‘What about your curiosity?’ he said.
‘There’s obviously a good enough reason,’ she said. ‘It’s not really for me to question, is it?’
Instead of replying, Metzinger moved past towards a window overlooking the streets far below. It was one of those muddily grey November afternoons that he hated in England, not yet four but already necessary for cars to use their lights, an opaque mist clouding out the shapes of the stores in Oxford Street. He looked forward to getting back to the warmth of South Africa. Metzinger turned, the movement as abrupt as his opening of the door.
‘For the past seven months,’ he announced, ‘you have been involved in an affair with my son-in-law: you’ve practically set up home together, at Princes Gate.’ Metzinger had rehearsed the attack for maximum effect, wanting to steamroller her into a collapse. He strode back into the room, indicating the manilla folders on a low table close to where she was sitting. ‘I have documentary evidence,’ he said. ‘Photographs, statements, everything.’
Metzinger gazed at the woman intently, waiting for the reaction. She used the spectacles for her escape, slowly removing them, replacing them in their case and then just as painstakingly putting that into her briefcase, all the while keeping her face away from him. When she did look up, she was quite controlled. ‘Yes,’ she said, in simple admission.
The reaction momentarily off-balanced Metzinger. He had expected a denial, maybe even tears. He decided to maintain the pressure: ‘And before that, you were sleeping with Richard Jenkins.’
Ann looked at the assembled evidence. ‘You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.’
‘You’d be surprised how much,’ said Metzinger honestly.
She continued to look at the folders. ‘It makes me seem like a tart,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ agreed Metzinger. ‘It does.’
She moved to snap back at him, her face defiantly hard, then apparently changed her mind. Instead she gestured around the suite. ‘Now I know why it had to be here.’
Not yet you don’t, thought Metzinger. ‘At the moment my daughter and Collington are only separated,’ he said. ‘What I’ve assembled here guarantees her divorce. And considerable embarrassment for you.’
‘Divorces aren’t publicised, not any more,’ she said.
Metzinger laughed at her. ‘Collington is a well-known man. With the influence I’ve got, I could get the publicity, even without the divorce action. And when it happened, you’d have to leave the company: he might be chairman, but he could never retain you on the staff if there were a scandal. South Africans are very moral people: the shareholders wouldn’t have it. So you’d lose £15,000 a year as well as your reputation.’
‘There’s one thing you’ve overlooked,’ said the woman.
‘What?’
‘What if James wanted the divorce? What if he wanted to marry me?’
Metzinger moved away from her, going back to the window. It was completely dark now; the mist had thickened into a fog. He had expected it to take longer, but her question obviated the need to protract it. ‘I suppose you think you know Collington well?’ he said, not looking at her.
He heard her snigger, imagining a naïvety in the question. ‘I should, shouldn’t I?’
Metzinger turned to face her. ‘Then how do you think he’d react to knowing that while he’s in South Africa, which he is most of the time, you average three nights a week with a rather unsuccessful stockbroker named Peter Brading, whose child you had aborted seven months ago in a Harley Street clinic?’
The barrier fell away, for a few moments. She blinked against the tears and her shoulders sagged. The recovery was equally quick, her attitude moving from bewilderment to outrage. ‘Who the hell do you think you are!’ she erupted. ‘You’re the deputy chairman of the company I work for, nothing more. I don’t have to sit and take crap from you.’
Metzinger regarded her expressionlessly. ‘Yes you do,’ he said. He spoke quietly, conversationally almost, and at first the threat did not register with her.
‘What do you want?’ she said warily.
‘Co-operation,’ said Metzinger.
‘Co-operation?’
‘About Collington. And Jenkins, if it’s appropriate.’
‘You want me to spy for you!’
‘I suppose that’s what it amounts to.’
‘That’s prepostrous!’
‘No, it’s not.’
Then it’s blackmail.’
‘All I’m asking for is information from an employee of my company,’ qualified Metzinger. ‘In return for which I’m prepared to do nothing to jeopardise your well-paid job or whatever you get up to here in London with Collington.’
She hesitated and Metzinger pushed the folders across the table towards her. ‘These are copies,’ he said. ‘I’d like you to take them and read them tonight. To get some idea of how messy everything could become.’
The hesitation continued for a little longer and then she reached out, picking up the enquiry agents’ reports and fitting them into her briefcase. As she re-fastened it she gave an abrupt, sneering laugh and said, ‘When this began I actually thought you had some genuine concern for your daughter and Collington.’
The suggestion seemed to surprise Metzinger. ‘I am concerned for Hannah,’ he said. ‘About Collington, I feel entirely different.’
Metzinger did not drink, so he shook his head against the steward’s invitation for a departure aperitif. He unfastened his safety belt, gazing down at the receding amber lights of London airport and reflecting on the visit. Ann Talbot had surprised him. He had only previously come across her as an efficient assistant in a multi-national business environment and he was curious at the attraction she had for Collington. And not just Collington, he remembered; Jenkins, too. Metzinger was not a man who categorised women in whom he had little interest, but she had appeared to him an obvious type, despite the attempted protection of formal suits, heavy glasses and pulled-back hair. The complete opposite, in fact, to the natural sophistication of Hannah. Perhaps it was the difference between them that Collington found appealing. Metzinger sighed, dismissing the thought. Whatever the reason, it hardly mattered; Hannah’s marriage to Collington was over, thank God. Just as his supremacy in SAGOMI was to be over. Within a year, judged Metzinger; with luck, maybe even less. And then the company would be under Afrikaner control.
Metzinger leaned back against the headrest, closing his eyes. There was a fitting irony that he was returning to South Africa for the funeral of the man who’d beaten him the last time he’d attempted to gain control, but whose death had provided him with a second chance. He’d taken more precautions on this occasion than he had on the last, even resorting to sexual pressure, which he found distasteful. But it was necessary to win.
Obediently Metzinger responded to the seatbelt announcement, securing himself for the Amsterdam landing. On its final approach, the aircraft passed over the skeletal wreckage of the Soviet transporter.
It was to be several days before Metzinger learned that most of its gold cargo had come from his company’s mines. And even longer before he reached the decision to use this information as a way of removing Collington completely from the board, to achieve an absolute victory.
Chapter Three
It was considered an emergency, so the meeting was convened early in the morning. The streets of Moscow were even clearer of traffic than usual and so the two outsiders arrived early at the grey stone, seven-storey building dominating Dzerzhinsky Square, the headquarters of the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti, the Soviet intelligence service.
Insurance was the purpose of the meeting, much to the annoyance of the man acting as host. Dimitri Krotkov was the head of the Directorate responsible for all clandestine activities outside the country and in the beginning of the gold-buying operation had been treated as such, closely involved in its inception and planning. He’d provided one of his best deep-penetration operatives by activating Brigitte re Jong in Amsterdam to act as b
roker, and she had succeeded brilliantly. So brilliantly, in fact, that other ministries had become aware of what was happening and intruded themselves, gauging the benefits of association. And if the plane hadn’t crashed, it would have continued that way. But now they had a problem. So they came running back to him, expecting his experts to give the reassurances they wanted and guarantee there weren’t going to be any difficulties arising out of the accident. Which was typical. Soviet government was fettered by prestige-seeking ministers and responsibility-avoiding bureaucrats, anxious for their dachas in the hills and the Zils in which they could drive unobstructed along the traffic-free lane in the centre of Moscow roads and their concessions at the foreign currency stores, and shit scared of anything going wrong.
Krotkov looked sympathetically across to the man on his left. Because everyone knew how highly the scheme was considered and the benefits that might accrue from it, Nikolai Leonov had initially been fought over by the various ministries, like a bone among hungry dogs. How long, wondered Krotkov, would it be before the dogs tried to bury him?
Leonov was chief planner at the Foreign Ministry, but it was under the Finance administration that he had been operating the scheme. And the Finance Minister was Igor Struve, who was so adept at side-stepping trouble that he had survived from the era of Stalin. Leonov was in a worse position than he was, decided Krotkov. Poor sod.
The third man in the room was Viktor Simenov, controller of the scientific and technical division. It was Simenov who had to determine whether or not the Ilyushin had been brought down by sabotage, and the degree of unauthorised entry before the return of the embassy personnel. It was he who had produced the files and assessments which were mounded, several inches high, before each of them, the various stages of the investigation differentiated by the colour of the folders.
‘Shall we begin?’ suggested Krotkov. He was a fat, disordered man, his shirt and suit bulging around him. Leonov made a sharp comparison. He was fastidiously neat, his collar stiffly white, his well-cut, almost Western-style suit freshly pressed. Krotkov appeared to become aware of the difference between them, pulling upright in his chair and securing all four buttons of his jacket. This in fact accentuated his obesity, making his appearance worse.
‘Of course,’ agreed Leonov.
‘Have you studied everything?’ enquired Krotkov, speaking directly to Leonov.
‘To the point of exhaustion,’ said Leonov. When the scheme had begun so spectacularly, he had been confident of getting an ambassadorship as a reward. It was frightening how quickly the attitudes had been changing since the crash. Turning to the technical expert he said, ‘I am aware of the efforts to which you have gone over this. But it comes down to one, simple question. Was the gold discovered?’
Simenov shifted uncomfortably. ‘I know the point of concern,’ he said.
‘So what’s the answer?’ intruded Krotkov.
Simenov was a scientist, not an operational member of the KGB: from across the table, Leonov imagined the man more comfortable in a white laboratory coat than the wedding-and-funeral suit he was wearing. Simenov separated the files before him, refusing to be flustered.
‘Quite obviously there was entry into the cockpit section,’ he said. ‘The crew had been extracted by the time the embassy people returned and forensically we were able to establish the presence of others all over the area.’
‘What about the hold?’ persisted Leonov gently.
Simenov extracted a paper, offering it for consideration. ‘The fuselage was cracked in more than one place. At the worst spot it was possible for a man to enter and leave without obstruction.’
Leonov saw Krotkov about to speak and thrust up his hand, stopping the man, to allow Simenov to continue at his own pace. Krotkov frowned but said nothing.
‘Eight cases containing gold ingots appeared to be smashed ….’ said Simenov.
‘… appeared,’ qualified Leonov, deciding the interruption sufficiently important.
‘Embedded in the wood were minute fragments of metal,’ said the scientist. ‘But there was also a great deal of jagged metal all around, in the hold. The opening of the boxes could be consistent with their coming into contact with that metal.’
Leonov shook his head, refusing the man’s caution. ‘Forensically it should have been possible to discover if the shards embedded in the wood were Russian or Western metal,’ he insisted.
‘Yes,’ agreed Simenov. ‘It was definitely steel manufactured within the Soviet Union.’
‘There are crowbars and other escape equipment carried in the luggage holds of such aircraft,’ said Krotkov, showing the attention with which he had studied the reports.
‘I was particularly careful to check the emplacement of each,’ said Simenov. ‘Two were still in their clamps. Three more were displaced, but they could have been dislodged by the force of the crash: certainly they were nowhere near the opened boxes.’
‘What about the crash?’ demanded Krotkov. ‘Could it have been sabotage, an attempt to discover the contents of the boxes?’
Simenov shook his head. ‘Of that I am quite sure,’ he said. ‘The engine broke away from the wing after the fan blades sheared, through metal fatigue. It was definitely an accident.’
‘So the likelihood of there being any foreign intelligence people immediately available to enter the hold is unlikely?’ Krotkov demanded.
Leonov nodded, approving the point the other man had raised, but then said: ‘It needn’t have been an intelligence man.’
‘I have tried to make the report as extensive as possible,’ said Simenov. ‘And to do that I considered the accounts of our embassy personnel, who were at the scene. I even cabled for additional details from Holland. Our officials all say that as far as they could ascertain, everyone at the crash site was attached to the rescue services.’
‘Who would be concerned only with injured crewmen,’ pointed out Krotkov hopefully.
A faint hope, assessed Leonov, looking towards the intelligence chief: too faint. Leonov had read all the reports and assessments and was irritated at their inconclusiveness. He had come to Dzerzhinsky Square determined to get a positive answer, either way. And was getting no further than he had from the files. He hesitated, uncertainly. He was going to have to disclose the details of the operation to make Simenov understand the importance. He coughed, gazing down at the unhelpful dossiers, weighing the words before uttering them.
‘You are both members of State Security and as such need little reminder of the secrecy oaths you have taken. But I’m going to make that reminder, nevertheless. Because what I am about to say is a State secret of the highest importence …’
Krotkov frowned, but decided to forgive the impudence because of the pressure upon the man. Simenov shifted with the apprehension that he had shown at the beginning of the meeting.
‘The Soviet Union is facing a crisis,’ resumed Leonov. ‘It is a crisis which, if discovered and manipulated by the West, could lead to our very destruction ….’
For the first time he looked up, alert for their reaction. Both men were staring at him. Simenov looked disbelieving.
‘At the moment,’ took up Leonov, ‘We are concealing satisfactorily the extent of our difficulties. There is only one weakness in the proposals we have adopted to resolve them.’ He paused again for them to appreciate what he was about to say.
‘And that is the fact that we are buying vast quantities of gold on the Western market. If that knowledge were to become known by a Western intelligence agency and correctly analysed by our enemies, then as I said, we could be destroyed.’
‘An attack … but I don’t understand …’ blurted Simenov.
‘I do not mean any sort of nuclear offensive,’ Leonov cut off, the impatience spurred by his concern. ‘Forget all the May Day nonsense of tanks and rockets and soldiery. Despite every effort, the closest control, the harvests of the Soviet Union have consistently failed for the past five years …’
Simenov was
quite still now, but Krotkov was nodding at the confirmation of something he already knew.
‘There are levels of diplomacy,’ lectured Leonov. ‘There are public, aggressive stances. And then there are realities. America overproduces grain to such a degree that without government intervention, their crop agriculture would collapse.’
Leonov stopped yet again, reluctant to make a concession even among men whom he knew to be no risk. Haltingly, he said: ‘We need grain. They have it. The balance, in our favour, was that we were the world’s second biggest gold producer …’
‘Were?’ said Krotkov. He was responsible for things outside the country, not internal affairs, and he didn’t know of the difficulties at which Leonov was hinting.
Leonov sighed. ‘Gold production of the Soviet Union is another State secret,’ he said, in unnecessary warning to both of them. ‘Because of the volatile nature of the world’s metal and money markets, we have allowed it to be interpreted that our gold production figures range between 280 and 350 tonnes a year.’
‘What are the true figures?’ Krotkov demanded.
‘The decision was taken several years ago,’ continued Leonov, committed now and seeing no point in holding back. ‘In the middle ’70s, with the unlimited work force at our disposal and no serious mine difficulties against us, we were able to produce an average of 320 tonnes. This enabled us to stockpile, in the event of difficulties …’
‘Which have arisen?’ anticipated Krotkov.
Leonov made a reluctant gesture of agreement. ‘Our most productive mine was Muruntau, in the south-west Soviet. And then there was Zod, close to the Turkish border. Both are open-pit workings, which have divided advantages: they’re easy to operate when the weather is good, but impossible when it is bad. And the same floods which have destroyed our crops have flooded our open mines. At Zod there have also been labour difficulties.’
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