Read Online The Gods of Greenwich by Norb Vonnegut - Free Book Online Page B

twenty-five thousand dollars to proceed.” The electronic voice changer turned Rachel’s honey Texan tones into something robotic over the phone, impossible to determine whether male or female.
    “No problem,” the man countered in a diplomat’s voice worthy of UN peace negotiations. “When do you need the money?”
    Rachel sensed trouble. The prospect was too easy. Nobody said yes just like that. “I need fives and tens,” she said, testing him. “Nothing bigger.”
    “That will take a while,” he ventured cautiously. “Two, maybe three days.”
    Not a good sign, she decided. Only the Feds knew how long it took to amass five thousand five-dollar bills. “You sound serious.”
    As though reading her qualms, the man asked, “How do I know you won’t run off with my money?”
    “You don’t.” The voice changer felt awkward in her hand.
    “Others work for less,” he insisted.
    “You want a bargain,” she snapped, “go to Walmart.”
    “I’ll get the money,” he retreated, but still cool. “My wife is a problem.”
    “You don’t understand what I do,” Rachel interrupted. He was moving too fast. Something was wrong. She clicked off the phone. She had always followed her instincts in the past. This guy smelled like a cop, too much, too soon.
    Rachel hated the voice changer. She used sex to control men, which was impossible when you sounded like R2D2. Too electronic. Even worse, there was no face-to-face. She relied on visual cues, always a problem over the phone. Now the guy was gone. Fed or whatever, he had been a miserable waste of time.
    On the way back to the clinic, Rachel tossed her disposable cell phone into a garbage can at the corner of Eightieth and Park. Her March financial statement had been less than inspiring. She muttered, “I’m lucky to have one steady employer.”

 
    CHAPTER NINE
    REYKJAVIK  …
    “Trading desks are waging World War Three. Which means, sir, there’s only one way to make money. We fight back. We crush Cyrus Leeser and humiliate his people. Doing nothing is worse than grabbing our ankles and hoping for the best.”
    A little hyperbolic, Ólafur knew. But absolute conviction was necessary. Otherwise, the old man would take forever to make a decision. It was five hours ahead in Reykjavik. Ólafur’s speech was still reverberating through his thoughts as he stewed at Gaukur á Stöng.
    Ólafur nursed a vodka martini, his second round since leaving the office. He needed a third and maybe a fourth to soothe his nerves. The alcohol would bring calm and the clarity to dissect his one-on-one meeting with Chairman Guðjohnsen of Hafnarbanki.
    Their discussion had exceeded his wildest expectations. Guðjohnsen bought the whole program. The last twenty seconds were the problem.
    *   *   *
    “It’s time to demonstrate what happens to our enemies.”
    “What do you mean?” asked the chairman.
    “Hafnarbanki is trading at eight hundred and fifty kronur. We’re down twenty-nine percent since December, because of LeeWell and its lies. We can’t hide and close our eyes. Those bastards won’t go away. Nor will their cronies.”
    It was risky speaking to the chairman like that. But Ólafur, ever hawkish, took the chance. Guðjohnsen owned more shares of Hafnarbanki than anyone else in Iceland. He stood to lose or recover the most as the stock price roller-coastered.
    “Are you recommending legal action?” asked the venerable old man, his brow wrinkling under a shock of silver-white hair.
    Ólafur spotted the puzzled expression. He had waited for this moment, rehearsed his lines for hours. “Courts take forever. There’s only one solution: shore up our defenses and fight.”
    “Exactly what do you mean?”
    “We get our Qatari friends to buy shares of Hafnarbanki.”
    “What makes you think they’ll invest, Ólafur?”
    “We’ll lend them the money.”
    The chairman said nothing.
    “On a nonrecourse basis,” the younger banker added. If the Qataris