Джозеф Файндер - Extraordinary Powers

“Have you forgotten what happened to the American economy in 1987?”

“The economy?” I asked, puzzled. “There was the great stock market crash in October 1987, but apart—”

“Exactly. ‘Crash’ may be an overstatement, but certainly the American stock markets collapsed on, I believe, October 19, 1987.”

“But what does that have to do with—”

“A stock market ‘crash,’ to use your word, is not necessarily a disaster to one who is prepared for it. Very much the opposite; a group of savvy investors can make huge profits in a stock market crash, by short selling, futures and arbitrage, and other means, correct?”

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying, Mr. Ellison, that once we knew what these Wise Men were doing, what their conduits were, we were able to follow their activities quite closely — unknown to them.”

“And they made money in the 1987 crash, is that it?”

“Using computerized program trading and fourteen hundred separate trading accounts, calibrating precisely with Tokyo’s Nikkei and pulling the levers at exactly the right time, and with the right velocity, they not only made vast sums of money in the crash, Mr. Ellison, they caused it.”

Dumbfounded, I could do no more than stare.

“So you see,” he continued, “we had some very damaging evidence of what a group within the CIA had done to the world.”

“And did you use it?”

“Yes, Mr. Ellison. There was a time when we did.”

“When?”

“When I say ‘we,’ I refer to my organization. You recall the events of 1991, the coup d’état against Gorbachev, instigated and organized by the KGB. Well, as you well know, your CIA had advance information that this coup was being planned. Why do you think you did nothing to forestall the plan?”

“There are theories,” I said.

“There are theories, and there are facts. The facts are that the KGB possessed detailed, explosive files on this group that called itself the Wise Men. These files, once released to the world, would have destroyed America’s credibility, as I’ve told you.”

“And so the CIA was made inert,” I said. “Blackmailed by the threat of disclosure.”

“Precisely. And who would give up such a weapon? Not a dedicated opponent of the United States. Not a loyal KGB man. What better proof could I offer.”

“Yes,” I said. “Brilliant. Who knows of the existence of these files?”

“Only a handful of people,” he said. “My predecessor at the KGB, Kryuchkov, who is alive but fears for his life too much to talk. His chief aide, who was executed — no, excuse me, I believe The New York Times published a story that said he had ‘committed suicide’ just after the coup, am I right? And, of course, I.”

“And you gave him these amazing files.”

“No,” he said.

“Why not?”

A brief shrug, a twitch of a smile. “Because the files had disappeared.”

“What?”

“Corruption was rampant in Moscow in those days,” Orlov explained. “Even more rampant than it is now. The old order — the millions of people who worked in all the old bureaucracies, the ministries, the secretariats — the entirety of the Soviet government knew that their days were numbered. Factory managers were selling off their goods to the black markets. Clerks were selling off files in the Lubyanka offices of the KGB. Boris Yeltsin’s people had taken many files from KGB headquarters, and some of those seized files were changing hands! And then I was told that the file on the Wise Men had disappeared.”

“Files like that don’t simply disappear.”

“Of course not. I was told that a rather low-level file clerk in the KGB’s First Chief Directorate had taken the file home with her and sold it.”

“To whom?”

“A consortium of German businessmen. I was told she sold it to them for something over two million deutsche marks.”

“About a million American dollars. But surely she could have gotten far more.”

“Of course! That file was worth a great deal of money. It contained the tools to blackmail some of the highest-ranking officials in the CIA! It was worth far, far more than this foolish woman sold it for. Greed can make one irrational.”

I suppressed the urge to smile. “A German consortium,” I mused. “Why would a group of Germans be interested in blackmailing the CIA?”

“I didn’t know.”

“But you do now?”

“I have my theories.”

“Such as?”

“You are asking me for facts,” he said. “We met in Zurich, Sinclair and I... in conditions of absolute secrecy, naturally. By this time I had left the country. I knew I would never return.

“Sinclair was furious to learn that I no longer had the incriminating files, and he threatened to cancel the deal, to fly back to Washington and put an end to this. We quarreled for many hours. I tried to make him believe the truth, that I was not deceiving him.”

“And did he?”

“At the time I thought he did. Now I do not.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought we had a deal, and as it turned out, we did not. I left Zurich for this house — which Sinclair, incidentally, had found for me — and awaited further word. Ten billion dollars was now in the West. Gold that belonged to Russia. It was an enormous gamble, but I had to trust in Sinclair’s honesty. More than that, in his own self-interest. He wanted to keep Russia from becoming a right-wing, Russian-chauvinist dictatorship. He, too, wanted to spare the world that. But I think it was the files. The fact that I did not have the Wise Men files to give him. He must have felt that I was not playing fair. Why else would he have double-crossed me?”

“Double-crossed you?”

“The ten billion dollars went into a vault in Zurich. Sitting in a vault beneath Bahnhofstrasse with two access codes required to secure its release. But I could not gain access to it. And then Harrison Sinclair was killed. And now there is no hope of taking back the gold. So I hope you understand that I certainly had no interest in having him killed, now, did I?”

“No,” I agreed. “You would not. But perhaps I can help you now.”

“If you have Sinclair’s access codes—”

“No,” I said. “There are no codes. None were left to me.”

“Then I am afraid there is nothing you can do.”

“Wrong. There is something I can do. I need the name of the banker you met with in Zurich.”

And at that moment the tall double doors at the far end of the dining room flew open.

I jumped to my feet, not wanting to pull out my gun in the event that it was one of his guards again, in which case everything should look normal; I could not risk appearing to be threatening the master of the house.

I glimpsed a flash of deep blue cloth, and knew at once. Three uniformed Italian policemen entered, pistols directed at me.

“Tieniti le mani al fianco!” one of them commanded. Keep your hands at your sides.

They advanced into the room, in SWAT formation. My pistol was useless at this point; I was outnumbered. Orlov backed away from me until he was against a wall, as if avoiding the line of fire.

“Sei in arresto,” the other said. “Non muoverti.” Don’t move — you’re under arrest.

I stood there dumbly, confused. How could this have happened? Who had called them? I didn’t understand.

And then I saw the small black call button set into the broad oak leg of the dining table, at the point at which it rested on the terra-cotta floor. It was the sort of button you could set off by tapping your foot, the way bank tellers can, unseen, summon the police. It would set off a noiseless alarm far away — in this case, I suspected, as far away as the municipal police headquarters in Siena, which explained why they took so long to arrive. Police, no doubt, in the pay of this mysterious “German” émigré who required excellent security.