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  The concern would be at the possibility of any embarrassment to the government rather than the company, Collington knew, but there didn’t seem any purpose in making the qualification. Where was his own concern?’

  Inexplicably, Metzinger’s disclosures had produced excitement rather than apprehension. Unlike the irritation caused by boardroom structures, it created a positive challenge, and it had been a long time since he had confronted anything like that. And he didn’t want to lose it.

  ‘What resolution do you want from this meeting?’ he asked Metzinger.

  The South African appeared surprised at the question. ‘I don’t think we can make one,’ he said. ‘None of us has come up with anything so far.’

  ‘We haven’t made any enquiries yet,’ defended Jenkins, gesturing with the file before him.

  ‘I gave an undertaking that the files would not leave my safekeeping,’ said Metzinger.

  ‘You want them back!’ said Jenkins.

  ‘Everything,’ insisted Metzinger. ‘The material is far too sensitive for any risk to be taken.’

  ‘How can we initiate anything, without documents?’ persisted Jenkins.

  ‘Anything we do has got to be as circumspect as possible,’ warned Metzinger. ‘I don’t want any leaks traced to this board.’

  ‘I think that is a valid point,’ said Collington, in rare support of the other man.

  ‘I don’t like this at all,’ said Platt, a man used to the conformity of accounts and numbers. ‘We could become involved in God knows what sort of difficulty and there’s nothing we can do to prevent it.’

  ‘I think that until there has been some resolve we should agree to fortnightly meetings,’ suggested Wassenaar.

  There were nods of agreement around the table.

  ‘And the chairman should be empowered, in the interim, to take what action he considers fit,’ added Jamieson.

  Collington looked to the Afrikaners, watching for the division to become obvious.

  ‘After consultation with the deputy chairman,’ qualified de Villiers.

  It was the best he could hope for, Collington accepted. ‘Of course there would be consultation,’ he said. Feeling he could make the concession, he went on: ‘Realistically, it is through the deputy chairman that we are likely to get most assistance over this.’

  That wasn’t necessarily true, thought Collington, as the idea came to him. But it wouldn’t hurt for the Afrikaners to believe their superiority until he had explored it further.

  The business club was just off Church Square, with a view of the Union Buildings. Metzinger, de Villiers and Wassenaar were founder members, with a table permanently held for them near the window. They went straight to it, ignoring the bar, beckoning immediately to the waiter so they could give their order and talk uninterrupted. Among themselves they spoke Afrikaans.

  ‘You didn’t hold anything back?’ asked Wassenaar.

  ‘No,’ said Metzinger. ‘They know as much as we do.’

  ‘And Knoetze can’t provide any more?’ said de Villiers.

  ‘Not at the moment.’

  ‘It would be good to get some advantage out of this, after the way we cornered Simpson’s shareholding,’ said Wassenaar, reflectively.

  ‘I’ve considered that, too,’ assured Metzinger. ‘But we’ve got to know more about this Russian business before we attempt any sort of side benefit.’

  ‘What do you think Collington will do?’ asked de Villiers.

  Their meal began to arrive and the three men waited. When the waiters had finished, Metzinger said, confidently: ‘Attempt something clever, as always.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll keep the undertaking to consult?’ pressed Wassenaar.

  Metzinger paused, fork half-way to his mouth. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He feels like I do at the moment: the company is more important than individual personalities. And he knows that through the ’Bond I’m far more likely to get information than he is. He needs the consultation more than we do.’ He smiled, in private satisfaction. ‘I know I’ll be able to anticipate anything Collington does. Or thinks of doing,’ he said heavily.

  ‘A boardroom advantage would be good,’ repeated Wassenaar, unable to get the idea from his mind.

  ‘I’ll be alert for it, if the opportunity arises,’ promised Metzinger.

  It occurred, three days later, when African National Congress guerrillas infiltrated into the Transvaal from Mozambique and almost completely destroyed at Sasolberg and Secuna the £3,000,000,000 oil-from-coal plants which South Africa had developed to meet its energy needs, confronted by the increasing embargo from world producers.

  Metzinger didn’t recognise it at first, however. It was not until after Collington’s initial success that the idea came to him.

  Nine thousand miles away from the refinery explosions, in office surroundings more appropriate to Wall Street than to Moscow, Nikolai Leonov flustered nervously between tape machines linked to metal markets throughout the world, noting closing prices and end-of-day trading volumes and then breaking down the information to give to the computer programmers. He wanted an average and so had been working constantly for three days to prepare an unequivocal case for the Finance Minister, snatching uneasy sleep on an army cot set up in the corner of his secretary’s office and existing on sandwiches and coffee brought in from the canteen. What was happening to him was monstrous, decided Leonov. The Ilyushin crash had created sufficient difficulty, without the behaviour of Igor Struve.

  After the three days Leonov was almost convinced, but because a mistake would have been so disastrous and because somewhere in the world, throughout the twenty-four hours, there is a metal market in operation, he committed a further day, to be absolutely sure.

  He had allowed for every explicable spasm and fluctuation, anxious only for a global interpretation. Even so, he was constantly over-cautious, calling in three analysts from Struve’s ministry so that the Finance Minister would have independent confirmation if he wanted it.

  The answer from the experts concurred with Leonov’s own conclusion. The diplomat allowed himself another twenty-four hours to recover from the fatigue, before seeking a meeting with Krotkov. He had appreciated the indications of help from the KGB chief and wanted to talk through the problem with a friend.

  ‘The market has remained utterly stable,’ reported Leonov. ‘If the gold had been discovered in Amsterdam I would have expected some evidence, through the amount offered for trading. Over two months, there has been no change whatsoever: there’s not a market trend I can’t account for quite logically.’

  The unkempt intelligence men smiled, his face puddling into fat. ‘So there’s no problem?’

  ‘Not externally,’ qualified Leonov.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The Finance Ministry is trying to minimise the operation,’ disclosed Leonov.

  ‘Minimise it?’

  ‘I’ve been told I can’t have any addition to the budget allowed to buy on the open market.’

  ‘It’s a decision that will have to be altered,’ said Krotkov, simply. ‘We’ve’ just got confirmation of crop disease in the Ukraine. Our agronomists there estimate a grain and wheat yield down a third, even on the reduced levels forecast.’

  Leonov pressed his eyes shut. ‘Perhaps now they’ll allow me more money,’ he said.

  And then again, perhaps they won’t, thought Krotkov.

  Henry Moreton decided things were going perfectly. The gold sales and the rumours had been consummately balanced. The dollar had hardened, perceptibly. Against some currencies it had been by as much as ten to fifteen points, but those currencies were weak in their own right and Moreton attached considerably more importance to the showing against the German mark and the Japanese yen. In both cases, it had been exactly what he had forecast to the President. Pemberton was impressed, Moreton knew. The administration praise was beginning to circulate. There had been an approach for co-operation on a Time magazine front-cover profile but Moreton had
refused, calculating that people might suspect a personality push following so closely after the Fortune article. It had been a well-phrased refusal, of course, leaving the door open for another approach later on. Moreton had even hinted when and was sure the editor had taken the point. A month, he calculated. By then he would have got it just right.

  Chapter Nine

  Collington’s interest in diamonds extended back to his days as a Barnado boy when, at the annual fair on Hampton Court Green, he had always aimed above all to win the rings on the hoopla stall, imagining that the glittering paste was diamonds.

  SAGOMI’s diamond division was one of the early expansions Collington had initiated after joining the board; now they controlled six mines, sub-licensed to De Beers. Collington had remembered his Hampton Court fantasies when he made his first on-site visit, surprised how much more attractive the fairground imitations were than the real thing in its raw state.

  It was a fleeting reflection. A far greater surprise was to learn that only a proportion of the dull, uninteresting pebbles remained for cutting and polishing in South Africa. The rest went to Israel, to be turned into gems that represented the country’s chief export.

  Collington had involved himself personally with the Israeli firms, just as he had involved himself in every aspect of the company’s growth in those early years, and he had retained his friendship with the leading diamond merchants in Tel Aviv, Jerusalem and Haifa. It was of them he thought in the closing stages of the board meeting at which Metzinger had disclosed the Soviet gold purchases.

  There had been an analysts’ report about Israel, two weeks earlier. Admittedly it was about the increased availability of diamond cutters, but it was the source of that additional labour that had registered with Collington as Metzinger spoke, giving him the idea.

  The analysts’ department was one of Collington’s most successful innovations: the basis, in fact, for his public reputation as a flamboyant entrepeneur, with a genius gift for take-over and development. The reality was that Collington rarely moved without first dissecting the company or business with the care with which he had studied SAGOMI’s construction. The analysts had been created to make such examinations. Over the years, their function had been extended to include political information and any other knowledge from which any of the divisions might benefit. The passing reference to Mordechai Levy’s staff increase, enabling him to make additional diamond purchases, provided exactly the sort of detail Collington needed.

  It had been four years since their last meeting, but Mordechai Levy showed no surprise at Collington’s call. Levy had no plans that would take him out of Israel in the coming weeks, he said. So he would be delighted to renew their friendship, if Collington were passing through. It was Levy who chose the Sunday; he always felt like good food and wine after the Saturday shabaht fast.

  Collington was buoyant at the prospect of personal activity after so long – of initiating something rather than sanctioning it with a tick or an initial. He prepared for it with his customary care, withholding the need for the information but otherwise briefing Geoffrey Wall completely. Wall had been sent to South Africa on temporary secondment from SAGOMI’s New York division and had made one of the biggest impacts Collington could recall. There was a brashness about the man’s ambition, but it was backed by solid ability and efficiency. It had been recognised early by the section heads under whom he worked and commented on in the official reports that were submitted to Collington, who had years before determined, with the international spread of their group, that middle- and upper-echelon managers were vital to its continued success. In order to assess the man before his ultimate return to New York and possible chairmanship of their division there, Collington made him his personal assistant. He knew he was going to miss him when the time came to transfer him back to America.

  Collington carried to the penthouse the intelligence file that Wall had produced, to brief himself on the night before his flight to Tel Aviv. He assimilated it with his usual speed and then moved restlessly about the apartment, needing activity but unsure what it should be. He could go to the business club, but didn’t want that sort of environment. He consciously tried to put the other idea from his mind and then became irritated at his own stupidity. Hannah had agreed he could call, the last time. And she may have heard back from Paul.

  She answered the telephone herself, and he thought he detected a lift in her voice when she recognised him. She hesitated at the dinner invitation and when he said he’d understand if she had other engagements, she blurted hurriedly that she hadn’t and then stopped talking, appearing annoyed at the immediate denial.

  As he drove towards Parkstown to collect her, Collington tried to subdue the confidence that had grown from his reading of Wall’s assessment. The Israeli trip could easily be pointless, an idea which seemed good but wasn’t, on investigation. If that happened, they would be dependent again on Metzinger’s sources. It was official intelligence, so obviously the enquiries would be continued and the board might learn something further. But the security people couldn’t be having too much success: there was a degree of logic in their approach to Metzinger and through him to the board, but not as much as the Afrikaner had attempted to convey. Certainly they wouldn’t have bothered if they hadn’t encountered difficulties.

  Hannah appeared on the porch, like before. This time there was no hesitation. Collington leaned forward and they kissed quite naturally.

  ‘Time for a drink?’ she invited.

  ‘Sure.’

  They went to the small drawing-room and she prepared the drinks herself, handing him the martini and standing back for his approval.

  ‘Perfect,’ he said. The first time they had ever slept together, at Meikles Hotel, they had had room service deliver the gin and the vermouth and she had made the drink exactly the way he liked it. It had remained one of their intimacies.

  She drank the same, touching glasses with him and then moving to the couch. She was wearing a simple black sheath dress, fastened just at one shoulder by a diamond pin. Collington didn’t think she was wearing a bra.

  ‘You’ve had your hair cut,’ he said.

  She smiled, appearing pleased that he had noticed, automatically moving her hand up towards it. ‘Like it?’

  ‘Very much,’ he said honestly.

  ‘You sounded very bright on the telephone.’

  ‘No particular reason,’ he said. ‘I’m going away on a trip.’

  She frowned. ‘You’re always going away on trips. What’s so different about this one?’

  ‘Nothing, like I said. Maybe the chance of more business.’

  She shook her head. ‘Always business.’

  Had he neglected her before the break-up? He didn’t think so. There had been the trips, certainly; five, sometimes six months of the year, he supposed. But he’d occasionally taken her with him, and tried to spend more time than usual with her at the end of each one.

  That’s how it’s always been.’

  ‘Not always,’ she said. ‘There seemed to be more time, in Salisbury.’

  The suggestion surprised him. He had been starting out then, doing something new, anxious to build and expand. He would have thought he had been busier in Rhodesia than he was now.

  ‘I don’t like inactivity,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t have to remind me,’ she said, freshening his glass from the pitcher. ‘How long will you be away?’

  Collington shrugged. ‘Not long. A week maybe.’

  ‘So you’ll be back for Paul’s vacation?’

  Collington sipped his drink to conceal his embarrassment. He’d forgotten about their son’s homecoming and the thought of their getting together: ‘Of course,’ he said.

  ‘I had another letter,’ said Hannah. ‘He asked if we were friends and repeated what he told you about there being quite a few boys at the school whose parents are divorced. Most of them seem to hate each other.’

  ‘How did you reply?’

  ‘That
of course we were friends. And that we always would be.’ Hannah spoke looking directly at him and Collington shifted uncomfortably under the gaze. ‘Shall we go?’ he said.

  She hesitated, then rose. ‘Certainly.’

  Because he knew she liked it, he had chosen the restaurant near Summit Hill, where the voortrekker pilgrims had erected their monument after the commemorative march in 1938. She identified the route and turned to him, smiling. ‘I wondered if we’d come here,’ she said. ‘You brought me here on our first date in Pretoria.’

  ‘You brought me,’ he qualified. ‘I didn’t know of the place.’

  ‘I was trying to impress you,’ she confessed.

  At the restaurant they were recognised and greeted by name and led to the table Collington had stipulated.

  ‘What sort of outing were you thinking of, for Paul?’ Hannah asked, once they had ordered.

  ‘I thought we’d decide between us,’ he said. ‘Down to the coast, maybe. Or perhaps inland. He seemed to enjoy the safari last time.’

  ‘I wonder if he wouldn’t just prefer to be at home,’ she said, almost a private thought.

  ‘I thought the idea was for us to be together with him,’ said Collington.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘So Parkstown isn’t possible, is it?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ she said slowly, ‘I suppose not.’ She seemed to expect him to respond but when he didn’t, she said, ‘Why tonight?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘The invitation here, to dinner, and this special restaurant?’

  He’d chosen Monument Hill because he knew she liked it, not for nostalgic reasons. Collington realised he had been somewhat thoughtless. ‘I said I might call, last time.’

  ‘I thought it might be something more than that,’ she pressed.

  He looked away from her. ‘I hoped we wouldn’t get involved in this sort of conversation.’

  ‘That was hardly likely, was it?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ he admitted.

  There was a silence, each seeking a change of subject.