expressions that some of them already anticipated what he was about to say, even if they didn’t know the specifics. He sipped from a glass of water before continuing. “For the past six years Germany has embarked on a series of failed economic policies. The result has transformed the country from Europe’s industrial engine into something akin to a welfare state. Productivity is down, unemployment is at the ceiling allowed by the EU, and shortly the government will face the likelihood that it will default on their overly generous pensions. In a word, Germany is about to go bankrupt. I learned two weeks ago that they are going to sell all of their gold stock.”
The collective gasp was the sound of men realizing they were facing the abyss.
“That is six thousand tons, gentlemen — or roughly two years’ worth of South Africa’s production. As it stands there are only two thousand tons on reserve in Berlin and Bonn. We have to make up a four-thousand-ton shortfall.”
“How soon?” the Frenchman asked, having lost his earlier bluster.
“I’m not certain,” Volkmann replied. “In order to keep prices stable I suspect it will be over some time.”
“But not enough,” the New Yorker muttered.
“And keep in mind,” Volkmann went on doggedly, piling disaster on top of disaster, “if commodity traders realize the bind our banks are in, they will gouge us, and prices might double or even triple.”
“We are ruined,” the banker from Holland cried. “All of us. Even if the Germans accepted currency, we could not repay. The money we made selling the gold has already been lent to others. We would have to recall loans, all of our loans. It would ruin the Dutch economy.”
“Not just yours,” the banker named Hershel said. “We bought and sold twenty billion dollars’ worth of German bullion, and a good chunk of that evaporated during the dot-com implosion. We would have to deplete our savings- holders’ accounts to pay it back. There would be runs on banks all over the United States. It would be the Great Depression all over again.”
A despondent silence enveloped the room as they considered those words. These men were too young to recall the Depression that enveloped the world in the 1920s and ’30s, but they’d heard firsthand accounts from grandparents and other relatives. But this time would be much worse, because the global economy was so interconnected. A few even thought beyond their own losses and those of their home countries. With nations struggling to provide for their own people, international aid would end. How many people in developing nations would die because the men at this table had sold borrowed gold in order to fatten their profit ledgers?
Suddenly the sleek corporate high rollers were as gray as Bernhard Volkmann.
“Is there any way to dissuade the Germans?” one asked after a few moments.
“We can try,” another answered, “but they have to look after their own interests. They need their gold back, or they’ll face insolvency and possible rioting, maybe insurrection.”
Volkmann allowed the conversation to continue for a few minutes on its own as the bankers bandied ideas of how to save themselves, their banks, and the world. In the end they had no answers. It was as the talk died down to silence once again that he asked the South African mine representative, Bryce, to leave the room.
When the door closed behind him, the bankers gave their undivided attention to Volkmann. He remained silent until someone finally asked the question they all prayed he could answer.
“Did you call us here because you have a solution?” asked the English CEO of the world’s sixth-largest bank.
“Yes,” Volkmann replied simply and almost felt their relieved sighs on his skin. He tapped a text message on his PDA and a moment later the great hall’s doors swung open again. The man who entered strode in with a sense of confidence that the bankers would never admit they only possessed as a front, camouflage to hide their insecurities. He moved loose-limbed and with his head high. He was their age, early fifties, perhaps a little younger. It was hard to tell. His face was unlined, but his eyes seemed old and his bristle-cut hair was more silver than brown. Unlike the bankers, he didn’t have the self-satisfied smugness of entitlement, the sense of superiority that came with the illusion of wealth and power. He was simply a presence, an undeniable force that had entered their meeting and seemed the center without having to utter a word.
“Gentlemen,” Volkmann said as the stranger took a seat next to the Swiss. “This is Anton Savich, formerly of the Soviet Bureau of Natural Resources. He is now a private consultant.”
No one said a word or made a move. None could fathom the presence of a former Russian functionary.
“I’ve known something like this was coming for some time and secretly made plans,” Volkmann continued. “There can be no argument about what I propose, nor any dissent. This is our only option, and when I am finished, each of you will agree to it without reservation. Mr. Savich will outline the particulars.”
Without getting to his feet, speaking casually with an arm draped over the back of his chair, Anton Savich told them how he was going to save their banks. It took ten uninterrupted minutes and left the faces of the other men with a mixture of shock, anger, and outright revulsion. The Dutch banker looked like he was going to be physically ill. Even the tough New Yorkers, one of whom Volkmann knew had fought in Vietnam, had gone ashen.
“There is no other way, gentlemen,” Bern Volkmann said. No one could actually agree orally. Volkmann passed his gaze from man to man, meeting their eyes, and knew he had their assent when they either looked away or gave an almost imperceptible nod. The last was the Dutchman. He gave a weak moan at the thought of what he was agreeing to and dipped his eyes.
“I will make the arrangements,” Volkmann concluded. “We need never meet like this again.”
The New Yorker who’d spoken of Fort Knox said, “Oh, I’m sure we will. In hell.”
7
CABRILLO crossed himself.
The victims were of all ages, though they were predominantly in their twenties, from what he could tell. Some had been dead for quite some time. Their bodies were black with lividity, and several were bloated with internal gas. Others had apparently drowned when the pirates dumped the container over the side of the fishing boat. They appeared sickly pale under the deck lights. It was hard to tell in the jumble of limbs, but it looked as though there were more men than women. The one thing they all had in common, other than their gruesome deaths, was that
