Montaro Caine (23 page)

“These guys are big business, Victor. The circle is widening, new players are coming in. Soon, we’ll be expendable; but for now, we’re not. So, Mr. Rothman, you’ve told us what you want. How about what Victor and I want?”

“Which is what?”

“First, to be left alone.”

“You can have that. It’s up to you.”

“Can you guarantee it?” she asked.

“Pretty much,” Rothman answered.

Cordiss didn’t believe him for an instant; nevertheless, she continued. “Next, that bullshit, as Victor puts it, about your firm’s integrity is just that, bullshit.” She paused, glanced at Victor, inhaled deeply, then deliberately examined her fingernails. “I know what you really want. And we want the same thing—a piece of the action down the line.”

Rothman looked surprised—Cordiss was apparently far smarter than he had guessed she would be. He looked at her for a long time before answering. “Something could be worked out,” he said.

“In writing—before we talk,” said Cordiss.

“I’m sure we can arrive at something reasonable,” Rothman said.

“Good, now let me see your passports.”

“Why?” Rothman asked.

“Why not?” asked Cordiss.

Rothman briefly weighed the request, then produced his passport. Carlos Wallace followed suit. Cordiss examined the documents thoroughly before handing them back.

“Business cards, please, gentlemen?” Cordiss said.

Rothman reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a card from his Gucci card case. He was liking Cordiss less but respecting her more. Wallace handed Cordiss a business card, too.

Cordiss read from a card, “Alan Rothman, Manager of Operations, Fitzer Corporation.” She looked up. “So, chemicals are what you’re into.” She burst into laughter once again. Then, after looking at Rothman and Wallace as if for the first time, she said, “You may find, to your surprise, that we are not such small potatoes as you may think. And, speaking of potatoes, have you gentlemen had lunch?”

“No we haven’t,” replied Rothman.

“Good, I’ll rustle up something while we talk. Victor, open some wine.”

Rothman and Wallace glanced at each other, somewhat uneasily. Meanwhile, Cordiss headed for the kitchen and Victor crossed to the dry bar in the far corner of the living room. Victor wondered if these men were underestimating Cordiss every bit as much as he once had.

W
HEN
M
ONTARO
C
AINE ARRIVED UNINVITED AT THE HOME OF
Roland Gabler accompanied by Howard Mozelle, he knew there was a good chance he might seem either too eager or too desperate. Yet with both coins currently out of his control, and with Alan Rothman and Carlos Wallace out of the country for reasons he did not yet know, he understood that time was of the essence. Nancy MacDonald had tried without success to arrange a meeting with Gabler, leading Caine to understand that the collector was probably stalling. So now, Caine had taken matters into his own hands, showing up first thing in the morning. He was gambling that the collector’s curiosity would overcome his sense of protocol and that Montaro’s bold act would pique Gabler’s interest. Apparently, he had gambled correctly, for no sooner had Gabler’s assistant Jerome Voekle informed Caine and Mozelle that his employer was not inclined to see guests without an appointment, Gabler himself appeared, introduced himself, nodded at Caine, dismissed Voekle, and led the two visitors to his study.

Caine shook the man’s hand. “Please forgive the intrusion,” he said, and introduced himself and the doctor.

“Thanks for receiving us,” Mozelle broke in, somewhat startled by the strength of Gabler’s grip. The collector’s rough, calloused hand
reminded him of what he had read in one of the books Caine’s investigators had gotten from Cordiss’s apartment—that Gabler was an amateur weight lifter.

“Not at all, Doctor. It so happens I have a bit of time at the moment. Mr. Caine, of course I’m well aware of who you are. Sorry to hear about the state of affairs at Fitzer.” Adopting the demeanor of a gracious host, the smiling Gabler gestured his guests toward the sitting area in front of his fireplace. “Be seated, please,” he urged.

Caine and Mozelle sat on the couch in the spot where Cordiss Krinkle had sat during her first visit. As Gabler settled into his favorite chair across the table from his guests, he directed his questions to Dr. Mozelle. Caine understood the collector sensed his companion was a far less threatening presence than he himself was. Though he feigned no prior knowledge of Mozelle and claimed to know Caine only as the CEO of Fitzer, Caine suspected that he had learned far more than he was letting on from Cordiss Krinkle.

“So, gentlemen, how can I help you?” Gabler asked Mozelle.

“We’re here to discuss something you have purchased recently,” Caine responded before Mozelle had a chance to speak.

“My,” said Gabler. “I’ve purchased many things recently.”

Although they had barely begun to speak, Caine was already growing impatient with Gabler’s coy, condescending tone and his games. “You purchased a coin from Cordiss Krinkle, and it was not hers to sell,” Caine said plainly.

Gabler’s brow knotted into a series of jagged lines, as if he was trying to make sense out of something unfamiliar. “Miss Krinkle?”

“Yes. Cordiss Krinkle. A former employee in my office,” said Mozelle.

“She stole the coin from Dr. Mozelle, who owned it, and she sold it to you,” Caine said, impatiently explaining what he now felt certain Gabler already knew.

“My goodness. Perhaps you gentlemen should talk to my lawyer,” Gabler said, attempting to appear more amused than irritated.

“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” said Caine.

“But it would be proper procedure if I’m hearing you correctly,” Gabler said. He stared into Caine’s steady blue eyes.

“Yes,” Caine said with a nod. “But even among the still small number of us who know about the coins, the situation is already at serious risk of becoming an open secret. If that happens too soon, we’ll all lose.”

“I have never purchased stolen property, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” said Gabler.

Caine interrupted. “Whatever documents you have to verify legal purchase are false, Mr. Gabler,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Whether or not you knew they were false when you contracted with Cordiss Krinkle is, indeed, a question for your lawyer and the courts to decide.”

“Are you trying to frighten me?” Gabler asked. “I’ve bought many coins from many people whose faces and names I have long since forgotten. All I understand is that you have fallen just short of accusing me of misconduct in my business. Let me enlighten both of you. In my entire collection, there isn’t one single piece that is not properly documented.”

“Mr. Gabler, a court challenge at this time, to establish legal ownership, will tell the world about the coins,” Mozelle said gently. “The moment that happens, you, Montaro, and I will lose any chance for control. No matter in whose favor the courts eventually decide, the interest of the world’s scientific community will immediately overwhelm us—there will be pressure for access to those coins from the American Astronomical Society, the American Medical Association, and God knows who else.”

“So let’s get back to where we were,” Caine said pointedly. “The name of the woman you purchased the coins from is Cordiss Krinkle.”

“Krinkle? I’ll have to check my files on that.”

“Please save us both the time of feigning ignorance. You already know about Krinkle, much more than we do. You also know about me, about Dr. Mozelle, his wife, Dr. Chasman, and Dr. Walmeyer. You know the whole history from Dr. Mozelle’s notes. There are, of course, a few things you don’t know. For example, where the companion coin is, who Cordiss sold it to, at what price, and what she’s planning to sell next.”

Caine’s remarks caused Gabler’s jaw to tighten. “The information I have on you, Caine, does not include a penchant for rudeness,” he snapped.

Mozelle quietly gave Caine a warning glance not to push so hard, but Caine knew that Mozelle didn’t understand what had just happened. He and Gabler had just completed an intricate, preliminary skirmish during which they had taken each other’s measure. They had listened and watched for telltale signs—fluctuations of voice level, word choice, eye movement, hand gestures, even the pauses between sentences. Now, the opening round was over, and each man was poised for serious talk.

“Mr. Caine,” Gabler said. “Is it fair to say that your interest in these alleged coins is primarily commercial?”

“Primarily,” Caine acknowledged.

“You wish to conduct research with an eye to how well the properties in these alleged coins can be reproduced for commercial exploitation. Am I correct?”

“You are correct.”

“Let us, for the moment, assume for the sake of discussion that the items you are referring to do, in fact, exist; and that the research you’re proposing proves successful, and the elements carry considerable opportunity for commercial exploitation. Who do you propose would have control of that information?”

“If we worked together, Mr. Gabler, we would, but only if we got there first.”

“I see,” said Gabler.

Dr. Mozelle leaned over the coffee table. “We cannot impress upon you strongly enough how important a factor time is in all of this.”

Gabler moved forward in his chair as well and stared silently at Dr. Mozelle before asking his next question. “Why? Because the holder of the second coin could, by moving faster, beat you to those findings before the world at large gets any information about the coins’ existence?”

“That’s about it,” Caine replied simply.

“How do we know they haven’t beaten us to it already?”

Gabler’s use of the word “us” heartened Mozelle.

Caine shook his head. “Because as of now, no one has gone to the U.S. Patent Office to register their findings about the coins; the sooner we have access to one or both of the coins, the sooner we can be certain we have the edge.”

“And when you have that edge, you plan to let the holders of the second coin know?” asked Gabler.

“Yes,” said Caine.

“If they know they can’t beat us, they will be more inclined to join us,” Dr. Mozelle added.

“Ideally, it is our wish,” Caine continued, “to analyze both coins at the same time.”

“And what role do you see for the owners of each coin in the control of your findings?” Gabler inquired.

“None,” said Caine.

Gabler didn’t bat an eye. “I see,” he said.

“You will have a financial interest in the entity that has control of the findings, but you will have absolutely no control over that entity. The financial interest, however, will be a fair one.”

Gabler nodded as if he had expected this answer and found it reasonable. “The second coin, who has it?” he asked.

“We will let you know in time,” Caine said.

“How much did he or she pay?”

“A good deal more than you.”

At this, Roland Gabler smiled.

“Mr. Gabler, how do you feel about what we are proposing?” asked Dr. Mozelle.

“I’ll need some time to think about it. Suppose I call you in a few days.”

In the privacy of the elevator heading down to the lobby of Gabler’s building, Mozelle asked, “So, what do you think?”

“He’ll come in,” said Caine. “He needs us more than we need him.”

With a disbelieving frown, Mozelle chuckled. “Explain that to me,” he said.

Caine reminded himself of how much he liked the old doctor; he assumed that this was why the doctor’s naïveté didn’t annoy him.

“Underneath,” Caine told his friend, “that man is all about money. We’re a giant opportunity for him. Without us, the coin is all but worthless to him. No one can know of its properties, and therefore he can’t even have bragging rights. I think he was already waiting for other players to seek him out, and he knew that eventually they would. Of course he was surprised when we showed up. We weren’t what he expected.”

“What was he expecting?” Mozelle asked.

“Gamblers like him,” said Montaro.

“Really? I didn’t get that at all.” Mozelle scratched his temple. “In fact, I got just the opposite.”

Caine smiled, recalling something his grandfather had often told him. “Sometimes what we hear isn’t always what we see, Doctor,” he said.

“I just hope you’re right.”

“So do I,” Caine said with a sly smile.

Mozelle smiled back. “Where do we go from here?” he asked.

“Fritzbrauner.”

“That’s what I figured,” said Mozelle. “When do we leave for Switzerland?”

W
HEN
A
LAN
R
OTHMAN FINISHED SPEAKING, AN ELECTRIFYING
quiet descended upon those seated around the oval table in the dining alcove of Verna Fontaine’s condo. Each face registered some combination of astonishment and disbelief. With plaited fingers, Rothman’s hands rested on the table in a pose that seemed almost religious. His gaze moved counterclockwise, taking in first Bob Wildenmiller, whose face wore a dumbstruck expression, next Thomas Bolton, Richard Davis’s lieutenant. Bolton stared back at Rothman with a look that could have meant either hypnotic fascination or the assumption that Rothman had gone mad. Verna Fontaine wore the scowl of a skeptic; she stared off into empty space. Finally, Rothman’s eyes settled on Richard C. Davis, the billionaire industrialist in whose hands his future rested. Davis’s expression was inscrutable; his cold eyes offered no hint as to what thoughts were taking place behind them. Then, as if he knew that the younger man was growing uncomfortable, Davis lowered his eyes to the documents Rothman had laid before him as corroborating evidence for the improbable tale he had just reported upon his return from San Remo. Among the items scattered upon the table were copies of Dr. Howard Mozelle’s notes, Caine’s memo to his professor, and photographs of two coins.