Montaro Caine A Novel - By Sidney Poitier Page 0,72

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?”

26

WHEN ALAN ROTHMAN 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