“Fine, but Mr. Stepanov, let me tell you something. I am not at all sure that there is any task left to talk about. I had been assured that the signing of our agreement was firmly scheduled for five yesterday afternoon. At four-thirty I get a most peculiar telephone call from the Ministry of Technology that it had to be postponed. Technical difficulties was the explanation. I know damn well that we mutually agreed on every single technical detail weeks ago. Now, I suppose there are also new financial difficulties?”
“But Herr Klausen—”
“Excuse me, but I would like to finish. I have been sitting here in Moscow for almost two weeks waiting to sign an agreement, the contents of which we had all agreed upon a long time ago. I was told that the last change was the switch from German marks to dollars as the unit of account. Fine. We agreed to the change in less than twenty-four hours, even though it was not at all easy. Now comes something new. Mr. Stepanov, I intend to fly back to Düsseldorf this weekend, with or without a signed contract. Now, you were saying?”
Stepanov was not exactly accustomed to being addressed in this fashion, but as one victim of that crazy Melekov to another, he could certainly sympathize with the German in his anger.
“That’s just it, Herr Klausen. I’m afraid that there has been a terrible misunderstanding in our bank. All our fault, and none of yours, of course. I fully sympathize with your feelings at this moment. Perhaps we could meet any time it might be convenient for you, perhaps at your hotel?”
“Not necessary. I’m sure we can come to the heart of the matter right here and now on the telephone. Just two questions. Who is finally authorized to approve this contract, or not approve it as the case may be? When will I get a straight answer, yes or no, from him?”
Klausen had been through the Eastern European game of musical chairs at the conference table more than once before. The other side always started with the third or fourth team and slowly worked their way up the ranks until the big boss himself finally appeared. But this was ridiculous.
“I can answer both questions. I have been authorized by Comrade Litnovich, who as you know is a member of our Central Committee, to inform you that he will personally appear for the final signing at five this afternoon. He has, however, requested that I seek your approval to just one change.”
“That is?”
“That we go back to the original financial arrangements, as foreseen before my colleague Melekov asked you to change them.”
“You mean, you want to put the whole thing back on a German mark basis, with exactly the original terms and conditions?” asked Klausen incredulously.
“Precisely.”
“Done.”
“Fine. If you agree I will personally pick you up at your hotel at four, shall we say, and then we can proceed directly to the Ministry of Finance in the Kremlin for the formal proceedings.”
“Agreed.”
“Until then, my dear Herr Klausen.”
After he had hung up, Stepanov immediately buzzed for his secretary.
“Get Lofkin to my office. Right now.”
There was another case: Lofkin. He knew all along what Melekov had been up to. As head of the foreign exchange desk, he had to execute every single sell order. But not even a peep to the man who was chairman of the bank.
“You asked for me, Comrade Stepanov?”
“Yes. I asked for you. Don’t bother to sit down. It won’t take long,” said Stepanov. “You recognize these sheets?” He held up, between finger and thumb, the foreign exchange position sheets which Lofkin had delivered to Melekov not much longer than an hour ago.
“Yes, sir. These are our—”
“My friend Lofkin, I know quite well what they are. I’ll now tell you. They are the results of the work of two raving maniacs—Melekov and you, you insolent little bastard.”
He proceeded very slowly and deliberately.
“Now, do you know what we are going to do? Well I’ll tell you. We are going to buy enough dollars in the forward market to cover every open short position you have. And then some. Do you hear! And we are going to start buying this morning. And we’re going to start in Zurich. They’re three hours behind us. This means they open for business in about one and a half hours. I want you to be in there right at the opening. And we are going to finish the job before you go to sleep again. Do you also hear that? I want a progress report every thirty minutes. By you. In person. In writing. Now get out of here.”
Lofkin got out of there.
The first thing he tried to do when he got back to his office was to get hold of Melekov. He was informed that Melekov would not be back in the bank for the rest of the day. Then Lofkin got his staff together and gave them instructions. That done, he felt sick to his stomach. He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, got out a bottle of kirschwasser—a gift from Melekov after his recent trip to London and Zurich—and took a large slug.
15
IN Switzerland it was still a bit early for kirschwasser—even in the Alps it would have been unheard of at seven in the morning. But at least two people there thought they could have used a drop on this morning of November 6—Dr. Bernoulli because he was as frustrated as he had ever been in his life and Dr. Walter Hofer because he was as worried as he had ever been.
Bernoulli’s frustration was understandable. He had gone through his whole story with the Swiss minister of finance the previous evening. He had been positive that something was not making sense. After leaving the office of the Bank of International Settlements in late afternoon, he simply could not accept the story about the Russians. Because it was too pat; too much of a sinister international plot to be true.
“Hell, things just don’t happen that way,” he had told the minister. Then he had given the details about Mr. Stanley Rosen. The facts were clear. First, Rosen was in the Three Kings Hotel the entire time both before and after the theft of the red dossier from Bollinger’s safe. Second, Rosen was actually seen in company with the man who had organized this theft, ex-policeman Lutz, head of the Swiss Security Consultants A.G. They had staggered their way through almost every known bar within twenty kilometres of Basel—in Switzerland, France, and Germany—finally to bring back two prostitutes who were refused entry to the Three Kings. Third, the reports which the minister had received from New York confirmed beyond any doubt that Rosen was connected with the Mafia—and with the top people in that organization.
And then there was our fine Herr Dr. Hofer, chairman of the board of the General Bank of Switzerland. He was the only man to have seen the secretary of the treasury of the United States and the secretary-general of the BIS together in London. He was not exactly a fool. He could add two and two faster than anyone in Zurich. He probably also knew the work habits of Bollinger: The fact that, as a bachelor, he spent almost every weekend working and always took an enormous briefcase of papers with him to his house. And then back to the Swiss Security Consultants A.G. Who was their most important customer? The General Bank of Switzerland. Bernoulli did not for one split second doubt that a member of the Swiss banking community was capable of organizing such a project.
But the minister was not interested in such theories. The behaviour of the Russians was no longer in the realm of theory; it was a fact, a confirmed fact.
It had been difficult for Bernoulli to argue with this logic. The Russians had an obvious motive. They had had the opportunity to organize the theft in Basel. And they were following through consistently and brutally.
But then should they not pick up the head of Swiss Security Consultants, Rolf Lutz? Under sufficient pressure, surely he would confirm what had truly happened and settle the matter once and for all. The minister of finance said no. “If it is the Russians, we simply do not want to know.” Fair enough. Lutz was taboo because the Russians were taboo. But for Bernoulli that still had not been the end of it. During the long night after this conference, the problem had kept turning over and over in his mind. He could not dismiss Rosen and Hofer with such ease. In fact, the more he thought of Hofer, the more suspicious he got. If the Russian thing was too pat, maybe the Mafia thing was equally so.