The Silver Bears

by Paul E. Erdman

  “Yes?”

  “The footnote. The only footnote. It breaks down loans into foreign and domestic. It seems to me that an unusually large proportion of that bank’s funds have gone outside of Switzerland.”

  Kellermann looked again.

  “Yes. One could say that. But then again . . .”

  Luckman put his piece of paper back into his briefcase.

  “Just one more question, Herr Kellermann. Could you give me some idea of the ownership of that bank?”

  “Ah, in Switzerland that is a most difficult question to answer. You see, the share of most banks, in fact of most corporations of any type, are in bearer form. There is, cannot be, any type of registration of ownership. Because the owner is that person, or company, which happens to be in possession of those shares at any particular moment in time. They may change hands often. Who knows?”

  “But what about shareholders’ meetings. The owners must come forward then?”

  “A very good question. But you see, in Switzerland very few people ever attend shareholders’ meetings. And almost all of them are lawyers; and behind the lawyers?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Precisely.”

  Luckman reached down and closed his briefcase.

  “Mr. Kellermann,” he said, “I guess that’s about it. You have been most helpful.”

  “It was a great pleasure to have been of assistance to you, Mr. Luckman. I do hope you extend my compliments to Mr. Foreman upon your return.”

  Debbie was waiting for him back at the hotel. After one look at his face she said: “Struck out again, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I’m not just going to sit around this dump alone, while you spend your days getting fat on Swiss lunches.”

  “God,” thought Luckman, “this was to be the dream of her life. Europe! Switzerland! And after three days she’s already at it again.”

  “Honey,” he said, “I’d hardly call this a dump. It’s costing sixty dollars a day.”

  “Sure. And the shower doesn’t work. There’s no air conditioning. The bartender throws daggers at me every time I walk in alone. Thinks I’m a hooker, probably. Say, maybe he’s got something there. Might keep my mind occupied.”

  Don just looked at her. Air conditioning in April in Switzerland?

  “Now, seriously, Don, tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “I thought this bank you want to buy is in Lugano.”

  “It is.”

  “Then what in God’s name are we doing in Zurich?”

  “Look, Debbie, one has to approach such matters subtly. I prefer asking questions here, rather than in Lugano. This is a big banking center. They’re used to Americans. Lugano is a small town; they’d be bound to hear about me, and start asking questions of their own.”

  “So what?”

  “Don’t act so damn stupid.”

  “I think you’re the one that’s being stupid. You can hardly buy a bank without the bank knowing about it sooner or later. It’s like trying to screw a girl over the telephone.”

  “I don’t think your analogy is either funny or apt.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “All right. What do you suggest?”

  “That we pack right now and go to Lugano.”

  “Debbie, we’re staying here, and that’s final.”

  He started taking off his jacket.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to take a nap. Alone.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Read a book. Go shopping. I really don’t care.”

  So she went down to the lobby, bought a Time magazine, a Herald Tribune, Playboy, and a German illustrated called the Stern. By the time she got back up to the room, Donald was snoring. In fact he was still snoring three hours later when the phone rang. It woke him up, but Debbie got to the phone first.

  “It’s for you,” she said, “San Francisco.”

  Donald managed a few “Yes sir’s.” Then he wrote a number down on the pad beside the phone, added a few more “yes sir’s” and hung up.

  “Who was that?” asked Debbie. “Your mother?”

  “Debbie, sometimes . . .”

  “All right. Who?”

  “Mr. Foreman.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “We’re leaving. Tomorrow.”

  “No. He can’t do that to us! We’ve barely gotten here. What does he expect you to do. Perform miracles?”

  “Shut up, Debbie. We’re leaving, but not for home. For Lugano.”

  To his credit, he actually grinned when he said it. And to Debbie’s credit, she only said “I told you so” half a dozen times before the evening was over.

  They took the Trans-European Express which left Zurich at 7:30 and arrived in Lugano at 11:58. They went directly to the Hotel Villa Castagnola where Donald had booked a suite. He immediately called the number given to him by Foreman the prior day. A meeting was fixed for 5 P.M.in Luckman’s suite. Debbie disappeared into the bedroom at five to five, leaving the door just slightly open.

  The man who stepped through the door at five on the dot was tall, darkly tanned, and dressed in sports clothes. The hand he extended to Luckman was big, and leathery.

  “I’m Nick Topping. Mind if I take off my jacket?”

  “No. Go right ahead. I’ll get a hanger from . . .”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll just plunk it.”

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No. Not right now. Maybe later. But I will sit down.”

  Luckman kept his jacket on. All bankers do.

  “You know why I’m here?”

  “No, not exactly. I received a call from our head office yesterday asking me to come down here to talk to you. That was all.”

  “Good. Well, let’s start by me telling you who I am. I’m in charge of public relations for International Minerals Consultants of Panama.”

  “I see.”

  “Fine. Now we’re both interested in the same object here in Lugano.”

  “We are?”

  “Yes. The Bank of Sicily and America,”

  “That I was not told.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m telling you now.”

  “Why are you interested?”

  “Because of something that bank owns. Or may own. Or may own part of. It’s something you wouldn’t want to keep, if you buy that bank.”

  “What is it?”

  “We’ll come to that later.”

  “Is it listed in that bank’s statement under ‘Participations’?”

  “Sonny, you’re brighter than you look.”

  “Do all those foreign loans tie in with the same thing?”

  “They probably do.”

  “That could add up to $25 million—a quarter of the bank’s assets.”

  “Right again. But like I said, it’s something you wouldn’t like to keep. Too risky.”

  “What about the rest of the bank?”

  “In good shape. You’ll be happy with it.”

  “Provided it’s for sale.”

  “It will be. We’ll take care of that end of it for you. Provided a few things check out first. We’ll start checking tomorrow.”

  “How?”

  “By taking a little trip together.”

  “Where to?”

  “Kuwait.”

  “Kuwait?”

  “Right. I’ll make all the arrangements. You’ll just need to have your passport and suitcase ready to go.”

  “Look, I’m not sure what kind of game you’re playing, but you can be very sure that I’m not going along with it. I came over here to look at a bank situation in Lugano. I have no intention whatsoever of going with you to Kuwait or any other place.”

  “You will. In fact,” continued Topping, “I think you’d better get on the phone to your boss in San Franci
sco right now.” He glanced at his watch. “You might just catch him before he goes beddy-bye.”

  He got up.

  “I’ll call you tonight with the flight time.”

  Luckman just watched him in amazement as Topping went blithely on: “There is one thing you could do. After you’ve checked back with your home office, of course.”

  “That is?”

  “Make an appointment with the General Manager of the Bank of London and the Near East in Kuwait—for tomorrow afternoon. Don’t mention me under any circumstances. If they get curious, just make it sound like a courtesy call. I understand you bankers make the rounds regularly.”

  “Anything else?” Luckman was getting a bit peeved.

  “No, that should do it.” Nick Topping picked up his jacket and once again extended his huge hand.

  “See you tomorrow. Maybe we can have that drink then.”

  And he left.

  Two seconds after the door had closed, Debbie came flying out of the bedroom.

  “Donald! What was all that about?”

  “You were listening, I suppose.”

  “Could hardly help not listening. That man’s voice would carry across the lake. Is he as big as he sounds?”

  “Bigger.”

  “This whole thing is starting to sound a bit screwy to me.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  “Are you sure everything’s on the level?”

  “Now look, Debbie. Do you think Mr. Foreman would ever get involved in anything that was not on the level?”

  “No. I guess not. Well, all right. Off we go to Kuwait.”

  “Off I go to Kuwait. Provided head office says so. You stay here.”

  “Oh no you don’t, Donald. You promised that we were going to do all these things together. I’m not going to sit around this place all alone, just like I had to in Zurich.”

  “I’m afraid you are, Debbie. Look, we can fix something up. Maybe a package tour of northern Italy. Or the Alps. The bank will pay under these circumstances. So . . .”

  “Look, buster. Nobody’s going to package tour me. If I go, I go the way I want to. And I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “All right, Debbie,” with a silent “Jeezus” to go with it.

  The call to San Francisco went through quickly. George Foreman came on the line almost immediately. And his instructions were curt and exact. Luckman should work together with Topping in all matters, no questions asked at this stage. If Topping wanted him to go to the Persian Gulf, he should go. Report back when he got back.

  “Yes sir, Mr. Foreman.” The George and Donald bit was obviously not on over telephones.

  Debbie didn’t even turn around to ask after he had hung up. In fact, her lack of interest could hardly have been more pronounced when he announced later in the day that he would be leaving very early the next morning for Kuwait. What was she going to do during his absence? Not to worry. She’d think of something. Just leave some traveler’s checks—endorsed!

  The following day when he crept out of bed shortly after dawn, he wondered whether he should wake her or not. He decided not. He left a note, saying he would call her—provided he could get through— from somewhere letting her know when he would be arriving back. He could not help but whisper a tender goodbye when he took a last peek into the bedroom before leaving. Just as he stepped into the corridor, there seemed to be a faint response, like:

  “Fuck off, baby.”

  But maybe it was just his imagination.

  10

  KUWAIT is certainly the least interesting Arab city on earth. That’s because it has been built by the glass-curtain-on-steel-frame school of architects provided courtesy of the cultural department of Standard Oil of New Jersey. There are almost as many air-conditioning units per square miles as in Manhattan, certainly as many Cadillac limousines, and definitely as much money—which accounts for the fact that, like in Manhattan, there are also many banks.

  When Donald Luckman walked into the Bank of London and the Near East’s branch there, he was nervous. Because his was a mission of intrigue, one that required subtlety, cunning, and coolness. Or so Nick Topping had said during the briefing session at the hotel. Actually, all he had to do was inveigle the local manager into spilling the beans about the bank’s relationship with a man called Agha Firdausi.

  Who was Agha Firdausi? An Iranian. What did he have to do with the bank in Lugano? All in due time, was the cryptic response of Nick Topping. Just get in there and feel your way around.

  The local manager turned out to be walrus-moustached, red in the face, and loud-voiced. More or less par for the course for Englishmen east of Suez. When referring to Americans, he consistently used the term “you chaps,” and was just as consistent in referring to the local residents of the Gulf as “wogs.” He left the distinct impression that he considered both to have advanced to rather similar levels in the process of evolution. He was brimming with advice for young American bankers visiting Kuwait. It was summed up in the full-voiced statement:

  “Too many of you chaps here already, you know.”

  At this point, Luckman cut in to inform him that the First National Bank of California had no intention of setting themselves up in Kuwait.

  This met with condescending approval. But, Luckman went on, he would appreciate getting a reading on a party that had recently approached them for a sizable credit. Chap called Firdausi. Luckman wasn’t sure whether Iranians fell into the wog or chap category, so he gambled and won.

  “Fine chap, Firdausi. Good man. Lives just up the line in Iran. No problem there. Good for five million on his own. In dollars, not sterling. Heard that he’s got a charming sister. A real looker. Never met her though. He’s also got Swiss money behind him. Lots of it. Keeps coming in. Big in silver, Firdausi. Biggest on the Gulf, they tell me. Don’t quite know where he gets the stuff. None of my business, of course.”

  “Perhaps you might give me the name of that Swiss bank. We’d probably like to check with them too.”

  “Small bank. In Lugano. Never heard of it before. Something to do with Sicilians, I think. Can’t be too many of those. But if you want me to get the file . . .”

  “No, no. As you say, there can hardly be many of those in Lugano.” Luckman got up.

  “I would appreciate your keeping my inquiry confidential,” he said as he shook the Englishman’s hand.

  “But of course. No trouble there, dear fellow. We British bankers know how to keep our mouths shut.”

  Back in the hotel—the Kuwait Hilton—Nick Topping was waiting for him.

  “Well?”

  “So it’s silver,” triumphantly.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Just give me the facts. Then we can move on to the speculative bit.”

  So Luckman related what had transpired at the bank. Topping did not interrupt once.

  But when Luckman was done, Topping smiled.

  “Good boy. This gives us the definite confirmation of a tie-in between Firdausi and that bank.”

  “But where does the silver fit in?”

  “Since months the word’s been out on the Gulf that Firdausi has become Mr. Big in silver, all of a sudden. It is also said that it’s coming out of Iran, from a new mine that’s been developed recently.”

  “But surely that’s very easy to confirm, without all this roundabout rigamarole.”

  “Like how?”

  “Checking out Firdausi’s properties in Iran. I assume that’s where this mine must be situated.”

  “We tried. The place is guarded like the Shah’s palace. One of our people got killed.”

  “What about the equipment? You can hardly start up a major mining venture without bringing in tons of it. All you’d have to do is check it out with the customs people in Iran.”

  “Sonny, don’t be naive. Nobody pays customs duties in this part of the world.”

  “You mean you believe that somebody could smuggle in all that stuff without anybody knowing?”

  “
I don’t just believe. I know.”

  “O.K. I’ll take your word for it. I also can hardly help but deduce that you’re after that silver mine. Fine. So why don’t you just approach this Firdausi and try to acquire it?”

  “Because maybe he doesn’t own it all. Maybe he doesn’t even control it. Maybe that bank in Lugano does. Right? Remember that big item termed ‘Participations’?”

  “Right,” said Luckman. “Right.”

  “Look,” said Topping, “if I were you I’d not try to get too far ahead of this thing. You’re slightly out of your depth. For the moment, why don’t you just follow the leader and not ask too many more questions, O.K.? I’m the leader, if you need reminding.”

  “Agreed. What next.”

  “Dubai.”

  “Why?”

  “The silver, goddamnit.”

  “I thought this mine was supposed to be in Iran?”

  “It is.”

  “Then why Dubai?”

  “Because that’s where the silver from the mine in Iran will end up. At least temporarily.”

  “I see. And we’re going to arrange to hijack it. Then you won’t need the mine.”

  Luckman was getting a bit frisky. Twelve hours away from Debbie was working wonders.

  “Donald,” said Topping, “they must really miss you around the bank these days. No, we’re not going to hijack anything. At least not on this trip. We are going to merely try to determine if it’s there. The silver.”

  “I thought you now knew?”

  “If I knew, then we wouldn’t still be here sweating our ass off in this godforsaken desert, would we? We’ve heard something, that’s all. First, the rumors around the Gulf. Now something a bit more reliable, from your banker friend here in Kuwait. But we still don’t know. If we luck out in Dubai, then we will know.”

  “O.K.,” replied Luckman, “Lead on. When do we leave?”

  “Tomorrow. We’re expected at the Dubai airport at eleven.”

  And so they were. By a dark little man whose appearance did not betray any sign of either prosperity or honesty. Apparently the only way he communicated with his fellow man was through hissed whispers. And in this case, the hissing was exclusively for the ears of Nick Topping: his left ear, to be more precise. Before they reached the hotel, the car stopped and the grubby Arab slunk out and disappeared into the equally grubby crowd in what appeared to be the main square of Dubai.