“You see what I was telling you all those years,” the old man resumed. “How difficult it is to take on the responsibility for these decisions. You’re the only one who really understands them, the only one who foresees the consequences.”
Halden willingly played the attentive pupil. This was what he had come for, after all, the reassurance that he was doing the right thing, that he had to do it.
The past week of intensive preparation had made him more confident. He had consulted his experts, gathered information to refine his plan. He had been careful to discuss only isolated facets of it, to short-circuit normal chains of command, to keep anyone from getting an idea of what he was doing.
His plan was too big, too dangerous to share with anyone but Wagner. Halden had come to believe in the past few weeks that the world monetary system was past saving. The crash in the wake of the gold mine sabotage had definitively destabilized the delicate balance of an increasingly makeshift arrangement. The only constructive action at this moment was to prepare the transition to a new type of monetary order, purged of all the problems and anomalies that had accumulated in the old. That meant choosing the time—through a preemptive strike against the old system.
The old man came back to Halden’s proposal. “It’s funny to spend so long repairing something, fixing it up to keep on running, only to push it off the cliff in the end. Are you sure the damage can be contained?”
“I’ve used the computers, everything I could think of to play out the various scenarios.” Halden paused. “Peter, I feel the system will collapse very soon anyway, and it is much better if we initiate it in a reasonably controlled environment.”
The older man was reflective. “You’re undoubtedly right about the collapse, Mark. You know I’ve been expecting it for many years. The system has been surprisingly resilient, but it’s resting on too many hollow structures. It has to collapse.”
He looked into the fire for several moments.
“Tomorrow morning we can go over the details together,” Wagner said, looking up again at Halden. He paused. “It’s something neither Roberts nor Johnson could grasp, let alone the cowboys in the White House.” He sighed audibly. “Will you warn anyone?”
“No. I would have talked to Martinez, but there’s no one else I trust.”
“You think gold can be the catalyst for your action?” Wagner asked.
“It’s the wild card of the monetary system. There’s something very funny going on. The sabotage should have reduced supply much more than seems to be the case. The market’s nervous as a result, and I feel something is going to break soon.” Halden did not explain to Wagner that he expected a certain American journalist to be the source of that break.
Samson stirred in his corner. Then the dog sat up and began a scratching routine. “Time for his food,” Wagner said. “And I’d better scare up our steaks.”
FIFTEEN
Drew replayed the message.
“Here is Hannes,” the voice on his answering machine said. “I have found something astounding, crazy. I must talk to you as soon as possible. Call me only at home. Servus!”
Drew tried Kraml’s home number again, but again got no answer. The trader had not said what day he was calling, but it seemed to be sometime early in the week.
It was Sunday morning. Drew had just come from the airport after his long flight from Johannesburg.
The message bothered him. There was a strain, an urgency in Kraml’s voice that went beyond his normal high-strung tendencies. There were several later beeps on the tape, signaling calls without messages, that Drew feared were later attempts by the Austrian to reach him.
Drew unpacked, showered, tried Kraml’s number again. The phone rang several times, but finally a woman answered with the name Kraml as though it took great effort.
“Hello, it’s Drew Dumesnil in London,” he said in English. “I’ve been out of town but I have a message from Hannes to call him at home.”
There was a silence on the other end, so long that Drew was ready to repeat his greeting in German, although he knew that Brigitte, Kraml’s wife, spoke fluent English.
“Hannes is dead,” the woman said finally, hesitating to find the English words. “He has been killed on the highway.”
Drew was numb. He switched to German, trying to console the young widow while finding out just what had happened. Kraml’s car had gone off the road on a curve along the highway to Zug on Tuesday morning. The trader had been crushed; the car was going at a high speed and there was a deep ravine. The curve was marked DANGER and had caused several fatal accidents before.
Brigitte Kraml was obviously having trouble coping with the loss and seemed to be under sedation. But Drew pressed her for details of Hannes’s behavior the night before the accident. He had been nervous and irritable, she said, and had not slept well. He had called London often, she added.
Drew finally let her go, promising to attend the funeral the next day. Kraml was to be cremated, but Mr. Marcus had insisted on a memorial ceremony, the woman explained. The trader’s employer had been deeply touched by the tragedy and had been most generous and sympathetic. Marcus was paying the funeral costs and said he would pay Kraml’s salary to the widow for a year, although Hannes carried considerable insurance and her own family was quite well-to-do.
Drew sat ashen-faced next to the phone. MacLean dead. Van der Merwe dead. Now Kraml. The trader’s death may have been the unfortunate accident it appeared to be. Just like Drew’s own death might have seemed if the Renault had hit him crossing that Paris street!
MacLean had been involved in a scheme to beat the market. What had Kraml done? Was Marcus in on the scheme, and Kraml had found evidence of it? So what? Marcus used inside information to beat the markets every day. Kraml would not find that worth a panic call to a journalist.
No, it had to be related to the Russians and the South Africans. What had Kraml found out? Why had he been killed?
Drew didn’t know what to do about his discovery in South Africa. He felt he needed some evidence to corroborate what he had seen, but he wasn’t sure how to get it. He had hoped Kraml was going to get something from Marcus. The suspicious death of the trader proved to Drew that there was something to find out from Marcus, but the journalist needed more tangible evidence to break the story.
~
Drew’s cab delivered him to the funeral home the next morning, just as the ceremony was beginning. He slipped quietly into the back row as a cleric of some sort solemnly read a psalm. Drew saw Kraml’s wife in the front row, flanked by an older man and woman he presumed were her parents.
In the second row was a thin man with hunched shoulders, whom Drew recognized from photographs as Philip Marcus. Next to him was a short, flabby man Drew took to be Blackford Teller, Marcus’s alter ego.
Drew studied Marcus as the clergyman droned on. Marcus seemed confident, in control. Drew could not imagine him as a fugitive. And yet, that was just what he was to the U.S. government. With all his millions, Marcus could scarcely set foot outside Switzerland without risking arrest. He could live very well in Switzerland, of course, and did by all accounts. At least, he had acquired the trappings of the good life: the villa outside Zug, the chalet in the mountains, the cars.
But, in fact, Marcus had no time for his good life. He lived exclusively for his business, and his business was making more and more money.
Drew recalled the banker character in Zola’s L’Argent. He had to rise at five each morning to receive long lines of brokers and agents with their offers; he was reduced to living on milk alone because of stomach problems; he supported a large family without ever having the time for them. Like the French writer, Drew wondered at the motivation of these billionaires. Small wonder they did not feel bound by the social and moral strictures of normal people. The modest motivations and contentments of normal people were foreign to them.
But the journalist caught himself. Who, after all, was normal? What was normal about his own unthink
ing devotion to his work, his twelve-hour days, his single-minded pursuit of whatever journalistic task was set him? Like Marcus, he too had power of a sort, to compensate him for this devotion. He was just now getting a sense of how much power. But the power was not really his; he did not really control it. Neither did Marcus, for all his millions.
A reedy electric organ punctured Drew’s reverie. He stood with everyone else. A number of young men there appeared to be Kraml’s colleagues.
The organ piece marked the end of the ceremony. Drew maneuvered forward to speak to Kraml’s wife.
“I have something for you,” the woman said after he had expressed his condolences.
She was bearing up much better than she had on the phone. Pretty in the striking Swiss way, her pragmatism was asserting itself as Kraml’s death became a fact of life.
“I’m sorry I didn’t think of it yesterday. I was in bad shape, you know.” She drew an envelope out of her bag. “Hannes spent most of Monday night writing this down for you; I suppose he wanted to mail it, I don’t know. But here it is, anyway.”
Drew slipped the envelope into his coat pocket as Aunt somebody came up to the widow. The journalist turned and nearly walked into Philip Marcus.
“Mr. Marcus, Drew Dumesnil.” They were too close to attempt to shake hands. Marcus looked at the journalist blankly. “I work for World Commodities News, and I’d like to talk to you about the gold situation.” Drew didn’t hesitate. It was as close as he would ever get to Marcus, and the worst that could happen is that he would walk away.
Marcus looked straight at him, and Drew had an inkling of how the rabbit felt when fixed in the stare of a snake.
“Not here,” Marcus said.
Drew waited while Marcus murmured his sympathies to the widow, promising his assistance whenever she needed it. Then Marcus turned abruptly and moved quickly through the entrance of the church. Uncertain, Drew followed him outside. Marcus’s limousine was waiting at the curb. The journalist barely caught Marcus’s quick gesture to get into the back.
“It’s a seven-minute ride to the office,” Marcus said, as the Cadillac pulled away.
“Are you selling gold for the Russians?” Drew asked.
Marcus flashed a quick, wolfish smile. “No comment,” he said.
“The South Africans?”
Marcus leaned back. “I’m a trader. I trade for my own account, I trade for clients. I have many clients.” He paused to light a cigar.
“There was no sabotage; the South African gold is coming onto the market.” Drew’s remark was not a question.
Marcus’s eyes hardened. “I’m a trader. I don’t make policy or produce gold or bomb gold mines. I trade commodities.” He paused. “I don’t report the news, true or false. I read the papers, I do what my clients tell me.”
“You knew there was no sabotage; you’re selling the South African gold,” Drew persisted. “You’re part of the fraud.”
Marcus shrugged. “Even if what you said were true, you may as well blame the metal itself for the evil it causes. I’ve got as much moral responsibility as a gold bar.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Who said it was easy?” Marcus hissed with sudden vehemence. “I’ve spent my life stripping away all the hypocrisy that moralists wrap around us. I’ve sacrificed more than most people ever think of having to get free of that.” He settled back into the seat. “The world is the way it is, and I’m just part of it.”
“Did you kill Kraml?”
Marcus gently tapped off the ash of his cigar. “I liked Kraml.” He looked Drew in the eye. “I miss him a lot. He had a lot of talent. But he apparently got careless on a dangerous road. Or are you going to blame me for the weather too?”
The limousine drew gently to a halt. The door on Drew’s side was opened.
“You know less than you think, Dumesnil, and you can’t prove even that.”
“We’re not in a courtroom,” Drew said, standing outside the car.
A slight glaze came over Marcus’s eyes. “You would do well to keep that in mind.” The chauffeur shut the door. Drew watched the limousine disappear down the garage entrance. He turned and walked away briskly, following the signs to the train station, where he took a taxi for Kloten.
As the white Mercedes cab sped along the highway to the airport, Drew opened Kraml’s envelope. There were three pages of the trader’s minute, neat handwriting, in a laborious English. As Drew started to read, a chill rippled through him.
Drew—
I’ve tried calling but you are not there. I’m writing this down so you will be sure to know what I have found out.
I succeeded in picking a way through the program—you remember the computer work I did for Highland Bank—and getting through the security barriers. It was not too easy, but it was not too hard either. I don’t think they expected a trader to know much about software.
First I saw the futures position. Marcus is nearly $2 billion short—he seems certain that the price of gold will fall.
It took me longer to locate the physical trading position. When I found it, I thought I had made a mistake, it was simply not to be believed. I have reproduced the figures from memory.
Midas is South Africa, I am sure. The coded information on the bullion corresponds exactly to the South African bars. The figures show that they are channeling enough gold into the market each month to represent more than their full production. The figures anticipate delivery for the coming months.
Croesus must refer to the Soviet Union. Again, the bullion specifications prove it. Also, the amounts are so big—bigger than what the Soviets usually sell—that it must be a major producer.
If Marcus has both of these producers, with code names, they must be in collusion. You see how important this is. You were right to question the South African sabotage. It is very significant that the Soviet Union and South Africa are working together. They can control the gold market.
Drew grew cold as the meaning of Kraml’s message became clear. Not only had the South Africans perpetrated a massive hoax on the markets, they had enlisted the Russians as allies! His heart sank at the end of the letter.
I’m not sure whether they will be able to see that I have been in the program. I had no time to be careful. I confess I am frightened. It is very serious and they are dangerous.
The third page contained three columns of figures. Kraml had reproduced the tables he had seen so briefly on the computer screen. His trader’s head for figures had enabled him to retain the details of Marcus’s entire gold position. One column was headed Midas, the second Croesus, and the third PMTC, for Marcus himself. Entries for each week corresponded to thousands of ounces credited in each column. Each figure was followed by a baffling string of letters and numbers that Drew realized were the telling bullion descriptions.
Kraml had delivered him his documentary proof! Drew felt a sting in his eyes and a tightness in his chest. He had sent Kraml to his death. He had known it was dangerous but had still asked his friend to do it.
Drew saw Marcus’s mocking smile in front of him. Marcus and du Plessis: for Drew, they were the incarnation of evil, falsehood, and death. His rage strengthened his resolve.
~
Drew noticed the man as soon as he came onto the platform. Not that the middle-aged commuter, with a navy blue overcoat and an umbrella slung over his arm, was particularly noticeable. It had been a bright, sunny morning as Drew walked up to the Knightsbridge tube station, but it was quite normal for Londoners to carry umbrellas even on sunny days. The weather could change quickly.
Still, Drew noticed this man. The journalist had been nervous since reading Kraml’s letter the previous day, as though it were a voice from the grave summoning him to the other side. He had been looking over his shoulder, sitting in corners in public places, and, indeed, crossing streets carefully.
London and all the everyday bustle he was accustomed to had calmed him somewhat. He was taking the tube to the office as he
normally did, but he regretted his thoughtlessness already. He should have just hailed a cab for once, to avoid the unnecessary exposure.
Drew felt hunted. Kraml’s discovery and subsequent death had removed any margin of doubt about the stakes involved in his own investigation of the mine sabotage. He had been awake most of the night, and only a long phone call to Carol had provided him any solace.
Drew had his leather overnight bag slung over his shoulder. He was leaving that afternoon for Atlanta to discuss the gold hoax with Corrello and Madison at Sun Belt Communications. He and Carol had decided he should talk to Halden as well.
The man with the umbrella paced nonchalantly along the platform. It was after the rush hour, and the trains seemed to take a long time to arrive.
Drew moved along the platform to keep a distance between himself and the middle-aged man. Perhaps he was succumbing to paranoia, he thought, but he sensed menace in the man’s approach, in his carrying an umbrella.
The man kept coming in Drew’s direction, which only steeled his resolve to keep away from him. The rush of wind and screeching wheels told him the train was nearing the station.
Drew was so preoccupied watching the middle-aged man that he did not notice the younger man wearing a trenchcoat and hat who hovered behind him, scarcely a yard away.
The crowd, considerably larger after the wait, moved expectantly to the edge of the platform as the train came into the station. The man with the umbrella headed in Drew’s direction, more purposefully now. The train stopped.
Suddenly, in the commotion of people boarding and leaving the train, the man in the trenchcoat and hat shoved past Drew, coming between him and the man with the umbrella. The newcomer reminded Drew of the man in Paris who had followed him. It could have been the same man, but Drew had too little time to notice.
The newcomer grappled with the middle-aged man on the platform as people pushed past them toward the exit. Neither made a sound until the man with the umbrella groaned and slumped to his knees. There were gasps as he fell against the passersby.
Gold Page 18
