Free Gold by Darrell Delamaide Page A

business. As instructed, MacLean said simply that Mr. Fürglin had sent him.
    The concierge nodded noncommittally and left MacLean alone. The Canadian glanced at the publications spread out on the coffee table. They seemed to be three-month-old analyses of the Swiss bond market. MacLean didn’t feel like reading anyway. He might never read again, he thought; he had had enough in twenty-six unhappy years as a journalist. He sure as hell wouldn’t be in any hurry to read newspapers. He smiled grimly.
    The sunlight filtered through the chiffon curtains in the parlor, but the overhead chandelier reduced it to a pale rectangle on the beige carpet. The heavy damask drapes and imitation Louis XVI furniture lent further weight to the room.
    MacLean looked at his watch, but only five minutes had passed. He wasn’t really worried. His price, $2.5 million, wasn’t much compared to what Fürglin and his associates had probably earned through his complicity. There was no reason for a double-cross.
    The door opened and a tall, elderly man walked in, carrying an attaché case. The man had graying temples, was pleasingly portly, and had the gentle eyes and face of somebody’s grandfather. Somehow, MacLean had formed a different image of the famous Swiss gnomes.
    “So you’re MacLean,” the banker said. His voice was as gentle as his appearance promised. He didn’t give his name, however, and didn’t offer to shake hands.
    He set the attaché case on the coffee table, on top of the bond market analyses. He flipped the latches and opened up the case. MacLean had been reassured by the sight of the case. When it was opened, he was stunned. It seemed incredible, the packets of green bills with blue wrappers around the middle. It was too much of a cliché, a hackneyed scene from a B movie.
    “Here you are then,” said the banker, with a businesslike manner suggesting that he passed out several such attaché cases each day. “It’s two and a half million dollars, as specified.” He spoke English with just the barest trace of an accent.
    The thousand-dollar bills were in packets of fifty each. MacLean didn’t feel like counting them. Whether or not it was exactly $2.5 million, it was more money than he had ever imagined possessing. He felt a sudden urge to flee.
    The banker seemed to divine that he wouldn’t be counting the money. He closed the case, locked it with the key attached to the grip, and handed the key to MacLean. “All yours,” he said with his gentle smile. He stood up and opened the door, waiting for MacLean to go out before him. The journalist, still in a daze, rose slowly to his feet and picked up the case. The banker again did not offer his hand, but smiled kindly at him as he walked out the door. “Goodbye,” he said after MacLean, who followed the concierge to the front door.
    Blinking in the daylight, MacLean stood on the cobblestone street in front of the bank scarcely a quarter of an hour after he had gone inside. He felt like bursting into hysterical laughter. Efficient bastard, that Fürglin. He quickly swallowed his emotion, resisting an urge to clutch the attaché case to his chest and run all the way back to his hotel. The street was deserted except for an old woman in a wool coat who was negotiating the steep path with the aid of a wooden cane.
    With as natural a step as he could muster, MacLean started back to the hotel. This time, the neatness of the city didn’t bother him. He conjured up the Brazilian beaches, complete with swaying palm trees and half-nude beauties. MacLean didn’t swim and had an aversion to the sun, but he had always liked the relaxed, sinful air of the beach resorts he had visited in Spain. Brazil would be even more exotic—and safe.
    Not that he was worried. He had the money now. He wasn’t even sure if what he had done was illegal. There was no law against knowing something before somebody else. There was no such thing as insider trading in a global gold market. Of course,