He leaned back into the leather seat and watched Rodriguez out of the corner of his eye. “How’s it coming?”
Rodriguez stopped punching numbers into his HP-12C and wiped his forehead with the back of a thick hand. “Almost there. Revising the plan is the easy part.” He dropped his glasses down on his nose and peered over the rims at Jorge. “But getting it approved will take the full cooperation of the lending consortium, which, as you know, just happens to be headed by Fabio Quintero’s private bank.”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Jorge said. “I want you to take the lead on the negotiations. It’s better if I don’t act too eager.”
“I don’t mind, but how do you get on a level playing field with a guy like Quintero?”
“He’s a duplicitous bastard,” Jorge said, “But I think we’ll find some common ground for negotiation.”
“Like what?”
“Everyone wants something.”
“He wants something all right. He wants all of our real-estate holdings in Uruguay and Argentina.”
“There’s something else he wants even more,” Jorge said. “All we have to do is find it.” He thought of Admiral Cuartas. It hadn’t taken Don Gallardo long to find what he wanted.
“You can’t buy everyone,” Rodriguez said.
“Sure you can.” Jorge gave Rodriguez a knowing look. The chief accountant was middle-aged, with a fat, doting wife and a houseful of children. For a paltry $200,000 a year, they owned him, mind, body, and soul. “Everyone has a price. It’s been proven so often it’s no longer a theory. It’s a fact, a natural law, like the sun rising in the east.”
Rodriguez went back to laboring over his papers, jabbing numbers into his calculator, muttering under his breath. “More gold bullion. Don Gallardo’s already got warehouses full of the stuff. What the hell does he think he’s going to do with it all?”
Jorge smiled, pleased that the chief accountant couldn’t grasp the significance of what they were doing any more than the others. It was a good sign. “Before we’re done, we’ll have warehouses full of the stuff from New York to Geneva,” Jorge said.
“But what are you going to do with it? It’s just metal, for Christ’s sake.”
Jorge glanced at Rodriguez, grateful for the opening. “Metal to you. In the hands of a man like Don Gallardo, it’s power.”
“Power to do what? He’s already the most powerful man in Colombia.”
“We’re not talking about personal power, Ernesto. We’re talking about a global shift in power.”
Rodriguez raised his eyebrows. “Oh, really?”
“Don’t scoff at things you don’t understand,” Jorge said.
“Well, it’ll take a hell of a lot more than we’ve got to do that.”
Jorge took a sip of Scotch. “You’re forgetting what we’ve already stockpiled.”
“I know. Two thousand tons of the damned stuff,” Rodriguez said. “Twenty-five billion dollars tied up in gold bars sitting around in bonded warehouses in Zurich, and Geneva, and God-knows-where, not earning a dime’s worth of interest. Every time the price of gold falls a penny on the world market, our balance sheet goes into convulsions. The whole thing’s crazy to me. I say we sell off enough to pay off that bloodsucking bastard Quintero and take it slower from now on.”
Jorge shook his head. “Don Gallardo is a buyer, not a seller. Selling is forbidden. Ever. Under any circumstances. If he has to resort to selling, you and I won’t be around to see it. He has a timetable to keep.”
“Two thousand tons of gold just ties up all our capital,” Rodriguez said. “It’s a lousy investment, number one; and number two, it’s not going to shift any balance of power.”
Jorge chuckled to himself. He hoped that Rodriguez’s naïveté was typical of the general populace. “It’s more significant than you think.” He drank off the remainder of his Scotch and motioned the flight attendant for a third drink. He was beginning to feel comfortable for the first time since Rafael Ayala had burst into his office. He smiled indulgently at the accountant. “Do you have any idea what the total gold holdings of all the world’s central banks combined is, Ernesto?”
Rodriguez shook his head. “No idea.”
“About 28,000 tons,” Jorge said. “That’s it.”
“So what?”
“So our 2,000 tons represents a big chunk of that. Nearly 25 percent of the gold the Norte Americanos hold in their fabled reserves in Fort Knox, Kentucky. It’s more than twice as much as the Bank of England holds.”
“But that doesn’t mean we’re going to be able to keep amassing this gold forever. At some point, the Norte Americanos are going to wake up-”
“Let them. There’s nothing they can do to stop us,” Jorge said. He picked up the fresh drink and spun the amber liquid around in the glass. “Well, there is one thing. But they’ll never do it.”
“What’s that?”
Jorge threw his head back and downed half the Scotch. “Legalize cocaine.” He grimaced. “That is the one thing that could stop us and the one thing they will never do.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Rodriguez said. “Some government official said something about it the other day in a speech.”
“Yes, and you saw the reaction. All hell broke loose. No, my friend. The stupid yanquis believe all you have to do is pass a law against something and it will go away. Don’t like something? Prostitution? Drugs? Liquor? Make it against the law. There. We’ve solved that problem. You would think the dumb bastards would have learned their lesson from the Volstead Act in the twenties, but they didn’t. We have nothing to worry about.”
“Two thousand tons or not, there’s no way even Don Gallardo can accumulate all the gold in the world,” Rodriguez said.
Jorge smiled at the accountant, amused by his insight. After accumulating $25 billion worth of gold on his own, that was exactly the conclusion Don Gallardo had come to, and the reason for forming the confederation, but he couldn’t tell Rodriguez that.
“He doesn’t need it all. A simple majority will give him all the leverage he needs to bring the Norte Americanos to their knees.”
“And just how does he plan to do that?”
“We won’t have to do anything,” Jorge said.
“You’re not making sense.”
“Over time they will do it to themselves. The policies that will bring them down are already in effect. Policies which can’t be changed because of their liberal Congress, voted into office by those who demand more and more. Their decline as a world power is certain, fixed, inevitable. It’s happened over and over again throughout history. All we have to do is continue to accumulate gold and sit back and watch while the American government prints unlimited quantities of paper currency to finance their insane social policies. We will help them along a little, by withholding gold from the world markets and forcing them to print ever-increasing quantities of worthless money, and over time, we will see them fall. And when they do, it will trigger a chain reaction that will bring down the other industrialized nations of the world. We will see the paper fortunes of the world crumble into ashes, victims of hyperinflation, while Don Gallardo’s fortune, based on gold, grows to astronomical heights.” Jorge drank off the third Scotch and pressed a finger around his mouth, feeling for his upper lip which had started to go numb from the alcohol. “They’re doing it to themselves, Ernesto. We’re simply taking advantage of their stupidity. Those with the wisdom and the capital to accumulate gold will be the new elite, at the top of the new social order. Don Gallardo has studied history, and he knows. Gold is the one constant, the one true form of wealth on earth.” He looked at Rodriguez through fogged eyes. “Believe me, Ernesto. It will happen.”
Rodriguez squirmed in his seat. “If you can see this eventuality why can’t they?”
“Because the world is full of ordinary, greedy men, Ernesto. Men who can’t see past lining their own pockets. Men who will sell their souls to get elected and reelected to public of
fice. Men who don’t give a damn about future generations.”
“It’s a mistake to underestimate the Norte Americanos,” Rodriguez said. “They have a history of waking up at the last minute and raising all kinds of hell. Ask the Japanese.”
“You give them too much credit,” Jorge said, smiling up at the brunette who picked up his glass. He motioned away an unspoken offer of another drink. “That ‘sleeping giant’ theory may have been true once, but no more. They’re a weak country. They have no cultural solidarity, no moral fiber, no direction. They’re drifting on a sea of confused liberal policies that will eventually drown them all.”
“Maybe, but whatever else they may be, they’re not stupid,” Rodriguez said. “It’s not going to take them long to see what we’re up to.”
Jorge shook his head. “They won’t see it until it’s too late. Like all great ideas that have changed the world, Don Gallardo’s plan is simple. So simple they’ll never see it.” Jorge laid his head back to keep it from spinning and closed his eyes. “It’s the simple conversion of the world’s lowest-level commodity into the highest,” he said, launching into Don Gallardo’s credo. He had heard it so many times he could recite it in his sleep. “We will convert the leaf of the humble coca plant into paste, the paste into white powder, the white powder into paper, and the paper into gold.” He looked at Rodriguez. “All it will take is this simple formula, and the passage of time, and I can guarantee you that the world will fall under the economic, political, and cultural domination of Don Augusto Gallardo and his descendants, as surely as winter follows autumn, as surely as night follows day.”
“Something like that would take a lifetime, Rodriguez said. If it ever happens, we won’t be around to see it.”
Jorge stifled a yawn and laid his head sideways on the pillow, peering at Rodriguez through blurred eyes. “It won’t take as long as you think. You saw the amazing speed with which the Soviet Union crumbled into ashes. It festered for years, like the US, then collapsed within a week. But the timing isn’t important. What is important is that it will happen. All we have to do is maintain our market share and our timetable. We have a network of holding companies in place all over the world to do the acquisition. Companies that are controlled by the Gallardo family. With our cash flow, it’s only a matter of time before we control a majority of the world’s gold reserves. And, whoever controls the world’s gold, controls the world. It’s the Golden Rule, as Don Gallardo is fond of saying: ‘He who has the gold, rules.’”
Rodriguez looked skeptical. “That’s a pretty ambitious plan, even for Don Gallardo.”
Jorge folded his arms and embraced the warm glow of the alcohol. “Don Gallardo is no ordinary man. He’s a man of vision. His children are being trained in the leading universities of the world to assume their rightful places in the new order. His family’s influence will someday reach into every corner of the globe, just as the Rothschild family reached into and influenced every corner of Europe during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.”
“Aren’t you forgetting the source of this wealth?” Rodriguez said. “How influential can people be who . . .”
“Sanitizing his fortune won’t be a problem,” Jorge said. “History has shown that memories are short where great wealth is concerned.”
“This kind of talk is dangerous,” Rodriguez said. “Why are you giving me all of this information?”
“Because we’re both at risk, old friend,” Jorge said. “It’s important for you to know.”
Rodriguez stared at Jorge in the dark. “What happens if we don’t succeed?”
Jorge didn’t answer for a long time. “Let me put it this way. If we don’t get this loan agreement renegotiated successfully and recover that ship, you and I won’t be going home again.”
Jorge awoke to the chirp of tires on asphalt. He stretched and glanced at his watch, not sure how long he’d been asleep. Nearly eleven. His neck throbbed with a dull ache and his mouth was dry. After nearly seven hours on the plane, he couldn’t wait to get off. He glanced at Rodriguez as the jet taxied down the runway. The chief accountant was sitting in the dark, passing the beads of a rosary through his thick fingers.
“Did you sleep?”
“Who could sleep on this damned thing?”
The jet taxied to a stop, and white overhead lights flickered on. Jorge glanced at his companion’s face. He looked haggard and gray, older than his fifty-three years. Fear etched his eyes. Perhaps he’d overdone it. Now that Rodriguez really understood what was at stake, he looked terrified. It hadn’t occurred to Jorge that it might work against him.
“Don’t worry about what we talked about,” Jorge said. “Just relax and do the best you can.”
“No problem.”
Jorge looked out the window at a black limousine pulling alongside the plane. He gathered up his coat and briefcase and stepped off the plane into a moonless night. A cool breeze floated across the tarmac, lifting his collar. The chauffeur, a squat man in a dark business suit, got stiffly out and held the rear door of the limousine open as he and Rodriguez approached. Jorge stopped and squinted into the dimly lit passenger compartment. It was empty.
“Where is Quintero?”
“Señor Quintero sends his compliments and his regrets that he is unable to personally meet you,” the chauffeur said in a monotone.
Jorge climbed into the compartment and slid across the seat, the air-conditioned leather crumpling stiffly beneath him. He flung his briefcase against the door. “I’m outraged. The nerve of that bastard. Who the hell does he think he is?”
“This move is just part of his negotiating tactics,” Rodriguez said after the chauffeur closed the door. “He smelled blood when you refused to take his call this morning.”
“How did you know that?”
“I was standing by Elena’s desk. I heard her tell him you were out. That was a mistake.”
“I know,” Jorge said, embarrassed that he’d panicked.
“He’s just trying to rattle you. Don’t let him.”
Jorge glanced at Rodriguez and nodded, grateful for his calm presence. “You’re right, old friend.”
They fell silent when the chauffeur opened the front door and got in. The limousine drove through a private exit, bypassing customs, and wound through deserted streets. Jorge looked over his shoulder at the city lights fading into the background. He peered out the window into the darkness of the countryside. “Where the hell are we going?”
“He wanted to meet in some resort hotel he owns,” Rodriguez said. “A place called El Dorado.” He looked out into the darkness. “He said it’s because it’s near the airport, but it’s not that close. He just wants us to see how they bow and scrape around him. Wants us to see what a big man he is. Thinks that will help him in his negotiations.”
Just before midnight, the limousine pulled into a gated resort hotel that sprawled over the rolling Uruguayan countryside. A winding drive cut through the grounds to the lobby of the main hotel, which was flanked on both sides by white cottages with red-tiled roofs. Muted lights glowed from fountains and plants shaped like animals. Very impressive. He could see why Quintero would want to meet here, not that it would do him any good.
Fabio Quintero was standing under a glittering crystal chandelier in the main lobby, surrounded by his entourage, when Jorge walked in. He was a tall, thin man with Germanic features, who appeared completely bald from a distance. The black frames of his glasses gave him an owlish look. He took them off and flashed an exaggerated smile. “Ah, Jorge. How nice to see you.”
Jorge. The nerve of the bastard to call him by his Christian name. His face flushed. Rodriguez threw him a cautionary glance. Jorge forced a smile. “Señor Quintero.” They shook hands coolly, properly. “It’s nice to see you.” Jorge fixed him with a level gaze and said, “Finally.”
Quintero laughed. “Please forgive me for not meeting you. The pressures of running a business.” He swept his hand around the empty lobby. “I’m sure
you understand.”
Jorge’s jaw muscles rippled. The arrogant pig. If Don Gallardo had come, Quintero would have been standing on the tarmac with his hat in his hand when he stepped off the plane. He forced a tight smile. “Of course.”
Quintero raised his hand and snapped long thin fingers, still smiling at Jorge.
The hotel manager, a small pink man in a waistcoat, stepped forward. “Yes, Señor Quintero?”
“Please escort my guests to the Viennese Room. We will meet there. See that they are comfortable.”
“Time is of the essence,” Jorge said. “I have a plane waiting-”
“I will be along shortly,” Quintero said, bowing slightly. He turned and walked away.
Jorge started to say something, and Rodriguez shook his head. They turned and followed the diminutive manager down a long corridor. “To hell with him,” Jorge said under his breath. “We’ll start the meeting without him.”
“This way, gentlemen.” The hotel manager opened a gilt-covered door into a conference room decorated in the palatial style of eighteenth-century Vienna. Two opposing walls were covered with gilt-framed mirrors while blue-and-gold tapestries hung on the remaining walls. There was no one in the room.
“What is going on?” Jorge said. “Where is everyone?”
The manager shrugged. “I know of no others.”
“Goddammit!” Jorge moved toward the manager. “Where are they?”
Rodriguez put his hand on Jorge’s arm. “He doesn’t know.”
“There are food and drink on the sideboard, gentlemen.” The manager was backing out the door. “Please ring if there is anything else you need. Enjoy your stay.” The door eased shut behind him.
“That son of a whore will pay for treating us this way.” Jorge threw his coat and briefcase across the long table.
Rodriguez walked over to the sideboard and picked up the lid of a silver chafing dish. Cubes of steak were simmering in a rich brown sauce.
“Put that down,” Jorge said. “We didn’t come here to eat.”
Point of Honor Page 12
