Gold (8 page)

“I’m told Kuwait is buying a lot of gold,” Drew said, seizing the initiative.

Sangrat finished his ritual with the huge Havana cigar before responding. “That’s just what I was going to talk to you about,” he said, once he had taken the first few puffs. “My friends are a bit perturbed.”

Drew had only a vague notion of just which Kuwaiti investors Sangrat considered his friends. It didn’t matter much, though.

“Some people seemed to know about the gold mines before the news came out,” Sangrat said. His friends must be very perturbed, thought Drew. First the peremptory summons, and now Sangrat coming to the point without the usual preliminaries.

“Some people in Kuwait?” Drew asked, suppressing again his queasiness. What had MacLean done?

“Some in Kuwait, some in other places.” Sangrat focused on the journalist. “My friends reacted very quickly, but these others, they made a killing.”

No matter how much money they made, they always wanted more. It was their sport. Kuwait had more millionaires per capita than any other country in the world. The small, desolate emirate on the Persian Gulf was the second-largest Arab oil producer. Kuwaitis boasted that their merchant tradition made them more sophisticated than the simpleminded nomad warriors of Saudi Arabia and other neighboring Gulf states. But their merchants had been more smugglers than tradesmen, and their sophistication had not prevented a stock market collapse in 1982 that paralyzed the economy for half a decade. Through the eyes of many Kuwaitis Drew had met, financial markets seemed like a real-life Monopoly game that they played with middling skill.

“Are they still buying?” Drew pursued his own question first. He wasn’t going to tell Sangrat about MacLean; he wasn’t sure just what he was going to tell him.

“That’s the other thing,” the Lebanese said. “My friends are buying, the price is going up, but”—he relit his cigar—”somebody’s selling.”

“Maybe those other Kuwaitis are taking their profits,” Drew suggested.

“Perhaps they are, but that doesn’t account for the amount of gold coming onto the market.”

“Maybe the Asians,” Drew said. Japan, the Philippines, Korea, and Hong Kong had absorbed a lot of gold in recent years. Indians had always had a great affection for hoarding gold.

“They like to have gold, to keep it. They’re not investors,” Sangrat said. For the Lebanese, it was clear that “investing” meant speculating.

“Where do you think it’s coming from?” As long as he asked questions, Drew didn’t have to give any answers.

“I don’t know. My friends are beginning to wonder.” Sangrat again fixed on Drew. “What have you heard?”

“Not much. The Kuwaitis are seen as buyers, but no one’s located the sellers yet.” Drew shrugged. “The Russians?”

Sangrat tapped the ash on his cigar. “That’s what we presume, but I don’t know.” He paused. “Can you find out what Marcus is doing?” Sangrat knew that Drew had spent some time in Switzerland.

Of course, Drew realized. That’s the weak link. Philip Marcus was a product of the market. Scarcely human, he was the quintessential trader. Already worth hundreds of millions of dollars, he kept playing the markets, amassing money with no respect for laws or propriety, for human morals or dignity. From his base in Zug, Switzerland, the first-generation American bought and sold oil and gold, grain and money, in every market in the world. He sold Nigerian oil to South Africa and American computers to the Soviet Union. There were very few countries he could go to without being arrested.

“He’s very secretive, of course.” Drew’s thoughts turned to Hannes Kraml, his Austrian friend who had recently gone to Zug to work for Marcus.

Drew recalled the day when Hannes told him about this decision. They had come out dripping after forty rugged minutes on the squash court; Drew actually had one of his rare days of victory over the athletic Austrian.

In the sauna, that bath of warmth to make the punishment of the courts worthwhile, Hannes mentioned with a false casualness that he might be moving to Zurich.

“No kidding,” Drew responded. “One of the Big Three?” The journalist knew Hannes had held talks off and on with at least two of the three massive banks who dominated the Swiss financial system and were among the strongest banks in the world. Drew also knew that, much as Hannes liked city life, he yearned for his mountains.

“Actually, the job would be in Zug,” Hannes ventured timidly.

Drew looked at his companion curiously. “I remember very distinctly late one night how you loudly proclaimed you would never work for that crook.”

The Austrian, whose bland features lent him a deceptively slow look, smiled shyly. “I’d probably had too much to drink.”

“It’s not me who’s passing any judgments, old friend,” Drew said. “It’s you who’s got to know.”

“I’ve been asking around. The operation itself seems pretty much on the level,” Hannes explained. “And he does pay really well.”

“And the mountains are very close, and he’s really no worse than most other people only he got caught, and ... and ... and.” Drew smiled. “You don’t have to rationalize for my benefit. My only regret is that I’ll have to find another squash partner who’ll let me win sometimes, and another drinking buddy who knows that pubs are for drinking beer, and somebody else who likes driving like a maniac down country roads—I’ll probably have to replace you with three people.”

Hannes studied the hot coals of the oven.

“Seriously, give it a try,” Drew added, “if it seems all right to you. Keep your eyes open, and if things start to get a little funny, just bolt. You know you’ll never have trouble landing a job.” Traders of Hannes’s caliber were rare.

“I could ski every weekend in season,” Hannes said.

“When do you leave?” Drew realized that the Austrian had long since made up his mind.

“End of next week.” Hannes broke into a grin.

“Two more squash games and at least one long pub crawl. Deal?” That had been three months ago.

Drew saw Sangrat waiting patiently for him to finish his reverie. “It would take me some time,” the journalist responded.

“I think we’d all know a lot more if we knew just how Marcus fit in,” Sangrat said.

Drew had no idea how long it would take him to get through to Kraml, or whether the trader would talk. “I can’t promise anything,” he said to his host.

“Of course not,” the Lebanese said after a pause. “But I think we can help each other to find out what’s going on.”

When Drew returned to his office, the tension and lack of sleep from the past twenty-four hours caught up with him all at once. He felt a sudden emptiness, a profound discouragement that made him sad, almost as if he alone had the responsibility for the momentous events going on around him. Gold. South Africa. The dollar. Kuwait.

What always bothered him about this roller-coaster ride of crisis and euphoria in the financial markets was how vulnerable it made the political situation. After all, the world had survived financial calamities in the past, in spite of the individual suffering they inflicted. But the conditions resulting from a financial collapse too often gave rise to worse consequences. The Great Depression had meant a stock market decline and high unemployment in the United States. In Germany, it had meant a banking disaster, hyperinflation, Hitler, and revenge.

Financial crisis increased the volatility of international relations. At times, he wondered what would have happened in 1982, just after Mexico suspended its debt payments and ushered in the crisis they were still suffering from, if King Fahd had been assassinated in Saudi Arabia or if the Soviet Union had invaded Iran from Afghanistan.

Drew started doodling on his desk pad.

1520: MacLean excuses himself to go to the dentist.

1538: gold fixing.

1545: Van der Merwe’s call.

1618: WCN flash.

1654: Pretoria’s announcement.

1815: press conference at New York Fed.

Gold. Buyers in Kuwait, elsewhere, after fixing. News leads to sharp price rise, profit-taking. Strong demand but steady supply.

It didn’t smell right. Panic buying should not be matched by selling. MacLean. Odd duck. Why did he leave Canada? (So why did you leave the States, wise guy?) Where was MacLean now? With whom does he have contacts? Drew underlined the word “contacts” that he had written on the pad. He put a question mark behind it. Marcus. If he’s selling, he might have the key to where the gold is coming from. Maybe he’s been stockpiling gold for this kind of opportunity. No. Marcus wasn’t a stockpiler, he was a trader. Who else could stockpile gold? Russia? He underlined again.

He looked at his doodling. Underlined words with arrows and question marks. It did not make sense.

He looked at the word “contacts.”

“Tom,” Drew called to the slotman from the door of his office, “who was that Swiss banker MacLean used to hang around with?”

Tom hit some keys and looked up. “Fürgel, I think. No, Fürglin, over at Ticino Bank.”

Drew called Preston. “Morgan, what do you know about Fürglin?”

Silence, as Preston’s internal computer digested the significance of the question. “Smooth operator. You think he’s the one?”

“Could be. Gives me a lead, anyway.”

“Stay on the line a moment,” the banker said.

If MacLean had decided to profit from the sabotage, a banker like Fürglin would have been in a position to exploit the advantage of having the news ahead of the market.

Preston came back on the line. “Well, he’s supposed to have a link to some Kuwaitis, so that part fits. He also runs some fishy money through the Caribbean, but I’ve no idea who’s behind it.”

Where had MacLean gone? Drew found himself asking. Off to South America? The questions surprised him. Little more than twenty-four hours ago, his life had been much more innocent.

“You know, company like that can get pretty rough. I hope your man knew what he was doing,” Preston said.

“I’ll admit I’d feel better if I could track him down,” Drew told him. “Thanks, Morgan. Let me know if you can dig up anything more about Fürglin, will you?”

FOUR

MacLean paid no attention to his surroundings as he crossed the Pont du Mont Blanc. The crystal-clear November day lent a blue sheen to the lake stretching out on his left. Geneva gleamed on both sides of the river, and snowy peaks beckoned in the distance.

MacLean distrusted the Continent. It was too pretty to be sincere. The neatly trimmed gardens and parks, the wedding-cake buildings sandblasted to their pristine glory, the sense of comfort and well-being oozing from the shops and finely kept houses—it made him uneasy.

He mounted the cobblestone alleyway bearing the street name of the address Fürglin had given him over the phone. He found the right number, and the brass plaque with the three initials designating the bank Fürglin was sending him to. He pressed the buzzer, and a uniformed concierge immediately opened the door and admitted him. Shabby as MacLean’s coat was, the concierge relieved him of it and seated him in the parlor before inquiring his business. As instructed, MacLean said simply that Mr. Fürglin had sent him.

The concierge nodded noncommittally and left MacLean alone. The Canadian glanced at the publications spread out on the coffee table. They seemed to be three-month-old analyses of the Swiss bond market. MacLean didn’t feel like reading anyway. He might never read again, he thought; he had had enough in twenty-six unhappy years as a journalist. He sure as hell wouldn’t be in any hurry to read newspapers. He smiled grimly.

The sunlight filtered through the chiffon curtains in the parlor, but the overhead chandelier reduced it to a pale rectangle on the beige carpet. The heavy damask drapes and imitation Louis XVI furniture lent further weight to the room.

MacLean looked at his watch, but only five minutes had passed. He wasn’t really worried. His price, $2.5 million, wasn’t much compared to what Fürglin and his associates had probably earned through his complicity. There was no reason for a double-cross.

The door opened and a tall, elderly man walked in, carrying an attaché case. The man had graying temples, was pleasingly portly, and had the gentle eyes and face of somebody’s grandfather. Somehow, MacLean had formed a different image of the famous Swiss gnomes.

“So you’re MacLean,” the banker said. His voice was as gentle as his appearance promised. He didn’t give his name, however, and didn’t offer to shake hands.

He set the attaché case on the coffee table, on top of the bond market analyses. He flipped the latches and opened up the case. MacLean had been reassured by the sight of the case. When it was opened, he was stunned. It seemed incredible, the packets of green bills with blue wrappers around the middle. It was too much of a cliché, a hackneyed scene from a B movie.

“Here you are then,” said the banker, with a businesslike manner suggesting that he passed out several such attaché cases each day. “It’s two and a half million dollars, as specified.” He spoke English with just the barest trace of an accent.

The thousand-dollar bills were in packets of fifty each. MacLean didn’t feel like counting them. Whether or not it was exactly $2.5 million, it was more money than he had ever imagined possessing. He felt a sudden urge to flee.