“I would not say you’re working that much in the dark. You know that this document was stolen from the home of the secretary-general of the BIS. And you know that Sammy Bechot did it and that Rolf Lutz put him up to it. And I think it is now equally clear that this man Rosen engineered the whole thing.”
“But why the top-secret treatment of the dossier itself?”
“Weckerlin, I repeat, orders from Bern. So let’s drop that subject for the moment. Lutz is much more urgent. You people tell me that they have just traced his movements to a small hotel in Zurich, the Hirschen. He stayed there last night and checked out around six-thirty this morning. Then nothing. His office in Geneva says they haven’t heard from his today. What now?”
“I think we’d better first make a check of the airports—all three of them.”
It was not until noon that they received the bad news. It was incredible but true. Lutz must have been on the same train as Rosen, coming from Zurich. Apparently he had gone directly to the Basel-Mulhouse airport from the station and just barely caught the flight to Frankfurt. The German police had been alerted. After lunch a Telex from the Kripo in Frankfurt told the rest of the story. Lutz had boarded a Lufthansa flight to Lima, Peru. It had left two hours ago. Obviously there was no sense contacting the Peruvian authorities. They didn’t even know the meaning of the word extradition in that country.
“Of all the bloody stupid carelessness.” It was the third time Bernoulli had said that as he sat in Weckerlin’s office.
“Don’t blame yourself,” said Weckerlin. “After all, we had to pick up Rosen first. He’s the key man, from what you tell me.”
“Yes, but we should have had Lutz under close surveillance the entire time. Ridiculous.”
The phone rang. Weckerlin picked it up and then handed it across the desk to Bernoulli: “It’s for you. Dr. Hofer himself.”
They talked for about five minutes, with Bernoulli doing little more than grunting. When it was over, he just leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. He was already on his second pack for the day.
“What did he want?” asked Weckerlin.
“To keep us informed, he says.”
“About what?”
“Well, he’s protecting himself, and I suppose he is completely within his legal rights. He said he has cancelled all the transactions the bank did for Rosen during the process of the last few days. In fact, he claims that the bank has been selling part of that gold in the market today. He claims that it cooled off the speculators considerably when they heard that the General Bank of Switzerland had turned into a major seller of gold. Dr. Hofer’s little contribution to international monetary understanding.” The latter was said with more than a touch of sarcasm.
“That is all?”
“He asked if we wanted to temporarily block the cash funds Rosen has with them. Apparently it amounts to around $150 million.”
Weckerlin softly whistled. “And?”
“I said we would let him know.”
After that Bernoulli stood up.
“Well, off to Bern. I’ll keep in touch. It seems highly probable that we will have to meet early tomorrow morning. Here. I know it will be Saturday. I hope you don’t mind.”
Weckerlin didn’t mind in the least. His appointment as chief prosecuting attorney had been a political one, and this obviously involved politics.
Bernoulli picked up the afternoon papers after he left. They confirmed what Hofer had told him on the phone. The word had gotten out that the gnomes of Zurich, led by the General Bank of Switzerland, had decided to take profits. The run into gold had been met by massive selling of the metal in the Swiss market. It had stabilized at $79.45. The foreign exchange markets had immediately reacted. The speculation against the dollar had also suddenly subsided for the second time within forty-eight hours. But it seemed nobody was taking any more risks in face of the monumental gyrations in the markets during the past couple of days. One after the other, European banks had decided to stop trading early on this Friday. All pleaded the need to catch up in their processing of the tremendous amount of paper which had been generated by a week of unprecedented speculation. The headline in the National Zeitung seemed to best sum up everybody’s feeling: THE DOLLAR SAVED AGAIN—UNTIL NEXT WEEK.
But this had been the week that counted. When Bernoulli got to Bern a few hours later, the atmosphere of relief in the office of the minister of finance was evident the moment he stepped through the door. And when he handed the red dossier over, it was truly a grateful handshake that was extended to him.
“Bernoulli, you’ve done a remarkable job. Truly remarkable.”
“Without that anonymous phone call last night, we would still be completely in the dark.”
“True. No way of ever determining who that was, I guess.”
“None.”
At that point, the secretary-general of the Bank for International Settlements entered the room. His eyes went immediately to the red dossier still in the minister’s hands.
Bollinger flushed. He immediately approached Bernoulli, took his hand, and shook it vigorously.
“You’ve actually done it,” he said. “Unbelievable. But then this entire affair has been unbelievable from the very outset.”
“But are the gold and foreign exchange markets under control?” asked the finance minister.
“They are. The banks have been closed for hours and those in the United States will soon be. Believe me, it cost the American government a packet—well over $7 billion to keep things under control during the past two days. But now we can certainly manage the last couple of hours.”
“You are sure that the Americans are going to proceed exactly on schedule?”
“Yes, definitely. The American president will be making a special announcement on television in about six hours, once they are safely into the start of the weekend over there.”
Then the man from the BIS turned to Bernoulli. “You are sure that none of this can leak to the U.S. government?”
“Well, certainly not tonight in any case. We have the red dossier here, and the man responsible for its theft is in prison in Basel, completely under wraps.”
“But after this weekend? I think both of you must realize that if the true story of our involvement in this affair ever gets out it will have serious consequences for everyone in this room.” Bollinger’s eyes were on Jakob Gerber, the Swiss finance minister, as he made these last remarks.
“I don’t get your point exactly, Bollinger,” said Gerber.
“My point is this. Switzerland is the only country in the world which holds the vast majority of its reserves in gold. This American move will almost triple the value of these holdings. It would be extremely easy for lots of people to totally misinterpret our desire to keep this entire affair secret from the Americans.”
“True,” said Gerber. “What do you think, Bernoulli?”
“I agree.”
“But how can we possibly prevent such a development?”
“I think there may be a way,” answered Bernoulli.
At this point Bollinger broke in. “But who has been behind all this, Bernoulli? And exactly whom do you have in prison in Basel?”
Minister Gerber glanced at his watch and then spoke. “That, my dear friend Bollinger, is truly a long story. Gentlemen, I suggest that Bernoulli tell it over dinner. Why don’t we all head for the Schweizerhof. Tonight the drinks and dinner will be on me.”
It was just after eleven when the three men parted. Gerber walked Bernoulli and Bollinger to the Bahnhof. Both took the last train back to Basel.
17
IN maximum security cell 113 of the Basel prison a 500-watt bulb, protected by a heavy wire cage, relentlessly shone on the man huddled, head in hands, in the corner. There was no bed, no furniture; just a mattress and a blanket, both darkly stained. The cell had no heat.
The stench was overpowering, a mixture of defecation and putrefaction. An open-pit toilet, at which two foot pedestals were
mounted, was the source. Rosen’s eyes, which swung regularly around the confines of the cell, always detoured this object, perhaps as the result of a reflex going back to childhood, when hope was still strong that things ignored may well not truly exist.
A bell tolled outside. Just one stroke. Quarter after eleven. Rosen knew, for since darkness had fallen outside and silence taken over the prison, it was this bell, and the passing of time it signalled, upon which his mind had seized. But had it been just one stroke? Perhaps it had been two, and he had somehow missed the first one. That would make it eleven-thirty, that much closer to dawn. No, it had only been one stroke. And it really didn’t matter that much. For his light was still on. Please, God, he thought, keep it on all night.
And then a noise. Just a slight one. Coming from that corner. Rosen, not looking, tensed. Nothing. Probably something in the courtyard below. Then it came again. A rustling. A movement. Yet again, more pronounced—and close. Rosen forced himself to look.
“No!” he whispered.
But yes. Its beady eyes met Rosen’s. They were unflinchingly aggressive. Then it moved again, and the glistening grey-brown skin slithered up into view between the two foot pedestals. It stopped, ears perked, both eyes still fixed upon Rosen as he sat, horrified, just six feet away.
“Go away,” he said, and then shouted, “Get out of here! Please get out of here.”
The rat just crouched there, eyes now moving, as if measuring the cell and assessing the chances of escape—not for himself, but for his prey. The thought communicated itself instantly, for it was then Rosen’s eyes which began to wildly sweep the cell.
“Climb up onto something,” his brain told him.
But his eyes told him this was impossible. The mattress upon which he squatted provided all of six inches elevation. That was the only object in the room. The walls, smooth and glistening with moisture, offered no shelves, no ledges, no footholds, no toeholds. The tiny barred window facing the courtyard was a full eight feet up.
Then the rat moved again. This time right to the edge of the pit, and right in the direction of Rosen. He began to shiver, first ever so slightly, but soon arms, legs, and then his entire body were shaking in uncontrollable convulsions, as his every fibre revolted against the utter horror of the situation.
“My shoes,” he thought, in desperation.
But he had no shoes. They had been taken away. Nor did he have anything else with which to combat this enemy. The only items in maximum security cell 113 were one rat, one human, his shirt, his trousers, his socks, his underwear, one mattress, one dirty woollen blanket.
And then a second head appeared. Another grey-brown body oozed up from the drain, hesitating, perhaps adjusting its eyes to the unaccustomed glare of light in Rosen’s cell. Suddenly Rosen remembered. The alarm bell! Just to the right of the cell door. Only to be used, it had been stressed, in cases of extreme emergency, of sickness which required immediate attention. The bell was twelve feet away. The rats, six.
Rosen moved ever so slightly, inching his way along the mattress in the direction of the door. Then he stopped. Neither rat had changed its position in the slightest. But they were watching. Rosen moved again. Still no challenge. Then he was on his feet. He moved his back against the cell wall and, gaining confidence, slid further toward the button which would bring deliverance. Still no movement in the open-pit toilet. He pressed the alarm bell hard, then again, and again. He forced his head against the steel separating him from the corridor, and within minutes he heard footsteps rapidly approaching. Then keys rattled in the door. It swung open, but no one entered.
“Stand back against the far wall!”
The man spoke English. Thank God.
“Back to the far wall,” said the voice, this time harshly.
Stanley moved back, but only a few steps. The two guards, one with a drawn gun, just watched him from the corridor.
“Hands behind your head!”
Rosen obeyed.
Now one guard stepped in. The other remained just on the threshold of the cell, eyes wary. His revolver pointed at Rosen’s feet.
“What’s wrong?”
Rosen nodded his head backwards, toward the open toilet. The two men just stared at him.
“Rats,” said Rosen, finally.
“What?”
“Rats,” he repeated.
“Where?”
“In the corner. In the toilet pit.”
The guard inside the cell stepped to the side and looked.
“I don’t see any rat.”
“Rats,” repeated Stanley, “two of them.”
Now the guard with the gun moved into the cell.
The two men in uniform glanced at each other, and then back at Rosen.
“We don’t have rats here. This is Switzerland, a clean country. I think that you have rats in your head.”
His index finger tapped the side of his head. His colleague with the gun thought that was rather funny. Obviously he did not understand a word of English, but could hardly miss the meaning of the gesture.
“I tell you—”
“You,” interrupted the guard, “do not tell me anything. We’ve been warned about you. That you’re a troublemaker. Maybe. But although you might be able to make trouble in America, you’re not going to make any trouble here.”
“All right,” said Rosen, “maybe I did imagine things. But could you somehow cover up the drain in that toilet? Please?”
“Do what?” was the incredulous response.
“Cover up the drain. That’s where the rats came from.”
“With what? A wooden plank? So next time you can hit us over the head? Don’t be stupid. You know as well as I do that there are no rats here. Now what do you really want?”
Rosen just let one hand slip from behind his head, and across his eyes.
“Put those hands back where I told you.”
No response. Then came a sudden jab, right into Rosen’s gut. He doubled over. Both guards stepped carefully back.
“All right. That’s enough of this. Your behaviour will be reported first thing in the morning. You, my little American friend, are heading for a lot of trouble in this place. One last thing. Don’t press that alarm bell anymore. Because no one is going to respond. Get it? No more alarm bells!”
The two men backed out. The cell door slammed. The key turned. And immediately thereafter the light went out.
Rosen froze. Then he pounded on the door.
“Turn the light back on,” he screamed. He pounded again.
“The light! Please turn on the light!”
But there was to be no light. Just the fading laughter of the two guards as they moved off. Then utter silence. Rosen slumped there against the door, now sobbing quietly. His stomach had recoiled into a hard painful ball after the blow. His heart began to flutter irregularly. Stanley was afraid. For his very life. Because he knew that he could not survive for long under these conditions, neither physically nor mentally. He was not a coward. But he was a Jew, and like so many of his race he lived his life with a memory, an abhorrence, of the unthinkable. Of Dachau, of Buchenwald, of the unspeakable silent extermination of six million of his race. In central Europe. In German Europe. The cynical accusations, the helpless confinement, and finally death—by suicide, slaughter, or simply the slow surrender of life through organic decomposition. In the dark recesses of so many Jewish minds this represented the ultimate horror, a horror which had to be kept deeply submerged lest the joy of life be lost forever.
But now for Stanley Rosen it was a horror which had become reality, with stunning swiftness and brutal certainty. For no one could help him. Not tonight, or tomorrow night, or the night thereafter. They had him. Imprisoned. In central Europe.
As if in a dream, with mind paralyzed and spirit crushed, Rosen stumbled back into his corner, on top of the mattress. He pulled the blanket over his body, and then his head, curled into a ball, and entered a twilight stupor. All his senses simply turned off as, me
rcifully, his mind withdrew from a world which simply could not exist.
18
AT just before ten the next morning, Saturday, November 8, the door to Stanley Rosen’s cell opened again. He still lay, curled up, on his mattress.
“Wach auf, du!”
Rosen swung his feet to the floor, his eyes wildly moving toward the door.
“Komm steh auf. Du wirst verlangt.”
“Look, I don’t understand German,” said Rosen wearily.
“Blöder Amerikaner. Immer dasselbe.”
The prison guard did not waste any further words. He went to Rosen and pulled him to his feet. Then a second guard appeared, with Stanley’s shoes, jacket, coat, even tie.
“Anziehen,” was the next order, this time accompanied by a few motions. Stanley got it. He put the clothes on.
“Du sollst zum Staatsanwalt gehen. Verstanden?”
For a crazy moment Stanley thought he had been freed. He pointed at himself and then at the door and said, “Gehen?”
“Ja, ja.”
Jubilantly Stanley lurched toward the open door.
“Nein, nein. Bist Du verrückt?”
Both guards grabbed Rosen, and it was firmly in their grip that Stanley Rosen left the cell. As the trio walked through the prison corridors, nobody took any notice of them. Within a few minutes, after the unlocking and locking of a series of doors, they entered the adjoining building. Soon Stanley was back into familiar territory, as he once again entered the office of the prosecuting attorney. This time he got the name, since it was printed in bold letters outside the door: Dr. Amadeus Weckerlin.
Weckerlin was on his feet as Rosen entered. He startled Stanley as he extended his hand, but it was only to offer a handshake. Stanley ignored it.
“Mr. Rosen,” said Weckerlin, completely unperturbed. “I would like to introduce a representative of our Federal Justice Department, Dr. Bernoulli.”
The man who had been standing beside Weckerlin now also offered his hand. This time Rosen accepted it. He was offered a chair at what appeared to be a small conference table at the back of the room. The two Swiss took seats facing him. Immediately a girl appeared with three cups of coffee. On each saucer there was a small cookie.
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