Gold (2 page)

“Like a morgue,” responded Preston patiently. He was a busy man; Drew Dumesnil was a busy man. He didn’t call to tell him the price of gold was steady.

“Hear anything out of South Africa?” Drew asked, in what he hoped was a natural voice.

The news blackout in South Africa had made the gold market jittery at first. South Africa was still the world’s biggest producer. But the supply of gold bars remained steady, and the market quietly accepted that, although some unpleasant things were going on down there, one consequence of martial law was the continued steady production of gold.

“No, not really. Seems to be the same as usual.” Usual round of petrol bombs, police action, scattered reports of massacres in the townships, atrocities in the white suburbs—and a steady fifty tons of gold a month. The only wild card was the Azanian Liberation Front—Azania was the “African” name for South Africa—which had split off from the African National Congress two years ago. As the front-line organization opposing white rule in South Africa, the ANC enjoyed the political support of black Africa, several European countries, and was increasingly accepted even by London and Washington. The ALF wanted action, not political support, and someone was giving them guns and explosives.

“What does the market make of this ALF activity?” Drew asked.

“Seems pretty sporadic, marginal,” Preston said. “So far.”

“Any reports that they’ve attacked business installations, like the coal conversion plants, or”—Drew paused briefly—”the gold mines?”

The journalist felt uneasy because he knew his questions would arouse Preston’s curiosity.

“No. Have you heard anything?” the banker countered.

Drew ignored the question. “The gold mines, for instance; I shouldn’t think they’d be too vulnerable to terrorist attack,” he continued, trying to keep his tone objective. Just a hypothetical question.

“Oh, they’d be very vulnerable, if terrorists could get at them,” Preston responded, to see how far he could push Drew’s hypothesis.

“Vulnerable in what way?” Anxiety was creeping into Drew’s voice in spite of himself.

“Well, the mines are spread out under the ground, with tiny entrances on the top.” Preston exaggerated, to rub it in. “You know that, Drew. Blow up the entrances and you could pretty well sabotage the mines. But I should think our fascist friends in Pretoria would have thought of that and posted a few thousand armed guards around them.”

“Yeah, of course. So you guys aren’t too worried about South Africa keeping up its gold production?”

“Gold’s trading at a hefty premium already since the township riots got serious,” Preston explained cautiously. “But there’s been no news to make us more worried. Drew, what have you heard?” There was an edge to the question this time.

“Look, Morgan, I’ve got to get back into the slot. I’ve been trying to reach our fellow in Johannesburg—never know what this ALF might try. I’ll let you know if I get anything that might affect the market.” He hung up before Preston could protest.

Shit, he cursed again. The greedy bastard was probably buying gold already. He had hated to call him, even though Preston was one of his oldest and most trustworthy sources. Information was literally gold to these people, and Drew knew his questions alone were going to start a rumor.

He rubbed his eyes. Wouldn’t matter, though, if Van der Merwe’s report was true. He checked with the operator; still no connection to Johannesburg. “Get me Atlanta,” he said.

Atlanta was the headquarters of Sun Belt Communications, the owner of WCN. The operator was well-schooled. “Atlanta” meant not only SBC but Richard Corrello, vice-president of the News Group.

“Rich,” Drew said. “Got a humdinger for you. Our man in Johannesburg says the terrorists have blown up the gold mines.” He looked at his watch. Twenty minutes since his line to Van der Merwe went dead. He couldn’t sit on this story if it was true.

“Are you shitting me?” Corrello, born and bred in Manhattan’s mean streets, did not speak with a southern drawl. “Does anyone else have it?”

“Market’s quiet. Don’t think so. Line went dead while I was talking to Van der Merwe, the guy in Johannesburg.”

“How reliable is this—this Van der Mer-wee?” The way Corrello pronounced the name made it sound like something children were taught to do in the bathroom.

“He’s an Afrikaner, but he’s been pretty straight since we’ve had him, going on six years. Never had any problems.”

“The shit will hit the fan,” Corrello said. He had come up on the newspaper side of SBC, but he knew how volatile instant screen communication had made the commodities markets. “Should we go with it?”

Drew’s stomach tightened; he had known it would come down to this. “Well, we have to if it’s true.”

“You’re going to have to call it, Drew,” Corrello said. “It’s a tough one, but it’s all yours. You know we rely on you one hundred percent.”

Drew breathed deeply. “I’m trying to get back to Van der Merwe. Lines are jammed or blocked, or something. I’ll make a stab at the embassy, but I can’t hold it too much longer. I’ll let you know.” He hung up. Tom was at the door.

“Gold’s up two-forty,” Tom said, turning back to the slot.

Bastard Preston. “Get me the South African embassy,” Drew told the operator. Damn racists had moved the embassy out to Wimbledon for security reasons. The big building on Trafalgar Square, a monument to the glory of the British Empire, was too obvious a target for terrorists.

He drummed his fingers nervously on the desk, scanning his notes.
Extremely reliable underground sources. Went off in a series last night between 3 and 4
a.m. Maybe 80 percent of total S.A. production. ALF likely. Nobody knows. Roadblocks all around the mines in the Rand and Orange Free State.
The phone buzzed. “No answer at the embassy,” the operator said.

“What do you mean, no answer? Embassies have to answer. It’s only four o’clock. Keep trying.” He slammed the receiver down.

“Up three-twenty from the fixing,” Tom called from the slot.

Drew punched another number on the phone. “Morgan, are you buying gold?”

“I am now, like crazy,” he said. “But the market was moving even while we were talking. What’s up, Drew?”

“I’ve got an unverified—I stress, unverified—report that terrorists have hit the gold mines,” Drew answered. He didn’t say anything about the 80 percent.

“Bloody hell.” Damn British and their bloody hells. “I’ll see what I can find out,” Preston said, hanging up.

Drew took another deep breath, put his hands flat on the desk, and stood up. He picked up his notes, walked out to the desk, and sat down at the screen next to Bart.

Tom, thin-faced, with a complexion pasty from junk food, looked up at him but kept his fingers moving on the keyboard. Drew signed into the computer system with his confidential code and opened a file; the screen went blank.

ALL, he typed. That was easy: all the wires—commodities, financial, grain, metals, oil, and news, the one that went to the newspapers,
FLA: flash. It would bust into any story on any subscriber screen or printer.

Unconfirmed Reports Say Terrorists Hit South African Gold Mines
.
A clumsy headline, but he had to cover his ass.

Johannesburg (WCN) — Reports that could not be immediately verified said terrorists have sabotaged some of South Africa’s major gold mines. The extent of the damage and the effect on gold production was not immediately known.

—More—

He looked at the screen, made sure that the “nots” were where they were supposed to be, and closed the file; the story vanished from the screen. Tom, who had been watching him closely, punched a command button in the slot. He looked at his screen and whistled.

“Send it,” Drew said, on his way into the cubbyhole. “Rich,” he said on the phone to Atlanta, “it’s gone. Cross your fingers.” He hung up and sat quietly. For one minute. Then the phone buzzed.

“Is that true?” It was Stanley Hartshorne, one of Preston’s colleagues in the gold-fixing round, and a source less old and less trustworthy.

“As true as an unverified report can be,” he answered. Hartshorne hung up without so much as a bloody hell. “Up ten,” Tom called in. The phone buzzed. “Drew, you guys are nuts. That can’t be true.” Drew couldn’t believe his ears. It was Georg Holstein, managing editor of Reuters. His German accent identified him unmistakably. Holstein hung up before Drew could answer. The phone buzzed again. Drew punched an open line and told the operator not to put through any calls except from Atlanta or the South African embassy.

He went out and stood behind Tom in the slot. Gold was up 20; gold futures were up in London, New York, and Chicago; the dollar was up in London and New York. Tom ignored him, tapping the codes, routing the reports as they flashed up on his screen. Drew’s phone buzzed in the cubbyhole.

“I said no calls,” Drew snapped into the receiver. “South African embassy,” rejoined the operator calmly. She was used to the mercurial moods of news people.

Drew looked at his watch. Seven minutes. That was quick. “You must run a correction immediately. It is absolutely not true,” said a thick voice coming onto the line. No hello, no identification.

“Who’s speaking, please.”

“Ambassador Botha,” the thick voice said. Goddamn, maybe it was true. The ambassador himself!

“Our source is reliable,” Drew said. He almost prayed.

“Nonsense. Complete and utter rubbish. Pretoria will be issuing a statement shortly. You must correct your report immediately,” the voice sputtered.

“I’ve been trying to reach Johannesburg for verification, but the lines are blocked,” Drew said, playing for time. He wanted to see how serious they were. “I tried calling the embassy, too, but there was no answer.”

“You must correct your report immediately. It is absolutely not true,” the man repeated.

“I’ll be happy to quote your denial. Tell me your first name and give me a number where I can call you back,” Drew said. The line went dead.

The phone buzzed again. “Atlanta,” said the sweet English voice.

“Are you sure of this, Drew?” Drew’s stomach tightened again. Thomas Madison, chairman of SBC.

“I talked to Rich. He said it was my call. I covered us as much as possible.”

“It had better be right,” Madison’s remark was followed by a click.

Drew was in the slot again. “Any news from Pretoria?” he asked Tom.

“Nothing yet. Gold’s at four-fifty-five. That’s up nearly a hundred dollars. Reuters must be going bananas.” The market was shooting the moon and Reuters, the world’s leading financial news agency, did not have the story.

Tom did not look around but kept his fingers playing over the keyboard. Bart sat leaning on his elbows, taking it all in. He had finished the stories in his queue and no one had thought to give him anything else to do.

“Here’s something,” Tom said, squinting at the screen. “French Press Association says Pretoria will have an announcement on gold mines in fifteen minutes.” Drew returned to his office and tried MacLean’s number. No answer.

“Some selling, now; people taking profits,” Tom called out. One of the three screens in the slot was the on-line markets service, which had various “pages” of price information. Like an accomplished pianist, Tom was calling up pages for different gold markets with his left hand while coding the news stories with his right.

Drew came back to the rim and watched Tom operate in the slot. He caught Bart’s eye, prompting the younger man to check his screen for new work.

Three young men sitting in a small office on Fleet Street, and they had just thrown a world financial market trading trillions of dollars into a vast and dangerous confusion. Small as it was, World Commodities News had established itself as a competitor of the big agencies, Reuters and Dow Jones, in the niche it had carved out for itself. If there had been any doubt, the churning markets reflected in the flickering screens in front of him offered ample proof of WCN’s credibility.

“Drew, sit down at three,” Tom said. The managing editor went to the terminal he had been at before and called up the story Tom flashed to him.

Terrorists Damage South African Gold Mines

Pretoria, Nov. 15 (fpa) — Terrorist bombings have caused an undetermined amount of damage to gold mines near Johannesburg, Johannes van Wyl, minister of Industry and Mines, said today.

Only now did Drew realize how tight the feeling had been in his chest. He breathed easier. The French Press Association was WCN’s pool reporter for South Africa, responsible for distributing official communiqués to all agencies and papers in the pool. He quickly rewrote the report on the screen to lead “Confirming earlier reports,” and so on. He was the only one who could write that, he thought, grimly happy. Thank God.

South Africa. Gold. It was all so appropriate. Drew recalled his long evening walks down Fox Street to the Carlton Hotel. At each street corner in downtown Johannesburg, silhouetted in the twilight, small groups of blacks would stand at the curb. They were waiting for the minibus to take them back out to Soweto, nearly half an hour away.