The Scarletti Inheritance - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,99

old woman was exasperated. She clasped her hands and brought the clenched fingers to her chin. 'For a man whose imagination far exceeds his intelligence, you astonish me. Or is it only fear that provokes your perception of larger things?'

'No question for a question! I want an answer!'

'It's all related, I assure you. The primary reason why the operation in Zurich cannot and will not do as I can do is their own fear. Fear of the laws binding their commitments; fear of the investments, investors; fear of extraordinary decisions; fear of the panic which always results from such decisions. Most important of all, fear of financial ruin.'

'And none of that bothers you? Is that what you're saying?'

'No commitments bind Scarlatti. Until I die, there is only one voice. I am Scarlatti.'

'What about the rest of it? The decisions, the panics, the ruin?'

'As always my decisions will be executed with precision and foresight. Panic will be avoided.'

'And so will financial ruin, huh?... You are the God damnedest self-confident old lady!'

'Again you fail to understand. At this juncture I anticipate the collapse of Scarlatti as inevitable should I be called. There will be no quarter given.'

Matthew Canfield now understood. 'I'll be damned.'

'I must have vast sums. Amounts inconceivable to you which can be allocated by a single command. Money which can purchase massive holdings, inflate or depress entire markets. Once that kind of manipulation has been exercised, I doubt that all the capital on earth could put Scarlatti back together. It would never be trusted again.'

'Then you'd be finished.'

'Irrevocably.'

The old woman moved in front of Canfield. She looked at him but not in the manner to which he was accustomed. She might have been a worried grandmother from the dry plains of Kansas asking the preacher if the Lord would allow the rains to come.

'I have no arguments left. Please allow me my last battle. My final gesture, as it were.'

'You're asking an awful lot.'

'Not when you think of it. If you return, it'll take you a week to reach Washington. Another week to compile everything we've been through. Days before you reach those in government who should listen to you, if you can get them to listen to you at all. By my calculations that would be at least three or four weeks. Do you agree?'

Canfield felt foolish standing in front of Elizabeth. For no reason other than to increase the distance between them, he walked to the center of the room. 'God damn it, I don't know what I agree with!'

'Give me four weeks. Just four weeks from today... If I fail we'll do as you wish... More than that I'll come to Washington with you. I'll testify, if need be, in front of one of those committees. I'll do whatever you and your associates think necessary. Further, I'll settle our personal account three times above that agreed upon.'

'Suppose you fail?'

'What possible difference can it make to anyone but myself? There's little sympathy in this world for fallen millionaires.'

'What about your family then? They can't spend the rest of their lives in some remote lake in Canada?'

'That won't be necessary. Regardless of the larger outcome, I'll destroy my son. I shall expose Ulster Scarlett for what he is. I'll sentence him to death at Zurich.'

The field accountant fell silent for a moment and looked at Elizabeth. 'Have you considered the fact that you might be killed?'

'I have.'

'You'd risk that - Sell out Scarlatti Industries. Destroy everything you've built. Is it worth that to you? Do you hate him that much?'

'Yes. As one hates a disease. Magnified because I'm responsible for its flourishing.'

Canfield put his glass down, tempted to pour himself another drink. 'That's going a little far.'

'I didn't say I invented the disease. I said that I'm responsible for spreading it. Not simply because I provided the money but infinitely more important, because I implanted an idea. An idea which has become warped in the process of maturing.'

'I don't believe that. You're no saint, but you don't think like that.' He pointed toward the papers on the couch.

The old woman's weary eyes closed.

'There's a little of... that in each of us. It's all part of the idea... The twisted idea. My husband and I devoted years to the building of an industrial empire. Since his death, I've fought in the marketplace - doubling, redoubling, adding, building - always acquiring... It's been a stimulating, all-consuming game - I've played it well. And sometime during all those years, my son learned