The Billion Dollar Sure Thing

by Paul E. Erdman

  “I’m not sure. You do know him, I assume.”

  “Know him?” replied Hofer. “I would hardly put it that way. I’ve dealt with him on more than one occasion, yes. We use his company for various problems which we unfortunately have as a bank. Increasingly so during the past few years, I’m sorry to say. His people are good. The best in the country, in my judgment. That’s it.”

  “Right,” said Bernoulli. He stood up.

  This caught Hofer a bit off balance. That was normally quite difficult to accomplish.

  “So, George Bernoulli—master policeman,” came his sarcastic comment. “I’m not sure you carry it off all that well.”

  Bernoulli was not in the least perturbed. “Dr. Hofer, I’ve heard that quite often before.”

  Both men started walking toward the door.

  “Say, tell me, how is silver doing these days, Dr. Hofer?”

  That one struck home. Hofer turned directly toward Bernoulli and gave him a look that indicated the strongest possible warning that enough was enough. The façade of etiquette splintered.

  “Ask your father, George,” was Hofer’s reply.

  His handshake was the briefest possible as Bernoulli left. The great man was offended.

  As Hofer returned to his desk, he was furious. “That impertinent young jackass,” he said aloud, and in an ugly voice.

  At ten o’clock the South Africans arrived. They were met by Hofer and Kellermann. After lunch Hofer instructed his secretary to send in a large cold bottle of champagne. At two forty-five the South Africans left by the garage entrance, just as they had come.

  Within the next fifteen minutes Hofer had talked to both Sir Robert Wínthrop in London and David Mason in New York. Both agreed to meet Hofer in Zurich two days later. At the Grand Dolder, for lunch.

  At three o’clock new massive buying of gold bullion occurred in both London and Zurich. The price which had fallen to $74 an ounce following the news from Russia suddenly shot back to $77 an ounce. The dollar, which had recovered almost all of the ground it had lost during the week of massive speculation, followed by panic short-covering, suddenly began to fall once more. This time nobody could put the finger on any one source of this action. It seemed to be happening simultaneously in Zurich, London, and New York.

  At three forty-five Herr Kellermann took a call from Stanley Rosen. Yes, the funds had arrived from Nassau. Yes, the bank was proceeding on Rosen’s instructions. No, there was nothing more Rosen could contribute at the moment. Yes, he would note that Rosen was going to Basel early the next morning. Indeed he would keep in contact with him over the weekend if necessary. At four o’clock Kellermann reported all this to Dr. Hofer.

  At nine that evening Dr. Bernoulli was received by the Swiss minister of finance. The great relief that both had felt during most of the day had totally disappeared as news of the new flareup in the gold and dollar markets spread. The meeting was short. At eleven-fifteen Bernoulli received an anonymous telephone call. He, in turn, was on the phone to the minister minutes later. Finally, a course of action was set.

  16

  “THAT will be $396.50, Mr. Rosen. It includes the phone calls. By the way, did you have any extras with breakfast this morning? That information always takes some time to reach the cashier.”

  “No. In fact I did not have breakfast. I’m planning to have it on the train. There will be a dining car, I hope.”

  “Where are you leaving for, sir?”

  “Basel.”

  “On the seven forty-six?”

  “Yes.”

  “It always has a diner.”

  Stanley gave the man $400 in travellers cheques and carefully counted the change when he received it.

  “You would like a taxi, Mr. Rosen?”

  “Yes, if you please.”

  Fifteen minutes later, after a torturously slow taxi ride, he alighted at the Zurich Bahnhof. Just half-past eight in the morning and the place was teeming with people. All grim as the weather outside, where grey clouds swept across the sky pushed by a cold wind that seemed to be everywhere, including the Bahnhof. Rosen bought a ticket and then hurried to gate 12 where his train was waiting. He must have walked past at least ten cars before he found one marked first class. It was divided into the usual continental compartments. Stanley chose a nonsmoker. He swung his massive suitcase up onto the rack but kept his coat on. It was icy. He began his search for the dining car, passing through another half dozen second-class cars, mostly crowded with Swiss soldiers dressed in a sickly green and all packing machine pistols. None appeared older than eighteen. At last the aroma of coffee met Rosen’s grateful nose. Not only that, but the car he entered was warm, very warm.

  Surprisingly, the diner was full of gayly chattering people. The contrast with the dismal hordes which had been plodding through the station only minutes ago could hardly have been greater. And then Stanley noticed why. They were almost all young Americans, full of zest and jokes even at this hour. The atmosphere made Stanley feel good, and suddenly he was touched with a bit of homesickness.

  Minutes later a steaming canister of coffee arrived, accompanied by a basket of superbly fresh croissants. Stanley took his morning copy of the Paris Herald Tribune out of his coat pocket, and settled down to the first breakfast he had ever had on a train.

  The front page of the Tribune was full of the monetary events of the past twenty-four hours. The wild gyrations of both the gold and dollar prices in the international markets were featured in a black headline running completely across the front page. The dollar, which on Wednesday had seemed on the edge of collapse, had made a remarkable recovery on Thursday morning. Simultaneously, the gold price had gone through the biggest one-shot fall in the history of the metal. But by late afternoon, the speculation seemed to have started all over again. The commentators all agreed that Friday morning, this morning, would tip the scales one way or the other. And all eyes were on Switzerland, since that was where the speculators were.

  Stanley’s face was wreathed in smiles as he took all this in. He deliberately read slowly, to get maximum satisfaction out of every written line. He asked for a second pot of coffee and even ordered a cigar. He did that maybe twice a year. Almost without notice the diner suddenly began to empty. Rosen glanced at his watch and hurried back to his compartment, lurching badly in the process.

  At eight forty-four the train arrived in Basel. Rosen was the last to leave his car. Two men immediately approached him.

  “Stanley Rosen?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are under arrest. Please make no trouble, otherwise we will have to put handcuffs on you.”

  He was taken firmly under each arm. The man on his left grabbed his suitcase. They jostled him down the stairs, then up a ramp into a waiting black car. A Volkswagen. The suitcase was thrown into the front seat. Rosen was pushed into the back seat and joined by one of the men. Neither spoke a word. The car pulled away with the usual loud VW whine. Rosen, his face the colour of ashes and both hands and legs trembling beyond control, finally spoke. “What’s this all about?”

  No answer. Both men, the driver and the somewhat smaller man beside him, looked straight ahead. The car soon moved out of the main roads into a series of winding, narrow, medieval streets. After three minutes they passed through a massive gateway, bordering on a tower with a large golden-faced clock. Two uniformed and armed police saluted as the car moved through. They stopped. Rosen was pulled out, this time roughly, and pushed through a door leading into a long grey building. He was led up two flights of stairs into a large rather barren office and given a chair.

  “Sit down, and empty all of your pockets.” Rosen did as he was told.

  The suitcase was placed next to a desk facing him. Suddenly two men entered the room, both well-dressed and well-shaven. The others left. One of the men sat down behind the massive desk. It did not have a piece of paper or a speck of dust on it. His colleague remained standing by the doorway.

  “Cigarette, Mr. Rosen?
”

  The question suddenly struck Stanley as the final touch to a situation which was absurd beyond belief, for he was still clutching his cigar, long since dead, in his left hand. It was moist with perspiration.

  “No,” said Stanley. It was barely audible.

  “My name is Dr. Weckerlin. I am the chief prosecuting attorney of the canton of Basel-Stadt. We know all about you and I can only suggest that you cooperate to the fullest extent. It will only be in your interest to do so.”

  Finally Stanley calmed himself sufficiently to speak again.

  “I would like to make a phone call.”

  “I’m sorry, that will not be possible.”

  “I want to consult a lawyer, immediately.”

  “That will also not be possible until we say so.”

  “Then I insist on being able to speak to the American consulate.”

  “In due course, Mr. Rosen. I think from the very outset you must realize that you are not in the United States. Our laws vary quite considerably from yours.”

  “Don’t I have any rights, for God’s sake? I thought this was a civilized country!” Stanley shouted, for now he was full of anger and fear to a degree never before experienced in his life.

  “Until we are certain that there is no danger of collusion between you and any other parties, you will be held in the fashion we consider proper.”

  “And what about habeas corpus?”

  “This concept is not part of the Swiss legal code. Mr. Rosen, I think that the best thing for you to do is to settle down now and tell us the truth.”

  “About what, for God’s sake?” replied Stanley.

  The man who had been standing beside the doorway suddenly moved. He picked up Rosen’s suitcase and laid it on the desk.

  “Is this the key?” he asked, pointing to one of those on the chain which Rosen had deposited on the desk.

  “Yes.”

  The suitcase was opened, clothes thrown aside. The two Swiss suddenly glanced at each other.

  “Stand up,” said Weckerlin. Rosen did not respond.

  “When he says stand up, then you stand up,” said the other man, and yanked him to his feet. Then he grabbed Rosen by the back of the collar and pushed his head into the suitcase.

  “This is your suitcase, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” replied Rosen weakly, as he crouched over the suitcase, firmly in the grip of the man beside him.

  “And what do you see at the bottom of your suitcase?”

  “A red dossier. But I’ve never seen it before in my life.”

  “Come now, Mr. Rosen,” replied Weckerlin, motioning to his colleague to release the American back into his chair. “That sort of nonsense will get you nowhere.”

  “I tell you I’ve never seen that dossier in my life.”

  “Fine, Mr. Rosen, if that’s the way you want to play it. I’m afraid that, in that case, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together in the next days and weeks. Would you like that?”

  No answer.

  Weckerlin suddenly produced a brown folder and opened it.

  “You were born in Brooklyn, New York, on January 17, 1929. Your full name is Stanley Salim Rosen. Your father’s name was David, your mother’s Sarah, née Stein. Right so far?”

  Still no answer.

  “You are a Jew. Is that correct?”

  “What in God’s name has that got to do with this?”

  “Nothing in particular. You are a Jew, aren’t you?”

  “Is that against the law in Switzerland?”

  “No. We have no prejudices here.”

  “Well, that’s nice to hear. Yes, I am a Jew.”

  “Good. It seems we are finally making progress. Would you care for a cup of coffee, Mr. Rosen?”

  “No.”

  “As you like. By the way, we will require your tie. Please take it off.”

  He took it off.

  “And your cuff links. And watch.”

  He took them off.

  “What prompted you to buy $200 million worth of gold through the General Bank of Switzerland this week, Mr. Rosen?”

  A stunned silence.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “And I will give you an answer. What I do with the General Bank of Switzerland or any other bank in this country is none of your business. I assume you have heard of the bank secrecy law.” Stanley was slowly regaining a bit of form.

  “You deny it, then?”

  “I think you heard me.”

  Weckerlin picked up the telephone. “Give me Dr. Walter Hofer at the General Bank of Switzerland in Zurich. I’ll wait.”

  The room was silent again.

  “Dr. Hofer? Yes, well this is Weckerlin in Basel. I think Bernoulli telephoned you earlier and mentioned that I might be calling. Just one question. Can you verify that a certain Mr. Stanley Rosen of New York placed an order to buy $200 million of gold bullion through your bank this week? You can? Thank you. Sorry to have disturbed you. Yes, you will be hearing more from us.”

  After he had hung the phone up, Weckerlin just sat there looking at Rosen.

  “You see, Mr. Rosen, when I tell you that we know all about you, you must believe me.”

  He reached into the suitcase for the red dossier and continued. “Now, let me tell you why you ordered $200 million worth of gold bullion. Because of what’s inside this dossier.” He waved it in the air.

  “I tell you, I’ve never seen that package of papers in my life.”

  “Where’s Lutz?” was the next abrupt question.

  “Who?”

  “Come on now, man,” this time in a harsh voice. “Stop trying to play stupid games with me. Rolf Lutz, general manager of Swiss Security Consultants.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Rosen, look, we know. Do you hear me, we know. You both were staying at the Three Kings Hotel. We have witnesses to prove that you were seen together drinking at innumerable bars across the border on October 26. The manager of the hotel saw you two—”

  “Oh, him! Sure I know Rolf Lutz. But why in God’s name do you keep beating around the bush like this. Has this guy Lutz done something? If so, believe me, I saw him but once in my life. We met by chance in the Three Kings and joined forces for a one-night stand. I’ve never seen him since, and have had absolutely nothing to do with the man.”

  “Come now, Mr.—”

  “Now, you come now, goddammit. I want to know—now—what’s going on here. I want to know right now why you have arrested me and what I am being charged with.”

  “All in due time, Mr. Rosen.”

  “Now.”

  “If you insist.” Weckerlin rang a buzzer and almost immediately a girl appeared with two rather small white pieces of paper. Weckerlin waited until she had left.

  “I have here a formal charge against you, Mr. Rosen. It says acute suspicion of economic espionage in violation of article 273 of the Swiss Federal Criminal Code. I must ask you to sign it; you may retain the copy.”

  “I refuse to sign any such thing. This is preposterous. Who made this charge?”

  “I ask the questions here, Mr. Rosen. And if you don’t want to sign, that’s fine. In any case, here’s your copy.” He pushed the paper across the desk. Stanley picked it up. All in German.

  “Now, Mr. Rosen,” continued Weckerlin. “I think you must realize that this is serious. Very serious. The penalty for what you have done can go as high as ten years in prison. But it need not. The courts here are very fair. They always look most favourably upon men who cooperate with the prosecuting attorneys from the outset. It shows character. My suggestion to you is quite simple. Just tell me your story in your own words. Why you stole this dossier? How you did it? Who has been working with you on this project? I’ll have one of our secretaries take it all down, and then you can read it. I’m sure before the morning is out we will have a signed statement that ultimately will only help your cause.” He spoke this in the voice of a kind man. At the end, he fold
ed his hands.

  By this time Rosen had returned to the almost paralyzed state he had entered into at the time of his arrest, which seemed now, in his confused mind, to have happened long ago in a murky haze.

  “Now please, Dr. Whatever your name is, I must be able to consult with a lawyer. I know nothing of what you are talking about. I understand nothing of what’s going on here. I need help. So please, let me talk to a lawyer.”

  “I’ve already told you that is not possible. Perhaps next week, or the week after that. A lawyer could be of no possible help to you. He would tell you exactly what I am telling you. Give us a statement. Give us the truth. Now shall I bring in a secretary?”

  There was no response. Weckerlin just sat there for two full minutes, silent, watching Rosen. Rosen sat slumped in his chair; his eyes seemed out of focus as he stared almost straight ahead into nothing but the blank wall behind Weckerlin’s desk.

  “All right. Take him to his cell. Maximum precautions.”

  The man standing by the door took Rosen’s arm and lifted him from his chair. With his other hand he reached toward the suitcase which still lay open on the desk.

  “No,” said Weckerlin, “that stays here. And by the way, make sure Rosen and Bechot are in different cell blocks.” Then he switched into German for a final sentence: “Lasst den Kerl heute Abend ein bischen braten.”

  Rosen disappeared through the doorway. Seconds later Bernoulli walked in.

  “Could you hear everything all right on the intercom?” asked Weckerlin.

  “Yes. It was all perfectly clear. Didn’t get too far with him, did you?”

  “That’s normal. After twenty-four hours in solitary that will change.”

  “Maybe,” replied Bernoulli. “The dossier, please.”

  Weckerlin handed it to him, and then asked: “What in God’s name is in that dossier, Bernoulli? Sure, you told me that it would be there, and you told me about that gold Rosen bought. And you said there’s a tie-in. But what is it?”

  “I’m afraid that will have to wait. They want this dossier in Bern.”

  “Well, you can tell your friends in Bern that I’ve cooperated all the way, but they can hardly expect me to work in the dark for much longer.”