Free Gold by Darrell Delamaide

often gave rise to worse consequences. The Great Depression had meant a stock market decline and high unemployment in the United States. In Germany, it had meant a banking disaster, hyperinflation, Hitler, and revenge.
    Financial crisis increased the volatility of international relations. At times, he wondered what would have happened in 1982, just after Mexico suspended its debt payments and ushered in the crisis they were still suffering from, if King Fahd had been assassinated in Saudi Arabia or if the Soviet Union had invaded Iran from Afghanistan.
    Drew started doodling on his desk pad.
    1520: MacLean excuses himself to go to the dentist.
    1538: gold fixing.
    1545: Van der Merwe’s call.
    1618: WCN flash.
    1654: Pretoria’s announcement.
    1815: press conference at New York Fed.
    Gold. Buyers in Kuwait, elsewhere, after fixing. News leads to sharp price rise, profit-taking. Strong demand but steady supply.
    It didn’t smell right. Panic buying should not be matched by selling. MacLean. Odd duck. Why did he leave Canada? (So why did you leave the States, wise guy?) Where was MacLean now? With whom does he have contacts? Drew underlined the word “contacts” that he had written on the pad. He put a question mark behind it. Marcus. If he’s selling, he might have the key to where the gold is coming from. Maybe he’s been stockpiling gold for this kind of opportunity. No. Marcus wasn’t a stockpiler, he was a trader. Who else could stockpile gold? Russia? He underlined again.
    He looked at his doodling. Underlined words with arrows and question marks. It did not make sense.
    He looked at the word “contacts.”
    “Tom,” Drew called to the slotman from the door of his office, “who was that Swiss banker MacLean used to hang around with?”
    Tom hit some keys and looked up. “Fürgel, I think. No, Fürglin, over at Ticino Bank.”
    Drew called Preston. “Morgan, what do you know about Fürglin?”
    Silence, as Preston’s internal computer digested the significance of the question. “Smooth operator. You think he’s the one?”
    “Could be. Gives me a lead, anyway.”
    “Stay on the line a moment,” the banker said.
    If MacLean had decided to profit from the sabotage, a banker like Fürglin would have been in a position to exploit the advantage of having the news ahead of the market.
    Preston came back on the line. “Well, he’s supposed to have a link to some Kuwaitis, so that part fits. He also runs some fishy money through the Caribbean, but I’ve no idea who’s behind it.”
    Where had MacLean gone? Drew found himself asking. Off to South America? The questions surprised him. Little more than twenty-four hours ago, his life had been much more innocent.
    “You know, company like that can get pretty rough. I hope your man knew what he was doing,” Preston said.
    “I’ll admit I’d feel better if I could track him down,” Drew told him. “Thanks, Morgan. Let me know if you can dig up anything more about Fürglin, will you?”

FOUR
    MacLean paid no attention to his surroundings as he crossed the Pont du Mont Blanc. The crystal-clear November day lent a blue sheen to the lake stretching out on his left. Geneva gleamed on both sides of the river, and snowy peaks beckoned in the distance.
    MacLean distrusted the Continent. It was too pretty to be sincere. The neatly trimmed gardens and parks, the wedding-cake buildings sandblasted to their pristine glory, the sense of comfort and well-being oozing from the shops and finely kept houses—it made him uneasy.
    He mounted the cobblestone alleyway bearing the street name of the address Fürglin had given him over the phone. He found the right number, and the brass plaque with the three initials designating the bank Fürglin was sending him to. He pressed the buzzer, and a uniformed concierge immediately opened the door and admitted him. Shabby as MacLean’s coat was, the concierge relieved him of it and seated him in the parlor before inquiring his