.Paul E. Erdman, the Edgar Award–winning author of The Billion Dollar Sure Thing and creator of the financial thriller genre, returns to the world of high finance for this gripping, Edgar-nominated novel about a bold scheme to rig the silver market. Adapted into the movie Silver Bears, starring Michael Caine, Erdman's intricately plotted tale of how to make a fortune — legitimately or not — was hailed by Kirkus as "another assured jackpot for an unnumbered account of readers."
Paul E. Erdman, the Edgar Award–winning author of The Billion Dollar Sure Thing and creator of the financial thriller genre, returns to the world of high finance for this gripping, Edgar-nominated novel about a bold scheme to rig the silver market. Adapted into the movie Silver Bears, starring Michael Caine, Erdman's intricately plotted tale of how to make a fortune — legitimately or not — was hailed by Kirkus as "another assured jackpot for an unnumbered account of readers."
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Overview
Paul E. Erdman, the Edgar Award–winning author of The Billion Dollar Sure Thing and creator of the financial thriller genre, returns to the world of high finance for this gripping, Edgar-nominated novel about a bold scheme to rig the silver market. Adapted into the movie Silver Bears, starring Michael Caine, Erdman's intricately plotted tale of how to make a fortune — legitimately or not — was hailed by Kirkus as "another assured jackpot for an unnumbered account of readers."
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780486840833 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Dover Publications |
| Publication date: | 06/12/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 240 |
| File size: | 870 KB |
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Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The Grand Canyon in late March was a bleak place. Even the rustic lobby of the Big Lodge, on the edge of the southern rim, usually bustling with hordes of tourists and their subhordes of screaming brats, was totally deserted. For it was not only March; it was also a Sunday morning, a time when the God-fearing people of Arizona were either in church or still in bed with a bad conscience.
The total peace was broken around 10:45 when a black Cadillac pulled up. The gray-haired man who emerged was also in black. He pushed through the revolving doors, a strangely incongruous mechanism in this Wild West setting, and approached the reception desk. There was not a soul in sight. But there was a bell. So the man in black banged on it, three times, hard. It was a rather small bell, but it produced one hell of a loud noise, or at least it seemed that way in contrast to the silence which had prevailed prior to the entrance of this intruder. The audible result of the bell-banging was soon replaced by a visible one, in the form of a clerk clad in levis and plaid shirt. After a few words had been exchanged, the clerk handed over a key, in fact, two keys. One of them was for the hotel lounge, just in back of the lobby. It was closed to the general public at this time of year, since there was very little general public requiring its use. The man in black, followed rather meekly by the clerk, unlocked the door, gave the lounge a quick once-over, nodded his O.K., and closed up again. He then disappeared up the staircase, led by the hotelkeeper carrying his only luggage, a small black leather satchel.
Within a few minutes the clerk was back in his lobby, just in time to meet another incoming guest. It was again a single gentleman, also middle-aged, this time in dark blue serge, pink shirt, red tie, and brown cigar. He was without luggage. In fact, it seemed that he was just trying to locate the coffee shop; it was off the lobby to the left, opposite the staircase, and likewise deserted, except for a floozy-looking blonde waitress who took five minutes before she managed to produce the desired cup of coffee. During the next half hour there was a steady uptrend in activity: five more somberly clad men, all but one with cigars, and all wanting a morning coffee. The lone non-smoker was a gum-chewer. The six of them, lined up at the coffee bar, strongly resembled old crows perched on a fence. At least this was the thought of the waitress as she surveyed her silent guests. At 11:45 as if by magic, her flock suddenly deperched, and disappeared into the lobby, leaving behind a cloud of tobacco fumes, six empty cups, a faint touch of juicy fruit in the air, and five tips totalling seventy cents. The man in the black suit with the key was there to greet them. Again without a word he just motioned with his head toward the lounge door. They all entered, the door closed, the lock clicked, and silence returned to the lobby of the Big Lodge on this cold, but sunny, Sunday morning in March.
Inside a murmur of conversation suddenly developed. One by one the men took chairs and grouped them around a low massive table, built from raw timber which had been hacked up and then nailed together by the local purveyor of genuine western lodge furnishings. The man in charge, Joe Fiore, plunked his massive body into the biggest armchair available, and also plunked his highly polished shoes onto the surface of the table, adding another nick to the formidable collection already visible.
"Perfect, ain't it?" he asked.
"Yeah," was the collective and unanimous answer.
"Anybody tailed?" was Joe's next question.
No. Nobody had been tailed. The man from New York had flown into Phoenix and, after a night's sleep, driven up in an Avis. The representative from Chicago had come by way of Albuquerque airport, where he had picked up a Hertz. The Miami man had used Reno as his transfer point. And so it was with the men from Boston, Los Angeles and St. Louis. All had come the prior evening into separate western airports, and then driven themselves hundreds of miles along almost completely deserted high-speed roads to this meeting place on the edge of the Grand Canyon. Except for Joe Fiore; he had come directly from Las Vegas with his own long black Caddie.
"I'm sorry about any inconvenience you might have had getting here. But I think we all agree that one can't be too careful these days."
Everybody agreed that, indeed, one could not be too careful these days, or any other days. Then the man from New York spoke up.
"So all right. We're here. Now what's the big deal?"
"The big deal, Tony, is that I can get us out of our mutual financial predicament. You all know how difficult things have become since the banks have to photostat all evidence of financial transactions over ten thousand dollars. We're hamstrung. All we can do is sit on cash. But no longer. I finally found a foolproof way to put our money to work in legitimate investments without the Feds or anybody else being able to trace it back to us."
"Yeah, how?"
"Gentlemen, through a Swiss bank!"
The muteness which met this revelation was total, except for a disgusted, unidentified, faint, yet distinct, "Jeezus!"
Then the man from Chicago spoke up.
"Ah come on now, Joe, what's so fuckin' great about that? For Chrissake since years everybody claims we've been using Swiss banks to hide our money. Where've you been all that time, for crying out loud?"
"Now hold on one damn minute," interrupted Fiore. "Sure I know everybody's been saying that. But do you know anybody at a Swiss bank?" He pointed his finger at Chicago.
"Or you?" This time the finger swung toward New York. Then Miami.
They all looked at each other. No, nobody had ever dealt with a Swiss bank. Joe Fiore beamed.
"You see," he said triumphantly, "everybody yaks about it, but nobody's ever done it."
"But Joe," said Los Angeles, "after all the phony propaganda in almost every newspaper in the world about us using Swiss banks, I'm sure no respectable bank in Switzerland would touch our business with a ten-foot pole. I mean, they could get into trouble, and then we would get into trouble."
"You are right," replied Fiore. "And I know, gentlemen, I have been to Switzerland. I even opened up a numbered account with a big bank in Zurich. Until, somehow, they must have heard something. Then I got a letter requesting me to transfer my funds elsewhere, and within seven days."
"So then why drag us all the way out to this godforsaken hole in the ground?" asked Boston.
"Because I've found the perfect solution. I bought us a Swiss bank, lock, stock, and barrel. This way we won't need those Swiss jerks, or anybody else. We run our own show, with our own boys, and our own money."
"And when somebody over there finds out who controls it? Then what?" It was Boston again.
"I've fixed that. I found the perfect front man. A prince. A real one. Him and me got to be real, you know, simpatico. But he also understands our system. So he'll keep his mouth shut. Forever."
Skepticism reigned in the lounge of the Big Lodge. The man from St. Louis, who was known as a very kind and decent man, restricting his activities to gambling and prostitution, adamantly refusing to have anything to do with any of the rougher, though more lucrative lines of business, then interceded.
"Come on, you guys, let's hear Joe out. Maybe he does have something." He turned to Fiore. "How would it work, Joe."
Joe Fiore looked hurt, deeply hurt, but he continued. "I'll set up a courier service. My boys will pick up your excess cash on a regular basis, and then take it over to our bank in Switzerland via Mexico. It will disappear just like that." He snapped his fingers with a loud crack. "Then we invest it, like the Rothschilds and all those other big guys do over there. The whole world will be open to us. Gentlemen, this could mean the big chance for us to start our sons on sound careers. As we grow, there will be lots of room for our boys to move into the operations over there. I tell you, it's time to think and plan ahead. Sure, we've all done great in our own way. But maybe our way won't be that of our kids. Here's a chance to put both our money and our kids to work, in a high-class legitimate way."
The plea was a passionate one. It would have won admiration especially in the elite financial circles of New York. For as many of the more historically inclined men on Wall Street knew only too well, some of the nation's strongest financial institutions had been built on a heritage no less simple, or shady, than the group of men gathered together on this winter morning in Arizona. Sure, it had been accomplished in many ways. But the quickest and surest method of gaining a foothold in the Establishment was by founding that ultimate symbol of the Establishment: a bank!
Such subtleties of Joe Fiore's vision were beyond the comprehension of his colleagues, as was soon evidenced by the response from New York.
"Yeah," he said, "but although my son is a damn smart kid, he's only thirteen right now. So who's going to run the bank until junior is ready to become senior vice president?" New York had obviously married late.
Joe decided to overlook both New York's sarcasm and the laughter it produced.
"I have put together a small team of men from my organization. They will be leaving this evening for Switzerland to take over operations. Believe me, they're the best I've got. All I'm asking of you is to indicate whether or not you're interested. If so, I'll let you each have a piece of the action, like eight percent of the shares of the bank each. And at my original cost. The only thing I ask in return is that you come through with regular deposits for the bank."
Silence.
"So who wants in?" asked Joe.
Still silence.
Then Tony Regazzoni of New York spoke up. "Listen, Joe. I think we all need some time to think this over. Why don't you go ahead over there in Switzerland, and then let us know how things are working out. I'm sure, after we can see some kind of track record, all of us would like very much to come in. But later, not now."
Everybody else in the room nodded agreement.
So New York continued. "All right. So that's settled. Now as long as we're here, I'd like you all to know that somebody has been running heroin into my territory during the past month and has wrecked the market. I hear it's coming from Montreal. Once something like this gets started, it can spread to ..."
With a feeling of great relief, the men in the room got down to a discussion of day-to-day business problems. Joe Fiore listened for a short while, and then slipped out of the room. He went straight to the pay phone box in the lobby.
He had the connection with Vegas immediately.
"This is Joe. Gimme Doc."
A short pause.
"Doc? Right. We're going ahead. I want you to get over to L.A. this afternoon and take that flight as planned. And listen, Doc. Either you guys make a go of that goddamned bank over there, or I'll get you. Personally. And now another thing. If I hear of you trying to pull any funny business — and I mean any — you are going to be in deep, deep trouble. Understand? This deal is going to be done 100 percent straight from the word go. Understand?"
The phone squawked full understanding.
"And take good care of Albert. You hear?"
CHAPTER 2At 9 P.M. Alitalia flight 967 left the Los Angeles International airport bound for Milano, Malpense. Mathew "Doc" Smythe, Marvin Skinner, and Albert Fiore went directly to the cocktail lounge in the front of the D.C. 8 after the big plane had climbed to cruising height. Smythe ordered beer for everybody. After the drinks had arrived, Marvin took a tentative sip, looked around, and then asked:
"Doc, are you sure we're on the right plane?"
"Look, Marvin," replied Doc Smythe, "if I told you once, I've told you a hundred times: just do what I do, and you'll be fine."
"I know you said that, Doc. But this plane is going to Italy, not Switzerland."
Smythe sighed. "Marvin, I know. But for the very last time, let me explain that Lugano, though in Switzerland, is in the Italian part of Switzerland. They speak Italian there. And why? Because it's right on the border of Italy where, as you may have heard, they also speak Italian."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Nothing."
"Ah come on, Doc. Don't get sore."
"I'm not sore, and to prove it I will finish. Lugano does not have an airport. Milano does. So, we are ..."
"I know. You explained that before. But it still doesn't seem right. I mean, let's say we wanted to go to Japan. That doesn't mean that, just because it's close to China and they speak almost the same language, that we would ..."
"Marvin," interjected Doc, "shut up and leave me alone. If you don't believe me, ask Albert."
"Albert," said Marvin. No response. Albert was reading.
"Albert," yelled Doc, "for Chrissake pay attention. Marvin wants to ask you something."
Albert looked up. "Yes?"
"Marvin wants to know whether we are on the right plane or not."
"Yes, I know."
Doc Smythe's eyes searched for help from above. Then he spoke again.
"Well, Albert, could you give Marvin one of two statements: yes, we are on the right plane, or no, we are not on the right plane."
Albert turned to Marvin. "Marvin, we are on the right plane."
"Oh," said Marvin, "fine."
Doc's eyes again shifted toward heaven.
"Marvin," he asked, "now why all of a sudden do you believe Albert when you've been pestering me to death?"
"Because Albert is never wrong."
The three then lapsed into silence, much to Doc's relief. Actually, he thought, Marvin was right. That Albert was uncanny. The smartest young bastard he'd ever met. And educated. God was he educated! Yet so quiet, so modest. The contrast between him and his old man was incredible. When Joe first introduced him to the boys in Vegas as his son, Albert, everybody had just stared in disbelief: those thick glasses, the pale thin face, the delicate hands, and on top of everything he had blushed like a schoolgirl. So everybody just ignored him. I mean, what could you do with something like that in Vegas? Then the boss had given him that office, and put him to work calculating odds. The results soon became legend. The kid was a teenage Nick the Greek! Well, not exactly teenage, since Albert was, after all, twenty-six. But he looked sixteen. But no matter. If he quoted two to one odds that the St. Louis Cardinals would take the World Series in 1987 in six games, you could order your tickets the next day from Busch Stadium, and will them to your eight-year-old son, in the sure knowledge that a decade hence he would be enjoying hotdogs and beer under an October Missouri sun. If Albert gave you even money that it would rain twice during the last weekend in August in San Diego, only a fool would go to Southern California at that time without an umbrella. How did he do it?
Doc had been dumb enough to ask one time. As Albert had then elucidated, while studying economics under Paul Samuelson at M.I.T. when he was sixteen, he had become fascinated with the probability theories of two foreigners called John von Neumann and Oskar Morganstern. Then he had branched out into something he called "random walk hypotheses" after he'd moved on to graduate studies under Milton Friedman at the University of Chicago, where he had specialized in monetary analysis. Albert explained that by synthesizing these two analytical approaches, he had developed a technique which was universally applicable where situations resembling games of chance were involved, like horse races, stock markets, commodities, football games, elections — the works. Well, that was the last time that Doc had ever put any more dumb questions to Albert. I mean, who the hell could make head or tail of such answers? And Doc was not one to unnecessarily demonstrate lack of intellect. After all, he had built up a reputation which had to be maintained.
Mathew "Doc" Smythe was undoubtedly the smoothest, the most imaginative, the best-looking crook in the entire West. As anybody who has ever lived west of the Mississippi knows, that really means something, since the competition out there is fierce. Smythe exuded an image which demanded confidence and respect; he projected a magnetism which consistently deluded his fellow man into feeling, no, firmly believing, that somehow they knew — and liked — him. Time and time again he was mistaken for other people: a nationwide newscaster; a Welsh Shakespearean actor; a senator from South Dakota. Smythe's full wavy hair, his strong jaw, piercing blue eyes, his magnificent build, his easy walk — together produced a vision which overwhelmed females from sixteen to sixty-six. His deep voice, sometimes echoing memories of Eton, at other times the polish of Harvard, commanded attention whether across a conference table or through the din of a gambling casino. From small beginnings as a con artist in the Midwest, matured by a three-year stay in Leavenworth, Doc had risen steadily to the top of America's criminal ranks. Along the line Chuck Synkiewicz of Milwaukee had become Mathew D. Smythe of Boston. And the self-bestowed Ph.D., sometimes accompanied by an equally phony LL.D., had also become a standard part of his new personality. But, as many people had found out too late, it was a horrible mistake to regard Doc's idiosyncratic attachment to a totally synthetic set of credentials as a sign of weakness. Beneath the smooth external veneer, the man could match any of his colleagues in those attributes necessary for success in his chosen trade: cynicism, cruelty, and a completely detached view of the value of human life, especially the loss thereof. When a contract was taken on by the Fiore group, Doc was not above direct involvement in its execution, even though years ago he had become the one and only lieutenant of the boss himself. His explanation: he enjoyed it! Doc regarded the Swiss bank job as a diversion of his talents, especially because, for some peculiar reason, the boss apparently wanted him to play it straight. But for how long? Certainly having Joe's son along was not going to make things any easier, because if the boy ever got into trouble with the law in Europe, or anywhere else, heads would roll. Marvin Skinner was something else. Slow, yes, but as a counterfeiter, one of the best in the Western Hemisphere. And when it came to rough stuff, Marvin could hold his own with the best of the boys. If Joe planned to play it straight all the way, he would hardly have sent Marvin along. Comforted by this thought, Doc fell asleep as the plane droned its way east.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Silver Bears"
by .
Copyright © 1974 Daisy Chain International, Inc..
Excerpted by permission of Dover Publications, Inc..
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