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  “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 h
ow 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?”

  “Amazing, isn’t it, that document. The South Africans have a fetish for legal form, even when they are lying and stealing.” Abrassimov lit a cigarette. “Why am I telling you? Let me explain first why we went along with this agreement.

  “The financial side was interesting. We calculated that gold would double or triple in value—which it did.” The Russian leaned forward. “But it was the politics that decided us. We saw an opportunity to exploit the falling out between Washington and Pretoria, our first real chance to form an alliance with the white government.”

  Drew concentrated his energies on listening to the Russian. Abrassimov’s explanation was plausible, but the journalist was not completely convinced.

  “But aren’t you double-crossing the South Africans by telling me all this?” Drew interjected.

  “Am I? You won’t be able to quote me or cite me as a source. I’ve given you a document that verifies what you already know; I’m satisfying your curiosity to some extent. No,” Abrassimov continued, “such a hoax cannot last long. In the event, it was you who uncovered the information to expose it.”

  Abrassimov read the skepticism in Drew’s face. “You are not satisfied. Think a moment of the position of South Africa when the hoax is exposed: the gold price plummets, the white government loses its last shred of credibility and legitimacy in the eyes of the West. Desperate for assistance, they turn to their new allies, their friends in the East, to preserve their grip on the country they think is theirs.”

  Drew’s mind buzzed. Such a heady dose of Realpolitik was out of his league. Yet it made a crazy kind of sense.

  “So you want me to help you take over South Africa?” The question, so natural in the context of the nightmare he was living through, alarmed Drew as he asked it.

  “You are not responsible for what happens in South Africa, Mr. Dumesnil. You are responsible only for doing your job well. If it were not you, it would be someone else who would break the news of the hoax.”

  “Is someone trying to kill me?” Drew asked suddenly.

  Abrassimov was quiet. He crushed out his cigarette. “As I said, the Afrikaners have not much experience in international diplomacy. They asked their allies to help them ensure the success of the plan. In their eyes, that meant eliminating all possible sources of exposure.”

  Kraml? Van der Merwe? MacLean?

  “The incidents involving you were carefully stage-managed. You were never in real danger, and you will not be unless the South Africans try to take matters in their own hands. But we have you under constant surveillance. We showed ourselves at times to alert you.”

  “But the Bulgarian really died,” Drew said, half as statement, half as question.

  “Our Bulgarian friends were distressed that you had succeeded in overcoming the agent they sent at our behest. They did not know, of course, that there was a third man who came to your rescue. The other deaths, too, as you know, were quite genuine, but absolutely necessary for us to retain the confidence of the Afrikaners.”

  Drew tried desperately to maintain his sense of reality. Abrassimov went on.

  “Our mutual friend Mr. du Plessis thinks in fact that you have already met a fate much less congenial than sitting here drinking vodka with me. It‘s all, as you say, a bit over your head, I think,” he said. “Do you have other questions?”

  Dozens of questions buzzed in Drew‘s clouded mind. He needed time and rest to sort things out. The confrontation with du Plessis had wiped him out, while his conversation with Abrassimov was surrealistic.

  “What happens next?” he asked.

  Abrassimov shrugged. “We await events,” he said noncommittally. “I‘m afraid it‘s too late to return to London this evening, but I have booked you a room in the Königshof. The driver will take you there.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Carol looked at her watch again. Her computer screen shimmered with a spreadsheet of statistics that she found impossible to keep in focus. She stared at the watch. It was after four; Drew should be calling.

  She stood and paced up and down the narrow office, holding her arms as if to keep off a chill. She turned abruptly and sat at her desk, quickly tapping a code on the keyboard of her Reuters monitor. The latest headlines flashed onto the screen. Nothing out of the routine.

  The calm seemed sinister to her. The markets were quiet but hardly tranquil. Even in the bank, a surreal stillness reigned. Halden‘s uncharacteristic withdrawal had created a feeling of isolation among the staff. People avoided each other. Since Daniels‘s timid approach, Carol had had no contact with the trading staff except to exchange data.

  She stood up again. She was worried about Drew. Du Plessis had no moral sense and would not hesitate to act against the journalist if he felt threatened. And Drew certainly threatened South Africa with his knowledge.

  Carol understood Drew‘s sense of duty intuitively, even though its consequences were harder for her to accept. At the Fed, the highest value was to protect America‘s economic interest, and Carol had made that value her own. She could even sympathize with Halden‘s radical approach, because his motivation seemed to be sincere. But she could not understand Halden‘s willingness to take such great risks on his own authority.

  Carol jumped when the phone rang. She grabbed for the receiver.

  “Thank God it‘s you,” she exclaimed when she heard Drew‘s voice.

  “In Bonn?” she interjected as he told her where he was. She listened intently as Drew recounted his meeting with Abrassimov.

  “You‘re sure the document is genuine?” she asked.

  “It all fits.”

  “Do you want me to tell Halden?”

  “No. I don‘t feel that he and I are on the same side anymore. He‘s taking too much responsibility into his own hands. Have you seen him doing anything unusual?”

  “It‘s quiet here. Creepy.”

  Drew sighed. “I‘ll catch the eight o‘clock plane to London tomorrow morning. I‘ve got everything I need now to break the story.”

  Carol was silent a moment. “You have to follow your conscience.”

  “I‘ll call you when I‘m in the office.”Drew‘s voice was faint as he wished her good night.

  Carol sat at her desk. She wondered whether she should call Roberts at the Federal Reserve Board or Johnson at Treasury to warn them about the gold story and Halden‘s plans. They both had known h
er since she had accompanied the U.S. delegation to the economic summit in Toronto.

  But they would have to confront Halden with her revelations, and Carol felt certain he could make his own plausible explanation of events prevail. Nor was Carol convinced that she even had the right to use Drew‘s knowledge in that way.

  She stood up suddenly and walked with quick steps to the elevator. She came onto the tenth floor and went to Halden‘s office. This time, the Fed president was standing at his desk, poring over several open files.

  He looked up when Carol knocked, but neither smiled nor said anything.

  “What are you doing, Mark?” Carol was surprised at her own boldness.

  Halden removed his glasses. “Come in and sit down.” He lowered himself into his chair. Carol crossed the room and sat facing him across the desk.

  Halden studied her face for a moment. “Of course, you‘re very bright,” he said. “How much have you figured out?”

  “I haven‘t figured out anything. I know you have collected certain types of information, and I think I know why. But I don‘t understand how you can do all this on your own. If you‘re planning to sabotage the world financial system, you‘ve got to talk to Roberts, or Johnson, or even the President.”

  Halden expelled a long sigh. “I‘ve spent many, many hours talking to those men,“ he said. “I can assure you, if I had the time now to talk to them, I would convince them that my way is the right one.”

  Carol frowned. “How can you be so sure?”

  Halden glanced over the papers on his desk and wiped his face with his right hand. “I said I could convince them my way is the right one.” He looked at her. “I didn‘t say I was sure it was.”

  Carol‘s face drained of color.

  “It‘s a great risk to engineer the collapse of the financial system. There are so many unknowns. But I don‘t see what else can be done.” Halden seemed to slump in his chair; he looked smaller and older to Carol. “We‘ve been fighting a losing battle for years. I see no other way to regain the initiative.”