A Calculated Risk Page 11

  “No matter,” Lelia dismissed us. “It will come on me later.”

  “Mother,” Georgian interrupted impatiently, “I haven’t met True’s friend yet.”

  “Of course not!” snapped Lelia. “Because you leave the guests always in the foyer; they could die there! And no au revoir for the mannequins, either—they have to leave through the service door, like the femme de ménage! Be thankful to le bon Dieu that you have a mother to look after all the little bad habits.”

  “Yes, I thank God every day for that,” Georgian said dryly.

  “Georgian, may I present Dr. Zoltan Tor,” I said formally. “He’s nearly as old a friend of mine as you are.”

  “And just what is that supposed to mean?” she said sweetly.

  “True?” said Tor. “That’s very nice.”

  “It means the same as Verity, doesn’t it? And it’s so much less prissy-bankerly—‘Verity-in-lending’—and all.” Turning to Lelia, she added, “Mother, True wants me to discuss business with her friend here—so why don’t you run off and see that we’re not disturbed?”

  Lelia looked crestfallen, but Georgian put her arm around her, and physically ushered her from the room. There were a few sharp whispers in French outside the door, and Georgian returned alone.

  “Mother likes to participate in everything,” she explained.

  “I find her charming,” Tor said with a smile. “Tell me, did she really know Claude Monet?”

  “Oh, Mother knows everyone,” said Georgian, adding loudly, “but only because she’s such a dreadful snoop.”

  We heard the clatter of little feathered shoes outside, scurrying off down the corridor. Georgian smiled and shrugged, plopping herself down on an ottoman.

  “I’m sorry I ran off with True before,” she explained as Tor and I took seats, “but I haven’t seen her in so long. She comes to New York all the time, but never calls me—not when she’s in ‘business mode.’ She has two completely different personalities, you know.”

  She batted her eyes innocently. I felt it coming on—the desire to strangle her—though I knew she had only begun.

  “Two personalities? I’m afraid I’ve only seen one of them,” said Tor, reproachfully.

  “Perhaps so—since she says you’re only a ‘colleague’—but she isn’t anything like how she appears at that bank-of-whatever-it-is. All that’s a total sham.” She waved her hand nonchalantly.

  “I’d always suspected there was another Verity,” Tor agreed.

  “Then you don’t know about our exploits?” Georgian raised her brows. “Living in the harem at Riyad? The kama sutra odyssey in Tibet? Being sold into white slavery in the Cameroons? The cattle crossing to Morocco?”

  “Georgian—” My teeth were gritted, but Tor cut in.

  “Please continue,” he told Georgian, and turning to me with admirable composure, he added, “It seems there are a few things you’ve concealed from me. I feel I’ve a right to examine your background—before entering with you into any further business dealings.”

  My background, my ass, I thought. But Georgian was carrying on.

  “Exactly. She’s lovable—but a hypocrite. Now, as to our first adventure—True and I were very young—”

  “How young were we?” I asked maliciously.

  She shot me a look, but it didn’t break her stride.

  “Not long ago—we were very poor, no money at all—but we longed to go to Morocco. We lacked talent to pay our way, no bankers or photographers were needed. The only ship where we could secure passage was a dreadful old cattle boat, absolutely crawling with vermin—flies in the cowshit, that sort of thing. We had to travel in steerage.”

  “No pun intended?” Tor interjected.

  “Literally—we slept with the bovines—a real nightmare. But True was more fortunate: the captain took a liking to her. One night he came down and saw her sleeping amidst the dung, and cried out, ‘Ach! Das ist ein voman!’—or something to that effect.”

  “He was a German then, this captain,” Tor deduced with a smile I didn’t care for.

  “Tall, blond, and gorgeous,” Georgian agreed. “Come to think of it—he looked a bit like you.”

  “Did he indeed?” said Tor, leaning back with his arms folded. I noticed he didn’t look at me now.

  “He swept her into his arms, carried her to his cabin, and seduced her without a word. She was held there three days—without food or water—but when she was released, she was hardly upset as she might have been. To the contrary, she loved the experience. But do you know what I was doing all this time?” she added. “I was shoveling cowshit the entire trip! While she paid our entire passage to Morocco by lavishing sexual favors on the handsome golden captain and his crew of young Adonises—”

  “The crew as well,” echoed Tor, raising an eyebrow.

  “There wasn’t one that was over twenty,” Georgian raced on, hardly pausing for air. “She swam in the buff, cavorting like a dolphin with the lithe young junior officers as they fed each other papaya with their fingers—”

  “This was Morocco—not Tahiti,” I pointed out, tapping my foot in impatience.

  “—it was like something from Mutiny on the Bounty.”

  “Page three-twenty-seven, to be precise,” I said, wondering if the torture would ever end.

  “But it was the captain she really fell for,” said Georgian. “A woman like True needs to be mastered; she admired him for having the audacity to take the upper hand.…”

  “There’s a lesson in this, is there?” said Tor, still trying to suppress his smile.

  “I’ve no doubt that she hoity-toitys around with you—calling you her colleague, and comporting herself, and such. But don’t be misled by her cool demeanor and tentlike attire!”

  She stood up and went behind my chair, where she dug her hands into my mess of already disheveled hair, and messed it further.

  “While inside is this seething, writhing, insatiable mass of unfulfilled passion!”

  “It’s lucky you’ve torn the veils from my eyes,” said Tor as I spat hair from my mouth in fury. “My dear Verity—now that I’ve seen this other side—”

  “What side?” I stormed. “There is no side! Can we please get down to work?”

  “Naturally,” said Tor, looking warmly at Georgian. “Now that things are more aboveboard, may I add that I think this is the beginning of a most productive relationship?”

  Though Georgian was still behind me, I swear that what passed between them was a conspiratorial wink.

  I’ve neglected to mention that the Blue Room was one of the seven wonders of the world. It appeared small, but I’d measured the dimensions once while helping Lelia install the pink quartz faux mantel, carved with dimpled cherubim, entwined with eglantine and wild swans.

  That room embraced no fewer than seventeen chairs, sofas, ottomans, fauteuils, and recamiers—all upholstered in ice blue with white lacquer trim—and ranging in style from Louis XII through XVI. The tables, ranging in height, were heaped with piles of Lalique, cloisonné, and porcelain—so overburdened that it seemed they’d topple over from the sheer weight of bric-a-brac.

  The walls were decorated in trompe l’oeil lattices, through which one caught tantalizing glimpses of so many vistas that walking around the room gave the dizzying impression of completing a world tour by merry-go-round.

  As an added touch—if anything else were needed—Lelia’s exhaustive collection of photos and miniatures was scattered wherever space afforded. Many of these memorabilia were affixed to the lattices, so it seemed hundreds of eyes were watching as the viewer tried to bring into focus the dizzying landscape beyond.

  That Georgian, Tor, and I sat there for four hours was a testimonial to our stamina. Perhaps the vodka helped. But by the end of the third hour we were sprawled on the floor, singing “Troika”—I playing the part of the sleigh bells, as I knew no Russian. We were interrupted by the maid, who entered with great decorum, daintily stepping over our bodies and
bearing a tray of food.

  “What did I tell you?” asked Georgian, looking up from her daze. “Piroshki!”

  “And clear borscht!” added Tor, sniffing the air like a bird dog. “With real Russian curds!”

  He staggered to his feet as the maid departed, and with great ceremony spooned food into plates and bowls, spilling a bit here and there. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until I smelled Lelia’s cooking.

  “This borscht is delicious,” Tor said between slurps.

  “Don’t eat too much; you’ll encourage her,” said Georgian from the floor. “Then the food will come marching in like The Sorcerer’s Apprentice—we’ll be buried in mountains of food—we’ll have to throw ourselves against the door to keep it out.”

  “I’d gladly die this way.” Tor sighed, inhaling the aroma of the piroshki. He reached for the nearest one and wolfed it down. “But now, since the singing’s done, I may as well tell you why we’re here.”

  “My God—back to business?” said Georgian, rolling over and putting a pillow over her head.

  “Verity and I have made a little wager,” he informed the pillow. He paused, resumed spooning down borscht as if it were lifeblood. “And, if she loses this wager—she’ll have to grant my fondest wish.”

  Georgian’s head came out of the pillows. She sat up and looked at me.

  “A wish? Give me a bowl of that soup. What kind of bet is that?”

  “One that I think you might enjoy being party to,” said Tor with a smile, dishing up the soup. “To beat her, you see, I’m going to need an ally—a very good photographer.”

  Georgian was now fully alert.

  “What does each of you get, if you win?” she asked Tor.

  “If Verity—True—wins, she gets a job at an even more boring financial institution than the one she’s imprisoned in now,” he said as Georgian wrinkled her nose and grimaced at me. “But if I win—she’ll have to come to New York and work for me—be my slave, if you will—for a year and a day. You see, your little story had a moral, after all.”

  Georgian looked at him as over her face spread a beatific, and dangerous, smile. She held out her hand, and Tor took it.

  “Do you mind if I call you Thor?” she asked.

  “Thor?” He looked at me with curiosity.

  “I think it’s Old Nordic for ‘death by conspiracy,’” I said.

  PART 2

  FRANKFURT, GERMANY

  AUTUMN 1785

  Thirty years before the morning Nathan Rothschild had waited for a bird to arrive at the small room in Frankfurt’s Judengasse, two men sat in a drafty castle outside the city, playing chess. They did not know that this particular chess game would mark the first move in the Rothschild banking dynasty—which was to take root that very night.

  “So, have you taken my advice, Landgrave?” the general asked, sipping his cognac.

  “Knight to E seven,” said the Landgrave, his face red and sweaty from the effort of thought. He, too, took a swig of cognac. Leaning back, his eyes still on the board, he said, “Yes, I sent the message this morning. They have permission to bring the Jew from the compound tonight; it’s perfectly all right. But they close and seal the gates at sunset—we must keep him here until morning.”

  “It’s a shame they have to lock them up like that,” the general said thoughtfully. “Knight to G five.”

  “It’s for their own protection,” commented the Landgrave. “You know what bloodbaths we used to have when these Jews were permitted to run about on the loose; it’s better this way. Would you care for more cognac? It’s quite good, isn’t it? I have it brought from France and age it myself. Give me your glass.”

  “Thank you,” said the general. “But still, it seems a shame. Take this fellow Meyer Amschel, for example—a very brilliant fellow.”

  “Oh, they’re all bright, I’ve no doubt of that—but only when it comes to the common sort of thing. Barter. Trade. They’ve no culture, these people. You know that as well as I, von Estorff.”

  “I think you’ll be surprised at this particular chap, Landgrave. But you needn’t take my word for it; see for yourself.”

  “Here, have a taste of this,” said the Landgrave, passing von Estorff his replenished glass. “If you get drunk, perhaps I’ll win a game of you.”

  “Only with God’s intervention.” The general laughed. “In twenty-five years, you’ve never done so yet! But it’s your move.”

  “Knight takes bishop,” said the Landgrave. “I don’t like placing my affairs in the hands of Jews, however, von Estorff—so please don’t expect it of me. I’m willing to give the man my ear. If I find his ideas plausible and they make money, he certainly won’t go unrewarded.”

  “That’s all anyone could ask,” agreed the general, “though I should point out he’s a great expert in numismatics, your favorite interest! Knight takes pawn at F seven.”

  “Damn—why did you have to make that move?” the Landgrave cried, looking up in irritation as a page entered the room. “What the hell do you want?” he snapped. “Can’t you see that we are engaged?”

  “A thousand pardons, sire. But a Jew is at the door, claiming he was bidden here to see you. Though I explained it is after the curfew and that you were occupied, he insists—”

  “Yes, yes. Well, show the fellow in.”

  “As you wish, sire.” The page bowed and departed. A few moments later he reappeared, and clicked his heels. “Meyer Amschel, the Jew!” he announced, then bowed again and left the room.

  The Landgrave did not look up from the chessboard. He sat, a scowl on his face, studying the pieces carefully. After a moment, he noticed a shadow cast upon the board. He glanced up to see the intruder leaning over the board, rapt in concentration.

  “What’s this fellow’s name?” the Landgrave demanded of the room at large.

  “Meyer Amschel,” the general replied.

  “Excuse me, sire,” Meyer Amschel corrected him, “but I go by the name of ‘Red-shield.’”

  “Ah yes—I’d forgotten,” apologized the general. “He’s adopted the name of Red-shield, after the color of the weapons shield hanging before his place of business in the Judengasse.”

  “A coat of arms?” said the Landgrave with raised eyebrow. “Where will it end, von Estorff? Well, Roth-schildt—the ‘be-knighted’ Jew—have a seat over there till we’ve finished; you’re blocking my view.”

  “Excuse me, sire—but I prefer to stand, if you don’t mind.”

  “You see how it goes, von Estorff.” The Landgrave sadly shook his head. “First Jews have coats of arms—then they have preferences. Look here, Herr Coat of Arms, you’ve no right to a weapons shield unless you’ve been knighted. And you’ve no right to be out of compound after the curfew. Sit down at once, or I’ll have you arrested for arrogance and insubordination!”

  “Excuse me, sire—but is it your move?” asked Rothschild.

  “I beg your pardon?” said the Landgrave in total astonishment.

  “Yes, Meyer,” the general replied with a gleam in his eye, “it is the Landgrave’s move—and he’s playing the black pieces.”

  “In that case, Landgrave,” said Meyer Amschel, “may I point out that you’re assured of a victory in eleven moves?”

  “What!” cried the Landgrave, outraged. “How dare you presume to advise me in how to play chess?”

  “William, William,” said the general, laughing as he put his hand on the other’s arm, “let’s see what he has in mind. I’m intrigued—and we can always play another game if he is wrong.”

  “Von Estorff, are you completely mad? Imagine if it’s said of me about Frankfurt that I’ve taken to playing chess with Jews! My chess playing is already a laughing matter in some quarters.”

  “But we won’t be playing chess with him, we’ll merely be listening to his advice. And that’s why you brought him here, isn’t it? What difference whether the advice is about chess or money?”

  “If you want me to believe tha
t a Jew can understand a complex matter like chess, von Estorff—then why not have my Borzoi in here, and he can bark out the paternoster in Latin?” When he saw the grim set of his friend’s disapproving features, the Landgrave added, “Very well—I know what a bleeding heart you are. But keep in mind, Herr Coat of Arms, that I’ll be judging your capabilities in more crucial matters, through your performance in this.”

  During this exchange, Meyer Amschel had been as unobtrusive as if he were a piece of the wainscoting on the wall. Now he folded his hands behind his back, his face expressionless.

  “Simply castle,” he said.

  “But my God, man! That leaves my queen within reach of his cavalry!”

  “Queens have fallen into the hands of the cavalry in the past, William,” said the general, greatly amused, “and a few have even survived!”

  The Landgrave did as he’d been asked, shaking his head and muttering. General von Estorff smiled all the while, as if participating in a classroom exercise.

  “Now, Meyer,” he said, “what move do you wish me to make?”

  “It really makes no matter,” he replied, “for the Landgrave has won the game.”

  The Landgrave could not contain the look of disgust that crossed his face. Taking a big swig of brandy, he turned away from the board.

  The general hesitated for a moment, watching the Landgrave’s profile—then picked up his knight and took the Landgrave’s queen.

  “My God! My God! I told you! He’s taken my queen!” cried the Landgrave, his face flushed and beaded with moisture, as he gripped the edge of the table.

  “Be advised, sire,” Meyer said calmly, “that a queen is not a game. It is the king, of course, that should be the object of your never-wavering attention!”

  The Landgrave’s face had taken on the purplish hue of apoplexy—his breath came in quick, dry rasps as his hands, gripping the table, began to shake. Von Estorff, in alarm, rushed to the sideboard for water and poured a goblet full, handed it to his friend to drink, then turned aside to Meyer Amschel.

  “Are you certain we should …?”