Gold Read Online Free PDF

leave behind.
    He sat in 8-D, on the aisle, not even removing his coat, after putting his bag in the overhead luggage rack. The newspapers of course had nothing yet. Most of these pompous asses probably didn’t even know what was going on, MacLean thought, snorting in spite of himself.
    The plan with Fürglin had grown slowly. MacLean had met the Swiss trader at one of the rare press receptions the journalist had attended. Usually he avoided such affairs; he hated to stand there, cocktail in hand, watching those wolves in pinstripes slinking around, on the make. His flannel shirt and brown sport coat made him stand out amid the blue and gray of business suits. Nor did he have that sleek, manicured look of expensive haircuts and health club fitness. Most of the hungry-eyed crowd sidestepped him, as they would dog droppings on the pavement.
    Not Fürglin. Falstaffian in his dimensions, the trader had approached him with a big smile that had only a trace of condescension in it. He had spoken to him as an equal, registering no surprise when MacLean disclosed he was a journalist. Fürglin was, in fact, very interested in MacLean’s work. A couple of weeks later, Fürglin invited him to lunch. He wanted to maintain contact, perhaps exchange tips from time to time. MacLean realized that Fürglin had a design in all this, a design that dovetailed nicely with his own half-formed notions of revenge.
    The stewardess came by checking seat belts. She smiled at MacLean when he looked up, but the Canadian was lost in his thoughts and didn’t respond.
    They had hounded him out of Canada, the capitalists. A trade union activist, he was branded as an agitator; there was hardly a worse evil in their narrow nineteenth-century minds. First there had been the intolerable harassment at work, then the punctured tires and broken windows, and then the near-accident. His efforts had met with indifference among the soft, spoiled university graduates in the newsroom. They saw him as the anachronism, even though they were the ones caught up in this primitive system of exploitation.
    The sudden thrust of acceleration interrupted his bitter reverie. He peered past his neighbor to see the receding airport lights below as the 737 climbed. The bell chimed, liberating smokers from their uncustomary restraint.
    Fürglin and he had met regularly over the years, in an out-of-the-way Italian restaurant off Moorgate. Their talk had been veiled at first, but then increasingly open. MacLean learned more about how markets function, and Fürglin learned how and where WCN got its news. They refined their plot, sketched scenarios, outlined the opportunities. It was no small killing they wanted. They wanted a major market move, and Fürglin wanted a half hour’s head start. He spoke vaguely of “friends” who would back him when the time came, magnifying the take.
    MacLean took the plastic tray that was handed to him, even though he wasn’t hungry. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. He flipped up the lid, noticing that Swissair still used stainless steel tableware, not plastic. He snorted again. Rich bastards.
    MacLean had recognized his chance as soon as he saw it. It was a routine day, and he was so accustomed to the pulse of the slot that the flow of news was almost a narcotic for him. The telex from South Africa shattered the routine.
Produmesnil, Exmerwe.
    How did he get a telex out of Johannesburg?
Terrorists have blown up gold mines. could affect 80 pct rpt 80 pct production. Underground sources say ALF responsible. series of explosions overnight. More later.
    MacLean had immediately torn off the message, including the copy. He looked up to see Drew, sitting in his office, talking animatedly on the phone. MacLean held the message on his lap, below the desk. Bart was absorbed in his screen; Tom would not arrive for nearly an hour.
    MacLean read the telex again. He folded it and put it into the pockets of his khaki pants. He picked up the phone and