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Authors: Darrell Delamaide
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across Mayfair to Sangrat’s office on Park Lane.
Sangrat rose to greet Drew when Samantha ushered him into the sitting room on the first floor of the renovated row house. Oily was the word in Drew’s mind as he shook hands with the roundish, balding Lebanese, whose brown eyes glistened shrewdly.
“Thank you for coming,” Sangrat said, with his unctuous smile. “Exciting times,” he said, offering Drew his own cigars, knowing they would be refused. The secretary brought tea. “Or would you prefer whiskey?” Sangrat offered. Drew, uncertain of how late he would be up tonight, opted for the tea.
“I’m told Kuwait is buying a lot of gold,” Drew said, seizing the initiative.
Sangrat finished his ritual with the huge Havana cigar before responding. “That’s just what I was going to talk to you about,” he said, once he had taken the first few puffs. “My friends are a bit perturbed.”
Drew had only a vague notion of just which Kuwaiti investors Sangrat considered his friends. It didn’t matter much, though.
“Some people seemed to know about the gold mines before the news came out,” Sangrat said. His friends must be very perturbed, thought Drew. First the peremptory summons, and now Sangrat coming to the point without the usual preliminaries.
“Some people in Kuwait?” Drew asked, suppressing again his queasiness. What had MacLean done?
“Some in Kuwait, some in other places.” Sangrat focused on the journalist. “My friends reacted very quickly, but these others, they made a killing.”
No matter how much money they made, they always wanted more. It was their sport. Kuwait had more millionaires per capita than any other country in the world. The small, desolate emirate on the Persian Gulf was the second-largest Arab oil producer. Kuwaitis boasted that their merchant tradition made them more sophisticated than the simpleminded nomad warriors of Saudi Arabia and other neighboring Gulf states. But their merchants had been more smugglers than tradesmen, and their sophistication had not prevented a stock market collapse in 1982 that paralyzed the economy for half a decade. Through the eyes of many Kuwaitis Drew had met, financial markets seemed like a real-life Monopoly game that they played with middling skill.
“Are they still buying?” Drew pursued his own question first. He wasn’t going to tell Sangrat about MacLean; he wasn’t sure just what he was going to tell him.
“That’s the other thing,” the Lebanese said. “My friends are buying, the price is going up, but”—he relit his cigar—”somebody’s selling.”
“Maybe those other Kuwaitis are taking their profits,” Drew suggested.
“Perhaps they are, but that doesn’t account for the amount of gold coming onto the market.”
“Maybe the Asians,” Drew said. Japan, the Philippines, Korea, and Hong Kong had absorbed a lot of gold in recent years. Indians had always had a great affection for hoarding gold.
“They like to have gold, to keep it. They’re not investors,” Sangrat said. For the Lebanese, it was clear that “investing” meant speculating.
“Where do you think it’s coming from?” As long as he asked questions, Drew didn’t have to give any answers.
“I don’t know. My friends are beginning to wonder.” Sangrat again fixed on Drew. “What have you heard?”
“Not much. The Kuwaitis are seen as buyers, but no one’s located the sellers yet.” Drew shrugged. “The Russians?”
Sangrat tapped the ash on his cigar. “That’s what we presume, but I don’t know.” He paused. “Can you find out what Marcus is doing?” Sangrat knew that Drew had spent some time in Switzerland.
Of course, Drew realized. That’s the weak link. Philip Marcus was a product of the market. Scarcely human, he was the quintessential trader. Already worth hundreds of millions of dollars, he kept playing the markets, amassing money with no respect for laws or propriety, for human morals or dignity. From his base
Sangrat rose to greet Drew when Samantha ushered him into the sitting room on the first floor of the renovated row house. Oily was the word in Drew’s mind as he shook hands with the roundish, balding Lebanese, whose brown eyes glistened shrewdly.
“Thank you for coming,” Sangrat said, with his unctuous smile. “Exciting times,” he said, offering Drew his own cigars, knowing they would be refused. The secretary brought tea. “Or would you prefer whiskey?” Sangrat offered. Drew, uncertain of how late he would be up tonight, opted for the tea.
“I’m told Kuwait is buying a lot of gold,” Drew said, seizing the initiative.
Sangrat finished his ritual with the huge Havana cigar before responding. “That’s just what I was going to talk to you about,” he said, once he had taken the first few puffs. “My friends are a bit perturbed.”
Drew had only a vague notion of just which Kuwaiti investors Sangrat considered his friends. It didn’t matter much, though.
“Some people seemed to know about the gold mines before the news came out,” Sangrat said. His friends must be very perturbed, thought Drew. First the peremptory summons, and now Sangrat coming to the point without the usual preliminaries.
“Some people in Kuwait?” Drew asked, suppressing again his queasiness. What had MacLean done?
“Some in Kuwait, some in other places.” Sangrat focused on the journalist. “My friends reacted very quickly, but these others, they made a killing.”
No matter how much money they made, they always wanted more. It was their sport. Kuwait had more millionaires per capita than any other country in the world. The small, desolate emirate on the Persian Gulf was the second-largest Arab oil producer. Kuwaitis boasted that their merchant tradition made them more sophisticated than the simpleminded nomad warriors of Saudi Arabia and other neighboring Gulf states. But their merchants had been more smugglers than tradesmen, and their sophistication had not prevented a stock market collapse in 1982 that paralyzed the economy for half a decade. Through the eyes of many Kuwaitis Drew had met, financial markets seemed like a real-life Monopoly game that they played with middling skill.
“Are they still buying?” Drew pursued his own question first. He wasn’t going to tell Sangrat about MacLean; he wasn’t sure just what he was going to tell him.
“That’s the other thing,” the Lebanese said. “My friends are buying, the price is going up, but”—he relit his cigar—”somebody’s selling.”
“Maybe those other Kuwaitis are taking their profits,” Drew suggested.
“Perhaps they are, but that doesn’t account for the amount of gold coming onto the market.”
“Maybe the Asians,” Drew said. Japan, the Philippines, Korea, and Hong Kong had absorbed a lot of gold in recent years. Indians had always had a great affection for hoarding gold.
“They like to have gold, to keep it. They’re not investors,” Sangrat said. For the Lebanese, it was clear that “investing” meant speculating.
“Where do you think it’s coming from?” As long as he asked questions, Drew didn’t have to give any answers.
“I don’t know. My friends are beginning to wonder.” Sangrat again fixed on Drew. “What have you heard?”
“Not much. The Kuwaitis are seen as buyers, but no one’s located the sellers yet.” Drew shrugged. “The Russians?”
Sangrat tapped the ash on his cigar. “That’s what we presume, but I don’t know.” He paused. “Can you find out what Marcus is doing?” Sangrat knew that Drew had spent some time in Switzerland.
Of course, Drew realized. That’s the weak link. Philip Marcus was a product of the market. Scarcely human, he was the quintessential trader. Already worth hundreds of millions of dollars, he kept playing the markets, amassing money with no respect for laws or propriety, for human morals or dignity. From his base
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