Gold

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘In Amsterdam you run a business the main function of which has, over recent months, been to purchase gold on the Western market with which the Soviet Union is maintaining a commodities agreement with the United States of America, necessary because of Russia’s own disastrous ore production in recent years. …’

  He stopped, needing breath. He expected his assault to have an immediate effect, for her to wilt under the weight of the accusations. There was a discernible change. But not what he expected. The coquettishness went, abandoned like the pretence it was. But there was no collapse. She continued to look at him steadily, refusing any response until he had exhausted the accusations. He was confronting a complete professional, he accepted: she was going to let him fire every shot and mount every charge before she attempted to defend herself.

  ‘Several months ago,’ he resumed. ‘An Ilyushin airfreighter, carrying £150,000,000 worth of gold to Moscow, crashed in Amsterdam. That shipment was discovered.’

  For the first time she gave a reaction, the slightest wincing frown.

  ‘I know why you’re here,’ said Collington. ‘I know your desperation for gold. And I know you’ll be exposed if there isn’t another release within the next few weeks ….’

  He let his voice trail, wanting the maximum effect. ‘On my word alone, the gold sales will be resumed. Or stay suspended. Whether or not the Soviet arrangement with the United States of America continues or collapses, as the sham it is, depends entirely upon me. And what I decide to recommend to the government depends, in turn, upon you.’

  Collington stopped, purposely composed, waiting to see what she would do. It was a measure of her complete professionalism that the woman made no attempt to argue, feigning outrage or astonishment or scrabbling for some retreat. She actually smiled, a faint, defeated expression, and then was immediately realistic.

  ‘You haven’t had me arrested,’ she said. ‘Why not?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have served my purpose,’ announced Collington. ‘I want your help.’

  The reversal caused exactly the astonishment he had planned. Her mouth opened fractionally and, guessing her bewilderment, Collington resumed his demands. ‘I know it wasn’t the Soviet Union who initiated the attacks upon my mines. You’ve got the facilities to prove it. And I want that proof. I want documents and photographs. And I want it quickly … within days ….’

  She was showing no reaction, trying to calculate an advantage.

  ‘You could run, of course,’ said Collington. ‘I suppose, if we really want to be melodramatic, you could even cause me some harm, imagining I am some threat to you. Run. Or try any sort of attack against me or any member of my family and I will ensure that South African gold not only remains withheld, but that all the details of your commodity arrangement with the United States are made public. Consider, just for a moment, the effect of that.’

  ‘I don’t have to,’ capitulated Brigitte, at once.

  ‘I didn’t think you would have to,’ said Collington. His tension dissipated, leaving him feeling physically sick. He had taken a near preposterous gamble, bludgeoning her into submission. And got away with it. By her failure to deny anything, she had confirmed the Soviet association. Perhaps he was the slightly better professional after all.

  ‘You haven’t left me with very many alternatives,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t intend to leave you with any,’ he replied.

  ‘Who was it?’ she demanded.

  ‘The United States of America,’ he announced.

  Collington knew he was in complete command. She appeared almost visibly smaller in the chair, head turned away from him as she digested the information.

  ‘I don’t think it was to affect the arrangement with you: I don’t think they suspect your inability to provide the gold to which you’re committed.’

  ‘You want proof?’ she repeated, fixing the demand in her mind.

  ‘If you provide it for me, then I’ll do nothing about making the arrangement publicly known. I’ll get a gold release. And I’ll show you a way to get over your payment difficulties.’

  ‘That’s a sweeping promise,’ she said.

  ‘Which I can meet.’

  ‘What if I can’t get the proof?’

  ‘You know the answer to that, without my having to tell you,’ said Collington.

  It was almost as though he were receiving some sort of divine inspiration, thought Henry Moreton. He’d sensed Englehart’s irritation at being kept in South Africa, but it was proving the proper decision, just as everything else he had determined in the last months had been one hundred per cent right. Like retaining the surveillance on Prince Hassan after their meeting in Vienna. If he hadn’t done that, then he wouldn’t have learned of Collington’s visit. And if he hadn’t discovered the visit while Englehart and his team were still in South Africa and the neighbouring countries, then he wouldn’t have been able to hit the son-of-a-bitch again. Some people never learned, thought Moreton. But Hassan was going to. And so was Collington.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Hassan’s letter was short, not more than four lines of type, but Louis Knoetze remained hunched over it, apparently reading, while Collington waited patiently before the security chief. The apprehension Collington had known before his meeting with Brigitte re Jong hadn’t diminished, despite his belief that he had been successful. Instead it had worsened, as the extremes to which he had gone kept presenting themselves in his mind, like nagging children demanding attention. In little over three weeks he was required to pay £103,000,000 he didn’t have for shares he couldn’t offer for re-sale, because of the certainty of market depression. His provisional purchases anyway contravened the company laws in at least two of the countries in which they had been made. And not two hours earlier he had actively entered into a conspiracy with someone he knew to be the agent of a regime publicly labelled responsible for sabotaging five of his company’s gold mines. Collington was grateful that Knoetze had agreed so readily to meet him: it was time to start covering his positions.

  Knoetze’s head came up at last, one of his smiles coming on like a signal. ‘This is an interesting document,’ he said guardedly.

  ‘And one I would like you to convey to the appropriate people,’ said Collington.

  Knoetze nodded. ‘There will be a lot of questions.’

  ‘The arrangements will have no connection whatsoever with South Africa,’ said Collington, the assurances already established in his mind. ‘SAGOMI will extend the existing shipping division in England to include oil and to be initial handlers. The Saudi oil will be processed through America, re-sold through different holding companies and finally returned to Europe. There will be a purchasing company established in Amsterdam which will buy, apparently on the spot market, through Swiss nominees. The tankers will be re-routed in transit to Durban and any other port that is specified.’

  ‘A labyrinthine process,’ said Knoetze.

  ‘But a practical one,’ said Collington. ‘One that will be virtually undetectable.’

  ‘What would you want?’ demanded Knoetze, continuing with practicalities.

  ‘Exclusive distribution rights throughout the country,’ stipulated Collington. ‘Government aid in creating refinery, storage and distribution arrangements.’

  ‘Our dependence might become less when the Sasol plants are rebuilt.’

  ‘I would expect, in recognition of the efforts to which my company is going during these times of difficulty, for us to be awarded greatly increased contracts for our coal mines,’ said Collington.

  A smile wisped across Knoetze’s face. ‘So you’ll be covered both ways.’

  ‘Few businessmen enjoy gambling to this extent,’ said Collington. Except me, he thought.

  ‘It wouldn’t quite be true to say the arrangements would remain unconnected with the government, would it?’ challenged Knoetze, isolating the point that Prince Hassan had missed during the Vienna discussions. ‘Unless you intend purchasing £50,000,000 worth
of gold on the open market to meet the agreed commission, then the authorisation and indeed the bullion would have to come from us.’

  ‘I would look to the government for some positive indication of support,’ said Collington.

  ‘Confined to the gold provision?’

  Collington shook his head. ‘There would have to be some contractual understanding,’ he said. From the inside pocket of his jacket he took the letter he had prepared before he left the SAGOMI headquarters. ‘Here is the formal offer, on behalf of my company, to provide oil within the country of South Africa.’

  Knoetze opened the unsealed envelope. There was one more line of type than in Hassan’s letter.

  ‘Admirably discreet,’ said Knoetze.

  ‘Acknowledgement of which I am sure my board would consider sufficient to commit the necessary expenditure and resources.’

  ‘I’ll forward your approach,’ undertook Knoetze.

  Almost there, thought Collington. ‘I’ve undertaken to respond to Prince Hassan within a few days,’ he exaggerated.

  ‘I don’t imagine it would take long for a reaction,’ said Knoetze. He took a folder from a side drawer and carefully filed both letters.

  There was still the gold release, Collington remembered, but this wasn’t the moment to raise it.

  ‘You’ll be in Pretoria for the next week?’ asked the security chief.

  ‘I am available at any time,’ said Collington.

  Knoetze stood, to end the meeting. He extended his hand and said, ‘We’ll be in touch again, very soon.’

  Collington arrived back at the SAGOMI building an hour early for his meeting with Metzinger, but almost as soon as he entered his office the intercom sounded and his appointments secretary said the deputy chairman was waiting. Collington had prepared for the encounter, perhaps more than for any of the previous meetings that day. The card house was almost built – but it would only take the slightest shake of the hand to bring it all tumbling down.

  Metzinger flustered into the room, his uneasiness immediately registering with Collington. ‘I’ve wanted to see you since this morning,’ he complained at once.

  ‘There isn’t much for you to know,’ said Collington.

  ‘What happened?’ said Metzinger, the concern obvious.

  ‘The explosions worried him.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He wanted an assurance that we could guarantee supply.’

  ‘Damn!’ said Metzinger.

  ‘I told him it wasn’t serious: that if we came to an agreement with the government, they could guarantee supply anyway, not just from our mines.’

  ‘Did he accept that?’

  ‘He seemed to,’ said Collington, letting the doubt show.

  ‘He wasn’t prepared to enter into any sort of written undertaking?’

  ‘Good God, no!’ said Collington, as if the idea were ridiculous.

  ‘Then what the hell did he want to see you in Vienna for?’

  ‘An assurance, like I told you.’

  ‘Which you gave him,’ reminded Metzinger.

  ‘And which he’s taking back to Jeddah,’ said Collington. It was time to extend the lure, to make Metzinger think it would still all work and hopefully to neutralise him against any action while Knoetze responded. Once he had a government document, Collington knew he would be safe.

  Judging by the man’s anxiety, it was obvious that Metzinger intended to complete his coup at the annual meeting, just three weeks away. The exposure would cause the share dip from which the man would ensure his financial recovery. The outrage to the shareholders would have to be staged just before that. So a fortnight would be the right timing, decided Collington.

  ‘How long is that going to take?’ demanded Metzinger.

  ‘We left it loose,’ said Collington. ‘There was vague talk about a couple of weeks.’

  He was intent upon the other man: the relief was visible. Collington hurried the meeting on. ‘I see from the engineer’s report that they expect to get Witwatersrand Four into production by the weekend,’ he said.

  ‘I read it,’ said Metzinger, disinterestedly.

  ‘The shares have settled,’ said Collington. The idea of apparently anticipating the stockholders’ meeting came abruptly. ‘There should be a vote of appreciation for what we’ve done,’ he said.

  ‘There should be a vote,’ said Metzinger heavily, and Collington decided he’d succeeded here, as well. It had been quite a day.

  They lay side by side in the darkness. Collington knew she wanted him to make love to her and knew equally well that he couldn’t.

  ‘There was a letter from Paul today,’ she said.

  Collington wondered why she had waited until now to tell him. Not more than a fortnight ago it had been the predominant subject between them. She had delayed purposely, he recognised, to emphasise his lack of interest. In everything.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He’s looking forward to coming home. And that he’s glad we’re together.’

  ‘Good.’

  She stirred beside him, as if she were irritated by his response. ‘We still haven’t decided what we’re going to do.’

  He hadn’t given any thought to that, either, Collington realised. ‘He didn’t say what he wanted?’

  ‘He said he’d be happy, whatever we decided,’ said Hannah. ‘Either a safari or the coast.’

  There was a possibility that in three weeks he wouldn’t be able to afford either. He’d never before imagined himself without money. As a railway porter, £1 a week had been a fortune. The £7,500 from Berlin had been a fortune. Ever since then he’d had money. In increasing amounts, until he had ceased to be aware of it. Who would find it easier to adjust to being poor, he or Hannah? It was fortunate she had a personal fortune independent of his. For herself, of course. Collington knew he couldn’t ever contemplate living off Hannah.

  ‘Things haven’t been easy lately,’ he said, in clumsy apology.

  ‘Don’t you think I know that?’

  ‘It’s because you know that I said it. This hasn’t been much of a reconciliation, has it?’

  ‘There have been some things missing,’ she said lightly.

  He felt out for her hand, to show his gratitude for her gesture. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the need to confide in somebody. The words burst out, without coherence. ‘I’ve extended myself, incredibly,’ he said. ‘There’s a possibility that it will all work out. But an even greater possibility that it will go wrong and I’ll lose everything … the money … the companies … everything.’

  She moved suddenly and the light snapped on. She was supported on an elbow, looking down at him. ‘The mine bombings?’ she said.

  He shook his head, almost irritably. ‘That’s only part of it.’ He was sorry she had put the light on because his eyes flooded and he remembered that night with Ann in the hotel room in Rome.

  There’s nothing wrong in being like other people, in crying sometimes, she’d said.

  ‘Everything?’ she repeated, as if she wanted to be sure. ‘Money, the companies, everything?’

  ‘It could happen,’ he said.

  He saw a smile form on her face. ‘I don’t think that would be at all bad,’ she said.

  ‘You don’t know what I mean,’ he said.

  ‘I think I do,’ she said. ‘I think it’s you who doesn’t know what it could mean!’

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Krotkov had a fat man’s nimbleness in everything he did. After the South African accusations over the mine bombings, he had moved people into Namibia, Mozambique, Zimbabwe and Angola to supplement those he had there permanently. Brigitte re Jong’s message, following her encounter with Collington, gave him the focus for enquiries which were already underway. He flooded in more operatives, not from Moscow or any satellite country, which would have taken too much time, but south from the Ogaden, where Russia was helping the Ethiopian government in their secession war against Eritrea and where he had
men to spare.

  The Russian teams had been working for a week before Englehart, in Pretoria, was instructed by Moreton to mount another sabotage operation against the SAGOMI mines.

  ‘It’s not possible, not like before,’ protested the section head, careless in his desperation that it was an open line.

  ‘I want it done,’ insisted Moreton.

  ‘They’ve improved their security – it would never work.’

  ‘Collington saw Hassan again,’ said Moreton. ‘Neither got the message, so it’s got to be repeated.’

  ‘Has this been cleared with the Director?’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be: don’t challenge me, Englehart!’

  Moreton had flipped, decided the section head. He was being manipulated by a megalomaniac and he had to attempt something to get out from underneath when the collapse happened. To argue with Moreton was pointless.

  ‘It’ll take several days,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘As quickly as possible,’ insisted Moreton. ‘I don’t want those two bastards coming to any agreement that’s going to endanger our oil supplies.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ promised Englehart. To abort the whole damned thing, he thought.

  What he intended was insubordination. The Langley orders had been quite explicit that he act under Moreton’s instructions, so to challenge them was the equivalent of going against an edict of Bradley Cowles himself. But Englehart was convinced he was justified in doing it.

  Communications for Englehart were more difficult than they were for Krotkov. In the Communist-sympathetic bordering countries, the Russians could move freely and were assured closed telephone and telex lines. The American had to use couriers to reach the supervisors controlling his people in Mozambique and Zimbabwe and instruct them to continue the chain, sideways into Namibia and northwards into Angola.

  It took two days for Englehart to get acknowledgement from everyone, and he flew from Pretoria to the Seychelles, unaware that his alert to his team in the Mozambique capital of Maputo had been intercepted and that his controllers in Angola and Zimbabwe had been identified.