Since then his conversation had been liberally sprinkled with quotations from ‘Hamlet’. His friends and acquaintances found it disconcerting and his managers scattered around the globe found it necessary to keep a copy always to hand. It became normal for them to receive a telex with a terse epigram reading, for example:
‘Act 1, Scene 2, line 192.’
On looking it up the manager would read ‘Season your admiration for a while’, and the manager would know that Walter was not entirely convinced about a joint venture he had just proposed.
He had found on his arrival in Hong Kong that the seeds of his scattered empire had already begun to germinate. He now had offices as far apart as Rio de Janeiro and Sydney, London and Johannesburg. In the East he was established throughout Japan and South East Asia. Each office was developing according to its location and the temperament and skills of its manager. In Rio they traded in steel and specialised metals. In Japan in the newly emerging fields of cameras and electronics. The manager there had even leased a tuna fishing fleet and its catches were being sold in Europe through the Paris office.
Twice a year Walter would make a grand tour, both commercial and gastronomic. He would visit his managers and the best restaurants in the cities in which they lived. On his 1953 tour he had dined in the Savoy Grill in London and afterwards seen Richard Burton as Hamlet at the Old Vic. He had sat in the front row of the stalls and mouthed every line until at the end of Act II his voice had become unconsciously audible. During the interval a note was delivered to him in the bar. It read:
‘My thanks, kind Sir, but I am acquainted with the lines.
R.B.’
He treasured that note as much as any of the paintings by great masters he subsequently acquired.
By the middle fifties he had emerged as one of the richest men in Asia. The Korean War and its aftermath had spurred enormous commercial growth in Japan and throughout the region and Walen Trading had been on the crest of the long wave. Walter had offices and factories in over forty countries and each grand tour now took up to three months. He should have been vastly satisfied and, to the extent of his commercial success, he was. However, there was a missing element. Due to his skill in selection of personnel, and his policy in allowing his managers great freedom, he had little to do with the day-to-day operations of his empire. It was loose-knit and diverse and unlike the structure of a great multinational, too much control from the centre would have stifled its entrepreneurial spirit. In short, he became bored and, in his boredom, began to look for new horizons.
The event which proved to be the catalyst was the 1956 Middle East War. After Israel’s success in occupying the Sinai the Israeli Government did what they always do after every war. They sent well-known generals and statesmen around the world to solicit money from world Jewry to fill up the war chest. Moshe Dayan, the hero of the war, was sent to Australia. After receiving pledges of over forty million dollars he stopped off in Hong Kong on his way home.
There were less than three hundred Jews in Hong Kong but they included some vastly rich individuals and Dayan spent several days giving lectures about the war, the state of Israel’s finances and the terrible dangers that lay ahead. For Walter he had reserved a whole evening and they had dinner alone in Walter’s villa on the peak.
Dayan well knew of the extent of Walter’s wealth and had hoped for a pledge of at least a million dollars. However, he found his host curiously tight-fisted. Walter explained that he had an aversion to giving money to governments, either in taxes or any other way. Of course he supported Israel. He was not a mean man and had already given large sums both for the planting of new forests and in grants to Tel Aviv University. His own office in Tel Aviv, which had introduced diamond cutting to the country, had also made its own generous contributions. Dayan had been both blunt and persuasive but Walter had stressed that he would prefer to offer his services in other ways.
‘What other ways?’ Dayan had asked and Walter had shrugged and pointed out that he had a network of offices all round the world managed entirely at the top level by enterprising Jews. Perhaps he could help Israel in promoting its trade? Dayan had pondered on that for a while and then a gleam had come into one good eye. He spent the rest of the evening and far into the night questing deep into Walter’s character and background and found that in spite of the man’s appearance and apparent vulgarity he had a subtle mind and an incisive grasp of human nature.
As Walter had shown him out, Dayan remarked that perhaps there was a way that he could make an important contribution. He would have discussions in Israel and someone would be in touch.
At the car Walter thanked him for coming, reached into his breast pocket, and handed him a cheque for one million dollars. He had smiled at the General’s look of surprise.
Then Dayan had in turn astonished and delighted his host. During their talks he had noted that Walter’s speech had been sprinkled with quotations from ‘Hamlet’. He got into the car, wound down the window and as it pulled away called out:
‘Act II, Scene 2, line 286.’
Walter beamed after the departing car. The line had sprung instantly to his mind.
‘Beggar that I am, I am ever poor in thanks.’
Six weeks later during one of his periodic visits to his office in Israel, Walter had been in turn invited to dinner at Dayan’s home. There had been another guest: a small, fidgety man called Isser Harel. After dinner Dayan had left his two guests alone with coffee and a bottle of Cognac. Isser Harel was the then legendary head of the Israeli Secret Service, Mossad. As the level of the Cognac gradually receded he talked long and eloquently about how Walter could be of assistance to Israel. Finally Walter had burst out with some astonishment:
‘You want me to be a spy!’
Harel had demurred, preferring to use other less dramatic nomenclature, but Walter was entranced by the prospect and brushed aside the attempts at semantic evasion. He immediately saw the beauty of it. With his network of offices, his commercial communications set-up, his army of loyal Jewish managers, and above all, his great wealth, he instantly saw himself with a magical role to play.
Now Harel was silent as Walter gave scope to his imagination. He quickly ran through the names of those managers who would best be suited to such a role. In the meantime Walen Trading could take existing Mossad agents onto its payroll. New offices could be opened in sensitive areas. He revelled in the whole idea.
Again Harel had demurred. They should move slowly, people must be trained, including Walter himself. Such a network as Walter envisaged would take years to construct. Walter’s enthusiasm had not been blunted.
‘A spy,’ he mused, and then his fat lips had stretched into a smile. ‘A Master Spy - I’ll be a Master Spy!’
Harel suppressed a smile and later his report to the Cabinet suggested that although Walter Blum and his Walen Trading might be of some use, particularly in communications and as a conduit for covert financial transactions, he doubted that any valuable intelligence would accrue, apart from perhaps industrial secrets.
But Harel had badly underestimated Walter’s energy, organisational genius and his inborn flair for the subtleties of espionage. Within six months he was being badgered for training facilities for dozens of Walter’s people. As each man was vetted Harel came to recognise Walter’s skill in personnel selection. Only one had to be rejected on the grounds that he had immediate family still in Russia and was therefore vulnerable to pressure from that direction. Walter himself made several trips to Tel Aviv, ostensibly to expand his office there but in reality to receive his own training. Within a year information was flooding into Mossad headquarters and the analysts determined that it was of the highest quality.
Way ahead of his original schedule, Isser Harel began drafting his own Mossad agents into Walen Trading and it changed from being merely a passive gatherer of information to a more active role. Harel was wise enough not to undercut Walter’s position in any way. He remained the boss of his own network
and the dividends began to roll in.
When Israel was striving to produce its own nuclear bomb in the early sixties, it was Walter’s network that first provided vital technical information along with certain ‘unobtainable’ components. Later the New York branch of his organisation was instrumental in ‘gathering’ quantities of weapons-grade plutonium from the U.S. nuclear installations and then arranging its onward shipment to Israel. In the period leading up to the ’67 war Walter had opened trading offices throughout the Middle East, all owned by front companies registered in such countries as Liechtenstein, Panama and Monaco. His trade connections remained excellent in the Arab world and through a mixture of subterfuge and simple commercial bargaining had done much to circumvent the Arab black list of all firms dealing with Israel. After the ‘67 war he had done a great deal to nullify the embargo of arms instituted by France and other countries. It had been his network which smuggled out the two gunboats from under the noses of the French Navy in Cherbourg after De Gaulle had vetoed their delivery.
By 1969, therefore, Walter Blum could claim with every justification the sobriquet ‘Master Spy His network was given the code name ORANGE. Walter himself was known as ORANGE ONE and the various elements of the network were designated by other numbers. In spite of the close co-operation between Mossad and the C.I.A. neither they, nor any other intelligence organisation, had learned of its existence.
He had continued to maintain his base in Hong Kong because he felt an affinity for the Orient. However, he had lately been coming under increasing pressure to centre himself nearer to the Middle East. Isser Harel had retired in 1962 and been replaced by Meir Amit until 1968. From then Walter had worked under Zui Zamir.
At their first meeting he had stressed to Walter that in the coming decade Israel faced its greatest danger and his services would be in increasing demand. Would he not move closer to the arena? Walter had promised to give it thought and in the meantime had been beefing up the activities of Walen Trading on the island of Cyprus, which would be a perfect base if he ever moved further west.
There had been some movement at the bar. He noted that Duff Paget had left his group and moved further down. His handsome face was marred by an angry expression. Again Walter’s curiosity about the man was aroused. He knew that he represented a magazine whose owner had strong connections with the Washington establishment. A couple of months ago Walter had sent a grade one enquiry about him to Mossad headquarters. This had proved negative and, as Mossad had long ago penetrated to the higher levels of the C.I. A., the conclusion must be that Paget was ‘clean’. Nevertheless Walter retained a niggling suspicion. He glanced now at his watch and noted that there was still half an hour before the auction, so he crooked a finger to summon a waiter and sent over an invitation for Paget to join him for a drink.
They made a study in contrasts sitting side by side at the corner table: the one short, ugly and grossly fat; the other tall, slender and impossibly handsome.
When Duff was settled with a glass of wine in his hand Walter opened the conversation.
‘I wish to congratulate you on your recent work. It’s first class. People are talking of you as a new “Munger”.’
Duff shook his head vigorously, although he was flattered by the remarks from a man whom he knew closely followed the media coverage coming out of Vietnam.
‘No way,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m still a novice. Munger’s in a class of his own.’
‘Apparently that’s in the past tense,’ Walter said, closely watching the young man’s face. ‘What’s this auction all about?’
Duff shrugged. ‘It’s a total mystery. He just spent a few days on operations with the Special Forces near Vinh Long. He came out to Saigon, filed no snaps and went on a week’s drinking session. He flew into Hong Kong this morning, announced that he was selling off his gear, left it with Chang and then took off for the airport. Apparently he caught the first flight to Europe.’
Walter refilled their glasses and remarked: ‘Very curious. What’s to happen to the proceeds?’
Duff grinned wryly. ‘Apparently they’re to go to the R.S.P.C. A. - the local dogs’ home!’
Walter’s great belly rumbled with laughter. ‘Yes, Munger never did much like people - but tell me, can’t the beautiful Miss Lesage throw light on the subject? After all, she’s been his girlfriend on and off for the past few months.’ He saw Duffs face darken again as he looked at the tall, blonde, French woman sitting at the bar.
‘No,’ Duff said, his voice tight. ‘She was with him in Saigon but the extent of her information is obscene in every way.’ Anger flowed out of him as he glared at her.
‘Do tell me,’ Walter urged gently.
Duff took a deep breath.
‘She just said that after leaving Vinh Long he couldn’t fuck anymore! He tried but he couldn’t do it.’
Walter’s eyebrows shot up and he blew cigar smoke across the table. ‘Not a pleasant thing to say about any man - especially one like Munger and especially in a bar like this.’
Duff grunted in angry agreement as Walter studied the woman. She was long and slender, almost rangy. Walter had once heard her described as being built like a racing snake. Apparently she had venom as well. Her long, corn-coloured hair was twisted into a coil and pinned up on her head. Walter had also heard that she could pull out one pin, shake her head, and it would tumble down to below her waist. He would like to see that - he had a thing for long-haired women.
There was a rustle in the crowded room as two waiters carried out a long table and Bennet, dressed as usual in a pinstripe suit and waistcoat, detached himself from the bar.
The table was placed at the end of the room and most of those at the bar stood up for a better view.
Walter was surprised at how little equipment there was. At past auctions he had seen the table piled high with a great variety of cameras and accessories. This time there was only a battered, metal suitcase opened to reveal a neatly packed selection of items for developing contact prints - three concertina plastic bottles, two developing trays, a timer, a thermometer, a water filter and several reels. Next to it was a small version of die same case, opened to show five lenses, a row of slotted filters and a space filled with boxes of film. Finally, resting on a canvas bag, was one camera. The bag had a drawstring and a dark stain on one side. All eyes in the room were on the camera. It had a curious metal attachment on one side, disfiguring the balance of the body. Walter had never seen one like it. He glanced at Duff and saw his gaze locked into it.
‘That’s a strange looking camera,’ Walter said. ‘Would you explain it to me?’
Duff drew a deep breath and, without shifting his gaze, began to intone as though speaking a liturgy.
‘It’s a Nikon FTN, made out of nickel. Very light weight - very durable. It first came on the market in ‘65 but Munger had that one at least a year earlier. The factory gave it to him for field testing. After six months he took it to Tokyo and had them rivet on that bracket. It’s aluminium and designed so that he could put his hand through it and hold and point the camera with his wrist. That leaves the fingers of the same hand free to work the aperture and shutter speed controls. The bracket swivels so that he can also work on the top of the camera body and change films - all with one hand.’
‘It’s very elaborate,’ Walter said. ‘Is it necessary?’
Duff motioned with his chin. ‘Look at the canvas bag which he carried it in. That stain is blood. It came from a wound in his left shoulder. He got it at the beginning of the Tet offensive. His left arm was useless, but for the next two days he got some of the best snaps of the whole war.’
Walter was impressed. ‘So why don’t Nikon make all their cameras like that?’
Duff shrugged. ‘They thought it was ugly and it doesn’t fit a normal case - it was a one-off. Other combat photographers could fit their own brackets . . . but they don’t.’
‘Why not?’
Duff glanced at him and his lips twitched into a
half smile. ‘I guess because they’re individualists, and they don’t like to be thought unoriginal-’ He looked back at the table. Bennet had moved behind it and he clapped his hands for silence. In a loud plum-in-the-mouth voice he called out:
‘Auction of camera and developing equipment on the instructions of Mr David Munger . . . all proceeds to go to the R.S.P.C. A.’
There was a ripple of excited laughter and then without further preliminaries Bennet started the auction. He knew that the main interest would be for the camera itself so he left that to the end. The cases of developing equipment and the lenses were quickly disposed of, going for only slightly more than replacement value.
Then Bennet paused dramatically and gestured to Chang who brought him a large glass of Scotch. He drained half of it, put the glass on the table and pulled the canvas bag and the camera to the centre.
‘Lot number three,’ he announced. ‘One Nikon FTN, slightly amended.’
The price of a new FTN was 800 Hong Kong dollars and that was the figure Bennet started with. Within a minute he had raised the bidding to $3,000 and all eyes in the room were swivelling back and forth between the three bidders. There was ‘Ram’ Foster, bureau chief for Newsweek, who had used much of Munger’s work; George Hardy, a photographer who worked for the New York Times; and Janine Lesage. While the first two indicated their bids with a raised finger, she spoke hers, raising each time in a low, flat, determined voice.
Snap Shot Page 6
