Sir Robert offered sherry. He apologized for not inviting any of the other executives of his bank to lunch. He had not known that they would finish their business so quickly and had anticipated that their talks would continue well beyond lunch. Neither Dr. Hofer nor David Mason appeared especially offended.
The lamb chops were excellent and the wine which accompanied it superb. It was always astounding to Walter Hofer to realize that it was often easier to get a good bottle of French wine in London than in Zurich. After coffee had been served, Dr. Hofer very carefully broached the subject over which he had been mulling during the entire meal.
“David, do you by any chance know what your secretary of the treasury is doing in London this week?”
Mason replied, “No, in fact I’m fairly sure he’s not here, but in Washington.”
“No, I saw him at the Savoy last night.”
“Peculiar.”
“Yes, I thought so also.”
Hofer turned to Sir Robert Winthrop. “Another odd thing. I also saw Bollinger of the Bank for International Settlements here last night. Would you know, Robert, is there some meeting going on right now in London that would demand his presence?”
“None whatsoever that I know of,” replied Winthrop.
Both Sir Robert and David Mason were extremely alert now. It was totally out of character for Dr. Walter Hofer to gossip. Hofer did not leave them in suspense. He repeated every detail of the scene he had witnessed in the grill room the previous evening, placing particular emphasis on the document with the red cover which apparently had entered the restaurant in American hands and left in the custody of the man from Basel.
“Damn peculiar,” concluded Sir Robert. “If you would like, I could perhaps ask around and—”
He was interrupted by Hofer, something he rarely did. “No. I would prefer that we keep this entire matter completely, and I mean completely, to ourselves. I trust I have your word on this.”
He then very succinctly outlined his opinion concerning the possible purpose of the get-together at the Savoy.
They agreed to keep in touch on the subject.
Sir Robert accompanied both of them back to their hotels, first dropping Walter Hofer at the Savoy and then proceeding on to Claridge’s with David Mason. “Robert,” said Mason as they arrived, “why don’t you come in and join me for a quick scotch?”
“Don’t mind if I do. After all, it has been quite a day.”
The driver was instructed to wait, and the two men entered the hotel through the revolving doors. The concierge handed David Mason a whole stack of telephone messages with his key. Mason did not even bother to glance at them. He had his suite on the third floor, and after a tortuously slow elevator ride and a long walk during which they seemed to have turned at least five right-angled corners in the corridors, they finally made it.
“A bit of a rabbit warren, this place,” commented Sir Robert.
“Yes, but the appointments of the rooms cannot find their like in Europe,” replied Mason.
Sir Robert carefully hung up his coat and hat, and within minutes once again had a glass in his hand—a very stiff scotch, with too much ice, of course.
“Well, here’s to our friend Walter Hofer,” said Sir Robert.
Mason raised his glass all of two centimetres and stated, “Pompous bastard, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but he knows his business. Hard as they come, of course. You can never really trust any of those continental chaps, you know.”
“Robert,” laughed Mason. “You’ve been telling me that for the last twenty years. Say, I have not had a chance to tell you the latest one going around New York—after your Zambian Nickel Mine stroke of genius.”
Winthrop winced. Here we go again, he thought.
“It seems that this merchant banker was on a cruise in the South Seas and accidentally fell overboard. His friends watched in horror as a shark swam swiftly toward him. They expected to see him eaten alive. But at five metres the shark turned and disappeared as swiftly as he had appeared. The merchant banker clambered back aboard and his friends cried, ‘Miracle!’ ‘Nonsense,’ was the reply, ‘professional etiquette.’”
Sir Robert Winthrop joined Mason in his booming laughter. With all the money that had been at stake this day, Sir Robert would have turned cartwheels if necessary.
But every dog has his day, he thought. His wife turned livid when she caught Robert in his “be buddies with Americans” act. Women were seldom able to accept small tactical defeats. They lacked talent for overall strategy. But there was no use explaining. Times had, after all, changed. They would change again.
Mason made his way toward the discreet bar across the room. “Care for a refill?” he asked. The first one had taken all of two minutes.
“Why not,” replied Sir Robert and then continued: “Tell me, what do you really think of that little story Hofer told us after lunch?”
“I’m sure it’s true. Hofer would hardly dare make up a tale like that.”
“That’s not what I mean. I was referring to his conclusions.”
“Obviously he did not draw his conclusions based strictly upon that little incident at the Savoy.”
“So you think he knows more than he’s admitting?”
“Of course.”
“But then why tell us?”
“That also puzzles me a bit.”
“This could be very serious. Would it mean a whole new round of devaluation and revaluation?”
“I’m really not so sure of that. How did you make out in 1971?”
“Badly. Very badly.”
“So did we. But I heard that Hofer did very well.”
“I heard the same.”
“But I’ve also heard that he’s run into a pack of difficulties lately on some of his foreign loans—Yugoslavia, Argentina, Greece. All very bad news for the Swiss, and Hofer is in deepest of all. There’s also some talk about rather heavy commodity commitments—silver, or some such thing.”
“Frankly, I wouldn’t take such talk too seriously,” commented Winthrop. “Do you think Hofer is really going to keep in touch?”
“I’m sure. Otherwise he would never have brought the whole matter up in the first place in such a cozy fashion.”
“But why?”
“I really can’t say, Robert. I would just suggest that you keep your shirt on and hope that nobody upsets any applecarts on the Canadian and Western takeover. A bit more ice?”
It was almost six before Sir Robert left the hotel. By this time Dr. Walter Hofer was already airborne. He had gone immediately into action upon his return to the hotel. He had instructed the hall porter to book him on the four o’clock BEA flight to Paris. Three phone calls had followed from his room—one to his bank, one to his wife, and one to Paris. He had decided to extend his trip for just one more evening.
The limousine took thirty-five minutes to the airport. He had boarded his flight on schedule from the new terminal. If he had taken the flight he had originally scheduled back to Zurich, he would have had to use the rather crummy facilities of the Number Two building at Heathrow, reserved in all its glory for non-British airlines. There he would no doubt have bumped into Reinhardt Bollinger of the BIS and Igor Melekov, deputy chairman of the Foreign Trade Bank of the Soviet Union. Both were headed toward Zurich.
4
IGOR Melekov was travelling alone. This, in itself, was unusual for any Soviet citizen outside Eastern Europe.
But Melekov was an exception not only to this rule but also to many others in the Soviet Union. For he was Number Two in what was beyond any doubt the most unabashedly capitalistic enterprise in modern Russia. As such he enjoyed a type of idiot’s freedom. His seven-room apartment in the Moscow Hills area was as plush an establishment as could be found in what was, at least by Moscow standards, an already very plush neighbourhood. It was furnished in the most expensive Knoll style, had bathroom and kitchen fixtures right out of California suburbia. It was stocked with everything from frozen Texas steaks to at least eight different varieties of the finest Scotch whiskies. Melekov drove a Thunderbird, much to the regret of his nearest friendly Ford dealer in Helsinki who went frantic trying to meet Melekov’s regular telegraphic demands not only for spare parts, but the very latest stereo tapes. The machine was, of course, air-conditioned. There was also the dacha—small, but still a dacha—in Uspenskoje; membership in three different Moscow clubs; a pass to the Dom Kino.