hidden smile would give her all the satisfaction a devoted daughter could ever want.
The day had grown hot and muggy. In the space of ten city blocks, the blue sky curdled to gray. Mozart had taken five, and the only music playing in her head was the choppy, unmelodious rhythm of her own humming as she tread to keep her head above water. The giddiness was gone, vanished as quickly as it had arrived. A dark menace lurked behind her every thought. And so she hummed louder.
It was when she decided her mouth tasted funny that the panic came on full-force. It was the cyanide. She’d had a peroxide rinse to clear out the poison, but suddenly she was sure the stuff was still in her system. Hurrying to the side of the road, she broke at the waist, spitting repeatedly until her mouth was parched, her breath coming fast and her heart beating madly. Lowering herself to a knee, she struggled to calm herself down. You’re just a little in shock, she told herself in a rational voice. It’s to be expected. You’ve suffered a “traumatic event” —as if watching a man cut his throat from ear to ear and bearing witness to the pulverization of a half dozen others, all after preparing your unwashed soul to meet your maker, could be made to fit into two words.
That was how they found her: on a knee, catching her breath, the color just beginning to return to her cheeks. It was a black Chrysler from the consulate.
“Miss Churchill,” asked a clean-cut man she recognized as a junior counselor. Bill or Bob or Brian. “Are you all right?”
“Hello,” she said, waving, putting on that irrepressible grin, the one that said You know us Brits, we never give up, never complain. Cheerio, and all that bleeding crap. “Brian, isn’t it? Yes, yes, I’m fine. Must’ve eaten something dodgy.”
“Brad,” he corrected her, the smile firmly in place. “I’m afraid we’ve been asked to bring you back to the embassy.”
Straightening, she knew immediately that Brad and the local driver had been following her the entire route. Cui custodiet custodian. Who spies on the spies? Now she knew. The other spies. She just hadn’t expected them to be from her side.
“But my flight doesn’t leave till two this morning,” she said, a little unsurely.
“Change of plan, I’m afraid. There’s a plane waiting for you at the airport right now.”
“To Washington?”
“No, ma’am. To Paris. Admiral Glendenning’s orders.”
Chapter 11
“You can’t unload this position now. You’ll get killed. Do you have any idea what kinda hit you’re gonna take unloading that size block? A point at least, maybe more. A hundred grand still means something. You’re down what? Thirty percent. Hang on a little longer. Let me work the market. Better yet, wait. We’ll sell into the next rally. It’s overdue. All you need is a little patience. Patience and timing. Twenty-six years I’ve been trading. I know when we’re due, and we’re due. The market’s going to turn any day now. Too much money’s sitting on the sidelines. Fund redemptions are down. Pension plans are overfunded. All the leading indicators are up: consumer confidence, the Purchasing Managers’ Index, the Conference Board. The PPI’s flat. Inflation’s in check. Interest rates aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. This is a market that’s waiting to explode. We’re sitting on a powder keg. You hear me, a powder keg? Twelve months from now we’ll be testing new highs. Forget eleven thousand. Think twelve. Twelve five, even. This is not the time to be a spectator. You hear me? This is the time to keep both feet in the water. You cannot unload this position now.”
In his office overlooking the Eiffel Tower, Marc Gabriel distanced the phone from his ear. The problem with private bankers, he was thinking, was that they confused their own welfare with that of their clients. His broker wasn’t upset that by liquidating more than four hundred thousand shares of blue chip stock,
The day had grown hot and muggy. In the space of ten city blocks, the blue sky curdled to gray. Mozart had taken five, and the only music playing in her head was the choppy, unmelodious rhythm of her own humming as she tread to keep her head above water. The giddiness was gone, vanished as quickly as it had arrived. A dark menace lurked behind her every thought. And so she hummed louder.
It was when she decided her mouth tasted funny that the panic came on full-force. It was the cyanide. She’d had a peroxide rinse to clear out the poison, but suddenly she was sure the stuff was still in her system. Hurrying to the side of the road, she broke at the waist, spitting repeatedly until her mouth was parched, her breath coming fast and her heart beating madly. Lowering herself to a knee, she struggled to calm herself down. You’re just a little in shock, she told herself in a rational voice. It’s to be expected. You’ve suffered a “traumatic event” —as if watching a man cut his throat from ear to ear and bearing witness to the pulverization of a half dozen others, all after preparing your unwashed soul to meet your maker, could be made to fit into two words.
That was how they found her: on a knee, catching her breath, the color just beginning to return to her cheeks. It was a black Chrysler from the consulate.
“Miss Churchill,” asked a clean-cut man she recognized as a junior counselor. Bill or Bob or Brian. “Are you all right?”
“Hello,” she said, waving, putting on that irrepressible grin, the one that said You know us Brits, we never give up, never complain. Cheerio, and all that bleeding crap. “Brian, isn’t it? Yes, yes, I’m fine. Must’ve eaten something dodgy.”
“Brad,” he corrected her, the smile firmly in place. “I’m afraid we’ve been asked to bring you back to the embassy.”
Straightening, she knew immediately that Brad and the local driver had been following her the entire route. Cui custodiet custodian. Who spies on the spies? Now she knew. The other spies. She just hadn’t expected them to be from her side.
“But my flight doesn’t leave till two this morning,” she said, a little unsurely.
“Change of plan, I’m afraid. There’s a plane waiting for you at the airport right now.”
“To Washington?”
“No, ma’am. To Paris. Admiral Glendenning’s orders.”
Chapter 11
“You can’t unload this position now. You’ll get killed. Do you have any idea what kinda hit you’re gonna take unloading that size block? A point at least, maybe more. A hundred grand still means something. You’re down what? Thirty percent. Hang on a little longer. Let me work the market. Better yet, wait. We’ll sell into the next rally. It’s overdue. All you need is a little patience. Patience and timing. Twenty-six years I’ve been trading. I know when we’re due, and we’re due. The market’s going to turn any day now. Too much money’s sitting on the sidelines. Fund redemptions are down. Pension plans are overfunded. All the leading indicators are up: consumer confidence, the Purchasing Managers’ Index, the Conference Board. The PPI’s flat. Inflation’s in check. Interest rates aren’t going anywhere anytime soon. This is a market that’s waiting to explode. We’re sitting on a powder keg. You hear me, a powder keg? Twelve months from now we’ll be testing new highs. Forget eleven thousand. Think twelve. Twelve five, even. This is not the time to be a spectator. You hear me? This is the time to keep both feet in the water. You cannot unload this position now.”
In his office overlooking the Eiffel Tower, Marc Gabriel distanced the phone from his ear. The problem with private bankers, he was thinking, was that they confused their own welfare with that of their clients. His broker wasn’t upset that by liquidating more than four hundred thousand shares of blue chip stock,
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