The Billion Dollar Sure Thing

by Paul E. Erdman

  “But you must have had some explanation for your flight over there.”

  “I did give a very good one. The chancellor of the exchequer had repeatedly asked me to drop by to discuss the arrangement for unwinding the remnants of a very complex series of currency swaps which have developed over the years. I met him after my talks with Secretary Crosby, and we agreed on a most satisfactory series of steps to resolve this issue. In fact, my staff and I have been quite busy since my return with the implementation of our agreement.”

  “Right. Now let’s concentrate on London itself.”

  Bernoulli continued, “As I understand it, you flew over on the one o’clock flight on October 16. That would be sixteen days ago. I think it was a Thursday.”

  “That’s all perfectly correct.”

  “Now you arrived at Heathrow around two-fifteen local time. Did you talk to anybody at the airport or on the plane?”

  “Nobody whatsoever.”

  “Who met you in London?”

  “No one. I rented a chauffeur-driven car from Hertz. I always do that. It’s only slightly more expensive than a taxi and immeasurably more comfortable. I went directly to the Savoy.”

  “When did you meet Secretary Crosby?”

  “Shortly after my arrival at the hotel. We met in his suite, and after very long talks, ate dinner together in the Grill Room.”

  “Did you continue your business talks over dinner?”

  “Yes, of course. But we had a table quite to ourselves.”

  “You noticed no one in your vicinity acting overly curious?”

  “Of course not. Otherwise we would hardly have continued our talks.”

  “And after dinner?”

  “We said good-bye at the elevator. I took the dossier to my room and went to sleep very early. Quite early the next morning I met the Bank of England people, as arranged.”

  “And you met no one else in the hotel?”

  “No one.”

  “And you recognized no one in the hotel who might have recognized you and perhaps Crosby as well?”

  “No one. Well, that’s not totally correct. In fact I did recognize one man. As we were leaving the Grill Room after dinner, I had to return to the table to retrieve my pen which I had left lying there. Just by chance I noticed Dr. Walter Hofer, dining by himself of all things, on the opposite side of the room.”

  “Dr. Hofer of the General Bank of Switzerland?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know him well, of course.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Did you greet each other?”

  “No. I’m sure he also did not notice me.”

  “And did you see each other later in the hall, or perhaps the next morning over breakfast?”

  “No.”

  By this time Bollinger was getting a bit peeved. He had expected that he would have to answer some questions after talking to Bern, but there were ways of going about such things and ways not to. This chap Bernoulli was getting just a touch too arrogant for his taste. But there was no sense in showing it. Just as long as Bernoulli stayed clear of his private life. And so far, he had. But if the Americans got involved, they would grab onto that first thing and never let go.

  “In other words, as far as you remember, Hofer was the only acquaintance of yours who might have seen you and Secretary Crosby together?”

  “Yes, if you want to put it that way.”

  “That’s the way I want to put it.”

  A smart ass, that’s what he is, thought Bollinger. He hoped it did not show.

  Bernoulli continued. “Now I must assume that you made no mention of this whole thing at the Bank of England.”

  “Yes, you’re quite safe in that assumption, my dear Doktor Bernoulli.”

  Aha, thought Bernoulli. Finally getting under his skin. That’s always good.

  “Right,” he said aloud. “Now let’s cover the trip home.”

  “That’s quite simple. After lunch at the Bank of England, I went directly to the airport even though it was a bit early. It was the same story there. I saw no one I knew and talked to no one but the girl at the newsstand in the international lounge.”

  “Fine. Now let’s take the flight home.”

  “Well, that was a bit different,” replied Bollinger. “First I met Igor Melekov of the Soviet Foreign Trade Bank on the plane. We have known each other for years. In fact, we sat together for part of the trip and chatted.”

  “Where did you have the dossier?”

  “In my briefcase, of course.”

  “Did you ever take the dossier out of your briefcase while on the plane?”

  “No.”

  “What were you and this Russian talking about anyway?”

  “Things which cannot possibly be of any relevance.”

  “Ah, so.”

  “After landing in Zurich I had about a forty-five-minute stopover before catching the connecting flight to Basel.”

  “And your Russian friend?”

  “He went into Zurich.”

  “I see. Please continue.”

  “I chatted with the VIP greeter in the Swissair lounge in Zurich. He took me directly to the plane in his car. On the plane I was recognized, greeted, and spoken to by my tailor. He was just coming back from a trip to South Africa.”

  “Hm. Quite a tailor. And in Basel?”

  “I took a taxi directly home, deposited the documents in my wall safe which you have examined, and retired for the evening.”

  “Fine. Well, I think that does it for today,” said Bernoulli, and rose abruptly. “Say, do you by any chance know a man called Rolf Lutz? He used to be with the police department here—fraud squad.”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever had any dealings with a company called Swiss Security Consultants?”

  “The bank does, yes. They make regular security sweeps. I personally find the whole idea absurd. But some of the Anglo-Saxon participants in our regular monetary meetings at the bank insisted.”

  “You mean the Americans or the British?”

  “The Americans.”

  “You have problems with the Americans?”

  “No more than anybody else.”

  “Lutz is head of Swiss Security Consultants.”

  “Then no doubt I have met him. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Then we’ve covered what you want to know?”

  “Yes. Thanks so much, Dr. Bollinger. I promise to keep in touch. If you think of anything else that might help, please call me at the Euler Hotel.”

  They started walking toward the door.

  “Say, just one more little item,” said Bernoulli, his hand resting on the doorknob. “What could happen if this document is in the wrong hands?”

  “What do you mean by ‘wrong hands’?”

  “Let’s say a government hostile to the United States.”

  “That’s flatly impossible.”

  “O.K., but just for the fun of it, what if it happened?”

  “If they leaked its contents, it would start a tremendous run on the dollar. No one could foresee the ultimate consequences.”

  “But why?”

  “The world would no doubt interpret the contents of this document as the intention of the United States to make a new massive devaluation of the dollar. They would all want out—all at the same time.”

  “But that’s not the intention of the United States, is it?”

  “Technically yes, but only relative to gold. There will be another devaluation of the dollar relative to other currencies simultaneously, but it will be rather minor—15 percent. That’s not what matters. We are dealing here with mass psychology. The world has been extremely edgy about the dollar for years now. This could set off the panic which everyone has been trying to avoid.”

  “And if it was just a private group, or person?”

  “Obviously one or the other could make a lot of money.”

  “Or,” added Bernoulli, “he could use the doc
ument to forward some private crackpot scheme. You know, bring on the death throes of capitalism or some such thing.”

  “I must say, you certainly do not lack imagination, Bernoulli.”

  “Well, I’m not a banker.”

  With that he left. Bollinger walked slowly back to the living room and poured himself a fairly stiff cognac.

  Ten minutes later Bernoulli was going through exactly the same exercise back at his hotel. Then he got on the telephone. First to Bern to report in and then to Kommissar Bucher at the local police headquarters.

  “George,” said Bucher, “I’m glad you called. I’m starting to like working with you.”

  “How come?” asked Bernoulli.

  “Because between us things happen—fast. We’ve already got Bechot nailed. One of our fellows, checking out all the bars and hotels, determined that he spent another five-pound note. This time at the bar of the Three Kings Hotel. It was on the same evening as the robbery. The bartender is willing to testify as a witness. We already have a signed statement from him.”

  “Great, but how does that help me?”

  “It seems that Bechot has been coming to that bar each night, for four consecutive days, starting on Friday, October 24, and ending on the night of the robbery when he left the five-pound note.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “So we checked the hotel roster. And we turned up enough to make your hair stand on end. First, our mutual friend Rolf Lutz spent four nights there. They overlap with Bechot’s visits.”

  “It looks like we’re lucking it out, Heinz.”

  “Wait a minute, there’s more. Five—get this—five Russians were there during exactly the same time span. I figured that if Bern is involved, this was bound to tie in somehow.”

  “Maybe. Anything else?”

  “The Russians had reserved for the entire week. Last Tuesday they checked out suddenly—within thirty minutes. Then there’s a fat little American who during the same weekend was waving around girls and dollar bills like crazy. He left something less than the greatest impression with the hotel management. Spent exactly the same period of time there as Lutz. Right across the hall from Lutz. The hallporter claims to have seen them together, very late one night. Finally there’s a Brazilian. From his description he very closely resembles one of the biggest con men in the business. Interpol has had a signal out for him for years. He stayed at the Three Kings for a week and departed Tuesday morning, the night after the theft—very early. Tuesday seems to have been a big day for people to leave Basel.”

  “Great, Heinz. I’ll come right over and get all the details.”

  As usual, Bernoulli walked. It was a sunny autumn day but a chilly wind was starting to come in from the east.

  10

  THREE days later on Tuesday, November 4, snow was lightly falling as Igor Melekov left the Foreign Trade Bank of the Soviet Union. He crossed the street, against a rather brisk wind, and headed toward the main entrance of the Bolshoi Theatre, less than a hundred metres away. His Thunderbird was once again in trouble. The fleet of black Zis limousines of the bank were there for the asking, but as usual he disdained using them. They had absolutely no style. Melekov preferred to take a taxi rather than relent on such an important principle. Not that Moscow taxis had any style either. But that was not the point.

  There was the normal bustle of people and traffic in front of the Bolshoi and five cabs were parked there, the drivers in the usual huddle. But no luck. They were taken. It was just one more of Mother Russia’s unfathomable mysteries. As in New York, the majority of downtown traffic in Moscow consisted of taxis. But in Moscow none were ever free. Melekov did not really mind. He was in an excellent mood.

  He decided to walk. It was at most a fifteen-minute stroll to the Russaya Hotel. Melekov struck a good figure. He was tall, well dressed, and moved briskly. Going up the rise to Red Square, he had to skirt the usual snaking line of visitors waiting to get a brief glimpse at Lenin’s mummy. Melekov glanced at his watch, a Rolex, and then paused for a moment in front of the showcases of the Gum department store. He figured he was just a shade early. Russians were never early, and he knew that the Germans took account of every little detail, however minute, in their calculations.

  He ambled now, through the rest of the huge square, heading toward the Moscow River. The Russaya suddenly loomed on his left—the largest hotel in the world. Here, he noticed, there were lots of taxis, waiting and free. The drivers knew where the dollars were buried. But, he thought, it’s harmless. Let them do their little thing. Most foreigners in Moscow are much too afraid to fool around with petty black market currency deals.

  He passed the hotel’s Beriozhka shop and stopped again. He must remember to order another case of Black and White. The shop appeared to be completely full, as usual. It was amazing how all these people came into possession of dollars, the only currency accepted in the Beriozhka stores. One could not help but wonder who in the world had given the original consent for the opening of these operations. The best store in Moscow, offering everything from Heinz soups to Kodak film, and if you tried to pay in rubles they would throw you out. Ostensibly for tourists; amazing how many of them spoke Russian! Oh, well, that was somebody else’s worry.

  Melekov’s worry at the moment was the Germans. Then Valentajn Ivanovich Stepanov. In that order only in terms of chronology, not priority. He could hardly wait until afternoon, and the showdown with that financial nitwit, Hero of the Soviet Socialist Republics. If only the caricaturists of the West knew how close they often came to the truth—that fellow strutting around on May Day, medals and all, had to be seen to be believed.

  The entrance hall at the Russaya was huge, and it was only one of four with exactly the same design. The hotel had been built as a monstrous quadrangle, four separate but equal wings, each containing well over a thousand rooms. A Byzantine Hilton of bizarre proportions. The lines at the desk were long. It was almost as difficult to check into a Russian hotel as it was to check out of an American. But this was also not his problem.

  “Comrade Melekov, the head of the German delegation is expecting you on the second floor.”

  Melekov’s waiting assistant led the way to the elevators. After five minutes one arrived. Three giggling American girls and one slightly drunken Russian emerged.

  The spread of dollars and decadence seem to go hand in hand, thought Melekov, as he rode the lift up to the second floor. The suite which he entered was Slavic Holiday Inn. Now Americans could also travel to Russia without ever having to touch foreign soil.

  Hans Klausen, managing director of the Rhein-Ruhr Stahlwerk, greeted Melekov profusely in gutteral English. Melekov knew German very well, but he would still be at a disadvantage in that language. Klausen pretended no knowledge of Russian, which was of course not true. Like so many other Germans he had learned Russian the hard way, courtesy of the military genius of Adolf Hitler. Klausen’s English was decent, but not as good as Melekov’s. So although the advantage was slight, it was there. Melekov had learned long ago never to seek to negotiate in a language he had not completely mastered.

  “My dear Herr Klausen, my people tell me that all the technical aspects of the agreement have been settled and that the contract is ready for signature,” said Melekov, as he settled opposite the German on the barbarous piece of foam rubber and steel which served as a chair.

  “Jawohl, Herr Melekov,” replied the German. He was just under sixty, and known as the most aggressive man in the steel business in Europe. A self-made man. A man with no political opinions. A man who worked day and night, not for the glory of Germany, but solely for the success of the Rhein-Ruhr Stahlwerk.

  “All that remains to be finalized are the financial arrangements. Even there during the past weeks we have worked out a draft agreement with your people at the Foreign Trade Bank, and both sides now feel the results are most acceptable.”

  He handed Melekov a twenty-page document—ten pages each in German and Russian; Russian would be the bi
nding text. Melekov settled back, as best one could with the furniture available, and began to read.

  The basic elements of the transaction had been under negotiation for almost two years. It involved the purchase of just under $2 billion worth of large diameter steel pipe from the Rhein-Ruhr Stahlwerk, the biggest foreign purchase in the history of the Soviet Union. The reason for this transaction was simple. Russia’s energy needs were climbing as rapidly as those in the West—doubling every ten years. Huge quantities of energy, in the form of crude petroleum and natural gas, were available in the eastern half of Russia. But these had to be brought to the refineries and to industry—and they were concentrated in the western regions of that vast country, this side of the Urals. Once brought to European Russia, there was no reason why a good part of the oil and gas could not be sent just a bit farther into Western Europe which was desperately seeking to reduce its dependency upon Libya for petroleum. Thus oil and gas could provide the answer to two essential Soviet needs—for energy and foreign exchange. Since both needs had become acute, a crash program was decided upon. Intensive calculations, part of the most detailed project planning yet achieved in the Soviet Union, had shown that during the next five years the building program would require an enormous amount of pipe for the dual lines which had to be put in. But they had also demonstrated beyond any doubt that thereafter demand would settle back to a level which just about matched the existing capacity of domestic producers. The conclusion: It did not make economic sense to build up Russian large-diameter pipe capacity to meet a temporary peak need. The investment required would be enormous, and the long-term return highly doubtful, unless a large proportion of output could be sold in world markets in the 1980s. A very expensive study, done for the Russians by Britain’s leading market research organization, proved that competition from producers in Western Europe, the United States, and Japan would preclude this. So the answer was: Meet the unique high-peak need for pipe during the next five years through imports.

  The problem had then reduced itself to the supplier. Which country would get this big fat contract? Everybody, of course, got into the act. All ramifications were considered: political, military, financial, technical. But this time, in contrast to earlier deals involving Cuban sugar or Egyptian cotton, the cool logic of the technocrats, who now ruled the country, had prevailed. Reciprocal trade potential, quality, speed, punctuality of delivery, price, and financial terms—these were to be the criteria upon which the decision was to be based—in exactly that descending order. The Americans out of Milwaukee would have won hands down on speed; the Italians from Genoa on financial terms; the British on price; the Japanese on punctuality. But only the Germans got high points in all six areas—first in quality, overwhelmingly first where potential reciprocal trade was concerned since they could probably absorb all the Russian gas and crude that would be offered and pay for it in hard cash, and second in all the rest.