“You mean the Americans or the British?”
“The Americans.”
“You have problems with the Americans?”
“No more than anybody else.”
“Lutz is head of Swiss Security Consultants.”
“Then no doubt I have met him. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
“Then we’ve covered what you want to know?”
“Yes. Thanks so much, Dr. Bollinger. I promise to keep in touch. If you think of anything else that might help, please call me at the Euler Hotel.”
They started walking toward the door.
“Say, just one more little item,” said Bernoulli, his hand resting on the doorknob. “What could happen if this document is in the wrong hands?”
“What do you mean by ‘wrong hands’?”
“Let’s say a government hostile to the United States.”
“That’s flatly impossible.”
“O.K., but just for the fun of it, what if it happened?”
“If they leaked its contents, it would start a tremendous run on the dollar. No one could foresee the ultimate consequences.”
“But why?”
“The world would no doubt interpret the contents of this document as the intention of the United States to make a new massive devaluation of the dollar. They would all want out—all at the same time.”
“But that’s not the intention of the United States, is it?”
“Technically yes, but only relative to gold. There will be another devaluation of the dollar relative to other currencies simultaneously, but it will be rather minor—15 percent. That’s not what matters. We are dealing here with mass psychology. The world has been extremely edgy about the dollar for years now. This could set off the panic which everyone has been trying to avoid.”
“And if it was just a private group, or person?”
“Obviously one or the other could make a lot of money.”
“Or,” added Bernoulli, “he could use the document to forward some private crackpot scheme. You know, bring on the death throes of capitalism or some such thing.”
“I must say, you certainly do not lack imagination, Bernoulli.”
“Well, I’m not a banker.”
With that he left. Bollinger walked slowly back to the living room and poured himself a fairly stiff cognac.
Ten minutes later Bernoulli was going through exactly the same exercise back at his hotel. Then he got on the telephone. First to Bern to report in and then to Kommissar Bucher at the local police headquarters.
“George,” said Bucher, “I’m glad you called. I’m starting to like working with you.”
“How come?” asked Bernoulli.
“Because between us things happen—fast. We’ve already got Bechot nailed. One of our fellows, checking out all the bars and hotels, determined that he spent another five-pound note. This time at the bar of the Three Kings Hotel. It was on the same evening as the robbery. The bartender is willing to testify as a witness. We already have a signed statement from him.”
“Great, but how does that help me?”
“It seems that Bechot has been coming to that bar each night, for four consecutive days, starting on Friday, October 24, and ending on the night of the robbery when he left the five-pound note.”
“Uh huh.”
“So we checked the hotel roster. And we turned up enough to make your hair stand on end. First, our mutual friend Rolf Lutz spent four nights there. They overlap with Bechot’s visits.”
“It looks like we’re lucking it out, Heinz.”
“Wait a minute, there’s more. Five—get this—five Russians were there during exactly the same time span. I figured that if Bern is involved, this was bound to tie in somehow.”
“Maybe. Anything else?”
“The Russians had reserved for the entire week. Last Tuesday they checked out suddenly—within thirty minutes. Then there’s a fat little American who during the same weekend was waving around girls and dollar bills like crazy. He left something less than the greatest impression with the hotel management. Spent exactly the same period of time there as Lutz. Right across the hall from Lutz. The hallporter claims to have seen them together, very late one night. Finally there’s a Brazilian. From his description he very closely resembles one of the biggest con men in the business. Interpol has had a signal out for him for years. He stayed at the Three Kings for a week and departed Tuesday morning, the night after the theft—very early. Tuesday seems to have been a big day for people to leave Basel.”
“Great, Heinz. I’ll come right over and get all the details.”
As usual, Bernoulli walked. It was a sunny autumn day but a chilly wind was starting to come in from the east.
10
THREE days later on Tuesday, November 4, snow was lightly falling as Igor Melekov left the Foreign Trade Bank of the Soviet Union. He crossed the street, against a rather brisk wind, and headed toward the main entrance of the Bolshoi Theatre, less than a hundred metres away. His Thunderbird was once again in trouble. The fleet of black Zis limousines of the bank were there for the asking, but as usual he disdained using them. They had absolutely no style. Melekov preferred to take a taxi rather than relent on such an important principle. Not that Moscow taxis had any style either. But that was not the point.
There was the normal bustle of people and traffic in front of the Bolshoi and five cabs were parked there, the drivers in the usual huddle. But no luck. They were taken. It was just one more of Mother Russia’s unfathomable mysteries. As in New York, the majority of downtown traffic in Moscow consisted of taxis. But in Moscow none were ever free. Melekov did not really mind. He was in an excellent mood.
He decided to walk. It was at most a fifteen-minute stroll to the Russaya Hotel. Melekov struck a good figure. He was tall, well dressed, and moved briskly. Going up the rise to Red Square, he had to skirt the usual snaking line of visitors waiting to get a brief glimpse at Lenin’s mummy. Melekov glanced at his watch, a Rolex, and then paused for a moment in front of the showcases of the Gum department store. He figured he was just a shade early. Russians were never early, and he knew that the Germans took account of every little detail, however minute, in their calculations.
He ambled now, through the rest of the huge square, heading toward the Moscow River. The Russaya suddenly loomed on his left—the largest hotel in the world. Here, he noticed, there were lots of taxis, waiting and free. The drivers knew where the dollars were buried. But, he thought, it’s harmless. Let them do their little thing. Most foreigners in Moscow are much too afraid to fool around with petty black market currency deals.
He passed the hotel’s Beriozhka shop and stopped again. He must remember to order another case of Black and White. The shop appeared to be completely full, as usual. It was amazing how all these people came into possession of dollars, the only currency accepted in the Beriozhka stores. One could not help but wonder who in the world had given the original consent for the opening of these operations. The best store in Moscow, offering everything from Heinz soups to Kodak film, and if you tried to pay in rubles they would throw you out. Ostensibly for tourists; amazing how many of them spoke Russian! Oh, well, that was somebody else’s worry.
Melekov’s worry at the moment was the Germans. Then Valentajn Ivanovich Stepanov. In that order only in terms of chronology, not priority. He could hardly wait until afternoon, and the showdown with that financial nitwit, Hero of the Soviet Socialist Republics. If only the caricaturists of the West knew how close they often came to the truth—that fellow strutting around on May Day, medals and all, had to be seen to be believed.