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  Pemberton chaired an almost continuing session of meetings, the panic obviously rising as they progressed. He saw the Secretary of State and the Foreign Affairs adviser and the party leaders in both Houses, first separately for a personal position assessment and then in joint session, to achieve a consensus opinion.

  When nothing better was suggested, he put forward the idea which had begun to form in his mind during that initial meeting with the CIA Director and Henry Moreton. Pemberton argued another piece of American political lore: the benefit of appearing honest with the people, a leader big enough to admit a mistake and then show he had redeemed himself by solving it. The most obvious drawback was that it conceded a weakness in Pemberton’s control, but he insisted that this would be overwhelmed by the openness and then the magnanimity he intended to express.

  Pemberton prepared the way with care. Through his family’s Boston banking connections he succeeded in getting a directorship for Henry Moreton, on the positive agreement that after six months, when the affair had become history, they could dispose of him and that all directorship fees and severance pay upon dismissal would be indirectly met by the Pemberton trust. And then he set about bulldozing Moreton into agreement. For the meeting this time he assembled a group of Cabinet size, including the Secretary of State and the Foreign Affairs adviser, to impress upon the Treasury Secretary the full extent of the damage he had caused and force him, by sheer weight of argument, to agree what was being demanded. Moreton sat outnumbered and confused at the completeness of the personal opposition. He tried, as he had with the President before, to argue a justification for what he had done, and was defeated on every point. When he realised the degree of public humiliation in what was being proposed, he refused the resignation being insisted upon with the reasons that had been so explicitly outlined. It was here that Pemberton cleared the Oval Office, leaving just the two of them. Without witnesses, Pemberton presented the complete ultimatum. Either Moreton resigned, with an apology and allowing the reasons to be published, to take up the $100,000 a year directorship with the Boston Bank. Or he would be fired, still with the reasons being stated, but without a chance in hell of getting a junior clerk’s job.

  Moreton asked for time to consider and Pemberton refused, insisting upon a written acceptance and the letter of resignation before he left the White House that day. When, finally, Morelun mutely nodded agreement, Pemberton produced the resignation letter already typed upon Treasury Department notepaper, with the signed reply he intended to release to the press. Even before Moreton had passed through the White House gates on his way to clear his desk, Pemberton had summoned his press secretary, insisting on peak-time television for an address to the nation, to be followed by a full, televised press conference.

  Pemberton dressed carefully for the appearance, a dark suit and matching tie and at the top of every page of his prepared script, he added a note reminding himself not to smile throughout the address. It was later estimated that not since Nixon’s resignation speech after Watergate had there been greater viewing figures.

  Three speech-writers had attempted the text and the final version included a great many alterations in Pemberton’s own hand. Certainly the beginning was entirely his.

  ‘I stand before you, this Nation, tonight a sad and unhappy man. And a contrite one, too. Contrite because I have failed, on a personal, human level. I misplaced my trust and you, the Nation, have had to suffer .…’

  Pemberton looked down to his notes, not so much for a reminder but apparently to control a moment of emotion. When he looked back at the camera again, he disclosed abruptly that he had that morning accepted the resignation of the Secretary to the Treasury, Henry Moreton. He recalled the length of their association, the loyalty that the man had shown through the build-up to his candidacy, his election and then in the year of office. And then he spoke of the strain of office, the demands that are constantly made upon public figures and the sometimes physical, sometimes mental breakdown that can happen. There had been such a breakdown, he said. He accepted, fully, that what Moreton had done had grossly exceeded any function of his position, but after a full and searching enquiry he had concluded that throughout the man had believed he was doing the right thing. At a time when no one had suspected the severity of this mental problem, an arrangement had been permitted, giving him access to certain facilities of the CIA. There had been a misunderstanding by the chief of covert operations, a horrifying, terrible misunderstanding that would never be possible again because of fail-safe checks that Pemberton had already introduced. But because of that misunderstanding, Moreton had been allowed to initiate activities in other countries which were wrong and for which, as President of the United States of America, he was publicly apologising. So convinced was he of Moreton’s innocence of any intended criminal intention that he had decided to grant him a presidential pardon for what had happened. Moreton was voluntarily entering a sanatorium to rest and to recover his health. Pemberton managed to achieve the perfect note of regret when he declared that Moreton’s illness made it impossible for the man to consider any future in public political life. After his release from hospital, he intended to move to Boston where his abilities had already been recognised with an offer of a directorship from one of the city’s most prestigious banks.

  The television address overran by five minutes and the press conference that followed occupied a full hour. Pemberton had expected the request for a meeting from Cowles: having decided to abandon the men in Africa, he had purposely excluded the CIA Director from any discussions, apart from that initial conference with Moreton. Pemberton agreed to the meeting, wanting to conclude the whole episode.

  ‘My men have been dumped,’ complained the Director, at once.

  ‘They committed illegal acts, for Christ’s sake! What could I have done? There had to be sacrifices, to de-escalate this thing.’

  ‘Will we attempt consular access now?’

  ‘As soon as we resolve the diplomatic representation, of course.’

  ‘And arrange defence lawyers?’

  ‘They’re American nationals; they’re entitled to that.’

  ‘It won’t be much.’

  ‘It’s the best we can do.’

  ‘They’ll all be jailed.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘What about some diplomatic release, when the heat’s gone out of it?’

  ‘When the heat’s gone out of it,’ half-promised Pemberton. ‘But that will take a while. I think tonight went well, but I’m not sure we’ve contained it as much as I would like to have done.’

  Pemberton’s speech restored his prestige politically, causing an immediate jump in the popularity polls. But financiers and bankers think with calculators and computers, not with their hearts, and their reaction was apprehension at a presidential admission that for a year the United States economy had been under the direction of a man who was mentally unstable. That uncertainty might have waned with the gradual realisation that there were no more embarrassing disclosures to be made. But it wasn’t given an opportunity.

  The presidential address had been carried world-wide, so Prince Hassan saw it in Zurich, an hour after his meeting with Collington. Hassan put through a telephone call to Jeddah, where he spoke personally to the king, and Saudi Arabia subsequently announced publicly that it was reducing by twenty-five per cent the oil it supplied to the United States.

  This withdrew the final prop for the dollar. In forty-eight hours the run was going to be so extreme that it ended two points below what it had been when Pemberton had assumed office.

  Collington caught the night flight back to South Africa and missed both the Saudi announcement and its abrupt affect upon the dollar. By the time he landed at Johannesburg, the dollar slide had already begun and was worsening.

  Collington decided against returning to Parkstown. It was mid-evening when the SAGOMI building would be deserted apart from the watchman, so he went to the penthouse apartment. Jenkins responded immediately to the
telephone call, relieved to hear of his return. Metzinger and Wassenaar had both separately demanded to know the reason for the unexpected board meeting and Jenkins complained again at the stupidity he had felt, parrot-ting the answers Collington had suggested.

  ‘It’ll all become clear tomorrow,’ promised Collington.

  ‘It had bloody well better do,’ said Jenkins.

  Collington smiled, unoffended by Jenkins’ brusqueness. He cleared the line for his second call to Louis Knoetze.

  Chapter Forty

  Collington slept well, which surprised him, but he woke early. There was a vague light groping its way from the windows and he guessed it was about four. Six hours, then, until the confrontation. He lay, hands cupped behind his head, waiting for the satisfaction. For days, weeks even, his mind had been filled with thoughts of defeat or victory, battles instead of wars and winning rather than losing.

  He’d outsmarted Metzinger. So victory applied. Winning, too. Maybe even war, because if it went exactly as he anticipated, he could probably oust the deputy chairman from the board. Yet there was no sensation of triumph – just a blankness, which was even more of a surprise. He’d always felt something, no matter how mundane the eventual negotiation. Perhaps it would come later, when the moment actually arrived.

  He tried to rehearse everything that would happen in the coming day and then abandoned the attempt, because his mind was becoming blocked with conflicting ideas. At last he rose from his bed and went to the bureau to make notes of advice on the day’s events.

  The apartment was not scheduled for occupation so there was no food, but Collington decided it didn’t matter. He was not hungry. Breakfast would have simply been an activity, a way of occupying the intervening time. He bathed, leisurely, and then shaved, equally unhurriedly, pausing to stare at his reflection, looking for the strain signs from what he had been doing. His eyes appeared pinched but then maybe they’d always been like that. Certainly there was no apprehensive paleness or twitching nerve end, blinking a signal of the tension under which he had been working. In fact, Collington thought he looked quite fit.

  The most obvious exit from the apartment, leading directly into the publicly used part of the building, was via the elevator. But there was also a fire escape, descending the length of the building through enclosed, little-used corridors, and that was how Colling-ton went to the executive level. Re-entry back into the building was by a door conveniently close to his personal offices and Collington was satisfied that he negotiated the short distance without being identified. There were five secretaries, apart from Geoffrey Wall. He warned Wall about his appointment with Knoetze and told everyone else that his presence was not to be acknowledged anywhere in the building, irrespective of who made the enquiry.

  Wall was waiting in the foyer for Knoetze’s arrival and hurried the security chief immediately to Collington’s suite. The man entered lounge-suited and with the habitual half-smile hovering ready at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘We’ve caused chaos in Washington,’ he said.

  ‘So have the Arabs,’ said Collington.

  ‘How was it with Hassan?’

  ‘Little more than a formality, really,’ said Collington. ‘But now everyone is contractually bound.’

  ‘How long do you imagine it will take you to set everything up?’

  ‘Not as long as you might think,’ said Collington. ‘We can lease tankers. Storage space, too. We own accommodation both in London and New York. We’ll have to acquire something in Amsterdam, but that can be rented easily enough. The delays will really only be with company formations and assembly of the necessary administrative staff.’

  ‘So we’ll be ready to start according to Hassan’s timing of six months?’

  ‘I hope to have an operation of some sort underway in three,’ said Collington. ‘By the time we start shipping here in bulk, I want all the initial difficulties ironed out. Hassan insists we trade elsewhere to provide them with the necessary protection and I think it’s a sound idea.’

  ‘Our involvement has been quite different from my usual function,’ admitted Knoetze. ‘I’ve enjoyed it. At some stage in the future there are other members of the government who would enjoy meeting you personally.’

  Now that all the danger had passed, thought Collington uncritically. ‘I would enjoy that,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry that I had to ask you to come here today, as I did.’

  ‘I understand the reason perfectly,’ said Knoetze at once.

  Not completely you don’t, thought Collington. And he never would.

  The clock on Collington’s desk was a digital affair and during the conversation with Knoetze he had constantly been aware of the seconds flickering by. At five minutes to ten he said, ‘It will be necessary for me to go in alone initially. I want the secretarial staff, apart from my own personal assistant who can take limited Minutes, to leave before you are admitted.’

  ‘That’s something I would insist on,’ said Knoetze.

  Collington waited until the hour had registered, wanting all the other directors to be seated before he made his entry. He went into the boardroom quietly and because the doors were recessed, providing miniscule corridors on either side, the other directors were momentarily unaware of his presence. Metzinger concluded his formal reading of the motion calling the meeting, turning to Jenkins as he did so.

  ‘Perhaps now you’ll provide the reason,’ said the deputy chairman.

  ‘Because I asked him to,’ said Collington, from his concealment.

  It was overly dramatic, dictated by the circumstances with which he was presented, and Collington continued into the room with a faint feeling of embarrassment. Only Metzinger and Wassenaar showed astonishment at his presence. Jenkins had known about it anyway and the attitude of the rest of the board was simply mild curiosity, imagining a perfectly understandable explanation.

  ‘But … you are not supposed to be here ….’ flustered Metzinger.

  ‘Things changed,’ said Collington. He stopped almost too close to the chair he normally occupied, so that he was bearing down upon the man. ‘Shall we revert to normal board procedure,’ he said.

  Metzinger half stood, crabbing sideways around the table. Everyone else moved up, so Collington sat in his accustomed position, allowing the silence to further unsettle the two Afrikaners who had conspired against him. Then he said, ‘I wish to propose the exclusion of all the secretarial staff, with the exception of Geoffrey Wall who can comply with the Minute requirements.’

  Metzinger and Wassenaar exchanged looks and the mild curiosity of everyone else deepened into something stronger.

  ‘I’ll accept the arrangement enforced the last time this request was made: that an amendment can be put to revert to normal secretarial attendance if, in the opinion of the rest of the board, the reasons are unacceptable,’ added Collington, moving to block Metzinger’s escape routes.

  ‘Seconded,’ said Jenkins, more curious than the other non-Afrikaners because of his involvement so far.

  ‘I object,’ tried Metzinger, thrusting at shadows. ‘The board should be given a reason, both for the request and for the bizarre manner in which this meeting was convened.’

  The Afrikaner had recovered, Collington assessed. And was frantic. He would do everything he could to wreck the meeting, to give him time to discover what was happening and the danger that existed in it, for him.

  ‘No reason was given for the closed session convened at your request,’ reminded Collington. ‘It is precisely that I wish to offer an explanation that I want again to go into private committee ….’ He permitted just the right amount of pause and then made what appeared to be his concession. ‘And on this occasion I have agreed to the presence of a Minute clerk, which didn’t happen the last time .…’

  ‘Seems fair to me,’ said Jamieson.

  ‘And me,’ said Platt.

  Seeing the way the meeting was going, Metzinger said hurriedly, ‘I propose an amendment to the motion. That this board
meeting does not go into closed session. And that it is postponed until the chairman provides a written explanation for his behaviour.’

  ‘Seconded,’ said Wassenaar at once.

  ‘Is there any wish to talk upon the amendment?’ invited Collington. Metzinger had shown his panic, he decided; he was sure he’d get the vote. There were negative movements from around the table.

  ‘In favour of remaining in open session and postponement, for a formal explanation,’ summarised Collington.

  The hands of Metzinger and Wassenaar jerked up at once and Metzinger said, ‘I carry the proxy vote of Mrs Simpson.’

  De Villiers was frowning between the two sides. Metzinger turned to him pointedly, and with apparent reluctance the third Afrikaner raised his hand in support.

  ‘Against?’ said Collington.

  Five hands went up simultaneously.

  ‘For closed session?’ said Collington.

  Five hands went up again and he said, ‘The original motion is carried.’

  He sat back while the room cleared, forcing the smile and the attitude of relaxation further, to disconcert Metzinger. The Afrikaner was hunched sideways, his ear only inches from Wassenaar’s whispered conversation. Wall had overseen the departure of the secretaries. He came back into the room, nodding, and Collington said, ‘Shall we proceed?’

  There was a movement of expectation around the table. From his document case Collington took the photostats of the letters of agreement from the South African government and the Saudi prince, together with his response to both of them, and he handed them to Wall for distribution. Momentarily all the heads were bent away from him. Metzinger was the first to look up, his face purple with fury at the first awareness of how he had been outwitted. ‘This is improper ….’ he started, but Collington cut him off.

  ‘Not any more,’ he said. ‘There might have been some impropriety when the negotiations commenced, and if you would like to talk further to the members of this board about that, then you are at liberty to do so. But for the last weeks I have acted as the agreed emissary between the government of South Africa and that of Saudi Arabia. The need for an intermediary will remain. Both governments are agreed that SAGOMI should provide that intermediary.’