Kroeger. She would not gamble the lives of her family more than she had already. She would not wager at this table the name of Scarlatti. Not that way. Not now. There was another way.
Kroeger had won the point. It was obvious to all, and Elizabeth had to rush headlong on so that none would dwell upon her loss.
'Keep your assets. They are quite immaterial.'
Around the table the phrase 'quite immaterial' when applied to such millions was impressive. Elizabeth knew it would be.
'Gentlemen. Before we were interrupted, I gave you all, by national groupings, the personal assets calculated to the nearest five million for each contingent. I felt it was more courteous than breaking down each individual's specific worth - some things are sacred, after all. However, I was quite unfair, as several of you know. I alluded to a number of - shall we say, delicate negotiations, I'm sure you believed were inviolate. Treacherous to you - to use Mr. Kroeger's words - if they were known within your own countries.' Seven of the Zurich twelve were silent. Five were curious. 'I refer to my cocitizens, Mr. Gibson and Mr. Landor. To Monsieur D'Almeida, Sydney Masterson, and of course, to the brilliant Herr Myrdal. I should also include two-thirds of Germany's investors - Herr von Schnftzler and Herr Kindorf, but for different reasons, as I'm sure they realize.'
No one spoke. No one turned to his aides. All eyes were upon Elizabeth.
'I don't intend to remain unfair in this fashion, gentlemen. I have something for each of you.'
A voice other than Kroeger's spoke up. It was the Englishman, Sydney Masterson.
'May I ask the point of all this? All this... incidental intelligence? I'm sure you've been most industrious - highly accurate, too, speaking for myself. But none of us here have entered the race for a Jesus medal. Surely, you know that.'
'I do, indeed. If it were otherwise, I wouldn't be here tonight.'
'Then why? Why this?' The accent was German. The voice belonged to the blustering baron of the Ruhr Valley, Kindorf.
Masterson continued. 'Your cablegram, madame - we all received the same - specifically alluded to areas of mutual interest. I believe you went so far as to say the Scarlatti assets might be at our joint disposal. Most generous, indeed... But now I must agree with Mr. Kroeger. You sound as though you're threatening us, and I'm not at all sure I like it.'
'Oh, come, Mr. Masterson! You've never held out promises of English gold to half the minor potentates in the backwaters of India? Herr Kindorf has not openly bribed his unions to strike with pledges of increased wages once the French are out of the Ruhr? Please! You insult all of us! Of course, I'm here to threaten you! And I can assure you, you'll like it less as I go on!'
Masterson rose from the table. Several others moved their chairs. The air was hostile. 'I shall not listen further,' said Masterson.
'Then tomorrow at noon the Foreign Office, the British Stock exchange, and the board of directors of the Collective will receive detailed specifics of your highly illegal agreements in Ceylon! Your commitments are enormous! The news might just initiate a considerable run on your holdings!'
Masterson stood by his chair. 'Be damned!' were the only words he uttered as he returned to his chair. The table once again fell silent. Elizabeth opened her briefcase.
'I have here an envelope for each of you. Your names are typed on the front. Inside each envelope is an accounting of your individual worths. Your strengths. Your weaknesses... There is one envelope missing. The... influential, very important Mr. Kroeger does not have one. Frankly, it's insignificant.'
'I warn you!'
'So very sorry, Mr. Kroeger.' Again the words were rapidly spoken, but this time no one was listening. Each one's concentration was on Elizabeth Scarlatti and her briefcase. 'Some envelopes are thicker than others, but none should place too great an emphasis on this factor. We all know the negligibility of wide diversification after a certain point.' Elizabeth reached into her leather case.
'You are a witch!' Kindorf's heavy accent was now guttural, the veins stood out in his temples.
'Here. I shall pass them out. And as each of you peruse your miniature portfolios I shall continue talking, which, I know, will please you.'
The envelopes were passed down both sides of the table. Some were torn open immediately, hungrily. Others, like the cards of experienced poker players, were handled carefully, cautiously.
Matthew Canfield stood by the wall, his