Paul Erdman - The Billion Dollar Sure Thing

“What did he want?” asked Weckerlin.

“To keep us informed, he says.”

“About what?”

“Well, he’s protecting himself, and I suppose he is completely within his legal rights. He said he has cancelled all the transactions the bank did for Rosen during the process of the last few days. In fact, he claims that the bank has been selling part of that gold in the market today. He claims that it cooled off the speculators considerably when they heard that the General Bank of Switzerland had turned into a major seller of gold. Dr. Hofer’s little contribution to international monetary understanding.” The latter was said with more than a touch of sarcasm.

“That is all?”

“He asked if we wanted to temporarily block the cash funds Rosen has with them. Apparently it amounts to around $150 million.”

Weckerlin softly whistled. “And?”

“I said we would let him know.”

After that Bernoulli stood up.

“Well, off to Bern. I’ll keep in touch. It seems highly probable that we will have to meet early tomorrow morning. Here. I know it will be Saturday. I hope you don’t mind.”

Weckerlin didn’t mind in the least. His appointment as chief prosecuting attorney had been a political one, and this obviously involved politics.

Bernoulli picked up the afternoon papers after he left. They confirmed what Hofer had told him on the phone. The word had gotten out that the gnomes of Zurich, led by the General Bank of Switzerland, had decided to take profits. The run into gold had been met by massive selling of the metal in the Swiss market. It had stabilized at $79.45. The foreign exchange markets had immediately reacted. The speculation against the dollar had also suddenly subsided for the second time within forty-eight hours. But it seemed nobody was taking any more risks in face of the monumental gyrations in the markets during the past couple of days. One after the other, European banks had decided to stop trading early on this Friday. All pleaded the need to catch up in their processing of the tremendous amount of paper which had been generated by a week of unprecedented speculation. The headline in the National Zeitung seemed to best sum up everybody’s feeling: THE DOLLAR SAVED AGAIN—UNTIL NEXT WEEK.

But this had been the week that counted. When Bernoulli got to Bern a few hours later, the atmosphere of relief in the office of the minister of finance was evident the moment he stepped through the door. And when he handed the red dossier over, it was truly a grateful handshake that was extended to him.

“Bernoulli, you’ve done a remarkable job. Truly remarkable.”

“Without that anonymous phone call last night, we would still be completely in the dark.”

“True. No way of ever determining who that was, I guess.”

“None.”

At that point, the secretary-general of the Bank for International Settlements entered the room. His eyes went immediately to the red dossier still in the minister’s hands.

Bollinger flushed. He immediately approached Bernoulli, took his hand, and shook it vigorously.

“You’ve actually done it,” he said. “Unbelievable. But then this entire affair has been unbelievable from the very outset.”

“But are the gold and foreign exchange markets under control?” asked the finance minister.

“They are. The banks have been closed for hours and those in the United States will soon be. Believe me, it cost the American government a packet—well over $7 billion to keep things under control during the past two days. But now we can certainly manage the last couple of hours.”

“You are sure that the Americans are going to proceed exactly on schedule?”

“Yes, definitely. The American president will be making a special announcement on television in about six hours, once they are safely into the start of the weekend over there.”

Then the man from the BIS turned to Bernoulli. “You are sure that none of this can leak to the U.S. government?”

“Well, certainly not tonight in any case. We have the red dossier here, and the man responsible for its theft is in prison in Basel, completely under wraps.”

“But after this weekend? I think both of you must realize that if the true story of our involvement in this affair ever gets out it will have serious consequences for everyone in this room.” Bollinger’s eyes were on Jakob Gerber, the Swiss finance minister, as he made these last remarks.

“I don’t get your point exactly, Bollinger,” said Gerber.

“My point is this. Switzerland is the only country in the world which holds the vast majority of its reserves in gold. This American move will almost triple the value of these holdings. It would be extremely easy for lots of people to totally misinterpret our desire to keep this entire affair secret from the Americans.”

“True,” said Gerber. “What do you think, Bernoulli?”

“I agree.”

“But how can we possibly prevent such a development?”

“I think there may be a way,” answered Bernoulli.

At this point Bollinger broke in. “But who has been behind all this, Bernoulli? And exactly whom do you have in prison in Basel?”

Minister Gerber glanced at his watch and then spoke. “That, my dear friend Bollinger, is truly a long story. Gentlemen, I suggest that Bernoulli tell it over dinner. Why don’t we all head for the Schweizerhof. Tonight the drinks and dinner will be on me.”

It was just after eleven when the three men parted. Gerber walked Bernoulli and Bollinger to the Bahnhof. Both took the last train back to Basel.

IN maximum security cell 113 of the Basel prison a 500-watt bulb, protected by a heavy wire cage, relentlessly shone on the man huddled, head in hands, in the corner. There was no bed, no furniture; just a mattress and a blanket, both darkly stained. The cell had no heat.

The stench was overpowering, a mixture of defecation and putrefaction. An open-pit toilet, at which two foot pedestals were mounted, was the source. Rosen’s eyes, which swung regularly around the confines of the cell, always detoured this object, perhaps as the result of a reflex going back to childhood, when hope was still strong that things ignored may well not truly exist.

A bell tolled outside. Just one stroke. Quarter after eleven. Rosen knew, for since darkness had fallen outside and silence taken over the prison, it was this bell, and the passing of time it signalled, upon which his mind had seized. But had it been just one stroke? Perhaps it had been two, and he had somehow missed the first one. That would make it eleven-thirty, that much closer to dawn. No, it had only been one stroke. And it really didn’t matter that much. For his light was still on. Please, God, he thought, keep it on all night.

And then a noise. Just a slight one. Coming from that corner. Rosen, not looking, tensed. Nothing. Probably something in the courtyard below. Then it came again. A rustling. A movement. Yet again, more pronounced—and close. Rosen forced himself to look.

“No!” he whispered.

But yes. Its beady eyes met Rosen’s. They were unflinchingly aggressive. Then it moved again, and the glistening grey-brown skin slithered up into view between the two foot pedestals. It stopped, ears perked, both eyes still fixed upon Rosen as he sat, horrified, just six feet away.

“Go away,” he said, and then shouted, “Get out of here! Please get out of here.”

The rat just crouched there, eyes now moving, as if measuring the cell and assessing the chances of escape—not for himself, but for his prey. The thought communicated itself instantly, for it was then Rosen’s eyes which began to wildly sweep the cell.

“Climb up onto something,” his brain told him.