The Silver Bears

by Paul E. Erdman

  “But,” he thought, as the lights of the house came into sight, “do they kill? Is that where the real difference lies? The ultimate borderline? Obviously they destroy, by tossing, pushing, forcing people into the rubbish heap. By removing a man from his job, or his money, or his reputation. But do they actually kill?”

  The question was hardly academic, because Doc had already reached a conclusion. It might be necessary to kill Frank Cook. Certainly he would have to get to Cook, try to make a deal, lean on him hard. And if none of that worked, kill him.

  That would stop everything cold. Just as would happen if somebody finally got to Joe Fiore. In the fight for succession, only confusion would exist—nobody would dare move lest they risk offending the next man who would assume that type of absolute power which can only exist in big business or big crime.

  And then he could go back to what should be the rule book. Because Doc was still convinced that it was there, and lived up to by the vast majority of the good people of this earth. The Frank Cooks, the Nick Toppings, even that California bank—they had to be aberrations, exceptions, which always pop up, even in the best of classes.

  Albert was sitting in the living room reading, as usual, when Doc finally entered their villa.

  “Well?” he asked. “Figure a way out?”

  “No,” was Doc’s curt reply.

  “So what happens next?”

  “We get together with Topping and his pal from that California bank tomorrow and get the paperwork moving. Then you might just as well take off for Iran, provided the prince can set things up down there immediately.”

  “And what are you going to be doing, Doc?”

  “Just keep thinking, Albert, until I come up with an angle. Maybe you can help me a bit.”

  “Sure. How?”

  “What’s this guy Frank Cook up to?”

  “He obviously wants to get that mine out of production immediately.”

  “Why?”

  “To make silver even scarcer than it is right now. The price has gone from $1.29 to almost $2.45 an ounce. If supply gets even tighter, it could go to three dollars and beyond.”

  “And that’s what Cook wants?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Is this fellow Cook big enough to swing something like that all alone?”

  “Provided he keeps the speculators in line.”

  “Explain that.”

  “Well, as long as people all over the world think that silver is going to get scarcer and scarcer, they’ll keep buying the stuff on the commodity exchanges. But if they think that all of a sudden a lot of new silver could start coming out of the woodwork, wrecking the price, they’ll all run for cover. Leaving Mr. Cook holding a great big bag full of silver which will maybe be worth $1.29 an ounce again before long.”

  “So if people learn about our little mine, that would be bad news for Mr. Cook.”

  “Obviously. That’s why he wants all mention of it deleted from our books.”

  “Thanks, Albert. You’re a smart kid.”

  “So what are you going to do, Doc?”

  “Like I said before. Think.”

  But while thinking, Doc had to play it straight. Already at 8:30 the next morning he was on the phone to Nick Topping. At eleven, he, Albert, and Marvin were back in the boardroom of the bank, waiting for the other side to arrive. The prince was busy in his office, trying to get a phone connection with Iran.

  Topping and Luckman arrived fifteen minutes late. That was Topping’s idea. Luckman, whose apprehension had kept him awake most of the night, felt better almost the minute he entered the Bank of Sicily and America in Switzerland. For he was once again in an atmosphere he felt comfortable with: lines of people in front of tellers’ windows, adding machines crackling in the background, marble floors, indirect lighting, hushed voices, dark blue suits.

  The man that interested him most after they had arrived at the boardroom was Marvin. And when they had been introduced, some of the earlier apprehension returned. No blue suit on Marvin! Plaid jacket, yellow open shirt, green trousers, and white mocassins, topped off by a wide grin.

  Whiting could not resist taking advantage of a situation like this.

  “Marvin,” he said, “made any good Swiss money lately?”

  Doc liked that.

  “Marvin, why don’t you show him some samples,” he said. “No, don’t bother. I’ve got a few on me.” He reached into his pocket for his billfold, extracted a one hundred Swiss franc note, and handed it to Topping. Topping held it up, smelled it, then rubbed it.

  “At least it’s dry,” he commented, “and it sure looks a lot better than some of the dollars Marvin used to turn out.”

  He turned the bill over. “It’s even got a nacked gal on the back, big tits and all. And pretty flowers! I can see why you came over here, Marvin. Making Swiss notes must be a lot more fun than drawing pictures of Benjamin Franklin for those hundred dollar bills.” Then to Doc: “May I keep it?”

  “Sure,” replied Doc, “provided you buy me lunch.”

  “A deal.”

  “Mr. Luckman,” interjected Albert, “I suggest you ignore the horseplay. I understand that you will be responsible for reviewing the books of our bank on behalf of the First National Bank of California.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Do you have identification?”

  “I do.” And he showed it.

  “Where would you like to start?”

  “I assume that you have regular reports on the bank’s status from your Swiss auditors?”

  “Yes.”

  “In what language?”

  “Italian. But we have had English translations made—and certified.”

  “The last audit was when?”

  “It was completed about a month ago.”

  “That should make things easier. I think I’d like to start with them, and then proceed to make spot checks of the important positions.”

  “I anticipated that. I’ve arranged for you to have an office on this floor, and our chief accountant will be available to you, for as long as you require, to explain everything.”

  “I’ll need a secretary who understands English.”

  “That’s also been done. I think it would probably help if I arrange for a circular to be sent to every officer of the bank, stating that you are to have full access to all records. I’m afraid that most of us will be out of town the rest of this week. So we want to be sure that everything you need is done today. Of course, Marvin will be here.”

  “You meant Mr. Skinner?”

  “Yes. In fact, if you agree, Mr. Skinner can take you to your office and get things going for you. O.K., Marvin?”

  Mr. Skinner was only too happy to be of service. Then the phone rang. Doc picked it up, listened for a minute, and hung up.

  “That was John. Firdausi’s not at home. He’s in Teheran. You can get a plane there tomorrow morning. The prince’s fixing it up right now. So you’d better get to work on the papers Firdausi’s going to have to sign.”

  Albert departed, leaving Doc and Nick Topping by themselves.

  “Nick,” said Doc, “too early for that lunch you’re going to buy me?”

  “Too early to eat, but never too early to drink.”

  “Do you know the Donatis?”

  “No. But I’ll trust you, Doc. At least where food’s concerned.”

  It was only five blocks from the bank, so they walked. They took a corner table, a bottle of Frascatti, and Doc asked the waiter to put together some antipasto—but there was no hurry. He even managed to do so in Italian.

  “You’re quite the gracious host, Doc,” remarked Topping. “Who taught you the lingo, anyway?”

  “The prince.”

  “He’s some character. Where did you find him?”

  “I didn’t. Joe Fiore did.”

  “I guess Joe’s getting old. But apparently Joe got to you after our little chat yesterday.”

  “He did.”

  “
So where do we stand?”

  “We play ball with you, provided you play ball with us. Simple. And when I say ‘you’ I don’t mean errand boys like yourself, Topping.”

  “Aha. You know something that you’re not telling me, Doc.”

  “That’s right. I know all about who’s calling your signals.”

  “So so. Don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “And one of the new rules of the game is that I deal directly with him.”

  “Can’t be done.”

  “I would suggest you ask Frank Cook first.”

  “You’re wasting my time, Doc. Mr. Cook has bigger things on his mind than you.”

  “Albert told me that.”

  “What did Albert tell you?”

  “That your Mr. Cook is trying to cook the silver market.”

  “And?”

  “Maybe he needs to be sure that nobody turns off the gas.”

  “Like who?”

  “Me.”

  “How?”

  “A few phone calls to a few people. About the mysteries of Persia.”

  “You wouldn’t do that, Doc. Joe Fiore would kill you.”

  “Joe’s in Vegas.”

  “What do you want from Mr. Cook?”

  “Maybe a little love and understanding. Plus a contribution to my pension fund.”

  “You don’t need Mr. Cook for that, Doc. Good old Nick here can see if a little charity might not be in place and fix things up.”

  “I told you before. I don’t deal with messenger boys. Where’s this Cook hang out, anyway?”

  “In England.”

  “Why?”

  “He likes his privacy. That one can get in England, like nowhere else. Doc, tell me something. What are you going to do after this bank thing’s over?”

  “I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “I take it you’re pretty pissed off with the Fiore crowd.”

  “You take it correctly.”

  “Maybe we do have something to talk about.”

  “We including Frank Cook?”

  “Yes. I’ll find out. In the meantime, Doc, don’t do something stupid. I hardly think you want both Joe Fiore and Frank Cook mad at you at the same time. Right?”

  “When?”

  “Tonight soon enough?”

  “It is. A little more wine, Nick?”

  “Don’t mind if I do, Doc.”

  That evening Topping did as promised. But Cook only agreed to meet with Doc after it had been confirmed that Firdausi had fallen into line. So it was tentatively agreed that Topping should bring Doc over to England on Thursday. They could meet at Cook’s place the following morning—again, provided that the whole deal was on.

  Topping telephoned all this to Doc at the villa in Garona. Doc didn’t like the delay, but agreed nevertheless—which gave Frank Cook a few extra days to live.

  16

  PAN AM has a lot of flights from Europe to Teheran. It’s not that there’s that many people who want to go there; it’s just that Teheran is an ideal fueling stop on the long-haul flights to India, Thailand, Hong Kong, or Singapore, where they load up again before moving on to Japan or Australia.

  It’s about a four-hour trip from Milan, about the same time it takes from New York to Los Angeles. But it’s more fun, since the cabin is usually full of rather exotic types: Indian girls in the saris, Japanese in their business suits which never seem to quite fit, Australians with their big mouths, and, in 1968, a smattering of Europeans and Americans off to Southeast Asia to get their fair share of that huge flow of dollars that Uncle Sam was pouring into the area in order to restore clean living among the natives.

  The prince and Albert had something less than clean living on their minds as they sat out the hours up front in the 707.

  “Albert,” asked the prince, for the third time, “are you sure it’s going to work?”

  “Provided you make sure that Firdausi understands the position we are in.”

  “But I never told him exactly who you people are. He thinks you are very famous American bankers.”

  “Now you are going to have to be more exact, John.”

  “I don’t know,” replied the prince, slowly shaking his head. “You must understand that the Firdausi family is one of the oldest and most respected in Iran.”

  “All the more reason for them to cooperate,” said Albert. “I hardly think they will want to become involved in a major international scandal which would link them with my father and his friends in Las Vegas.” He said this without any sign of regret or bitterness.

  “You are right, Albert. At least I hope so.” They lapsed into a long period of silence, as the plane hummed its way east. Then:

  “Albert, what do you make of Doc?”

  “I like him.”

  “I do too. Very much. But what will he try to do?”

  “I frankly do not know.”

  “Could it be something very bad?”

  “I hope not. But with Doc, you can never tell.”

  “But he is such a kind man, really. At first, I was very afraid of him. But now I am afraid for him.” The prince sighed. “Albert, I also talked briefly to the sister.”

  “The sister?”

  “Shireen.”

  “And?”

  “She asked about Doc. Whether or not he would be coming.”

  “She likes him very much?”

  “I’m afraid so. But she has no idea of what type of a man he was.”

  “People change, you know,” said Albert. “You don’t have to tell her everything. What does she expect of Doc?”

  “I think she’d like to marry him.”

  “But that’s crazy. Why?”

  “She wants to get out of Iran. Women there are still treated like servants. Or worse yet, like they did not even exist. In some parts of the Arab world until a few years ago, a father had a perfect right to kill a new-born baby if it was female.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “They don’t do that in Iran. But still—it is no place for a woman like Shireen. She was educated in England, you know. And she wants, desperately, to go back to Europe.”

  “Then she should go—and leave Doc alone,” said Albert. “Have you ever talked to Doc about her?”

  “Only once.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, you know Doc. He just told me to mind my own business.”

  Again a long pause.

  “Albert?” It was the prince once more.

  “Albert, what do you think I should do after this is over?”

  “Can’t you find something in Italy?”

  “Yes, probably. But it will not be easy for me.”

  “Why not? With your family background?”

  “But that is the trouble. We are regarded as laughable. As ridiculous remnants of the past. As amusing degenerates. I cannot stand that any longer. Do you think maybe Doc could do something?”

  “Ask him.”

  “Albert, I’m afraid to. Would you?”

  “Yes, John. But first let’s wait and see what happens in Teheran.”

  Agha Firdausi was waiting for them at the gate. The greetings were perfunctory. There was too much in the air for them to be otherwise.

  A Mercedes with a driver awaited them outside. He quickly drove them along the broad boulevard named after a local golfing champion: Khiaban-I Eisenhower. In the center of town they swung north along the Khiaban-I Pahlavi. Teheran does not quite measure up to what one expects to find in the mysterious Orient. Squat, uninteresting buildings, skinny trees, the world’s most chaotic traffic conditions—Tokyo, of course, excepted. Twenty minutes later they were already on the outskirts of the city. Signs indicated the imminent presence of the inevitable Hilton. But they passed it, as the road gradually began to rise into the foothills of the mountains faintly visible in the night sky. Their destination was the Darband Hotel. Even at night it was dazzling. If Agha Firdausi was out to impress, he was succeeding. The prince and Albert had b
een given a two-bedroom suite. There were flowers and a huge basket of fruit in each bedroom—compliments of the manager. Firdausi suggested that they meet in the restaurant a bit later. He wanted to get down to business immediately. As yet they had not exchanged one word about silver.

  “I don’t like the feel of this,” Albert stated, once he and the prince were alone upstairs.

  “Nor I. It’s not like him to be this way,” said John.

  “I wonder where his sister is?”

  “I don’t know. And I thought it best not to ask.”

  “John, would you mind taking the lead with Firdausi?”

  “No, Albert. As long as you take over when we get to technical matters.”

  “Should I bring my briefcase along?”

  “I should think so. Either we settle things tonight, or I’m afraid we never shall.”

  Twenty minutes later they entered the restaurant. Agha Firdausi was awaiting them at a corner table—alone.

  He rose to greet them.

  “I assumed you must have eaten quite a bit already on the airplane,” he said, “so I have taken the liberty of just ordering something light.”

  The something was caviar, with vodka, and champagne. The glasses had been filled. Firdausi used his vodka glass for a toast: “To our continuing success and friendship!”

  The three glasses met. And then embarrassing silence.

  “You have problems, Gianfranco?” asked Firdausi.

  “Yes we do,” replied the prince.

  “Serious ones?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then tell me. Now.”

  The prince did, starting with Joe Fiore, and ending with the prospect that the Swiss banking authorities would close the bank, foreclose on all outstanding debts, including those cosigned by Firdausi himself.”

  “That would mean,” Agha finally said, “that I lose the silver mine.”

  “Unless you can come up with $20 million within thirty days to pay off those notes,” said Albert, speaking up for the first time.

  “Where would I get $20 million?” was Firdausi’s response. “But,” he continued, “there is something I find difficult to understand. Do you mean, Gianfranco, that the bank is owned by a Mafia boss?”