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and commodities exchanges.
—More—
    Drew switched the story back to Tom and dashed for his buzzing phone. “That’s right, Meg, it’s all yours,” he told the Geneva correspondent on the phone. She would be on the doorstep of the BIS at eight o’clock the next morning to cover the central bankers’ meeting in Basel.
    Halden said the suspension was only to give the market some “breathing space” to assess the impact of developments in South Africa. Markets would be reopened in a day or two, once the authorities had reestablished “an orderly trading environment.”
    Drew had felt a tingling at the back of his neck since the headline first came onto the screen. This must be what it’s like in a nuclear power plant when a meltdown starts, he thought. Had they shut down the reactor in time?
    “Tokyo’s declaring a bank holiday,” Tom called out, routing the story to Bart.
    Something was nagging in the back of Drew’s mind. He went into the office and rang MacLean’s number. It was nearly 7 p.m. No answer. Where in the hell was MacLean?

TWO
    MacLean sat quietly at gate A-22 in Heathrow, waiting to board flight SR303 to Geneva. It was an effort of will for him not to fidget, but fear was stronger than nervousness.
    He had not expected success on such a grand scale. For years he had waited for an opportunity like this one. He had nurtured his clandestine contact to Fürglin, both of them feeling a certain exasperation in their mutual loathing. But they were patient in their greed, awaiting the right opportunity.
    There was an expectant buzz in the waiting room as the attendant escorted an elderly lady through the gate to board first. MacLean kept his seat and held his green boarding card ready. A small smile momentarily lit his face. He had bought an economy class ticket so as not to draw any attention to himself. But he could have afforded first class and would be able to afford first class from now on. Two and a half million dollars gave him more than enough to smile about! The figure danced in his head. Too small to merit much attention in a WCN news story, it was a fortune that would sustain him in style in Rio.
    MacLean watched calmly, steeling his will, as waiting passengers rose to cluster at the gate. Swissair was boarding the smoking section first, rows 17 to 28. He was in row 8. He waited, a short middle-aged man with a growing tonsure on top of his head and a mustache punctuating his spare, meager face. His beige trenchcoat was worn, and his flannel shirt and woollen tie looked quaint. His suspenders, hidden under his jacket and coat, were even quainter.
    He had his revenge now. The wait had been long, but the satisfaction he felt was worth it. They had made him suffer for his beliefs, his convictions, and now it was their turn to suffer. He had learned. The bitterness of many years welled up and furrowed his brow.
    MacLean rose with the others and let himself be jostled along by the crowd. Fools, MacLean thought, looking at the group of preoccupied businessmen around him, holding their attaché cases and duty-free sacks as they thrust forward in the throng. The seats were assigned but still they pushed ahead. No discipline, no patience; they were all fools. He had beaten them. Their world revolved around money, and now he had more money than any of them. Or would have it shortly.
    He took back his boarding pass from the stewardess and walked down the ramp to the plane. Tomorrow he would go to the address in Geneva that Fürglin had given him and pick up the money. Then he would fly to Rio via Milan, to further hide his tracks.
    He had called Fürglin from the pay phone two blocks from the office. The Swiss had listened quietly and said nothing for a full minute. “This is it, then.” It was half an assertion, half a question. They had planned it too long for there to be any misunderstanding. Fürglin hung up, and MacLean went to his flat to pack a small suitcase. He didn’t have much to take—or to