Gold (11 page)

But it had taken place. Drew drained his glass. It had taken place the day before yesterday, and the news had shut down world financial markets in unprecedented fashion.

Drew stared at the blurs through the glazed windows of the pub. The mine sabotage had taken place. Van der Merwe had managed to get a telex out about it. The South African government had announced it.

Still, it gnawed at him. He had never seen the telex. MacLean, who might have seen it, had disappeared. Drew could not reach Van der Merwe. The Russians, or somebody, had a lot of gold to sell. His old friend Kraml, as cool under pressure as anyone, was not so cool today.

When he got back to the office, Drew found a short item from the French Press Association on his desk. He looked through the window to Tom, who just nodded solemnly at him.

Drew studied the story.

Apparent Murder Victim Found in
Haute-Savoie

Annecy Nov. 17 (fpa)—Departmental police found an unidentified male corpse hidden in an abandoned automobile near here today. The man had apparently been murdered, police said.

The body was stripped of all clothing or identification, but appeared to be that of a balding, middle-aged man. Severe battering of the face and head delayed positive identification.

The automobile, an Opel Kadett, had no plates and the engine number was filed off. Police said these details suggested a professional assassination. There are indications that the crime may have taken place in Switzerland. Swiss police and Interpol are cooperating in the investigation.

Drew looked again at Tom. The slotman arched an eyebrow and shrugged his shoulders. Drew read the story again. He called MacLean’s number. No answer. His phone buzzed.

“Hello, hero. We still on for five o’clock?” It took Drew a few seconds to realize it was Katy Trevera on the phone, not Sangrat, or Preston, or Corrello, or God knows who from the South African embassy. Katy was advertising director for Money Manager, and the two of them had a comfortable understanding. Free and easy; no plans, no disappointments. Just a couple of friends who enjoyed each other’s company.

“Everything’s set for five; Chel will be there,” Katy said. Drew flipped open his agenda and saw that he had indeed penciled in a date with Katy. For weeks she had been after him to come see the exhibit of Chel Hang, a Chinese painter friend of hers. Although he wasn’t a great student of art, Drew had realized, after years of traipsing through Europe’s best museums and long conversations with artists he had known, that his appreciation of art was as refined as that of most other people. He even bought a piece now and again. He especially liked a situation like this one, where he met the artist through friends. It made painting more personal, somehow.

“Katy, I hate to stand you two up, but you know what’s going on in the market. I’m not sure when I’ll get away.”

“That’s OK. Everybody keeps telling me what a hero you are for breaking the sabotage story. I’ll let you off the hook this time.” There was a subtle change in her voice. “How about a late supper?”

Drew knew that tone, the implied suggestion. Why not? He thought suddenly, with a feeling of relief. After all, the world didn’t come to an end just because of a financial crisis.

“That sounds like a good idea,” he said.

“Why don’t you just come to my place when you’re finished. I’ll fix a salad.”

“See you tonight, then.” Drew felt better already. His eyes came back to the FPA news item. He called Corrello.

“Rich, something just came over the FPA wire.” He read the dispatch to a silent Atlanta executive.

“You think it might be MacLean?” No beating around the bush.

“I have a bad feeling about it,” Drew answered. Those finely honed instincts.

“Don’t jump to any conclusions. Just hold tight till I’ve talked to Madison. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Drew sat with a tight feeling in his stomach. Preston had said Fürglin’s crowd was rough. But what could MacLean have done to deserve death? Was his cut too big?

With a conscious effort, Drew put the matter out of his mind and went out to the slot to spell Tom.

~

Drew watched Katy through half-opened eyes. She slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the dresser, took a cigarette out of the pack, and lit it. The drawn curtains kept the room dim, but the brief flame highlighted her face. She turned and walked quickly down the hallway to the bathroom. Her hair came down to the middle of her back. There were two dimples at the base of her back; her bottom was round, her hips narrow, her legs long and shapely.

She disappeared into the bathroom. Drew turned over on his back, feeling that pleasant ache from lovemaking. The tension of the past week had made him more passionate than usual with Katy. He realized how much pressure he had been under from the release sex had provided.

Katy came back down the hall. She knew about Drew’s addiction to his morning coffee and always kept real coffee on hand to brew for him when he spent the night.

“Coffee’s on,” Katy said. “It’s after nine,” she called back, on her way down the hall. Drew reached for the phone on the bedside table. It had been nearly midnight when he left work the night before.

He dialed the office. “Ah, Drew, tried to call you a little while ago but got no answer,” Richard, his night editor, said.

“I went out early for a run in the park,” Drew lied. He detested jogging, but his flat was near Hyde Park, so the excuse was plausible. “What’s up?”

“The Old Lady called,” Richard said.

Drew had been half expecting a call from the Bank of England, the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street. “Let me guess. They want me to drop around for a cup of tea.”

“I don’t know what they’re serving, but they said it was urgent and they want you there at eleven. Charley himself wants to see you.”

“Eleven it is. Call and confirm for me, will you?” Charley was Charles McQuade Guinness, deputy governor of the bank. Of course, they had to know where that news came from. Had they tumbled to MacLean’s scam?

He turned around, and Katy put a mug of freshly brewed coffee in his hands.

“Charley Guinness wants to see me,” he explained. The deputy governor was probably the most respected man in the City. Effectively the chief executive of the central bank, his role had grown in importance with a succession of weak political appointments to the governorship.

Katy looked at him ambiguously. “You better run,” she said.

Drew ignored her tease. “Yeah, I’d better,” he said. Cab to Knightsbridge and home, quick shower and shave, cab to the City. He would just make it.

She was still undressed as he pulled on his topcoat. “Give me a call,” she said lightly.

Drew kissed her quickly and was out the door. He felt better than he had in a week.

~

Drew still felt good as he mounted the short staircase into the Bank of England’s reception hall.

He hardly noticed the porters in their top hats and mauve tailcoats, although the historic costume had startled him on his first visit a decade ago. The Bank was a financial version of Buckingham Palace, complete with its own colorful guards.

The Bank of England was in many ways the premier central bank in the world. London’s key role in international finance during capitalism’s golden age made England’s bank of issue the model for most other central banks. Although some dramatic banking failures had tarnished the Old Lady’s image in recent years, it still functioned as the moral backbone of the major central banks.

Drew went to the desk and announced himself. It was just after eleven. He had put on his blue pinstripe for the Bank audience.

A porter, more soberly dressed than those at the entry, led him through the hallway around the court and up what appeared to be the back stairs. They came to a reception area where another porter relieved him of his coat.

No waiting, Drew marveled, as the oak door at the end of the reception area opened. If only it was this easy all the time! He thought of the accumulated hours he had spent waiting in antechambers like this one.

Guinness himself came out to meet him. They knew each other from press briefings, and Drew had interviewed him once some time ago.

“Good of you to come at such short notice,” Guinness said, guiding the journalist back to his office.

Drew was surprised to see other people when he came into the room. He recognized Mark Halden immediately, although he had hardly expected to see him in this setting. Halden’s companion was even more remarkable. Drew could not remember ever having seen a woman inside the Bank of England, let alone one as beautiful as this tall brunette.

“Hello, Drew,” Halden said, extending his hand. “Been a while since we’ve met. Paris, wasn’t it?”

Now it clicked. The meeting was with Halden; Guinness was there for protocol.

“Years ago,” Drew responded. “We both had different jobs then.” He smiled.

“This is Carol Connors, one of our top economists.” Carol shook his hand firmly, with a friendly, open smile. Despite his confusion at the sudden turn of events, Drew was momentarily distracted by the encounter. Carol’s brown eyes were alight with intelligence, but perhaps something more—that slight expansion of the pupils that marks a kindling of interest.

Guinness ordered tea as Drew took his place and concentrated on the two men. He imagined how many bank chief executives had sat in his place, waiting for the tea to be served in Guinness’s office, wondering what had prompted the Bank’s summons.

Once the tea was poured and Halden had reminisced with Drew about Paris, the Fed president said, “I’m sure you’ve figured out why we called you.”

“South Africa,” answered the journalist.

“I’ve spoken to Tom Madison and another fellow—”

“Richard Corrello,” Carol prompted. Drew nodded. Protocol again, clearing the conversation with his two superiors at SBC.

“That was it. They said it was your call. The news came from your stringer, they said. But that’s all they knew.”

Drew picked up on cue. He recognized the need for the responsible authorities to explore the circumstances leading up to such a market crisis, so he sketched the chronology of Tuesday afternoon, starting with Van der Merwe’s phone call. He did not mention the telex or MacLean.

The two central bankers listened attentively. Guinness was a tall man, whose big ears stuck out prominently. Carol took notes, looking up only occasionally to meet Drew’s eyes.

“My traders tell me there was considerable movement in the market just before your flash,” Halden said when Drew had finished.

Drew paused. He took a deep breath and told the three of them about MacLean. He narrated just the facts: Van der Merwe asking about his telex, MacLean’s hasty departure for the dentist and subsequent disappearance. They were suggestive enough. Then he added what he had heard about the gold trading from Preston Morgan and David Sangrat, without giving the names of these two sources.

“Looks like we need to find this MacLean,” Halden said to Guinness.

“Have you talked to the police?” Guinness asked Drew, who shook his head. “It’ll be easier for me to get the machinery moving. Somebody from the Yard will call you.”

“There is one other thing I should mention,” Drew said, and told them about the unidentified murder victim in Annecy. The information was greeted with silence, except for the scratching of a pencil as Guinness made a note.

Carol resumed the conversation. “You’ve had no contact with Van der Merwe since then?” she asked Drew.

“Our contact with him was always spotty anyway, and communications seem completely shut down since the sabotage.”

Halden was thoughtful. “Amazing, how thin the thread is,” he remarked. He looked at Drew. “The markets are up and running again. But you know as well as I do just how delicate things are.” He paused. “Off the record, I had an emergency meeting yesterday with the Latin American finance ministers. The Fed’s putting up a ten-billion-dollar safety net for their interbank deposits.”

Drew kept quiet but whistled in his mind. What a tip, straight from the horse’s mouth. Too bad it was off the record.

“Can you do me a favor, Drew?” Halden leaned forward. “Let me know first if you hear anything else from Van der Merwe.” Drew shifted in his seat. “I know it’s unusual,” Halden went on, “but I asked Madison, and he had no objection. It’s up to you.”

It was a touchy point. Deep down, Drew believed that the public good was best served by an independent press. But it seemed a small enough favor, and Halden made sense—the markets were very fragile and it would be irresponsible to bring them crashing down just for a two-minute beat. Halden was the one who was really on the line to keep that from happening. But who was to judge? What would Van der Merwe have to say to Drew when he called, and what would Halden’s response be? Maybe it’s all right this time and not another? Suppose someday the President himself comes to a journalist and says the security of the country depends on suppressing a piece of news. Maybe he’s right—but maybe he wants to bomb a Southeast Asian country illegally.