<div class="floatleft">(https://www.mediafire.com/convkey/0d06/edp7l4ylbdz97uv6g.jpg) <br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><div align="center"><strong><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;">Ari Warcaof </span></strong> <span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><div align="center"><strong> <span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;">Businessman <br/>(of sorts) </span></strong></div></div></div><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 11pt;">She’s clearly shrewd.  Does she ever have gaps in her concentration?  I nod at the questions.  I tick them off, one finger after another: “Reject continuing to flee?  Retreat can be tactical, deceptive.  Escape yes.  Fleeing is running.  Running away is not a life.” <br/><br/>“Raid on du Monde’s house?  She has informers with the police.  That’s nearly certain.  Where is the treasure?  Who knows?” <br/><br/>“You going to New York and turning yourself into the FAI, . . . the Swiss . . . and confessing?  We’ve learned not to trust authority in general.  Swiss, they’re permissive, but still you’d be left with a record.  The FAI?  Really?!” <br/><br/>That leaves one finger and the thumb which need not be used to answer her questions.  <br/><br/>“Peter and I have gone over this.  Me, then him.  Ideas detailed.  Devil’s advocate.  Risk analysis.  Refinement and rejection.  Further analysis.  We’re trying to foil a highly sophisticated mind, a unique mind.”  I don’t look at Peter, “For some reason, I have the feeling, you get under her skin, she’s intrigued by you.  She traps herself through you.” <br/></span>