Paul Erdman - The Billion Dollar Sure Thing

Five minutes later the meeting had ended. It was only nine-thirty Moscow time.

The chairman of the National Bank was the first to be back at his desk. He only had to walk a few steps down the corridors from the conference room to get there. He picked up the phone, and placed an emergency call to Basel, Switzerland, for eleven-thirty. That should catch the gold people of the BIS right after they got to work. That done, he made a very careful set of notes based upon his recall of the conference which had just ended. He sought total recall. Every word would be important at some later date. Especially the exact words which Melekov had spoken.

Ten minutes later Chairman Stepanov of the Foreign Trade Bank of the Soviet Union had also returned to his office. The first thing he did was also pick up the phone.

“Get me the head of that German delegation on the pipeline deal.”

His secretary replied, “Yes, sir. What’s the name, and where is he?”

“Dammit, how should I know? Just get him, and now.”

Obviously the place needed a bit more discipline. He’d given that man Melekov far too much authority and freedom in the place. With the best of intentions, all the good will in the world. And look what happened. He, Stepanov, would now have to pick up the pieces. That goddamned liar over at the National Bank, Roskin, had better be bloody careful, too. His position was hanging on a thread. Just one more incident and—bang! Litnovich would see to that!

The phone rang.

“I have Herr Klausen of Rhein-Ruhr Stahl,” said his secretary. “Hold on, I’ll connect you immediately.”

The phone clicked a few times as phones always do in the Soviet Union.

“Klausen,” suddenly came roaring out of the receiver.

“My dear Herr Klausen, this is Chairman Stepanov of the Foreign Trade Bank.”

“Who?”

“Stepanov. Foreign Trade Bank of the Soviet Union.”

“I’m afraid I have never met you. I’ve always dealt with Melekov.”

“That’s right, Herr Klausen. Unfortunately Mr. Melekov is out today, and therefore I have taken over some of his tasks. I’m his chairman.”

“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.

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.