“What about exploration? We develop new mines, maybe bring order to the chaotic gold mines of Brazil so they can increase production.”
“Even with the latest equipment and management, the veins in Brazil aren’t big enough to fill an armored car in a year,” Bryce replied. “And as for exploration, there are gold reefs out there. We even know where some of them are. It would take years just to cut through the bureaucracy to stake claims, and then you’d need to invest billions of dollars to bring any of them up to the production levels you gentlemen require.”
“Then the solution is simple,” a Frenchman said into the short silence following Bryce’s gloomy assessment. “We must convince the central banks to never call in their reserves. Perhaps we could promise them a greater interest rate to ensure their cooperation.”
“That’s just a temporary fix,” said another New Yorker. “We can’t run from our obligation forever.”
“But if we have time to refill the central banks’ coffers, we can maintain price stability and avoid what happened when my country announced their sale.”
“And when the
“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.”