Debt of Honor - Tom Clancy [189]
"…between the people of Russia and the people of America," President Grushavoy concluded his toast, the host answering President Durling, the guest, as the protocol for such things went. Glasses were raised and tipped. Ryan allowed a drop or two of the vodka to pass his lips. Even with these thimble glasses, you could get pretty wasted—waiters stood everywhere to replenish them—and the toasting had just begun. He'd never been to a state affair this…loose. The entire diplomatic community was here-or at least the ambassadors from all the important countries were present. The Japanese Ambassador in particular seemed jovial, darting from table to table for snippets of conversation.
Secretary of State Brett Hanson stood next, raising his glass and stumbling through a prepared ode to the far-seeing Russian Foreign Ministry, celebrating their cooperation not merely with the United States, but all of Europe. Jack checked his watch: 10:03 local time. He already had three and a half drinks down, and considered himself to be the most sober person in the room. Cathy was getting a little giggly on him. That hadn't happened in a very long time, and he knew he'd be razzing her about it for years to come.
"Jack, you have no taste for our vodka?" Golovko asked. He also was hitting it pretty hard, but Sergey appeared to be used to it.
"I don't want to make too much of a fool out of myself," Ryan replied.
"It would be difficult for you to do that, my friend," the Russian observed.
"That's because you're not married to him," Cathy noted with a twinkle in her eye.
"Now wait a minute," a bond specialist said to his computer in New York. His firm managed several large pension funds, which were responsible for the retirement security of over a million union workers. Just back from a normal lunch at his favorite deli, he was offering Treasuries at bargain prices on orders from upstairs, and for the moment they were just sitting out there awaiting a buyer. Why? A cautious order appeared from a French bank, apparently a hedge against inflationary pressure on the franc. That was a mere billion, bid at 1 7/32 off the opening value, the international equivalent of armed robbery. But Columbus, he saw, had bitten the bullet and taken the francs, converting them almost instantly into D-marks in a hedge move of its own. Still digesting his corned-beef sandwich, the man felt his lunch turn into a ball of chilled lead.
"Somebody making a run on the dollar?'' he asked the trader next to him.
"Sure looks that way," she answered. In an hour, future options on the dollar had dropped the maximum-allowed limit for a day after having climbed all morning.
"Who?"
"Whoever it is, Citibank just took one in the back. Chemical's sliding, too."
"Some kind of correction?" he wondered.
"Correction from what? To what?"
"So what do I do? Buy? Sell? Hide?" He had decisions to make. He had the life savings of real people to protect, but the market wasn't acting in a way he understood. Things were going in the shitter, and he didn't know why. In order to do his job properly, he had to know.
"Still heading west to meet us, Shoho," Fleet Operations told Admiral Sato. "We should have them on radar soon."
"Hai. Thank you, Issa," Sato replied, an edge on his good humor now. He