The Bancroft Strategy by Robert Ludlum Page A

serving and…” She faltered, berating herself silently: What a phony she was becoming! “Oh, shit, listen to me. They’re giving me…”
    The words would not come out. She could not say them. Nothing would be the same among them once she did. She hadn’t thought this through. And yet not saying it—especially if and when they found out later—would be the corrosive thing. Not for the first time that evening, she found herself choking on the number. “Look, let’s just say it’s crazy money, okay?”
    â€œCrazy money,” Suzanne repeated acidly. “Would that be bigger than a breadbox?”
    â€œIs this one of those I-could-tell-you-but-then-I’d-have-to-kill-you situations?” Melissa put in. She once had a guest, i.e., nonrecurring, role in a soap opera episode with a plot element like that.
    â€œYou know, I’m hazy on my arithmetic. Is ‘crazy’ greater or less than ‘mad phat’?” Jeremy asked, exasperated.
    â€œHey, you’re a private person ,” Suzanne said, in a voice that could curdle milk. “We need to respect that.”
    â€œTwelve,” Andrea said quietly. “Million.”
    The others looked on in stunned silence until Jeremy half-choked on a nastily swallowed mouthful of pasta. He knocked back a glass of the Vouvray. “You’re shitting me,” he said at last.
    â€œThis is a joke, right?” Melissa asked. “Or, like, an improv thing?” Melissa turned to Suzanne. “When I was taking acting classes, at the studio? Andrea used to help me with my improv exercises, and I always thought she was better at them than I was.”
    Andrea shook her head. “I can hardly believe it myself,” she said.
    â€œAnd so the caterpillar turns into the butterfly,” Suzanne said, a spot of red appearing on each cheek.
    â€œTwelve million dollars,” Melissa said softly, almost singing the syllables the way she did when she was trying to memorize a part. “Congratulations! I couldn’t be happier for you! This is un-buh-lievable.” The last word turned into three.
    â€œA toast!” Jeremy called out, refilling his wineglass.
    The mood was jubilant and joshing, but by the time the meal turned into coffee and cordials, their excitement for her had—or wasshe imagining it?—somehow edged into envy. Her friends were spending her money for her in their imaginations, coming up with Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous scenarios that were both outlandish and banal. Jeremy talked, with a faint air of defiance, about a rich man he knew—he did yardwork for him when was a teenager—who “was just like the guy next door, never put on any airs” and there was a hint of reproach in his story, as if Andrea wasn’t going to measure up to the Pepsi bottling-plant mogul of Doylestown, Pennsylvania.
    Finally, after the tenth reference to Donald Trump and eighty-foot yachts, Andrea said, “Can we talk about something else?”
    Suzanne gave her a who-are-you-trying-to-kid look. “What else is there to talk about?” she asked.
    â€œI’m serious,” Andrea said. “How are you doing?”
    â€œDon’t patronize me, sweetheart,” Suzanne returned, pretending to be insulted. Except that wasn’t quite it, Andrea realized. Her friend was pretending to be pretending to be insulted.
    So this is what it was going to be like.
    â€œAnyone for some herbal tea?” Andrea asked, brightly. She could feel a headache coming on.
    Suzanne stared at her, unblinking. “You know how you always said you weren’t one of those Bancrofts?” she asked, not unkindly. “Well, guess what. You just became one.”
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    In a darkened room illuminated only by the bluish glow of a flat-panel monitor, agile fingers caressed gently concave keycaps; the LCD screen filled and emptied. Words, numerals. Requests for information.