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out and do some legwork, Ray.”
    â€œI suppose this is going to cost me,” he grumbled.
    â€œI’ve got to get something for my time and travel,” she said reasonably. “The question is, what’s it worth to you?”
    The dickering over price didn’t take as long as she’d expected. After eleven years in the business, they’d finally realized she was no pushover. Her grandfather had taught her well.
    â€œAnything else I might care about?”
    â€œJust some South American issues that already have a home.”
    â€œStewart Oakes, no doubt,” he said sourly.
    â€œNow, Ray, what kind of businesswoman would I be if I told you all my secrets?”
    â€œA wealthier one. I’ll pay you more than he will.”
    â€œIf I need the money, you’ll be the first to know.”
    She was still chuckling as she depressed the button on the phone. Might as well call Stewart while she was thinking of it. She hit a speed-dial number.
    â€œStewart Oakes.”
    â€œYou missed out at the Cavanaugh sale.”
    â€œGwennie.” The pleasure was warm in his voice. Only her family were allowed to call her by that nickname—her family and the man who’d helped her understand life in the U.S. back in the early days when she’d first arrived from Africa. Stewart Oakes had been her grandfather’s employee and protégé, but at thirty-five, he’d also been young enough and hip enough to introduce a shy fourteen-year-old to grunge music, Thai food and a culture she’d been separated from since she’d been a toddler.
    â€œGot some goodies for you, Stewie.”
    â€œAlways nice to know you’re thinking of me.”
    â€œWell, you’re going to love these.”
    â€œI bet.”
    â€œCareful, now, I thought you were giving that up.”
    â€œHey, I moved to L.A. and left behind my home poker game, didn’t I?”
    â€œAnd we miss you every week.”
    â€œNice to know I’m appreciated.”
    â€œAnd we miss the money we used to win from you.”
    â€œCheap shot, Chastain.”
    She laughed and reached for another catalog even as the intercom buzzed. “Hold on a second, Stewart.” She pushed the button for the intercom. “What do you need, Joss?”
    â€œI’ve got too many people out here. Can you come out?”
    â€œWhere’s Jerry?”
    â€œHe still hasn’t shown up.”
    Gwen gave herself a moment to steam. “Okay, I’ll be right out.” She took Oakes off hold. “Stewart? I’ve got to run help Joss at the front of the store. Can I call you back?”
    â€œI’ll be here.”
    Gwen gathered the stamp albums together and slipped them into one of her desk drawers, locking it carefully. Even so, it nagged at her a bit that some one hundred thousand dollars in stamps was protected only by a desk lock that any self-respecting toddler could pick. A hundred grand of the most liquid, easily portable wealth known.
    In countries with unstable stock markets—or none at all—stamps provided a relatively safe investment. Gold coins were heavy, they took up space. Mounted properly, a stamp worth thousands or tens of thousands of dollars could be slipped into a square of cardboard, tucked into a wallet or the inside pocket of a suit, walked over international borders and converted into cold, hard cash in virtually any major city in the world.
    Â 
    S HE WAS BACK IN HER OFFICE when four o’clock hit. A muted “hallelujah” from the front, followed by the rattle of the steel security gates, told her that Joss was closing up. It had been a good day, all in all, Gwen thought in satisfaction as she stacked up the stamp albums. She’d logged three quarters of the collection, had set aside the cream for important clients and found stamp dealers only too happyto take on the rest. They’d make money out of the deal. It was a small triumph for