A Calculated Risk

by Katherine Neville

  “If you do your job right,” he said, grinning with white teeth against his black face, “these won’t be going back at all.”

  Georgian stared at him.

  “My God, this is it—this is really it, isn’t it?” she said.

  “I don’t know what you mean by ‘it.’ But these are certainly negotiable securities, and we’re going to take the dollar values and certificate numbers from them and engrave them on our blank certificates. Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts at this late date?”

  Georgian stood dumbfounded.

  “Allons, allons!” said Lelia all at once. “Mach schnell! Dépêchez-vous! We have all this work to do, and you are making the reveries. You begin the photos—and I will make some potage for the poor Zoltan. He will need the food, to restore the good health.”

  “Mother, my God, do you never think of anything but food?”

  “It makes strength for successful criminals,” said Lelia, standing up.

  Tor was looking down at the pile of securities they’d outsorted, flipping through them with his thumb. He glanced up grimly.

  “We have only twenty,” he said.

  “Twenty what?” asked Georgian.

  “Twenty certificates—out of all those satchels—that we can actually use. They have to be types we’ve already prepared engravings for. And if all the securities we get are like these—only five thousand dollars apiece—we’ll be making engraving plates for months, just to plug in the numbers.”

  “It did take most of the weekend to make the plates for those bond samples you bought,” Georgian agreed. “It might take all day just to engrave the numbers on these few.”

  “We don’t have all day,” snapped Tor. He bent over quickly and retallied the amount of the pile, “Less than ten million,” he said irritably.

  “What’s wrong with that?” asked Georgian. “Your bet with True is whoever can steal thirty million first! We’re well on our way, with our very first haul!”

  Tor sighed and stood up.

  “Not steal thirty million—earn thirty million,” he explained patiently. “That calls for a billion in collateral.”

  “So borrow bigger certificates for me to copy, then,” said Georgian with her own brand of logic.

  “I am doing my best,” said Tor, biting off each word. “Considering that I have to take what the houses feel like transferring, and that you’ve become the Zen master of printing—perfection or nothing—I should say we’d wind up this little caper by sometime next June!”

  “You don’t understand,” said Georgian tearfully. “I have to make a completely new plate—take the photo, develop the film, do the acid etching, the works—for every damned bond you drag in the door. There are too many steps for each one. Besides,” she added, picking up a bond and waving it at him, “half the numbers on these stupid things aren’t even engraved—they’re just slapped on with a printing press. So I don’t see why I have to go through so much effort—”

  “What did you say?” cried Tor, snatching the bond from her fingers and staring at it.

  He smiled slowly, and looked up at Georgian.

  “My little featherbrained genius,” he said wryly. “I believe you’ve just saved all our necks.”

  Tor was wolfing down his second bowl of Lelia’s delicious minestrone as he finished explaining the face of the bond to Georgian.

  “Just as before, we can engrave almost everything up front, before we get our hands on the actual bond we want to copy. The border design, the issuer’s name and number—these never change, regardless of the amount or series of the bond.”

  “Right,” agreed Georgian. “Everything else can just be photographed and printed right from the photo, without making engraving plates. That is, everything but the denomination of the bond—its ‘face value.’ That seems to be engraved rather than printed on every kind of bond.”

  “But run your fingers over that number,” said Tor. “It may be engraved, but the ink is just a bit thicker than the parts of the bond that are only printed. Furthermore, the denomination is located in the center of the certificate. If the border around it’s engraved—and that’s what you’d be most likely to touch when you’re thumbing through a pile of securities—you’d hardly notice whether some flowery number in the middle was engraved or printed.”

  “It would certainly cut down on time,” Georgian admitted. “I can get eight securities on one photo negative, and print right from that. A lot easier than taking the photo and then making eight engraving plates before printing.”

  “I’m willing to take this risk if you are,” Tor told her. “After all, I’m the one who has to deliver these fakes to the Depository Trust. I’ll be the one caught with his pants down, if these don’t pass inspection.”

  “I’d like to get a photo of that.” Georgian laughed. But she looked really worried. “I’m so nervous when the least little thing goes wrong,” she explained. “I feel like we’ve walked into a nightmare.…”

  “No time for the nightmares—or the reveries, either,” said Lelia, coming to remove the soup bowls. “You must not put off until tomorrow what you can do the day after.”

  “All right, Mother.” Georgian laughed. “Get the hair dryer—it looks like we’re in business.”

  It was two-thirty when Lelia entered the ancient, fishy-smelling foyer of the South End Yacht Club below Whitehall on East River Drive, a large envelope tucked beneath her arm containing the twenty completed certificates.

  “Excuse me, ma’am”—the porter stopped her—“but you can’t enter unless accompanied by a member.”

  “But Dr. Tor is expecting me—on a matter of grave urgence,” she explained.

  “Perhaps he’s been detained,” said the porter. “He hasn’t come in today.”

  Lelia was about to protest, when the porter looked up toward the door in alarm. Tor was bounding up the steps, covered with mud, in his frayed tweed and faded pants, the pannier baskets swinging from his shoulder.

  “I’m glad you waited, darling,” he said, taking Lelia gingerly by the sleeve of her fur coat. “George—this is Baroness Daimlisch. We’ll be having tea in the private dining room, it’s reserved. And send up a bottle of that thirty-two claret, will you?”

  The astounded porter tried not to look at Tor’s costume, but reached into the closet behind him and brought out a necktie printed with the tiny block insignia of the club. This he handed to Tor, who draped it around the neck of his burgundy sweater and made a knot.

  Then he offered Lelia his arm and headed for the room.

  “Oh, and George,” he called over his shoulder, “keep an eye on my bicycle, will you? It’s just out front.”

  “Certainly, sir,” George replied.

  “This is excellent claret,” Lelia said as she sat beside the fireplace in the dimly lit, paneled private club room.

  “And these are exquisite engravings,” Tor replied, thumbing through them carefully. “Now we’ll put them back into the right satchels for delivery. I’ve picked up some more while you and Georgian were working on these. It’s a quarter to three now; do you think you can get back uptown, copy them, and return by five so I can get them into the Depository?”

  “It will be difficile,” Lelia admitted. “But she has completed this last printing in less than one hour. It was the time required for me to get here from the subway that makes it so long. Though this is faster than the taxi.”

  “Perhaps I can meet you at the subway, then?” he suggested. “And no more stopping for lunch or cocktails, after today. Time’s of the essence, so I’m happy you’re willing to be our runner. I hope you understand, though, you’re taking a risk.”

  “What is life, if one is afraid to take the chances?” asked Lelia.

  Tor nodded and looked down at one of the fake securities they’d done. He ran his fingers over the scalloped number at center, which read: “$5,000 and no/100”—a number that had been printed rather than engraved. Only an expert would notice the diff
erence. It was the sentence six lines below it that bothered him. Not because of the way it looked, but because of what it said: “Subject to prior redemption, as provided herein.”

  They’d printed a callable bond—a security that could be “called in” like a note if the issuer wanted to pay it off early—why hadn’t he noticed that earlier?

  Oh well, he thought, it couldn’t be helped. The likelihood was slim that anything would happen. And, as Lelia said, what was life if one was afraid to take the chances?

  Tor slipped the bond into the satchel for the Depository Trust.

  The Depository Trust’s forty stories of concrete and glass concealed a vaultlike inner construction where hundreds of thousands of securities, like those in Tor’s bag, were stored.

  Most standard deliveries were made through the front entrance, which housed the Chemical Bank. But the deliveries that counted—the constant traffic in securities—were made through the rear of the building.

  At the back of 55 Water Street was a pair of nondescript doors made of twelve-inch steel. Beyond the steel doors was a series of double-door “mantraps.” Through them passed, all day long, unkempt messengers in faded jeans and sneakers, delivering satchels and suitcases packed with corporate and municipal bonds, common and preferred stocks.

  The vaults where the securities were stored were located in labyrinthine, multilevel subbasements of the building. But the messengers never entered these hallowed halls, nor did they enter the offices scattered throughout the upper stories. Everything beyond the steel doors was controlled by security camera, security badge, and guard station.

  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 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 corr
ectly, 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.”