The Billion Dollar Sure Thing

by Paul E. Erdman

  Obviously the man had hidden, well hidden, strengths.

  “I suspect, in fact I know, that this will not be acceptable to Western Europe, nor would it be acceptable under any circumstances to Switzerland.”

  Gerber stepped in again. “My dear colleague, in theory you are of course correct. But in fact, I am convinced the following will evolve. Most countries in the world will follow the dollar’s devaluation completely. They will devalue, relative to gold, by exactly the same amount. So nothing will actually change, as far as exchange rates are concerned. It will only mean that the dollar is once again convertible into gold, at a much higher gold price. This obviously is in the interest of everyone.”

  “Most countries, yes. But most probably not all. And those are the ones that count.”

  “Indeed, this will represent a complication. Whether the Japanese, the Germans, or even the British will go all the way is not sure. You know as well as I do that the dollar outflow was not stopped by the 1971 and 1973 devaluations. They simply did not go far enough. So another adjustment in exchange rates, involving a limited number of countries, may be necessary. After all, this time we want to solve the problem once and for all.”

  “Are you saying that, for the third time now in less than three years, the Swiss franc will be increased in value, relative to the dollar?”

  “I am merely saying that we cannot rule this possibility out.”

  “By how much?”

  “Fifteen percent.”

  “Our industry will not like this.”

  “Nor will industry in Germany, Japan, or Britain. But we must end the dollar problem. And the time is now. Remember, this entire affair will bring a tremendous windfall gain to our country.”

  “How?”

  “We have one of the largest gold reserves of any nation on earth: $3.5 billion worth. This will almost triple in value overnight. It will insure that the Swiss franc will remain as the hardest currency in the world for years, perhaps decades, to come. This, gentlemen, is obviously in our country’s interest.”

  The room fell into silence.

  Gerber shifted his attention.

  “Bernoulli, I have decided to put you in charge of this investigation. You will meet with Bollinger tomorrow morning at eight to get all the details. He is expecting you. The best thing for you to do is to go over to Basel this evening and get some sleep tonight. You have a completely free hand, Bernoulli. But I want you to report to me daily. By telephone, if you please.”

  The audience was over almost as abruptly as it began.

  Bernoulli took the eight-thirty train to Basel. At ten he checked into the Euler Hotel. Before he went down to the bar for a drink, he called his friend at the local police and asked him to start picking up all of the locally known safecrackers for interrogation. He explained the type of job that was involved and the place, but made no mention of the nature of the stolen goods. Kommissar Heinz Bucher promised to keep in touch.

  Bernoulli turned in for the evening shortly before midnight.

  At one the phone rang. Bernoulli was awake immediately.

  “Is this Herr Doktor Bernoulli?” asked a familiar voice.

  “Heinz, it’s me and it’s late,” replied George Bernoulli.

  “We’ve already got something. A guy that might fit. He’s just in the process of being booked on suspicion of theft—for another job.”

  “Where?”

  “At the Lohnhof.” This was the city’s central jail, a converted medieval convent.

  “All right, get back to your fellows, Heinz. Tell them two things. First, put the fellow into an empty cell but one with two beds. Second, tell them you’ll be bringing another one along in about a half hour. They should book me on suspicion of forgery with no other questions asked. Right? And then have me put in the same cell with this guy. And for God’s sake, don’t tell anybody, either the police or the jail people, who I really am. Use the name Salzmann for me. O.K.?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Heinz,” yelled Bernoulli. “What’s the man’s name?”

  “Bechot. Sammy Bechot,” came the answer.

  “I’ll be right over,” Bernoulli said and hung up.

  He dressed quickly and left the hotel by the back stairs. It took him a quarter of an hour by foot to reach police headquarters. Bernoulli, like most Swiss, liked to walk. It’s supposed to be healthy. Kommissar Bucher was waiting for him outside. The jail was immediately adjacent to the police building.

  The lockup proceedings were rather dreary. Tie, cuff links, watch, wallet went into a brown package. He signed his agreement that everything was duly there. Then down the corridor, through two doors of steel bars, and into a small room. He was ordered to strip. Disease check. Redressed more or less, he was handed over to a new warden and led up the stairs and then to the left. Ghastly place. Just a line of steel doors, all painted yellow. Why yellow? The door to cell 15 was closed. Bernoulli was handed two woolen blankets, two sheets, one rather worn towel, a mini bar of soap, and motioned in. The man inside had been sleeping. He barely took notice of the intruders. Bernoulli was instructed to pull down his bed, which was firmly hinged to the wall, make it, get in, and shut up. It was late.

  Within fifteen minutes Bernoulli was asleep. This was not exactly the Euler, but a bed was a bed.

  8

  THE church bells bonged. Six-thirty. A few minutes later the light in the cell was turned on from somewhere, the door opened, and a warden shoved in a broom. Door closed and locked. Bernoulli’s cellmate began unwinding himself from the narrow bed, looked over to Bernoulli, and grinned.

  “Bonjour!”

  “Guete Tag,” replied Bernoulli in the local Swiss dialect.

  “Aha. Un Bâlois,” said his roommate, who then continued in heavily accented, though excellent, German. “My name is Sammy Bechot. You new here?”

  “Right. I’m George Salzmann,” replied Bernoulli, “and this is the first time I’ve had the privilege of enjoying the hospitality of the Lohnhof.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Sammy, “I’ve been here before. You plan to be here long?”

  Bernoulli just shrugged.

  “Don’t worry,” repeated Sammy. “It’s not bad here. But we had better get up. That’s the rule here at six-thirty.”

  They took turns washing—one basin, cold water—and got dressed. Following Sammy’s example, Bernoulli folded together his bedding and swung the cot back up against the wall. The only other furnishings in the cell were a very small wooden table, matched by a wooden bench, both firmly attached to floor and wall. At seven the door was unlocked and opened again. Two breakfasts were handed in: café au lait in huge metal cups and two pieces of black bread for each. Door closed and locked. Twenty minutes later the same ritual with the door. This time the cups were handed out, and the broom. Shortly before, Sammy had made exactly three perfunctory swipes at the floor with it.

  Then silence.

  Half an hour later the door was once again swung open. The chief warden on his daily tour of inspection, continental style. For he also appeared to be chief order taker, and Sammy was ready to order: one transistor radio, shaving cream, three sausages, two large beers, 100 grams of powdered coffee, pickles. He assured the chief warden that sufficient funds were available, even though they had been forceably and unconstitutionally removed from his pockets the evening before.

  Twenty minutes later the action continued. This time it was one of the trustees who arrived with a catalogue from the prison library. An extremely pleasant type. Apparently an American from his peculiar accent. Sammy wrote out a list of thirty books: 50 percent crime stories, the other half Westerns.

  Thus far the two men in cell 15 had exchanged nothing further than their original introductions. Bernoulli was calculating how he could get things moving, when for the sixth time the steel door clanked open.

  “Salzmann?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Kommissar wants you.”

  “Why?”


  “How should I know. Come on, let’s go.”

  Ten minutes later Bernoulli found himself in Kommissar Bucher’s office.

  “Take a chair, George, and tell me what’s really going on here,” said Bucher. “We had all of two or three minutes on the phone last night, and I did what you asked. But it seems to me that you are going about all this quite the wrong way. You know as well as I do that anything you get out of Bechot in this manner will never be admitted before court.”

  “I know that, Heinz. That’s not my objective.”

  “Well, what is, if I may be so free as to ask?”

  “I can’t tell you. So there’s no use to any further questions along this line.”

  “Fine. If that’s the way it is, all right.” Bucher obviously did not think it was so fine, but he had learned long ago to stick to the book when something out of the ordinary was going on.

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “First of all, why do you feel so strongly that Bechot might be our man?” asked Bernoulli.

  “For a number of reasons. He’s a pro—one of the best in the field, with a record a kilometre long. And it seems that he has recently developed some kind of a new way of getting into safes without wrecking them, right on the spot too. He used to leave them so full of holes you would hardly have believed it. But last night another safe was taken, also in a private house—on the outskirts of the city. It was the same story as you told me. No marks, no nothing on the safe. This time it was completely cleaned out and once again closed. The victim was an Englishman, a scientist, connected with the chemical industry. Among other things he lost a stack of five-pound notes. He reported the theft around six in the evening yesterday—at the local station. I got the report shortly after you called from the Euler and immediately put out a general signal to pick up any of the professionals known to us, and in the vicinity. Sammy was the first to show. And although he had nothing more than a couple of hundred francs on him, shortly before we picked him up he had apparently paid for his drinks with a five-pound note in one of those bars in the Rhine harbour area.”

  “Have you any reason to believe he did the other job, too?”

  “None whatsoever. But I think that even you can perhaps detect that there just might be some grounds for suspecting so.”

  “Thanks,” replied Bernoulli. “When do you plan to put him through the wringer?”

  “Just as soon as you would like. But let me warn you. We’ve had Bechot here before. A couple of years ago. He won’t talk. Not a chance. He’s a two-time loser, and he knows that if we can nail him again, the court will put him away for five years, at least.”

  “Right. Well, Heinz, then I’d appreciate it very much if you could give me a couple of days to try it my way. I’m here under instructions from Bern.”

  “I know. I know.”

  “So just leave him alone for the time being. O.K.? And I’d appreciate it if you could come and get me tomorrow—same time.”

  “Right.”

  “Before I go I would like to make two phone calls, please. And in private, if you don’t mind.”

  Bucher just grinned and left the room.

  The first call went to the office of the secretary-general of the Bank for International Settlements. Bernoulli apologized profusely for not making his appointment, past due now by a good half hour. They agreed to a new date, at Bollinger’s home. The second call went to Bern.

  Then he just leaned back and enjoyed a cigarette, fairly pleased with himself.

  Now at this point I think it would be fair to point out that George Bernoulli is not in the Anglo-Saxon tradition we are all so used to. Sure, he’s involved in the dark side of state affairs—but not with a revolver, although he’s got one and knows how to use it. Nor with a Ferrari. He drives a standard Alfa Romeo 1600. Standing at over six feet, with dark hair and a thin moustache, he cuts a very good figure. But he dresses conservatively and is almost never without a tie. He does not even own a pair of brown shoes. He seldom turns down a drink and never fails to show due appreciation to a good bottle of wine, preferring red wines, peculiarly enough, even with fish. At thirty-four he is not married, but he is never without a girlfriend. He can outski most Swiss and spends a good part of February and March in either St. Moritz or Gstaad. Although for some odd reason he had never learned to swim, still he spends almost all his summer vacations on or near the Mediterranean. He likes to “fool around,” as he puts it, with archeology. Thus he is a regular visitor to places like French Provence, Crete, and Turkey, although for security reasons he has been forced to avoid Egypt, a fact he constantly regrets.

  So he is really a rather low-key type, and that is what the Swiss government wants for men in his profession. Bernoulli’s function, the government expects, is that of a quite inconspicuous backup man to the politicians, as a member of a very small espionage-counterespionage force maintained by the Swiss Federal government, an operation that is absolute chicken feed compared with the immense organizations maintained by so many other nations. The Swiss, in this as in so many other matters, prefer quality to quantity. Bernoulli meets their specifications perfectly; he has family, education, intelligence, discipline. He is ideal for this particular job. His speciality is finance and economics. Money is extremely dear to the hearts of all Swiss. So their curiosity about what is going on in the world in this particular area is, should we say, out of proportion to their interest in other areas. They like to be informed well in advance of a possible devaluation of the pound sterling, or a decision of the American government to cut off support to some developing country deeply engaged in dam or road construction. This is quite natural, since Switzerland often holds large amounts of sterling, and a number of companies key to the Swiss economy are major producers of power generating equipment and cement. Filling these gaps in the market suddenly left open by the Americans requires speedy action and often “indirect” government aid in the form of timely information. The Swiss like to think of this as “productive espionage.”

  Much of Bernoulli’s job was spent at a desk, filtering such information and passing it along to the right place. But he had already worked extensively in the field, where his expertise in economic matters only served as a cover. For quite a period he had served with the International Red Cross, operating out of its world headquarters in Geneva. The top jobs there are reserved exclusively for Swiss, since after all the Red Cross was a Swiss invention. He had been slipped into the Number Three slot in their financial department. The spot was a good one. Thus, for instance, when in 1970 the Arabs kidnapped a couple of planeloads of people, including one Swiss DC-8, it was the International Red Cross which made the arrangements to get the people back from Jordan. The Swiss nationals, naturally, were the first to leave. Dr. Bernoulli had done a beautiful job under difficult circumstances, although it did cost quite a few Swiss francs. He was also in Biafra quite regularly, helping out the poor refugees, but also making quite sure that Swiss businessmen were put into contact with the people who would come out on top when Nigeria was reunited. His participation in the aid mission to West Bengal led to a noticeable cooling of relations between Switzerland and Pakistan, matched by a new fervour for India’s development problems, at least two months before the military clash which resulted in the creation of Bangladesh and the emergence of Indian hegemony on that subcontinent.

  It was not without some regret that Bernoulli agreed to his recall to that department’s headquarters in Bern. In fact, he secretly hoped that he would soon be sent back to Geneva to serve the cause of humanity. Maybe success in Basel would help. And, at the moment, this did not seem impossible. For Bernoulli was convinced that, as Sammy Bechot’s cellmate, he could get to the heart of the matter in a very short time, with just a little luck.

  But I’ve got to get things moving, he thought, as he was walked back to his cell, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, who was apparently not in on the game. It had hardly been necessary, for God’s sake, to put on handcuffs. Or may
be it was just a sick joke of Bucher’s.

  Not much time had really passed. It was just shortly after ten when the cell door clanked closed behind him once again. Bechot was stretched out on his bed reading and barely glanced up as George pulled down his bed and also lay down.

  “Hey,” said George finally, “what’s new?”

  “Hah,” replied Sammy, “what’s ever new here!”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Reading. You read?”

  “Sure, but I don’t feel like it right now. You play chess?”

  “Of course. But we need a chess set.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “Watch!”

  Sammy jumped from his bed and started pounding on the metal door with his fist. He just kept pounding until the door opened.

  “Sammy, you know better than that,” said the warden with a big grin. “What are you trying to do, impress your friend?”

  “Look,” replied Sammy, “you are here to protect and help us, and we need a little service. A chess set.”

  “Sure, I’ll see if I can drum one up.”

  “No, no. Now,” said Sammy.

  “Why now?”

  “Because my friend here feels suicidal. I’m trying to occupy his mind. You prefer to mop up a big puddle of blood?”

  The warden looked carefully at George. You never knew in this place.

  “O.K. Just calm down, Sammy.”

  Five minutes later he was back with a battered chess set, and left after giving Bernoulli another rather mistrustful look. Nobody in prisons likes nuts, and a quiet one like this was always suspicious. With a shrug he left again, locking the door with what seemed to be an extra flourish this time.

  Sammy had the board set up immediately on his bed and soon was deeply involved in his initial moves. He played amazingly well, and George, who was very rusty to say the least, was well on his way to losing when the door clanged open again.

  Lunchtime. At eleven o’clock in the morning, for God’s sake.

  In spite of the metal containers, the meal was astoundingly well prepared.