A Calculated Risk Katherine Neville (adventure books to read txt) 📖

At precisely four-fifty on the evening of December 9, a man in faded tweed jacket, burgundy sweater, and muddy sneakers entered the Depository Trust Company. Slung over his shoulder was a double-pannier basket containing mud-spattered satchels of securities. He pushed through the steel doors and cleared the maze of succeeding doors, past cameras and guards, and entered the small room where drop-offs were made. Standing in line behind another messenger, he waited at the Dutch door until his turn came.

One by one, he hefted onto the counter his satchels and their accompanying clipsheets. The clerk behind the counter opened every satchel in turn, and briefly inspected the securities to be sure that everything on the list was present.

She removed and initialed the four-part form attached to the satchel, then sent one part of the form off with the securities to the vault. She filed the second part of the form—and returned the last two parts to the messenger as evidence that the deposit had been completed. The messenger would return one of these copies to the owner of the securities.

He picked up his receipts and passed out through the steel doors. Transaction completed.

Tor looked at his watch when he got outside. It was barely five, but the sky was completely black. He walked wearily back around to the front of the building, where he’d left his bicycle. He unlocked the bicycle and looked up at the building. The lights of the Chemical Bank glowed brightly, though the bank by now would be closed for the night.

Of the two runs and printings he’d made today, he had deposited close to $30 million in bearer bonds. They would lie on the shelves of the Depository Trust Company from today until eternity.

And no one had even glanced at them—to see whether they were real.

FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18 UTRECHT, NETHERLANDS

It was the last Friday before Christmas holiday, and Vincent Veerboom sat in his office at Rabobank, scratching notes to his secretary and occasionally glancing up to look out the window.

The one dim window in his impregnable office overlooked the steaming, snow-covered city of Utrecht, the ugliness of its squat, gray buildings dissipated by the thin veil of crystalline snow trickling through the darkened sky.

He heard a soft tap on the door; his aide entered the room.

“Yes?” barked Veerboom, irritated by the disruption of his preholiday reverie.

“Sir, excuse please. I know you’re preparing to depart for holiday—but the Baroness Daimlisch is outside. She wishes an audience with you.”

“I’m not in,” he said.

It was nearly time to go; the bank would be closed in a quarter hour, and he’d been thinking all afternoon of that moment and what would follow fast upon it. His wife and children had preceded him to their ski lodge in Zermatt, and he would not join them until the following day. As soon as he left the bank, he would spend a romantic evening enveloped in the billowy bosom of his mistress, Ullie, who was presumably warming up supper for him even now, in the little apartment he leased for her in the suburbs of Utrecht.

“Sir, the baroness claims it’s a matter of utmost urgency. She wishes to make a sizable transaction today—before the bank closes.”

“On the eve of the Christmas holiday?” snapped Veerboom. “Certainly not—it’s absurd! Let her come back when we’re open.”

“The bank will be closed for a week,” the aide pointed out, “and the baroness leaves tonight for Baden-Baden.”

“Who is this Baroness Daimlisch, anyway? The name sounds familiar.…”

The aide crossed the room and whispered into Veerboom’s ear as if someone were listening at the keyhole.

“Ah, I see,” said Veerboom. “Well then, show her in. Let’s hope we can make it brief. I abhor doing business with these shrill, overbearing German women.”

“The baroness is Russian by birth,” said the aide. “An expatriate, you understand.”

“Yes yes, thank you. These things do slip one’s mind at times. And what was the baroness’s Christian name, Peter?”

“Lelia, sir. Her name is Lelia Maria von Daimlisch.”

The aide departed and a few moments later ushered Lelia into the office.

She was cloaked in white fur, shod in tall white lizard boots. As she entered she tossed back the cape, and the display of diamonds at her throat made Veerboom catch his breath. Recovering himself, he stepped forward and took her proffered hand in his.

“Lelia, how good it is to see you again,” he said cordially. Veerboom had not become a successful Dutch banker by throwing charm out the window. “You’re more radiant than ever—still the young girl I remember. How long has it been? It seems years—but in some ways, less than a day.”

“For me,” Lelia said, fluttering her eyelashes demurely, “time is not relative.” She’d never before seen this man; bankers were so pretentious.

“My sentiments exactly,” he agreed warmly, motioning her to take a seat. He sat in a chair beside her and pressed a small bell for the valet.

“Perhaps my assistant has explained that I have a rather pressing business engagement this evening, which unfortunately limits the time I may give you. So perhaps we can go at once to the matter at hand. What brings you here to Rabobank with such urgency, on the eve of the Christmas holiday?”

“Money,” said Lelia. “A bequest of my dear late husband. He left a large sum for the care of my only daughter. I wish to invest a portion of this in your bank—if that is possible?”

“Naturally. Of course. We shall be happy to play whatever role you wish. You’d like us, perhaps, to act as trustees on her behalf?”

“Not at all. My daughter is moving here to Europe, and I wish her to have as much as she needs. But I am giving you the … my own investments … which I do not wish to make into cash.”

“I see,” said Veerboom. “You’ve something to use as collateral, and you wish to borrow against it—is that it? In this way, you won’t have to turn your investments to cash and lose