convenient?”

  “We’re talking, and we’re talking now, Banks,” he said, his face black with rage. “Neither wild horses nor God himself could drag me from here—I’m rooted to the spot. Now wind up this conversation of yours, and quickly.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Willingly,” Pavel said to Kiwi from the doorway. “I have Mrs. Harbinger on the phone. She says her boss would like to see you in his office—at once.”

  Mrs. Harbinger was Lawrence’s secretary. I smiled sweetly as Kiwi stood there indecisive, rooted to the spot.

  “Tell her I’ll be there shortly,” Kiwi muttered.

  “Perhaps you’d better speak with her yourself then, sir,” Pavel told him. “She’s on my line—she says they’ve tried to reach you all morning, but you weren’t in your office.”

  “Mr. Willingly has been in my office all morning,” I said casually.

  Kiwi glared at me.

  “Yes, they finally tried him here. It really seems quite important, sir,” Pavel said.

  “All right, all right,” Kiwi muttered, stomping to the door. “But you’d better be here when I return, Banks. I want your ass in your office—in that chair—when I come back.”

  He departed, cold with rage, as Pavel and I smiled at one another across the open space.

  “What’s going on?” asked Georgian over the line.

  “Some wild horses and God himself just came into my office and dragged my boss away,” I explained.

  “Sounds like life in the banking business isn’t as dull as I’d always pictured it.”

  “It’s a laugh a minute,” I assured her. “Let’s finish up—because I have to phone the building people in a minute to move my stuff. My ass will be in the same chair—in my office—when he returns. But my office will be on the thirtieth floor, not the thirteenth.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just mumbling to myself,” I told her. “Tell me now—exactly how far are you?”

  “I’ve printed blank copies of every bond Thor gave me,” she said. “All I need is my first real security so I can print in the serial numbers and such. It should start any day now—any moment, in fact. Thor’s out looking for a job.”

  “A job? What for? He owns his own company,” I said.

  “I think he’ll need this job,” she assured me. “Let me tell you how
it works.…”

  TAKING STOCK

  I was young. But that’s the time to start in. Early sow, early mow. During those days I was always on the go—never was one of your lazybones; better to wear out shoes than sheets, was my motto.

  The early cow gets the dew.

  —Bouck White,

  THE BOOK OF DANIEL DREW

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 8

  Duke Jimmy unbuttoned the fly of his trousers and took a nice warm pee in his favorite doorway on Third Avenue. Fastening up his pants again, he pulled down the soft old cashmere sweater that had been mended and given him by the St. Mark’s Rescue League. The sweater was a very pretty shade of burgundy, and looked nice with the tweedy, patched jacket he’d gotten from the Divine Light Mission.

  He ambled on over toward Union Square, where he thought he could pick up his usual morning handout. A building near there had a nice hot-air grate he liked to sit near while he drank his breakfast. But the morning was colder than he’d realized. By the time he got to Union Square, his hands were cold and were shoved in his threadbare pockets, and he could feel the wetness of the snow working its way through the newspapers lining his shoes.

  While he was sitting near the grate with one shoe off, he noticed the man standing there watching him. Duke Jimmy glanced up; there was something odd about the chap. Then he realized it was the color of his eyes—Jimmy had never seen eyes like that except on an alley cat.

  “Top of the morning to you, sir,” said Jimmy pleasantly.

  “Hello,” said Tor. “It’s a much colder morning than the weatherman reported. You must be chilly in that outfit.”

  “Right you are,” said Jimmy. “I was just thinking to myself that a nice bottle of red wine would warm my old bones.”

  “I wonder,” said Tor, “if you would mind standing up for a moment?”

  “I hope you’re not planning to rob me,” said Jimmy, putting on his shoe and standing up before Tor. “If so, you’ve certainly picked the wrong chappie.”

  Tor walked slowly around the old bum, looking him up and down.

  “I think you’ll do,” he said. “How would you like to make some money?”

  “That depends,” said Duke Jimmy cautiously.

  “You seem to be about the same size as I. How would you like to sell me those clothes you’re wearing? Just the toppers—I’m not interested in the undergarments,” Tor added quickly. He’d gotten a good whiff of the old wino, and wondered how much disinfectant it would take to rid the clothes of lice.

  “How much are you talking about?” asked Jimmy. “These clothes are practically family heirlooms, you know. They don’t go cheap.”

  “Fifty dollars,” said Tor.

  “Sounds fair to me,” Jimmy agreed. “But what am I going to wear if I sell my last suit of clothes?”

  Tor hadn’t thought of that. Nor did he want to get into a shopping expedition to outfit the fellow.

  “How about that suit you’re wearing?” Jimmy suggested. “If my clothes fit you, your clothes ought to fit me.”

  “This suit is rather expensive,” said Tor.

  “That’s fine with me,” replied Jimmy. “That’s why they call me Duke Jimmy—because I knows quality when I sees it.”

  The courier office in midtown Manhattan was crowded with sweaty bodies. The steady buzz of voices, like the droning of a fan, would cease for a moment each time someone’s number was called by the clerk up front.

  Tor rose from the back of the room when his number came up. He was conscious of the strong smell of dry-cleaning fluid and disinfectant that accompanied him as he moved through the room, and an aroma beneath it that seemed slightly stronger. But no one seemed to notice.

  He followed the clerk into a large back room with many desks.

  “Mr. Duke?” said the interviewer, who barely glanced up as Tor entered the cubicle.

  “Yes—Jimmy Duke,” said Tor, suppressing a small smile.

  “I’ll just put James down here—shall I? Is that your given name?”

  “People call me Jimmy,” said Tor.

  “Fine,” said the interviewer, printing James in the blank space. “May I see the questionnaire you’ve completed?” When Tor handed it to him, he asked, “Have you ever done work like this before?”

  “I’ve delivered for grocery stores,” said Tor.

  “Ah yes, so I see,” said the interviewer. “All right, let me explain the job. We get a call from a brokerage firm, or perhaps from the stock exchange. If you’re called, you go to the address indicated. The securities will be held there for you in a satchel. You pick up the securities and check them to make certain they’re all there, then you initial for them and give the brokerage a receipt. Get them to sign your pink slip so we can bill them properly.”

  “Then what do I do?” asked Tor.

  “Take them to the Depository Trust, where they’ll be logged in. They’ll check all the forms against the securities and give you a receipt. We charge them ten dollars for a delivery, and you get paid eight dollars an hour. Most deliveries will take you very little time, since the offices are almost all in the financial district. We supply the bicycle. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Fine,” said Tor. “When do I start?”

  “It’ll take about two weeks to get you bonded. But I see here on your form that you don’t have any arrests or a criminal record, and we’re short of staff just now—so you can begin at once. We’ll send you your papers when your bonding comes through in a few weeks. Report to the courier office on Broad Street tomorrow morning at eight.”

  “Fine,” said Tor, taking his departure.

  He wouldn’t have to wait for his bonding papers. In two weeks, the entire theft would be completed.

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 9

  At nine o’clock the morning of December 9, a man in a frayed tweed jacket and burgundy sweater entered the doors of Merrill Lynch. He was wearing mud-spattered sneakers with bicycle clips around the calves of his trousers, and carrying a clipboard with sheets of scribbled paper attached. He went up to the receptionist’s desk.

  “Pickup for Depository,” he said.

  “Are you a courier?” she asked, and Tor nodded. “Next floor up,” she told him.

  Tor came off the elevator on the next floor. There was a long hallway with a door at the end that said DELIVERY. He went down and pushed the buzzer, and the door unlocked with a click.

  “Pickup for Depository?” Tor said to the man at the window.

  “Okay, he’s here!” yelled the man over his shoulder. “Come on, step on it—we haven’t got all day. Anything else for A through G? I haven’t got H through M yet. S through Zed, you’re okay.…”

  He was glancing through the piles on his desk as he ticked off securities on a ticket before him.

  “Okay, I guess that’s it,” he told Tor.

  They both went through the securities and checked off the numbers. Tor dropped the securities into the canvas satchel the man handed him. He gave the man a receipt and the man initialed his clipboard. Tor picked up the satchel.

  “You handle these securities alphabetically?” asked Tor.

  “Yeah, what’s it to you?” said the man behind the window.

  “If I have to drop some off here, should I bring them to you?”

  “Nope. Those go to receiving—next floor up.”

  “Thanks,” said Tor. As he turned to leave he added to himself, “The left hand knoweth not what the right hand doeth.”

  “What’s that?” said the man, already preoccupied.

  “A biblical quotation,” said Tor as the door clicked shut behind him.

  Without biblical aid, they had no way to reconcile the daily arrivals and departures of securities like these he held in his bag, he thought as he went back down the hall. If things were handled and filed in so many places, it would be hard enough just to reconcile the gross dollars that moved in and out the door. Tor smiled.

  The streets outside were slushy and dirty with snow. T
or walked over to the bicycle and threw the canvas satchel into one of the pannier-type baskets slung over the back of the frame. He unlocked the bicycle from the rack and rode away through the steel-and-concrete canyons of Wall Street.

  An hour later, covered with mud and laden with many such canvas satchels, the bicycle moved laboriously through heavy traffic to the subway entrance at Wall Street.

  Tor pedaled wearily to the rack at the east entrance, locked his bicycle to the rack, and hoisted the panniers over his shoulder. Groaning a little beneath the weight, he descended the steps into the subway.

  Lelia flew down the corridor as soon as the maid threw open the double entry doors.

  “Mein Gott in Himmel!” she cried. “Mud! Mud! Qu’est qu’il fait? Do not let him enter—he will ruin my floors! What does he want?”

  “Lelia, my charming one, what hospitality,” said Tor, wiping dirt from his eyelids to clear white patches that looked like goggles.

  “Oh, mon cher,” said Lelia. “What have they done with you? You are dragged in the gutters, so dirty. Where have you come by these clothings?”

  “This seems to be the appropriate attire in the courier business,” he assured her. “I’ve made a study of it. The transfer agents would have taken alarm if I’d arrived in a Brioni suit. It seems they prefer couriers who are more on the seamy side.”

  “You must take off these things, and we will have Nana make you a nice bubble bath,” she told him, turning up her nose slightly at Tor’s aroma.

  “No time for bubbles, my dear,” he replied. “Where’s Georgian? It’s time for her to go to work.”

  Georgian was in the Plum Room, setting up papers and cleaning equipment. Tor and Lelia lugged the bags down the corridor, opened them one by one, and examined the contents, listing what they’d taken from each bag and placing those securities they’d selected in a small pile on the floor.

  Lelia kept a running tab of the face value of each bond they extracted for printing.

  “You’d better go wash your hands before you touch those anymore,” Georgian told Tor. “Or let Mother do it—you’re making a real mess here.”