Gold (28 page)

It was Schmidt who met Drew at the door. Beaming, effusive, Happy Hans seemed anxious to justify his nickname. Du Plessis was installed in the formal sitting room used only to receive guests. The room exuded a tranquility that further reassured the journalist.

“Thank you for making the trip,” du Plessis said, neither curt nor gracious, just matter-of-fact. “You agree that it’s important for us to talk.” Drew declined Schmidt’s offer of refreshment, and the banker quietly left the room.

The South African official and the journalist regarded each other for what seemed like a long time. Drew wondered whether Van der Merwe’s body had been identified, whether du Plessis was aware of the incident at Kampfontein or suspected the journalist’s direct knowledge of the hoax.

Drew took a deep breath. “As I’ve told you, I have information indicating that the gold mine sabotage announced by your government did not in fact take place and that South Africa’s gold production has not been impaired.”

“The sabotage was reported by your agency and then announced by our government,” du Plessis interjected, still unruffled.

“I can’t tell you the exact nature or source of my information, but it has come to me in circumstances that guarantee its authenticity,” Drew continued, ignoring the remark. “I’m prepared to break the story on the basis of the information I have, but in the interest of fairness I wanted to offer you a chance to comment beforehand.”

“Don’t you think you’d look a little foolish running a story like that without any verification?” Du Plessis smiled a smile devoid of any feeling.

“Is your government prepared to allow independent verification of the mine sabotage?” Drew asked. He had his note pad ready.

Du Plessis studied the journalist again. “For the record, of course, I remind you of our national security considerations. Off the record—”

Drew interrupted. “I want to be clear that I consider this conversation and any other communication between us to be very much on the record.”

“I think you’ll see afterward that some things will remain off the record,” du Plessis said evenly. “I know what your information is; I know where it comes from and how you got it. I know about your trip to Atlanta and your talk with Mr. Madison, and about your trip to New York and your meeting with Mr. Halden. I know a lot about you, Mr. Dumesnil.” Du Plessis’s eyes burned with intensity. “You’re all alone on this, and I don’t think you can pull it off.”

“Will you tell me what mines were damaged in the alleged sabotage, what the nature and extent of the damage was, and what the effect on overall gold production was?”

“Put aside your notebook, Mr. Dumesnil, and consider for a moment. Do you think the interests of the free world would be served by a one-party black dictatorship under Communist control in Africa’s largest economy?”

“Do you have any agreement with the Soviet Union for marketing gold?”

“Don’t you see that we have to maintain some measure of white control in South Africa in order to avoid the fate that has overtaken so many nations on our continent? I’ll tell you something in confidence—this must remain off the record—our government is very near to announcing a major constitutional change, reorganizing the provinces and black nations into a confederation of autonomous cantons. This will enable us to preserve white enclaves, under white control, while giving blacks perfect freedom and independence to govern their own territories.”

Drew had heard many variations of the cantonal solution when he was in South Africa, always from whites. Moderate black groups insisted on a multiracial unified state. They saw the canton proposal as a way of preserving the white hold on the country’s mineral resources while fostering artificial divisions among the blacks.

“Mr. du Plessis, with due respect, I did not come here to talk to you about South African politics. As you pointed out at our last meeting, I am a financial journalist. My question is very specific: Was there or was there not a sabotage of South Africa’s gold mines?”

Du Plessis did not answer. “Do you miss your drinking buddy, Hannes Kraml?” he asked. There was no mistaking the menace in his question, although his voice remained flat, uninflected.

Drew knew his face lost color. Outside the bay window behind du Plessis, the dull gold and rust colors of fallen autumn leaves softened the landscape gray from an overcast sky. It was very quiet. Schmidt made no noise in whatever part of the three-story house he had retreated to; Drew had heard no car leave, so he trusted the banker was still home.

Drew regarded du Plessis steadily until he felt he could trust his voice. “Was there or was there not a sabotage of South Africa’s gold mines?”

“You’re a fool!” du Plessis hissed. For once his placid bureaucrat’s face contorted in rage and contempt. The hatred and menace of his look was so incongruous with the pastel flower pattern of the English cotton covering the sofa he was sitting on that Drew nearly smiled. “For the record, Mr. Dumesnil, no comment.”

“Will South Africa allow an independent inspection of the mine sites to verify the alleged sabotage?”

Du Plessis stood up. He had regained his composure. “I’m afraid any further conversation is pointless. I’ve conveyed to you the message I had for you. I’m not going to answer any of your questions.”

Drew stood up as well. “Mr. du Plessis, I have personally seen Kampfontein in operation.” The journalist had saved this revelation for the end and had the satisfaction of seeing du Plessis lose control once again, a passing moment of fear quickly suppressed. He made no further acknowledgment of Drew’s disclosure.

“Mr. Schmidt’s car will take you to the airport,” the South African said curtly.

“I’d prefer to call a taxi.”

“It takes forever to get them here. There’s no need; his driver is waiting for you.” Du Plessis held the front door open for him. “Goodbye, Mr. Dumesnil.”

Drew saw a slight, deferential man in a gray suit holding open the back door of the blue Mercedes parked in the driveway. He went down the walk and got into the car.

~

The Mercedes had a gray leather interior and tinted windows. The armrest was down in the back seat, forming two comfortable armchairs.

The Frankfurt plates reassured Drew; there was no reason to think this was not in fact Schmidt’s company car. But the clear menace in du Plessis’s allusions made him uneasy.

He was watching closely, then, as the Mercedes approached the access to the Autobahn. The driver passed up the entrance leading southward to the airport and turned onto the highway going north.

“The airport’s in the other direction,” Drew said to the driver in German. There was no response. Drew suppressed his panic and repeated his remark in English.

At this, the driver nodded in assent. He turned slightly toward the back, keeping his eyes on the road. “Do not worry, Mr. Dumesnil, we are not going directly to the airport.”

“Where are we going, then?” Drew heard his own voice sounding unnaturally shrill.

“Please do not worry. There is no danger.”

The reassurance that there was no danger in a situation that should have none to begin with did not dampen Drew’s fears.

“You’re not Mr. Schmidt’s driver,” Drew said. The driver nodded his head in agreement. “Who do you work for? Mr. du Plessis?” The driver shook his head.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Please relax, Mr. Dumesnil.” The driver remained calm, polite, even deferential. “I am not supposed to answer your questions, but only to reassure you that there is no danger.”

The Mercedes held a steady speed of 180 kilometers an hour as the driver maneuvered his way along the Autobahn, flashing his lights at the laggards blocking the passing lane with an authority that brooked no opposition. Drew recognized the direction signs for the A3, connecting Frankfurt to Bonn, Cologne, and the western Ruhr cities. He resigned himself to his situation. There was no question at that speed of a physical struggle with the driver, let alone any heroics like jumping out of the moving car.

Scarcely an hour later, the driver took the exit marked for Bonn-Bad Godesberg, keeping on the highway that crossed the Rhine just below Bonn itself.

Bonn, styled the “provisional capital” after the postwar division of Germany and Berlin, became the permanent capital of West Germany once it was obvious that there would be no immediate reunification of the divided country. Beethoven’s birthplace had no historical claim to be the seat of government; the city was disparagingly referred to as the “capital village.”

Bonn made a brave effort nonetheless, extending itself along the Rhine by absorbing various suburbs, notably Bad Godesberg, which housed many of the embassies.

By the time Drew’s driver had turned onto the B9—Bonn’s main street—the journalist was wondering which diplomatic representation was their destination.

His question was answered when the Mercedes turned abruptly from a quiet side street into the gates of the Soviet Embassy.

The darkness of the garage disoriented Drew, who suppressed a resurgence of fear. He was fairly certain that the Soviets were allied with the South Africans, but he still could not really accept that American journalists could be murdered in Bonn embassies, despite du Plessis’s threat.

In the garage, Drew was taken in charge by a portly man in a dark blue suit. His mystery driver disappeared without another word.

The new guide—or guard—led Drew down a deserted, carpeted corridor to a large office that may have been the ambassador’s. The civilized surroundings allowed curiosity to overcome Drew’s fears once again. Seated on the couch to one side was a man with craggy, irregular features, dressed in a dark woolen suit.

“Mr. Dumesnil: Abrassimov,” the Russian said, rising to his feet. “Excuse the mystery. I can explain to you why it was necessary, but I apologize nonetheless.”

Drew was trying to assimilate the news. He had never met Oleg Abrassimov, but he recognized the name immediately as that of the powerful vice-chairman and de facto chief executive of Vnesheconombank.

“I have been apprised of your telex to the Soviet embassy in London,” Abrassimov said, as though reading the question in Drew’s mind. “I wanted to talk to you anyway. By one of those odd coincidences, I happened to be in Germany today too.”

Drew still did not know what to say as he accepted his host’s invitation to sit in an armchair facing him across a coffee table with an exquisite inlay pattern.

“I presume your meeting with my friend Mr. du Plessis was unpleasant,” Abrassimov kept on smoothly. “It’s odd—despite their European heritage and their long alliance with the West, the Afrikaners seem to understand American attitudes less well than we do. But then, international diplomacy has never been their strong point.”

“Do you have an agreement with du Plessis regarding gold sales?”

“Patience, my friend, I’m going to explain things to you. Would you care for a vodka?”

Without waiting for an answer, he poured two small glasses full from a bottle still misty from its removal from the freezer.

“Several months ago,” Abrassimov recounted, “du Plessis contacted me and we met in London. As you know, our nations have not been on a friendly basis in the past. But South Africa was worried about the future.

“Du Plessis made a proposal to me about gold. South Africa was upset, gold was stagnant, and they depended on gold exports more than ever to keep their country going.

“We were unhappy with the gold price too, but it was less bothersome for us. We had many alternatives, including, as you know, increasingly favorable access to the Western credit markets, which didn’t quite know what to do with their money.

“But who knows how long that will last? You don’t need an avowed enemy of capitalism like myself to warn you of the dangers faced by the Western financial system; there are enough American professors and bankers who have been talking of little else for years.”

Drew concentrated on his companion’s explanation. The accumulated effect of jet lag and travel fatigue rendered his sense of the world outside himself tenuous. The richly decorated room was overheated; the vodka he had gratefully downed to quiet his nerves dulled his senses even further.

Abrassimov refilled the vodka glasses and continued. “So I talked to du Plessis about his plan. It is the plan you are aware of—to force the price of gold upward by simulating a sabotage of South Africa’s mines and then to coordinate our sales of gold at the much higher price.”

Abrassimov picked up a manila folder on the table in front of him and placed it before Drew.

“This is a copy of the protocol, which you may keep. I can offer no proof, but I assure you it is authentic.”

Drew picked up the folder as in a dream. The typewritten memorandum, in English, appeared to be about ten pages long; it was innocently titled
Protocol for an agreement on the marketing of precious metals between the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics and the Republic of South Africa.

Drew felt dazed as he was leafing through the protocol. It was very explicit regarding both the disinformation and the deal with Marcus.

“Of course,” Abrassimov resumed, “it took several weeks of meetings to gain the necessary agreement.”

Drew interrupted the Russian. “Why are you giving me this? Why are you telling me all this?”