Gold

by Darrell Delamaide

  The banker had been his usual diffident self when Drew called him. While Drew waited on the line, he shifted his other appointments around to invite the journalist to lunch at the Pré Catelan restaurant in the Bois de Boulogne.

  Christian de Narcy was probably Drew’s best source, and a friend as well. Just slightly older than the American, the Frenchman represented the youngest generation of a family whose banking tradition went back two and a half centuries. Older than the more illustrious Rothschilds, the de Narcys had managed to preserve their discreet influence in European finance through countless wars and revolutions. The family had deliberately kept its banking operation small, with the result that they escaped the wholesale nationalization of French banks under the Socialist government in 1981.

  De Narcy, in fact, had been the one who taught Drew that a bank’s true strength does not lie in the size of its assets. The published statements of the de Narcy bank gave hardly any indication of its true influence. Christian was a merchant banker in the truest sense of the word, using his wits as his main capital. The bank’s principal assets were off the balance sheet, hidden in decades of unrealized capital gains. As the family heir, Christian was one of the twenty wealthiest people in France.

  The taxi turned into the park at Porte Maillot, speeding down the tree-lined avenues crisscrossing the woods at Paris’s western end. It finally stopped in the gravel drive of the manor house that was now one of the city’s most highly rated and expensive restaurants.

  As Drew stepped out, de Narcy’s chauffeur-driven Renault came up behind the taxi. The banker buttoned his double-breasted brown suit as he came up to Drew.

  “Welcome back,” he said warmly in English.

  The Pré Catelan showed its best side in the summer, when the bucolic ambiance of the woods together with the fine food and wine relaxed the most determined businessmen. The chill November air chased them inside today, but the late fall colors remained enchanting through the terrace window.

  Drew felt better already. De Narcy radiated that easy self-confidence that comes with birth into wealth and position. It elicited the appropriate measure of deference from the normally haughty maître d’hôtel.

  Lunch at the Pré Catelan was a tradition for the two men. Drew occasionally hosted the banker at a more moderately priced restaurant in the city when time was too short for the trip to the Bois, but de Narcy liked to bring them out here whenever possible to enjoy some of the particularly refined pleasures that life in France is all about.

  “You have already been to Annecy then?” de Narcy asked.

  “It was pretty grisly,” Drew said, folding open the oversized menu, “but it was MacLean. My instinct unfortunately was right.”

  “Well, it won’t be the first or last time something like that has happened,” the banker remarked, perusing the wine menu.

  Drew wasn’t sure whether he was referring to MacLean’s abuse of inside information or his murder. “Have they caught the Swiss fellow yet?”

  “No, he’s skipped the country, but Interpol is on the case.”

  “They’ll have trouble catching him,” de Narcy stated matter-of-factly. “It’s odd that whoever was involved with your MacLean went so far as to have him killed.”

  Drew just shook his head. None of it made any sense to him.

  “Will you have any trouble from it, home office or anything?” the Frenchman asked.

  “We’re trying to keep it out of the papers,” the journalist responded, smiling at the irony.

  “In the end, it’s a small sideshow,” de Narcy continued. “Unfortunate for you, but beside the point really.” He paused again. “What do you think is really going on?”

  The sudden pointedness of the question was unsettling. Drew knew from experience that de Narcy did not ask rhetorical questions; he genuinely wanted his journalist friend’s opinion.

  “I’m not quite sure,” Drew began cautiously. “The one thing that still puzzles me is the gold selling.”

  De Narcy nodded in a brief, sharp movement, as if acknowledging another correct answer from a star pupil. “Just so. It has many people puzzled. But the price remains high.”

  “It has to,” Drew said. “With four-fifths of South Africa’s production out, the price has to stay up.”

  De Narcy went through the ritual of extracting a cigarette from his case and fitting it into a holder. It was his only affectation, although Drew sometimes wondered whether the banker wouldn’t sport a monocle in later life.

  “Are you sure the report is accurate?” he asked.

  A chill rippled through the journalist. He bit off his first response and thought a moment. The telex, the phone call, the announcement, the market. He had never seen the telex, but MacLean’s corpse seemed massive evidence that it had arrived. Nor had he had any luck in reestablishing contact with Van der Merwe, but there was no question it had been the stringer on the phone.

  Drew measured his response. “I’d say we have about as much certainty about it as we do about most things we report.” The words hung in the air. De Narcy just looked at him as he puffed on his cigarette, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.

  There had been no independent verification, Drew reflected. The South Africans had rejected any attempts for security reasons. Likewise, they had released no photographs.

  “The market’s response seems to verify it,” Drew ventured.

  “The market,” de Narcy said, “will jump off whatever cliff it’s confronted with.” Drew was well acquainted with the banker’s strong opinions about the speculative chaos that passed for financial markets. “And besides, this gold selling has made the market confused and jittery.” The banker paused again. “Is it possible that the South Africans are holding out on the market?”

  De Narcy’s unexpected question gave Drew a sudden insight. Kraml’s call had bothered him, and now he knew why. It made no sense for Marcus to be dealing with both the Russians and the South Africans—unless for the same reason. But if the Russians and South Africans were selling gold together, what about the mine sabotage?

  What about the mine sabotage? The question rebounded in Drew’s mind. The sabotage. What if the South Africans were exaggerating the impact of the sabotage? What if—Drew reeled with the thought—they had invented the story and were continuing to put their full production on the market? They would be reaping enormous profits with the price of gold tripled.

  He rejected the idea. It was not thinkable that the news mechanism could break down to that point. But it had broken down with MacLean. Was it possible that it had broken down elsewhere too?

  “I need to talk to my stringer,” Drew said, giving voice to a sudden decision. De Narcy had patiently let the journalist work through the possibilities.

  “Have you heard anything about Marcus?” de Narcy asked. That name again.

  “I’m trying to find out,” Drew said. “What do you know?”

  The banker shrugged. “We avoid dealing with him,” he said. He paused. “If Pretoria is holding out”—de Narcy kept it in the world of conjecture—“you’re right: the market will catch up with it sooner or later. But with things the way they are, a lot of damage could be done in the meantime.”

  “Things the way they are” was de Narcy’s tactful way of referring to the collapse of the postwar monetary system a few years earlier. The Third World debt crisis had brought down the last semblance of order in international monetary relations. Only the vast liquidity in the world markets and the nimble imaginations of the bankers had kept the world from recognizing that fact. It was the insight Drew had gotten through his conversations with de Narcy and one or two other clear-sighted financiers.

  “The market is extremely tight because of the gold news. Mexico is likely to declare a default, Brazil can’t sustain the run on its interbank lines, our own recovery depends on trade that depends on finance that is not available as long as the gold situation is unresolved.” The banker ticked off the potential damage to the world financia
l system. As usual, he had thought his position through. “The sooner we know, the better,” de Narcy concluded.

  The banker, Drew was well aware, had a high respect for the role of information as a constructive force.

  Drew reacted to the succession of elegant dishes with automatic appreciation. De Narcy’s suggestions had even pushed yesterday’s grim encounter out of his mind. His tentative resolve to go to South Africa as soon as possible hardened into a firm decision. He would convince Corrello and Madison, he would get the visa, he would find Van der Merwe, he would find out what in the hell was going on.

  ~

  Drew asked de Narcy’s driver to drop him at the Galerie Vivienne, near the Banque de France, where he found a quiet jewelry store he remembered for its original yet affordable earrings and necklaces.

  He studied the window for some time before entering the shop, getting ready for his usual difficulty in coping with the insistent attention of French sales clerks. He finally spent an unsatisfactory quarter of an hour sorting through trays and trays of simple jewelry. Nothing seemed quite right for Carol.

  Stepping back out into the gallery, its tile floor always elegant under the filtered glow of the skylights, Drew noticed a man with his back to him, studying the display in the papeterie opposite. He had noticed the man before, because of his hat. Not many men wear hats, and certainly not many in their early thirties, as this man appeared to be. He seemed to have little else to do except browse in the Galerie Vivienne.

  Drew went out the side entry of the gallery to walk up to the Place des Victoires, a favorite sight of his in Paris. It was one of the few traffic circles without a metro station or bus stop. The figure of the mounted Sun King in the center presided over a maze of entries and exits, streets spinning irregularly away from the Place, in contrast to the regular wheel-spoke planning of Étoile or Nation.

  Drew glanced over his shoulder as he left the gallery; the man with the hat came around the corner, following in Drew’s footsteps.

  Drew turned left up the rue de Banque toward the Place. As he reached the circle, he turned left again, looking down the street to see if the coincidence was going to be prolonged. The man with the hat had also turned up the street.

  So intent was Drew on the man behind him that he paid no attention to a white Renault R5 turbo making its second turn around the tiny circle. Only when Drew stepped into the next street to cross did the R5 spurt ahead. The sound of the motor and the squeal of tires on the cobbled pavement made Drew turn his head in time to see the squat car bearing down on him. He jumped back just as the car sped past him, swerving quickly out of sight. Drew noticed only the 75 of a Paris license plate.

  He swung around quickly, aware of how fast his heart was pumping. There was no man with a hat anymore. Because the Place des Victoires was not along a major artery, there was very little traffic. There were a few pedestrians, but they were mostly on the other side of the Place, near the clothes shops there.

  No one was paying any attention to Drew. Screeching tires and endangered pedestrians were commonplace in Paris.

  Drew himself wondered whether it wasn’t just another incident typical of Paris’s lunatic driving customs. People were killed every day crossing the street, by accident.

  He leaned against a parked car while his knees steadied. But his heart kept pounding, as fear gave way to anger. He pictured himself underneath a white cloth on a morgue table. The affront to his moral sense from the murder of a colleague became much more personal. His repugnance turned to hatred for those who threatened him.

  It was a new feeling for Drew. In his society, relationships were rarely naked enough to inspire strong feelings. Long-established social structures diffused harsh emotions, especially negative ones.

  Drew rarely raised his voice in anger and had never been in a fistfight or a brawl. He had taught himself to curb his anger, to suppress the urge to smash things when he did get mad.

  But now he felt released from all those bonds. There was no doubt in his mind at that moment that someone had tried to kill him.

  The white Renault did not reappear, nor did the man with the hat. When a taxi came into the circle, Drew hailed it on impulse and told the driver to take him to the Gare de Lyon.

  On his way to the airport, after he had retrieved his luggage at the train station, Drew tried to sort through the tumult in his mind. If someone was following him, if, God help him, somebody had tried to run him down, they were evidently professionals.

  But who could it be, and why were they after him? MacLean’s murderers? He wasn’t looking for the killers; Scotland Yard and Interpol were. He was a managing editor trying to fill a hole. He was a journalist trying to get to the bottom of a story.

  What had happened? He had seen a man with a hat, and a car had nearly run him down while he was crossing a street. He had in fact not been looking when he started across. Why would anyone want to kill him? How could he report a suspicion that someone was trying to murder him if he had no idea why or who? Drew had enough experience of French police to know their response to such a vaguely founded suspicion.

  It occurred to Drew that perhaps he should heed the warning, if that was what the near-murder was. Let the police do their work hunting MacLean’s killers. He was out of it. There was not even any conclusive evidence that the scam he suspected had taken place.

  As for the rest, the uncertainty in the markets, the anomalous gold dealing, the murky South African situation—these were certainly not his responsibilities. He was just a journalist, trying to report what’s going on.

  What is going on? he wondered. Attempted murder was for investigative reporters tracking mob influence or police corruption, not for managing editors of commodities news services.

  It all seemed so melodramatic. After all, it would be terribly risky if he disappeared. Or would it? Risky to whom? Whoever had staged this attempt on his life was running much greater risks than killing an obscure financial journalist.

  One thing had become much clearer: there was definitely something to know about this report of mine sabotage. The attack against him verified his suspicions that more than the market scam was at stake.

  Nor did the anger leave him. It supported his already strong convictions about getting at the truth. For the first time in his life, he felt ready to defy any danger to get a story.

  ~

  Richard Corrello looked through the tinted glass to the bright sky outside. A slight haze hung over the city of Atlanta, but there was green farmland surrounding it. His office on the thirteenth floor offered the view of a distant horizon.

  Corrello didn’t usually spend much time gazing out the window, regardless of the view and the splendid Georgia weather. But Drew’s call had disturbed him. He knew he had to go to Madison immediately, and he was dreading the encounter.

  Drew had called him from the airport in Paris, just before eleven o’clock.

  “It was MacLean. I could identify him tentatively, and the dental records confirm it.” Drew’s voice was as clear as an interoffice call.

  “Shit,” Corrello said.

  “There’s more, Rich,” Drew continued. “I’ve had a very disturbing lunch with an old banking source of mine here. He raised the question of whether the sabotage report was accurate.”

  Corrello was quiet. He suppressed his defensive reaction because the question was too realistic. After all, United Press had reported the end of World War I three days before the fact. Reporters made mistakes.

  “We weren’t the only ones who reported it,” Corrello said coldly.

  “We were the only ones who had a separate source,” Drew said. “Notice the past tense—the separate source seems to have vanished.”

  Corrello listened as Drew told him why he wanted to go to South Africa.

  “I’ll have to clear it with Madison.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow from London. They’re boarding my flight.”

  Corrello was in charge of news in an organization that li
ved off the news. But it was the money men who ran the show. Madison, trained as a certified public accountant, was chairman and chief executive officer.

  It fell to Corrello to maintain and defend the group’s journalistic standards. He picked up his phone and pressed one of the buttons along the bottom. “Rita, it’s me. Is he free?” No frills, no useless chatter. Madison’s secretary knew the voice of everyone who had access to that line. She knew as well that it must be urgent simply because Corrello wanted to talk to Madison right now.

  “In ten minutes,” she said.

  “What’s up?” Madison snapped when Corrello entered the office. Madison could be quite charming when he saw the need to be. Seeing less and less need, he was charming less often these days.

  “Drew called,” Corrello said.

  “Is he still gallivanting around in France.” It wasn’t a question. For being one of the shrewdest managers in the country, Madison still had the old-fashioned notion that any American traveling in Europe was on vacation.

  “It was our man who was murdered,” Corrello said.

  “Drew’s man, you mean.”

  “In point of fact, he was already on board when Drew took over,” Corrello said. Whatever Madison’s faults, he did not demand a yes-man. Corrello never hesitated to contradict him. “There’s more.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. What more?”

  “One of Drew’s bankers is asking whether we have verification on the story.”

  At this, Madison looked up from the papers he had been shuffling. He gave Corrello the stare that had chilled boardrooms across the country.

  “Do I really have to listen to this?” he said evenly.

  “Drew wants to go to South Africa.”

  “Drew can go straight to hell,” Madison snapped, standing up. He started around the desk, thought better of it, returned to his seat, and sat down.

  “Look, Rich, isn’t this a bit out of our line? I mean, aren’t we supposed to be taking pork belly prices in Chicago and delivering them to the meat packers in Kansas City?” He paused and continued in a more natural voice. “Of course the story is accurate. Every newspaper in the country reported it. The godamned South African government confirmed it. And just because some queerbait European banker thinks he knows something, I’ve got a managing editor who wants to go traipsing off halfway across the world.”