Gold Page 9

  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.

  Halden waited; he understood what was going through Drew’s mind. Guinness waited because it was Halden’s show.

  “All I can say is that I’ll keep your request in mind,” Drew said finally, looking Halden in the eye.

  Halden returned the gaze and smiled. “That’s all I can ask. I appreciate it.” He pulled a slip of paper out of his coat pocket and handed it across the table. “My direct line at the office, my number at home, and”—he smiled again—”my home away from home, the Princeton Club. Any time, day or night.”

  Drew realized the meeting was over. They all stood.

  “There’s one other favor I’d like to ask,” Halden said. “Could you spare some time for Miss Connors to compare notes on developments in the gold market? She’s going to stay in London for a few days to monitor the situation for us.”

  Drew actually felt the increase in his pulse rate. Before he thought twice, he turned to Carol, “There’s no time like the present. I’ve got to check in at the office, but if you’re free we could meet for lunch in about an hour.”

  Carol smiled and looked at Halden.

  “That’s fine,” Halden said. “Charley and I are having lunch with the governor at his club.”

  As he gave Carol the address of Erno’s Bistro, near Covent Garden, Drew ignored the bemused expressions on the faces of the two older men.

  ~

  Drew decided to save time by getting out of the cab at James Street and walking across Covent Garden to the restaurant. Despite the late-fall chill, crowds of young people gathered on the cobblestones to watch the performers—here a juggler bravely wearing brightly colored tights, there a mime effectively imitating a mechanical man.

  The wrought iron and brick of the old market architecture retained its charm, although Drew felt the gimmicky boutiques filling the renovated halls were tourist traps.

  Still, he preferred the gentrified Covent Garden by far to the soulless structures that had been erected in Paris on the site of Les Halles, the legendary stomach of Paris immortalized in the novels of the twenties.

  Carol was waiting for him at a small table in the comer. He had been quite lucky to get a table on such short notice. As usual, the trendy restaurant was full.

  Drew was confused as he sat down across from this lovely woman he had just met. Not even her severe navy blue suit could detract from her charm. The single miniature rose on the table lent a dash of fiery red to the tableau and made their tryst almost romantic.

  Things were happening too fast. Drew still had a warm emotional buzz from his night with Katy. Then the sudden call to the Bank and the unexpected confrontation with Guinness and Halden. And now ... and now this. He wasn’t sure what “this” was, but he felt a pleasant tingling as he greeted Carol—Miss Connors—that he had not felt since he met Christine.

  “It’s very kind of you to go to all this trouble,” Carol began apologetically.

  “As it turns out, those men were going to let you fend for yourself when they went off to their club.”

  “Still, it’s above the call of duty, and I appreciate it,” Carol said, with her warm, open smile.

  “Don’t worry, I hope to learn as much as I tell,” Drew said.

  The two plunged into a discussion of the past week’s events. Carol remained circumspect but nonetheless filled in some blanks for Drew, especially regarding the maneuvering that had resulted in the markets’ shutdown.

  “Mr. Halden was quite surprised to hear just how the South Africa story got onto the wire,” Carol remarked, when the discussion turned to the sabotage.

  “Yes, he seemed to think the whole thing was kind of chancy,” Drew responded. “But it’s not really quite as fragile as it seems.”

  Carol waited for him to explain.

  “All news organizations have their structures in place to gather the news and to vet it—to make sure the facts are correct before they actually reach the public. Those structures themselves are built up over many years and have to survive the test of time. That very survival is part of the safeguard built into the system. It’s like with banks—the older the organization is, the more credible it becomes. WCN is fairly young, but the U.S. service has been around for a long time, and we have the benefit of their experience.”

  Drew paused. Carol continued to regard him with interest.

  “Then there’s the people involved. A lot of people seem to think anybody can write a news story, but it’s not as simple as it looks. Reporting is a skill you learn as an apprentice, usually working under a master—a good city editor, for instance. Over the years, you develop a feeling for the news, a sense of what seems right and what seems wrong. Even though I’m relatively young, thirty-eight, I’ve had fourteen years’ experience in financial journalism.”

  “Still, the system puts a lot of responsibility on individual judgment,” Carol interjected.

  “It does. But again, day in and day out, year in and year out, that judgment is refined, put to the test. And there’s a very high ethical standard—”

  Drew stopped abruptly and reddened, recalling his confession about MacLean scarcely an hour ago. He saw a funny gleam in Carol’s eyes.

  “You’re thinking about MacLean, aren’t you?” he asked.

  “As a matter of fact, no, I wasn’t thinking about him.” She paused, as if to mark a change of subject. “You’re devoted to your profession, aren’t you?”

  “I am. But I don’t think I’m so special in that. I think it’s a safe bet that you’re devoted to yours.” Drew studied her for a reaction. “After all, to have your responsibility, at your age...?” He trailed off, asking the question.

  “Thirty-four. I’ve worked hard.” She looked at him with one eyebrow raised. “But maybe I’m only ambitious, and not devoted to anything but getting ahead.” She laughed suddenly. “We’re a very serious pair, aren’t we? Tell me what it’s like to live in London.”

  Drew spun off his stories about being an American in London, concentrating on Carol’s reactions, responding to them. He realized that something was happening that was out of the ordinary for both of them.

  “I’ve got to retrieve Halden,” Carol said finally, after she had quizzed Drew about the theater in London. “Perhaps we can pick up our discussion of the gold market later; Halden’s going back to New York this afternoon.”

  She had said it casually, but the invitation was unmistakable. Drew felt giddy. He put Carol in a cab to the Bank, with a promise to call her, and walked the half hour back to Fleet Street to regain his composure. The tingle was still there by the time he reached the office.

  SIX

  Marcus put down the receiver and relit his cigar. He spent most of his time on the phone. The constant conversation, cigars, and generous doses of whiskey over the years had made his voice mellifluous. His telephone voice was gentle, almost seductive, save for the rasp deep in his throat.

  He swiveled to the window and looked out at an overcast sky casting a dull gleam over the plain squat buildings of Zug. But Marcus paid little attention to the view. He thought of Abrassimov and their discussion of the previous day. He thought of his meeting this afternoon in Berne.

  Marcus paused several times like this each day. Although many of his decisions were instinctive, reacting to pressure, he needed to reorient himself periodi
cally.

  He was alone; he had to rely on himself. He had always made his decisions alone. At age twenty, he decided college was a waste of time. He went to his father and declared his intention to drop out. Before his father could remonstrate with him and launch into the immigrant’s plea that he wanted everything better for his son, Marcus said he wanted to work in the family packaging business.

  That assuaged the old man, who reconciled himself very quickly to his son’s decision when Marcus doubled sales in a rapid series of major contracts and the acquisition of an upstate factory.

  But the packaging business was too small for the young man. Again alone, he decided to seek greater fortunes on Wall Street and joined Davidoff & Co., a medium-sized firm trading in securities and commodities. Johannes Martin, a tough immigrant trader, was pushing the firm out of a comfortable somnolence to become a leader in world markets.

  Marcus was just the man Martin needed. The young man’s instinctive skill in trading quickly made him a success in the arcane world of commodities. He mastered the pricing intricacies and peculiarities of each market. More than that, he pursued his deals with a preternatural energy.

  Marcus realized early on that it was not money that drove him. He wanted to be rich, very rich, but not just to have money. Nor was it power he sought. What was power, after all? No, Marcus sought freedom, freedom to act, to move markets, control them even. That for him was the objective of wealth and power—this freedom.

  He had that freedom now, and it belonged to him alone. Martin, his mentor at Davidoff, had tried to restrain him, to curb some of his activities. Marcus decided to break with him and leave Davidoff, which had become the biggest commodities trader in the world largely through Marcus’s efforts.

  The press described the rupture as a result of disputes regarding Marcus’s bonus. As if he cared whether the bonus was $2 million or $3 million. No, it was the freedom Marcus sought.

  So he went to Switzerland, with its banking secrecy, to the canton of Zug, with its low taxes—what were taxes, anyway, but an infringement of freedom—and he traded freely around the globe. He quickly built up Marcus Trading to be as big and important as Davidoff. The Internal Revenue Service in the United States found his transactions too free; they shut down his operations in the States for alleged tax evasion. Marcus resented the claim, but he resented the restraint on his freedom of operation even more. He paid $100 million to settle the corporate tax claims, and his offices reopened. He refused to settle the personal tax claims and renounced his American citizenship. The IRS still maintained warrants for his arrest in every country that considered tax evasion a crime. Switzerland was not one of them.

  In all this, Marcus had acted alone. True, Blackford Teller had stayed with him, leaving Davidoff to go with Marcus to Switzerland. But Blacky was like a dog, loyal in an unreflective way. The decisions, the actions, were Marcus’s alone.

  He needed to act now. He had seen Abrassimov; he would see du Plessis today. He knew what they wanted him to do, and he would do it. He would do it because he was the only one who could.

  But he would do it his way.

  “Come in here a minute,” he told Blacky on the internal line. “Bring Frey.”

  The two men came into Marcus’s barren office, Blacky tucking his shirt in as they entered. Frey, a Swiss, was impeccably pressed and manicured, lanky and thin next to Blacky.

  “We’re going to short gold futures,” Marcus told them.

  Neither responded. Blacky knew what Marcus had in mind; Frey could guess.

  “The market will be confused,” Frey said finally.

  “It sure as hell will be.”

  Marcus shook with his funny, silent laughter. Although Marcus’s traders would spread the contracts through a variety of middlemen, the market would soon see that someone was shorting gold futures—someone expected the price of gold to go down and was speculating on that eventuality in the futures markets. In time, the shorting would probably be traced back to Marcus.

  “But they won’t know what to do. They’ll stay confused,” Marcus added. “We’re not going to enlighten them.” At this, Blacky grinned lopsidedly.

  Marcus could see Frey working it out in his head, but he was not ready to confide completely in the Swiss. It was enough that he and Blacky knew what was at stake.

  “OK, boys, go to it,” Marcus said, and swiveled back to face the window.

  ~

  Kraml felt the fatigue. He had handled half a billion dollars’ worth of gold deals during the day. Only now, with Europe coming to a close, did the activity slacken. Most of the activity in the United States was done on the markets in New York and Chicago. Marcus had his own teams there.

  “Just keep on a holding pattern,” Kraml overheard Blacky say into the phone.

  The American, who looked just the same now as he had at the beginning of the day, hung up the receiver and looked up into Kraml’s gaze. Visibly suppressing his annoyance, he opted instead for bonhomie.

  “Hectic, huh?” he said, with a slight attenuation of the frown normally fixed on his face. It was a grimace that was the closest he ever came to a smile. Blacky was a very unattractive person. It wasn’t only his bland appearance or slovenliness; a fundamental unpleasantness seemed to emanate from him, like body odor.

  “Well, it’s to be expected, after all the news,” Kraml said. “But who is doing the selling?”

  Blacky just grunted as he picked up a flashing phone. “Talk to Carlton. He knows what to do,” he said curtly to his caller.

  Without another word, Blacky got up and shuffled out of the trading room, signaling to the chief dealer to handle whatever transactions came in.

  “Friendly cuss,” Kraml said to the dealer, trying to keep his face sympathetic. His colleague, a dour Swiss, said nothing.

  Kraml felt much less content than he had at the oil desk. Although Marcus’s whole operation lacked the ambiance Kraml cherished in a team, at least there had been no mystery at the oil desk. The market was reasonably transparent. It was important for Kraml to be in the picture, to know the overall movements of the market. Otherwise it was like working in a closet.

  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 y
ou 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.