"I've been busy this afternoon. Mr. Swilley didn't keep us waiting for his appraisal. According to him, the chops are worth " She named a number that made me hold my breath and stare, despite the fact that I'd been braced for seven figures.

When I could inhale again, I murmured, "Christ on a crutch."

"My sentiments exactly," she returned dryly.

"You see the problem. If the chops aren't adequately insured, Watchdog will walk away from Mr. Nakahatchi. We'll have to. And if Mr.

La-cone won't accept a coverage exclusion, we may be forced to turn our backs on Martial America.

"Sammy would prefer to do that, by the way. He thinks we've reached the point where Mr. Lacone's business isn't worth the risk."

"But you disagree," I suggested.

"At the moment," she answered, "I don't agree or disagree. I'm exploring options. I've consulted with our home offices at length.

I've spoken to Mr. Lacone. I've talked to Sue Rasmussen and Mr.

Sternway." Presumably so that the IAMA could participate in a solution, if there was one.

"Here's what I have so far.

"The good news is that nothing needs to be decided today. Mr.

Nakahatchi is covered in the short term the very short term. By Thursday we'll want him to pay the premium for a temporary rider which will cover him until our New York expert appraises the chops next week.

However, that premium shouldn't be too burdensome. And Mr. Lacone and Mr. Sternway have agreed to share the cost with Mr. Nakahatchi. For obvious reasons, they both feel strongly that the chops should stay with Martial America."

I chewed my lip. A week wasn't much time for Nakahatchi to arrange heavy financing or to consider other options. But it allowed plenty of time for someone to make an attempt on the chops.

Which put Watchdog in a precarious position. And Deborah herself, I assumed, since apparently no one else in the company was likely to fight for Nakahatchi or Martial America.

"Unfortunately," she continued with a sigh, "everything changes when our expert delivers his appraisal. Of course, there's always a chance he'll come in below Mr. Swilley." Her tone told me she didn't consider that likely.

"But even that won't do poor Mr. Nakahatchi much good. Mr. Lacone and Mr. Stern-way may want to keep the chops here, but they don't want it enough to make themselves financially uncomfortable. At the rates we'll have to charge " She paused briefly. When she spoke again, she sounded bitter.

"Mr. Nakahatchi will be on his own."

"So what happens then?" Her bitterness held me.

"Then," Deborah pronounced acidly, "Sammy and Mr. Lacone will force him to accept coverage that excludes the chops. Unless he's willing to do without insurance, he'll have to keep them somewhere else. Or leave Martial America.

"But really," she admitted more quietly, "nothing will solve his problem. Whatever he does, wherever he goes, he'll want insurance.

He'd be insane not to. And I've already squeezed our numbers as hard as they can be squeezed." She sighed again.

"In the end, he'll be forced to sell the chops. He won't be able to afford to keep them."

The remnants of my brain considered the dilemma. I'd seen similar situations too often to dismiss her concerns. And someone always profited from them. Always.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" I murmured into the phone.

"Wonder what?" Deborah asked quickly. She may've been looking for a little hope.

"Whether anyone we know could afford to buy Nakahatchi out."

I was thinking of Hong Fei-Tung and his platoon of cash-wise relatives.

But she had different ideas.

"If you mean Carliss Swilley" her bitterness returned "the answer is no. As it happens, Watchdog writes his insurance, too. His resources are limited. If they weren't, he'd be better known trust him for that and our home offices wouldn't feel the need to insist on a New York expert."

I still hadn't shaken off the effects of Nakahatchi's instruction. For a moment or two I lapsed into a kind of daze, wondering about Deborah's role in all this. She sounded like she sincerely wanted to help him keep the chops. But why was she so eager to spend an evening with me?

What did she gain by distracting me?

I couldn't think it through.

I must've been silent longer than I realized. Abruptly I heard her say, "Brew? Damn this phone. Did we lose the connection? Are you there?"

"I'm still here." Looking around, I discovered that I was close to the apartment.

"I'm just trying to think. But I must've strained something in the attempt."

She accepted my version of humor gracefully.

"Nothing critical, I hope." Her tone lifted a couple of notches.

"I am counting on tonight."

"Nope," I assured her, "nothing critical. Nothing that seeing you won't fix."

With a renewed smile in her voice, she reminded me of the time and place. Unnecessarily. While I parked in front of the apartment, she said goodbye and hung up.

For a minute or two afterward, I left the engine running and leaned back in my seat. My eagerness to see Deborah again despite my uncertainty about her conflicted with a smoldering indignation on Nakahatchi's behalf. As far as I could tell, he was an honest man troubled by the ethical ambiguity of owning a Chinese national treasure. He didn't deserve to have a decision imposed on him by his insurance rates.

I couldn't solve his problem. But I didn't like it either.

Ah, shit. Groaning complaints against the moral order of the universe as personified by Watchdog Insurance and Alex La cone I finally turned off the Plymouth, left it parked, and went into the apartment. After all, I still needed a shower. Positively required one. And the idea of a nap hadn't lost its seductive ness

Ginny wasn't there. As expected. I had the place to myself. Which suited me just fine.

Unfortunately when I glanced at the answering machine I saw its message indicator flashing red.

Damnation. I didn't want to play the message back. It probably wasn't for me anyway and I positively did not want to hear a message for Ginny, something that was none of my business.

Sure of my ground, I made a firm decision to ignore the machine's stubborn indicator until I'd had my shower. A firm decision, by God.

So firm that I stuck by it just long enough to cross the room and jam my thumb down on the playback button.

There was only one message. It was from Ginny.

It said, "Brew, call me when you get this. We need to talk."

She'd used her lives-at-stake voice. Don't ask questions, don't hesitate, just do it. If she'd told me to throw myself out the window in that tone, I'd have done it.

There was only one problem. I didn't know how to reach her.