Gold (13 page)

Like today, he reflected. Blacky was deliberately drawing a curtain across the market. It was little comfort to Kraml that this veil left most other operators in the dark as well. The young Austrian had always enjoyed the complete confidence of his employers, and with good reason. He had always played it straight—not exceeding his limits, not fiddling on the side, not trying to cover up mistakes, not following his own head unless he cleared it with his supervisor. He had a good standing in the market.

But the two days trading gold had made him feel like a college graduate on his first probation. They told him nothing. Even now, as the day’s tension washed out, there was no feeling of relaxation. Kraml missed the human warmth. He decided he didn’t like Blacky or trust him.

Just then the American shuffled back into the room, carrying a Styrofoam cup of tomato soup. The canned soup, which Blacky imported by the case from the States, was a trademark of his.

“Kraml”—Blacky’s voice was always soft, almost a purr— “he wants to see you.” He, even for Blacky, meant Marcus.

A momentary chill passed over the young trader. But he dismissed any worries. His book was in order; he’d done everything he was told.

Marcus was on the phone when Kraml came into the office. The trader regarded the world map as he stood there, noticing this time that the time zones indicated on the map were circled in red. Kraml wondered why, because Marcus was famous for calling anyone he wanted, whenever he wanted, regardless of what time it was for the person he called—or what time it was for himself, for that matter.

Marcus hung up and pressed a button for his calls to be held. “Hannes,” he began. His low, mild voice made it sound like a hiss. “We run a confidential operation here. You’re a good trader, you’ve already shown that. If you stay with us, if you keep up the good work, we’ll treat you well, we’ll keep you happy.”

He paused to relight his cigar.

“But Hannes,” he said, looking at the Austrian for the first time, “no questions. We’ll tell you what you need to know.” For some reason, he smiled wolfishly at this and dismissed Kraml by turning back to his phones.

There was a buzzing in Kraml’s ear as he returned to the trading room. Marcus’s hoarse whisper had raised the dealer’s blood pressure in a way five simultaneous multimillion dollar transactions never could. He realized he was afraid, afraid of a bully. It was a feeling he hadn’t had since his first year in the Gymnasium in Linz, when upperclassmen had systematically razzed newcomers like himself.

Working for Marcus was different after all. Kraml had dealt with criticism, accepted the occasional reprimand. But the menace underlying Marcus’s remarks was new. There had been no hint of this in the two interviews prior to his being hired. Kraml had met Frey in London, and later came to Zug to meet briefly with Marcus and Blacky. The conversation had been banal. Not like this.

Visibly subdued, Kraml returned in a trance to his place on the desk. Blacky ignored him, as did the chief dealer. It was a different world from the cozy, clublike environment of the City. He felt he was in a jungle, a dark place filled with unknown dangers.

Walking back from lunch that afternoon, Kraml saw Marcus’s Cadillac pulling out of the garage as he came in. It was an almost endearing eccentricity of Marcus that he maintained the prestige car of his native country in a part of the world dominated by Mercedes, BMW, and Porsche.

Kraml noted that the ungainly limousine turned left, which meant south—Berne or Geneva rather than Zurich. No farther than the border, in any case—valid extradition orders awaited Marcus in all countries bordering Switzerland.

Acting on a hunch, Kraml phoned a friend of his in Berne when Blacky went on his first tomato soup run of the day. Franz Schmidt, who had started with Kraml in the bank in Vienna, was now economic attaché with the Austrian embassy in Switzerland. Kraml had phoned him when he arrived in Zug, and they were planning a skiing weekend together.

“Couple more weeks and we can go,” Schmidt said when Kraml reached him.

Kraml expressed genuine eagerness. “Have a feeling my man is in your neck of the woods today,” he went on.

“Then he’ll be adding to the excitement,” Schmidt said. “Big South African delegation blew in last night. Du Plessis himself. It’s the talk of the town.”

Kraml thought quickly. It fit. Du Plessis surely needed to explain South Africa’s position to the Swiss. It was even logical that Marcus, who had assiduously cultivated the Swiss establishment for the past few years, would be invited to such a meeting.

“Any news on the Russian front?” the Austrian trader asked.

Schmidt paused. “Gold market’s funny.” It was a statement.

“But very busy. Have to go now.
Servus
!” Kraml said, switching over to another line as Blacky shuffled back.

Trading did get heavy. Kraml watched the wires closely, but no one had picked up on the South African delegation. All the financial reporters were in Zurich or Geneva; the South Africans were in Berne.

It was logical enough. But still, Kraml was too attuned to the market. Something was not quite right. Blacky continued today as he had on the previous day, feeding the market slowly, steadily, keeping the gold price on a leash. Yesterday, a Russian came to Zug. Today, Marcus almost certainly was meeting with South Africans in Berne.

Before retrieving his car in the underground garage, Kraml went to a phone booth outside and called Drew in London.

“Sorry I couldn’t talk earlier,” he told the journalist. “You know, this Russian connection: there was a Russian here yesterday visiting Marcus.” Before Drew could respond, Kraml added, “And I have good reason to believe Marcus has gone to Berne today to meet with the South Africans.”

Kraml listened as Drew went through the same checklist of possibilities as he had been turning over in his mind, until the journalist ended up at the same dead end. If Marcus was selling Russian gold, what was he doing talking to the South Africans? And even if he was channeling Soviet production into the market, where was the rest of the gold coming from?

“Drew, there must be something we don’t know about.” It was one of Kraml’s endearing traits that he could draw an obvious conclusion and state it unhesitatingly.

There was silence on the line except for the gentle click every eight seconds signaling another message unit.

“It looks like I have to come over to the Continent next week,” Drew said. “Why don’t I come see you?”

The crystal dial in the pay phone began flashing, telling Kraml to put more money in. He was out of change. “Yes, we need to talk.” The two agreed on Monday evening, and Hannes went around the corner to his office building. It was nearly dark and the streetlights came on as he turned into the garage entrance.

~

Fürglin peered out the window as the Crossair turboprop bounced its way through the valley currents to the Lugano airport. The two legs of the lake opened up between the mountains in a suggestively erotic fashion that appealed to the Swiss banker. The tiny plane landed on the airstrip and taxied up to the low-slung frame building that served as airport terminal for the capital of the Ticino canton.

As Fürglin queued up for a taxi outside, a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow swung around the corner from the service road and glided up to the parking lot. The uniformed chauffeur hopped out and opened the back door on his side to retrieve a valise. On the other side, a thickset gray-haired man with all the elegance wealth can give stepped out and briskly traversed the twenty meters to the terminal entrance. Two men in pilot’s uniform greeted him. One took the valise from the chauffeur, and without any delays or goodbyes the three men retreated into the building while the driver returned to the Rolls.

Fürglin watched this tableau with a small smile of satisfaction. He was home. He had seen the Learjet on the tarmac and mentally ticked off now just who the passenger might be. Thyssen-Bornemisza, perhaps, the steel heir who kept one of many homes in Lugano. The fact that Fürglin did not readily recognize the man from photos meant he was probably very wealthy.

The Swiss settled into the back seat of the Mercedes taxi, wondering if he would buy a Rolls once he was ensconced in Brazil. Better not—he laughed to himself—too showy. But there were lots of ways to be discreet and very, very comfortable.

Fürglin dismissed the images that came to mind. He had only fifteen minutes before the taxi would deposit him at the Piazza Manzoni and the headquarters of Banco Ticino. He had prepared Antonelli, the sleepy chairman of the board, for the notion of his abrupt vacation, but he rehearsed his story again. The constant pressure, the stress of trading in the hotbed London environment, capped by the market shutdown last week had taken their toll, he would tell the chairman, who only rarely ventured away from his lakeside tranquility. Fürglin had engineered a tidy profit for Banco Ticino as well in the gold rush, although not, of course, as tidy as his own. Antonelli couldn’t deny him his two months of furlough, hidden away in his country home, far away from telephones.

Of course, Fürglin wasn’t planning to sit and relax, waiting for Interpol to catch up with him, but he had to tell Antonelli something.

Fürglin had made a brief, cryptic call to Carajec, his Yugoslav friend, to make his real plans. A short conversation with Gabelli in New York had completed his arrangements. Fürglin was Swiss; he left nothing to chance.

The lake was choppy. Off-season tourists dressed in windbreakers and scarves clung to the railings on the top level of the sightseeing boats. The piazza fountains were still going despite the temperature, as the city tried to preserve the resort atmosphere that drew so many Swiss and Germans from the colder north. But Fürglin noticed as he got out of the taxi that very few café patrons braved the chill to sit on the tables surrounding the Piazza della Riforma.

Fürglin went into the discreet side entrance with the elevator going directly up to the offices of the board members. His meeting with “Dottore” Antonelli was even briefer and more perfunctory than he had planned. The pompous old bastard had appropriated the cherished dottore title on the basis of an honorary degree that Lausanne had awarded him in recognition of certain generous contributions from Banco Ticino, but it had not made him any smarter. He belonged to the old generation of Swiss bankers, who waited for wealthy customers from less fortunate countries to bring their money to him. Their gratitude for this privilege expressed itself in a willingness to accept rates that obviated any strenuous efforts on the bank’s part to make a profit.

Fürglin was a member of the new generation, which knew that Swiss bankers were going to have to work harder. International competition had reached the point that many banks were aggressively moving into the market for funds management that the Swiss had monopolized for so long. And Swiss banking secrecy was no longer what it used to be. As Swiss banks expanded their own business abroad, foreign governments had more leverage to pry open the lid of secrecy on numbered accounts. The United States had been particularly keen on getting documents to crack some huge cases of insider trading. Countries like Haiti and the Philippines successfully blocked funds of their deposed dictators. All in all, Switzerland was not the safe haven it used to be, and that meant Swiss bankers had to double their efforts to drum up business.

The problem was, Fürglin didn’t want to work so hard all his life. If being comfortable in this day and age meant trading these restful mountains for Brazil’s beaches, he at least was willing to make the sacrifice.

He would miss the skiing, though. Fürglin gazed at the massive white peaks from the window of the suite at the Splendide Royale that the bank kept for its visiting executives from abroad.
Tant pis
. He sighed.

He called Carajec. “All set?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be there.” Carajec also spoke English as a precaution, although their brief conversation was cryptic enough.

Fürglin relaxed. He knew he could count on Carajec. The big Yugloslav knew how to be serious about serious things, and Fürglin had let him know this was serious.

Carajec owed him a lot. Fürglin had backed him when the young immigrant on the make had wanted to launch his charter service. The ambitious young man wanted to try the charter business from Campione, the Italian enclave across the lake from Lugano, and he had impressed Fürglin enough so that the newly minted loan officer gave him the seed money he needed.

Carajec had prospered, although Fürglin felt fairly certain that not all his income came from tourists. But he was a good customer for the bank, a friend to his first backer, and an amateur speedboat champion. Tonight, banker Fürglin was going to take a little spin on the lake with his customer friend in Carajec’s world-class speedboat.

Fürglin would have liked to go to the bar, but he didn’t want to run into anyone he knew. He’d already told the hotel he wouldn’t be staying, but was leaving this evening for his country house. With about three hours to kill, Fürglin stretched out on the sofa and, like a man without a care in the world, promptly went to sleep.

At 9 p.m., he was at the Debarcadero Paradiso, dressed in a summer-weight suit and a trenchcoat, carrying only a leather flight bag. Carajec’s boat came gliding out of the darkness, its powerful engines reduced to a gentle purr. The waves slapped the fiberglass hull as Fürglin stepped onto the boat without a word. Carajec pulled away from the dock and headed south for the bridge.