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punched out his home number. As the phone rang in the empty flat, MacLean addressed his dentist, saying that he had to see him immediately. Then he called Drew over, pleading his aching tooth, and left to call Fürglin. He left no trace of the telex, with its news that would shake the markets.
    “Tomato juice,” MacLean said in response to the stewardess’s question. The flight originated in London; it was perfectly normal to speak English. He didn’t order champagne. That might be remembered.
    He had called Fürglin again afterward. The trader and his “friends” had bought massively in gold futures and heavily in the spot market. When the news came across the wires, prices in both markets shot up. As the full import of the move became evident, Fürglin started selling and had liquidated most of his positions before the market gridlocked. He was exhilarated on the phone; they had nearly tripled their money in less than two hours. He didn’t tell MacLean how much that represented in absolute terms; the journalist had no idea who these friends were or how much money was involved. Whether it had been $10 million or $100 million, though, it was now three times as much.
    MacLean’s price had been agreed on beforehand, a fixed amount that would enable him to live in comfort for the rest of his life. He was forty-six, and his notions of comfort were modest enough.
    MacLean closed the lid on his food, which was untouched. He settled back into the seat. In less than an hour, he would be in Geneva.
    ~
    Spring transformed the hillside in Pretoria. The vivid splashes of red, yellow, violet, and white against the green lawn created a heady gaiety in the balmy air. Crowning the terraced flowerbeds, the Union Buildings all but blazed in the sun, their ochre stone sharply etched against the blue sky. The graceful columns opening up to the town below had an almost Olympian aspect.
    Oleg Abrassimov was impervious to the color and the weather. The tinted windows of his Mercedes limousine were shut, and he looked neither left nor right as his chauffeur wound up the twisting road. They drove past the bronze Voortrekker’s monument and up behind the wings of the building. Du Plessis was waiting on the pavement as the limousine crunched to a stop.
    The Russian looked incongruous as he stepped out of the black car. Palm leaves rustled softly in the spring breeze, but the stern gray face of the Soviet official presented an icy front to nature’s allure. Dressed only in a sober gray suit in the mild temperature, he seemed to miss his heavy overcoat and broad-rimmed black hat. After all, it was November and it should be cold.
    Abrassimov walked with du Plessis and his two aides around the pillared half-circle and into the courtyard of the east wing. Du Plessis led them up the wide stone staircase, explaining that the office was just on the first floor.
    The half-closed shutters kept the high-ceilinged room dim, but that suited Abrassimov better than the bright sunlight outside. Du Plessis indicated one of the worn leather armchairs at the table opposite the desk.
    “My colleague from Foreign Affairs was kind enough to loan us his office,” began du Plessis, taking the second chair. The two aides, one very young and the other somewhat older than du Plessis, sat discreetly to one side in straight-backed chairs. “We thought it would attract less attention to meet up here.”
    Abrassimov said nothing. He had met Andreis du Plessis just once before, at the Soviet embassy in London. A plain, trim man in his early forties, du Plessis exuded sobriety.
    These were sober days for the director general of the South African Finance Ministry. More than ever, the country depended on gold. South Africa owed its wealth to the rich deposits encircling Johannesburg. The white rulers had exploited the natural resources and the cheap black labor to create a standard of living unparalleled on the African continent and equal to that of the wealthiest Western