“Couple more weeks and we can go,” Schmidt said when Kraml reached him.
Kraml expressed genuine eagerness. “Have a feeling my man is in your neck of the woods today,” he went on.
“Then he’ll be adding to the excitement,” Schmidt said. “Big South African delegation blew in last night. Du Plessis himself. It’s the talk of the town.”
Kraml thought quickly. It fit. Du Plessis surely needed to explain South Africa’s position to the Swiss. It was even logical that Marcus, who had assiduously cultivated the Swiss establishment for the past few years, would be invited to such a meeting.
“Any news on the Russian front?” the Austrian trader asked.
Schmidt paused. “Gold market’s funny.” It was a statement.
“But very busy. Have to go now. Servus!” Kraml said, switching over to another line as Blacky shuffled back.
Trading did get heavy. Kraml watched the wires closely, but no one had picked up on the South African delegation. All the financial reporters were in Zurich or Geneva; the South Africans were in Berne.
It was logical enough. But still, Kraml was too attuned to the market. Something was not quite right. Blacky continued today as he had on the previous day, feeding the market slowly, steadily, keeping the gold price on a leash. Yesterday, a Russian came to Zug. Today, Marcus almost certainly was meeting with South Africans in Berne.
Before retrieving his car in the underground garage, Kraml went to a phone booth outside and called Drew in London.
“Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier,” he told the journalist. “You know, this Russian connection: there was a Russian here yesterday visiting Marcus.” Before Drew could respond, Kraml added, “And I have good reason to believe Marcus has gone to Berne today to meet with the South Africans.”
Kraml listened as Drew went through the same checklist of possibilities as he had been turning over in his mind, until the journalist ended up at the same dead end. If Marcus was selling Russian gold, what was he doing talking to the South Africans? And even if he was channeling Soviet production into the market, where was the rest of the gold coming from?
“Drew, there must be something we don’t know about.” It was one of Kraml’s endearing traits that he could draw an obvious conclusion and state it unhesitatingly.
There was silence on the line except for the gentle click every eight seconds signaling another message unit.
“It looks like I have to come over to the Continent next week,” Drew said. “Why don’t I come see you?”
The crystal dial in the pay phone began flashing, telling Kraml to put more money in. He was out of change. “Yes, we need to talk.” The two agreed on Monday evening, and Hannes went around the corner to his office building. It was nearly dark and the streetlights came on as he turned into the garage entrance.
~
Fürglin peered out the window as the Crossair turboprop bounced its way through the valley currents to the Lugano airport. The two legs of the lake opened up between the mountains in a suggestively erotic fashion that appealed to the Swiss banker. The tiny plane landed on the airstrip and taxied up to the low-slung frame building that served as airport terminal for the capital of the Ticino canton.
As Fürglin queued up for a taxi outside, a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow swung around the corner from the service road and glided up to the parking lot. The uniformed chauffeur hopped out and opened the back door on his side to retrieve a valise. On the other side, a thickset gray-haired man with all the elegance wealth can give stepped out and briskly traversed the twenty meters to the terminal entrance. Two men in pilot’s uniform greeted him. One took the valise from the chauffeur, and without any delays or goodbyes the three men retreated into the building while the driver returned to the Rolls.
Fürglin watched this tableau with a small smile of satisfaction. He was home. He had seen the Learjet on the tarmac and mentally ticked off now just who the passenger might be. Thyssen-Bornemisza, perhaps, the steel heir who kept one of many homes in Lugano. The fact that Fürglin did not readily recognize the man from photos meant he was probably very wealthy.
The Swiss settled into the back seat of the Mercedes taxi, wondering if he would buy a Rolls once he was ensconced in Brazil. Better not—he laughed to himself—too showy. But there were lots of ways to be discreet and very, very comfortable.
Fürglin dismissed the images that came to mind. He had only fifteen minutes before the taxi would deposit him at the Piazza Manzoni and the headquarters of Banco Ticino. He had prepared Antonelli, the sleepy chairman of the board, for the notion of his abrupt vacation, but he rehearsed his story again. The constant pressure, the stress of trading in the hotbed London environment, capped by the market shutdown last week had taken their toll, he would tell the chairman, who only rarely ventured away from his lakeside tranquility. Fürglin had engineered a tidy profit for Banco Ticino as well in the gold rush, although not, of course, as tidy as his own. Antonelli couldn’t deny him his two months of furlough, hidden away in his country home, far away from telephones.
Of course, Fürglin wasn’t planning to sit and relax, waiting for Interpol to catch up with him, but he had to tell Antonelli something.
Fürglin had made a brief, cryptic call to Carajec, his Yugoslav friend, to make his real plans. A short conversation with Gabelli in New York had completed his arrangements. Fürglin was Swiss; he left nothing to chance.
The lake was choppy. Off-season tourists dressed in windbreakers and scarves clung to the railings on the top level of the sightseeing boats. The piazza fountains were still going despite the temperature, as the city tried to preserve the resort atmosphere that drew so many Swiss and Germans from the colder north. But Fürglin noticed as he got out of the taxi that very few café patrons braved the chill to sit on the tables surrounding the Piazza della Riforma.
Fürglin went into the discreet side entrance with the elevator going directly up to the offices of the board members. His meeting with “Dottore” Antonelli was even briefer and more perfunctory than he had planned. The pompous old bastard had appropriated the cherished dottore title on the basis of an honorary degree that Lausanne had awarded him in recognition of certain generous contributions from Banco Ticino, but it had not made him any smarter. He belonged to the old generation of Swiss bankers, who waited for wealthy customers from less fortunate countries to bring their money to him. Their gratitude for this privilege expressed itself in a willingness to accept rates that obviated any strenuous efforts on the bank’s part to make a profit.
Fürglin was a member of the new generation, which knew that Swiss bankers were going to have to work harder. International competition had reached the point that many banks were aggressively moving into the market for funds management that the Swiss had monopolized for so long. And Swiss banking secrecy was no longer what it used to be. As Swiss banks expanded their own business abroad, foreign governments had more leverage to pry open the lid of secrecy on numbered accounts. The United States had been particularly keen on getting documents to crack some huge cases of insider trading. Countries like Haiti and the Philippines successfully blocked funds of their deposed dictators. All in all, Switzerland was not the safe haven it used to be, and that meant Swiss bankers had to double their efforts to drum up business.
The problem was, Fürglin didn’t want to work so hard all his life. If being comfortable in this day and age meant trading these restful mountains for Brazil’s beaches, he at least was willing to make the sacrifice.
He would miss the skiing, though. Fürglin gazed at the massive white peaks from the window of the suite at the Splendide Royale that the bank kept for its visiting executives from abroad. Tant pis. He sighed.
He called Carajec. “All set?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be there.” Carajec also spoke English as a precaution, although their brief conversation was cryptic enough.
Fürglin relaxed. He knew he could count on Carajec. The big Yugloslav knew how to be serious about seri
ous things, and Fürglin had let him know this was serious.
Carajec owed him a lot. Fürglin had backed him when the young immigrant on the make had wanted to launch his charter service. The ambitious young man wanted to try the charter business from Campione, the Italian enclave across the lake from Lugano, and he had impressed Fürglin enough so that the newly minted loan officer gave him the seed money he needed.
Carajec had prospered, although Fürglin felt fairly certain that not all his income came from tourists. But he was a good customer for the bank, a friend to his first backer, and an amateur speedboat champion. Tonight, banker Fürglin was going to take a little spin on the lake with his customer friend in Carajec’s world-class speedboat.
Fürglin would have liked to go to the bar, but he didn’t want to run into anyone he knew. He’d already told the hotel he wouldn’t be staying, but was leaving this evening for his country house. With about three hours to kill, Fürglin stretched out on the sofa and, like a man without a care in the world, promptly went to sleep.
At 9 p.m., he was at the Debarcadero Paradiso, dressed in a summer-weight suit and a trenchcoat, carrying only a leather flight bag. Carajec’s boat came gliding out of the darkness, its powerful engines reduced to a gentle purr. The waves slapped the fiberglass hull as Fürglin stepped onto the boat without a word. Carajec pulled away from the dock and headed south for the bridge.
“You like the drama,” Carajec finally said, once they were under way, speaking Italian now but keeping his voice low.
Fürglin cut off the conversation. “There will be a lot less drama if we keep this quiet.”
He did feel slightly ridiculous, even though he was nervous. He’d been out with Carajec often, and many times had gotten off at Gabelli’s villa, not even thinking about its being an unofficial crossing of the Swiss-Italian border. Tonight’s quiet exit from Switzerland was just a precaution, perhaps an unnecessary one. But what did a little caution cost? He’d seen too many bankers go to jail to feel like taking chances now.
He knew it was hard for Carajec, an ebullient personality, to keep quiet. But Fürglin adamantly remained silent, forestalling any conversation. The banker had also instructed Carajec to furnish himself with an alibi, “as a precaution.” If anyone asked, four drivers would swear that the Yugoslav had spent the evening with them, discussing a first-class boat and bus tour to Lago Maggiore that was scheduled for the next day. Carajec had enough marginal activities of his own not to question the banker’s instructions.
In spite of all the caution, Fürglin was enjoying himself. He had come to the lake region later in life, when he began his bank training, and still experienced the outsider’s wonder at boats, which transform an obstacle into a pleasant highway.
The trip was over quickly, without any incident and without any further conversation. Fürglin just nodded at Carajec as he stepped onto the cement landing dock in darkness. The villa was dark and shuttered, but Fürglin discerned two dim shapes near the door, a man rhythmically stroking a dog.
The man at the door whispered something to the dog and then went inside without turning on a light, leaving the door open for Fürglin to follow. Fürglin nodded again at the man when he lit a candle inside; Antonio knew him well. The stocky gray-headed retainer shuffled ahead of Fürglin, carrying the candle to light the stairs to the guest room on the garden side of the villa.
A plate of cold cuts and an ice bucket with a bottle of wine were on the table in the room. Gabelli was a generous soul, thought Fürglin, grateful for the small favor. But then, Gabelli owed him about a million small favors by now.
Fürglin had nothing to say to Antonio, who left quietly. The banker had planned this down to the last detail. At 7 a.m., Antonio would take him to Linnate airport at Milan, for the flight to Rome and the connection to Kuwait. Fürglin had not come to the villa, and his friend Gabelli was an ocean away in New York.
Attacking the mortadella, Fürglin felt pleased with himself. His precautions may have been superfluous, but he had too much at stake now to risk any mishap. The food and the wine increased his sense of well-being, which enveloped him still as he crawled into the four-poster bed and once again fell quickly to sleep. Being a fugitive wasn’t so bad.
SEVEN
The doorman swept open the cab door with a flourish that would have honored the Prince of Wales. The gentle self-mockery of his smile perfectly suited the incipient euphoria Carol and Drew felt as they entered the glittery elegance of the Dorchester.
Drew ordered champagne cocktails for them in the bar, decorated in a lighthearted modern chic despite the old-fashioned glamour of the hotel. They clinked their glasses together in a giddy toast and sat facing each other in a sudden silence.
It was a comfortable quiet. The two of them had established an easy rapport. They had gone to see the revival of Travesties, followed by a light supper of salmon and white wine at Leicester Square and now the nightcap at Carol’s hotel.
There were only a few people in the bar. The muted lilt of whispered French drifted over from another young couple two tables away. The black and pastel decor gleamed here and there from spotlights punctuating the dim room. The candle on each table created a small circle of intimacy.
Carol broke the silence. “We haven’t talked too much about gold, Mr. Reporter.”
“No, Miss Central Banker, we haven’t,” Drew responded. “Do you think Halden will forgive us?”
“Did you find out anything this afternoon?”
Drew looked at her for a moment. The candlelight reflected a limpid clarity in her brown eyes.
“The more I know, the more confused I get,” he said finally. He told her about his inconclusive conversation with Kraml.
“Don’t feel alone. There was a very discreet meeting at the Bank this afternoon. Guinness called in the fixing banks to discuss the situation. He let me sit in on it.” Carol sipped her cocktail. “They have the same question: Who is supplying the gold to the market?”
“Do they have the same answer?”
“The same collection of maybes.”
Carol was quiet for a while.
“The key seems to be the South Africans,” she resumed suddenly. She looked at Drew. “Do you think they could be selling gold?”
Drew bit off his instinctive negation. The loss of 80 percent of South African production was the cause of the crisis, after all. The mystery about who could have so much gold and would be willing to sell it was predicated on that situation. It seemed obvious that South Africa could not be the source of the gold. And yet, Carol’s question was the logical conclusion of the information they had.
“I don’t see how,” he said.
“Do you think your friend could find out more about what Marcus is really doing?”
“I’m going to see him next week. I’ll ask him.”
“And this reporter of yours—Van der Merwe?—can you reach him?”
Drew toyed with his glass a moment. “I think I may go to South Africa,” he said.
An odd look came into Carol’s eyes. She said nothing.
“I’m going to Geneva. Scotland Yard called—Guinness works fast—and they think I should have a look at this murder victim in Annecy.”
“How terrible!” Carol’s exclamation was spontaneous.
Drew had been shocked himself when the detective sergeant rang up in the afternoon. Idle speculation about mob-style murders was one thing; that Scotland Yard took his suspicion seriously enough to make the trip to Annecy thrust the journalist into a new dimension.
The call from Kraml had unsettled him in a different way. MacLean and his possible fate were worrying, but Kraml’s suspicions had a different order of importance. They lent further weight to Drew’s instinct that Marcus was instrumental in whatever was happening in the gold market.
Now Carol felt the South Africans were the key. The South Africans were in Berne, presumably meeting with Marcus.
Drew had made one other phone call before leaving for the the
ater to meet Carol. He reached Christian de Narcy, who always stayed late in his office, and arranged to meet the French banker Monday for lunch in Paris. Drew was sure that de Narcy, heir to generations of financial wisdom, could help him sort out the bewildering tangle of events.
Drew noticed Carol watching him, patiently, somehow tenderly. An unasked question yawned between them. “I’ll be here through next Friday,” Carol said. Drew nodded. They looked at each other with a quiet confidence. “Right now, I’m going to plead jet lag and thank you for a wonderful evening,” she said.
At the elevator, they kissed, briefly.
“Good night, Drew,” Carol said, stepping into the elevator. “Be careful.”
The admonition stayed with him on the cab ride home. He didn’t feel alone, carrying her concern with him. Somehow, those two words, spoken simply and sincerely, were as intimate as anything they could have said in parting.
~
Drew blinked when they came into the room. The harsh fluorescent light reflected brightly off the whitewashed walls. The unpleasant odor of formaldehyde affronted his nose.
It was his first trip to a morgue. There were indeed square cabinet doors lining one wall. But the white-coated assistant took Drew and the plainclothesman to a table at the far end of the room. Drew, who had taken his coat off in the reception hall, noticed the chill in the air.
A white cloth over the table clearly outlined a body. Drew felt detached, as though he were sitting comfortably at home watching some detective series on television. The laboratory assistant pulled down the cover.
Drew nearly retched as he was plunged into the overpowering reality of death. He fought the impulse to turn his head away. Despite the work of the coroner’s staff to clean up and restore the body, the face was scarcely recognizable as such, while the head was unnaturally oblong, with purple lumps that made it resemble an eggplant.
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