‘Champagne?’
She nodded; you didn’t refuse.
He poured the champagne into the two glasses and said: ‘Please sit down.’ He lifted his glass to his lips. ‘Here’s to your next assignment.’
She sipped her champagne and glanced round the room. A considerable improvement on her earlier accommodation in the hotel. Green carpet, plastic chandelier, furniture made from walnut veneer. Lenin peered down at them from one wall.
Vlasov said: ‘You must be wondering why you’ve suddenly become so important, Comrade Metz.’
‘Not many people get to meet Comrade Vlasov,’ quoting Litvak.
Vlasov placed the tips of his fingers together and appraised her. ‘I have been studying your dossier. Your devotion to our doctrines has been quite remarkable. For a foreigner, that is. And you don’t appear to have been spoiled by your daily contact with decadent and bourgeois values.’
‘You forget, Comrade Vlasov, that I was born into them.’
‘True, true.’ He picked up a grey, spring-backed folder; inside were two typewritten sheets of paper. He took them out and scanned them. ‘I see you do not entirely deprive yourself of the benefits the West has to offer. Good food and good wine ….’
Helga, determined not to be intimidated by this cool, grey-haired, all-powerful policeman, said: ‘Naturally, Comrade Vlasov. In the first place I have to act as a single girl in my position would act. I am well paid, I have no attachments …. It is only natural that I should live relatively well. Furthermore, I see nothing wrong with taking advantage of some of these good things of life. It is surely our aim that everyone should be able to enjoy them.’
Vlasov raised his glass of champagne and picked up a finger of toast smeared with caviar. ‘I am hardly in a position to criticise.’ He smiled.
Helga smiled back and waited. The central-heating was over-powering and the windows had steamed up. Through the condensation she could see a pigeon perched on the window-sill.
Vlasov put his glass down; he looked, she thought, as though he ate and drank frugally. ‘I am giving you the opportunity,’ he said quietly, ‘to live in even better style.’
She waited.
He frowned, as though deliberating the wisdom of the course of action he was going to take. Then he nodded, to himself it seemed. ‘What I am about to tell you is extremely confidential and is known only to a few high-ranking officers.’
She wasn’t sure what to say. She said: ‘I am honoured, Comrade Vlasov.’
‘But as your record is impeccable …. He returned the two sheets of paper to the folder. ‘Have you heard of a man named Pierre Brossard?’
‘The French millionaire? Of course.’
‘He has worked for us for many years.’
Helga expressed surprise.
‘He is not the most efficient agent in the world. But he has the contacts, he has the money and he moves in illustrious circles. He has until now been under surveillance by his secretary, a woman named Bouvet. But she is sixty and about to retire. Monsieur Brossard needs a new secretary, Comrade Metz, and we have decided that the secretary should be you.’
‘But how can I be sure that he will want to employ me?’
‘You will be recommended by Madame Bouvet. Meanwhile you will study the dossier on Brossard and make yourself acquainted with every facet of his character so that when he interviews you, you will be the ideal candidate for the job and he won’t bother seeing anyone else. And don’t be alarmed by his sexual inclinations; he doesn’t mix business with pleasure. He is also very mean but you will find that he doesn’t economise falsely where work is concerned, so you will be well paid.’ Vlasov paused. ‘You realise just how important your new post will be?’
Helga nodded. There had to be some fatal flaw in Brossard’s character to merit such a back-up. She wondered what it was.
Vlasov said: ‘In case you are wondering why this is necessary, it is because Brossard is a coward. He could be frightened into betraying the cause. He has, according to his dossier, a tendency to unreliability. Nevertheless, he is both spy and paymaster. You, comrade, will be his monitor. A far more important job than the one you’re engaged upon now.’
‘I shall look forward to the challenge,’ Helga said.
‘You will, of course, discuss it with no one. Not even your friend Litvak. Pierre Brossard has come up with an idea which, if properly handled, could change the whole balance of world power. At the moment it is only an idea, an embryo; we have to wait until the time is opportune. But, from what I am saying, you will realise that you are in an extremely privileged position.’
Helga Keller looked into Vlasov’s green eyes and said firmly: ‘I shan’t let you down, Comrade Vlasov.’
He relaxed suddenly. Poured more champagne – half a glass for himself. ‘I don’t believe you will. Tomorrow other officers will brief you. Now let us drink once again to the success of your new role.’ He raised his glass, drank the champagne, bowed slightly and left the room.
Helga was briefed for two days. Before returning she had one free day with Litvak. He didn’t question her about her meeting with Vlasov; he understood.
They walked as they had walked before among the melting gardens of Gorky Park and watched the old men playing chess. ‘They would brave a blizzard to capture a bishop,’ Litvak remarked.
She told him that he didn’t look well and he said it was nothing. She knew that he was lying.
On the following day she flew back to Brussels. Six months later she became Pierre Brossard’s private secretary.
She returned once more to Moscow in the winter of 1976. When she saw Litvak he was dying.
XVIII
Paul Kingdon had planned a feast at the Savoy.
Mountains of caviar, oceans of champagne.
Former Government ministers had been invited. (He had always believed in parading pillars of respectability to support his schemes, and was the first to admit that some of the pillars had subsequently turned to salt.) Leading financiers, bankers, actresses and members of the set who were regularly photographed in the fashionable discotheques of London and New York.
The party was originally for all the fund salesmen who had exceeded their quota for the year. As few of them had succeeded in doing this, the invitations had been amended to include ‘all those who have made outstanding contributions to an outstanding year.’
Kingdon had planned to take the opportunity to deliver an ebullient speech about future prospects. On the day before the party he announced that he was suffering from an unspecified virus infection, told his deputy to make the speech – and caught the 11.15 Concorde flight to New York.
He watched the dial in front of his seat indicate that the Concorde had reached Mach 1, accepted a glass of champagne from an aristocratic stewardess in pink, and settled back to consider a future that had nothing in common with the sentiments he had intended to express at the Savoy.
He was by no means convinced that Brossard was telling the truth about the imminent fate of the dollar; nevertheless, the Frenchman had provided an incentive; it could do no harm to get the funds’ cash out of the bad investments in the U.S. Since he had grown careless, since he had delegated too much authority, the performance of most of the investments was pathetic.
If he sold out judiciously there would be a few million to be recycled through normal channels into his personal accounts in Zurich, Liechtenstein and Andorra. Which he would immediately recycle into diamonds.
If the crash came, then he would have a foundation of compressed carbon on which to build a new empire. At the fount, the glittering Kingdon Diamond which, coldly and aloofly, would appreciate as money became as worthless as fools’ gold.
Paul Kingdon’ licked his lips. The stewardess, imagining he was displaying symptoms of thirst, refilled his glass with Dom Perignon 1970. ‘Nothing like a champagne breakfast, sir.’ A beautiful, actresses’ voice. ‘But don’t forget that we land at Kennedy at ten o’clock – an hour and a quarter be
fore we took off.’
Before leaving he had visited the vault in the City. Held the diamond in his hand. Gazed into its fires. Forged more than 120 million years ago, 200 kilometres beneath the earth’s surface in a reservoir of molten magma and driven up to the surface by explosive forces; transported from South Africa and thence to Antwerp, where its mundane disguise was removed by cutting and polishing and its flawless beauty uncovered.
He glanced at the machmeter. Mach 2. Twice the speed of sound or about 1,320 mph. Outside the sky was dark blue: they were twice the height of Mount Everest and, because of the loss of density, the blue elements of the sun’s light were less scattered.
The infinity of the heavens and the eternity of the diamond presented themselves for comparison in Kingdon’s mind; the lancing beauty of the Concorde’s flight and the perfect facets of the stone. Too much champagne too early! He waved the hovering bottle away.
He spent six hours in New York supervising the sales by startled managers and staff of several million dollars of stock; he then flew to Houston where he authorised the sale of three drilling companies that had discovered a phenomenal number of dry wells; he rounded off the trip in Miami where he unloaded real estate in Florida and the Bahamas.
Two days later he was in a shabby street named Pelikaanstraat in Antwerp where, on credit, he bought 4 million dollars worth of rough and fine cut diamonds, which he brought back to England that evening in diamond parcel papers in the pockets of his trousers.
He showed them to Suzy Okana.
‘Supposing you’d got caught?’ she asked, impressed for once.
‘Speeding is the only crime I get pinched for.’
He lay down on the sofa, hands behind his head. He felt both exhilarated and exhausted. ‘Get me a drink, Suzy, there’s a good girl.’
She poured him a Chivas Regal.
He drank some and said: ‘So, where’s it all going to end?’
‘Where’s all what going to end?’
‘Us?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘because it never started.’
‘There’s a lot going to happen in the next few days.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Well, we’re going to France for a start.’
‘Are we? No-one told me.’
‘I’ve got to attend a conference. I’ve booked you into an inn in the village. I want to show you off to some of the stuffed shirts. They’ll have apoplexy.’
‘Where are you staying then?’
‘In a bloody château, that’s where. Delegates only, can’t be helped.’
She shrugged. ‘Okay, so I stay in the village.’
Then Kingdon said: ‘Have you ever thought of making our relationship permanent?’
The slanting green eyes appraised him. ‘You think I might be an investment for the future?’
Kingdon felt confused; businessmen were warned not to negotiate deals immediately after a long flight. He tried to make a joke of it. ‘I’ve always believed in short-term investment. But the market’s changing; perhaps I should switch to long-term.’
‘And perhaps I should stick to short-term.’
‘I want you to stay with me,’ he told her.
‘Really? I’m not one of your sales managers. I can take off tonight without breaking any contract.’
Dusk was gathering. She switched on a table light and sat in an easy chair opposite Kingdon, legs tucked underneath her; her hair gleamed blue-black in the light and her face was shadowed.
Kingdon said: ‘As I said, there are going to be a lot of changes. I can’t elaborate. But think about it. It will be to your advantage, I promise you.’
‘To my advantage! Christ,’ she said, ‘You make everything sound like a business deal.’
‘You’ve been happy enough, haven’t you?’
‘With the business arrangement? Oh yes, Mr Kingdon, it’s been very satisfactory. From both our points of view. I have my retreat and you have your adornment. If I walked out of the door right now you’d find yourself another adornment in time for tomorrow’s social gathering.’
Kingdon stood up and switched on the main light. ‘I don’t want another adornment,’ he said.
‘What do you want?’
Kingdon swayed slightly. Christ he was tired. ‘Let’s compromise,’ he said. ‘Come with me to France and after the conference we’ll decide about the future. Is that a deal?’
‘It’s a deal, Mr Chairman.’
‘Okay, Suzy,’ he said, ‘after Bilderberg we’ll work something out. And now I’m going to bed.’
As he undressed he thought about Suzy Okana. He had the diamonds; unlike other unsuspecting capitalists he had a future. He wanted Suzy with him in that future – in his villa in Switzerland.
Perhaps they would marry. No-one would believe that they had never slept together. His appetites had always been expended elsewhere in obtaining and securing power and wealth. He had not been celibate but sex had always seemed to him to be a wasting process.
Soon there would be a time for consolidation. Time to enjoy the strange, remote girl who had entered his life. A time for awakening for both of them.
But when he slept he dreamt about diamonds.
XIX
On the morning of Friday, April 18, packages were delivered to Claire Jerome at her London apartment, Paul Kingdon at his mansion at Wentworth and Pierre Brossard at his house on the Avenue Foch.
Packages were also delivered to their respective offices, with accompanying notes that they should be disregarded if the recipients had heeded the original deliveries.
In each case they had.
Each package contained a cassette accompanied by a three-word note: PLAY IT NOW.
Each played the cassette in privacy.
Each heard a date.
Each reacted with shock.
* * *
CLAIRE JEROME.
A woman’s voice: ‘The date, Mrs Jerome, is October 10, 1943.’
A pause.
‘You are aware of its significance?’
Claire Jerome nodded.
The woman’s voice: ‘The day he was born, Mrs Jerome.’ Another pause, longer this time.
‘If you want Mr Anello to celebrate another birthday, make five million dollars available at Bilderberg.’
Click.
The spool still running.
Claire Jerome’s head thrust down towards her knees to force the blood back to the icy regions of her brain.
One hand reached out to switch off the cassette player.
Silence.
* * *
PIERRE BROSSARD.
A man’s voice: ‘The date, Monsieur Brossard, is March 21, 1942.’
A pause.
‘You remember it?’
‘D’accord!’ trembling.
The man’s voice: ‘On that day you sent twenty-two French patriots to their graves.’
A prolonged pause.
‘If you do not want the world to know that Pierre Brossard is a coward and a traitor, you will make five million dollars available at Bilderberg.’
The trembling eased a little: dollars would be worthless and he would soon disappear.
The man’s voice: ‘Do not relax, Monsieur Brossard. Marshal Tito was a very brave man during the war. Yugoslavia is not a safe haven for men who betrayed the cause of freedom.
Click.
Spool still running.
Thin, cold fingers reaching shakily for the switch-off button.
* * *
PAUL KINGDON.
A man’s voice: ‘The date, Mr Kingdon, is November 12, 1978.’
A pause.
‘Do you remember it?’
A shrug. The date he bought the Kingdon Diamond.
‘The Jager Formula has been perfected and has come into our possession. This, as you know, could make your investment worthless.’
Kingdon: ‘What the fuck—’
The Jager Formula was an experimental process for producing synthetic g
em diamonds indistinguishable from natural stones.
The man’s voice: ‘We can eliminate the formula if you make five million dollars available at Bilderberg.’
Click.
Spool running.
Stopping as the cassette was hurled across the room.
XX
The first guest to arrive at the Château Saint-Pierre was the West German Foreign Minister. He was so impressed by the view of the hotel from the gates that he ordered his chauffeur to stop his metallic-blue Mercedes.
To the consternation of the security guards deployed discreetly around the hotel, he spent a long time admiring the scene.
With good reason. The sky was grey, thinning here and there into patches of lemon-yellow, through which the sun occasionally broke, misty drizzle was falling and the château had about it an air of impregnability and dignified seclusion.
To the relief of the guards, the Foreign Minister finally had his fill and ordered his chauffeur to drive on.
He was met in the domed hallway by Gaudin, the owner, and a phalanx of receptionists and managers.
The Minister smiled, displayed the black and white identity disc on his lapel and pointed at the nymphs and cherubs adorning the frescoes, the massive chandelier, the bronzes and statues and said: ‘It reminds me of Fontainbleau.’
Gaudin nodded: ‘You are very perceptive, Herr Otten. There are distinct similarities. You will find many works here by the painters and sculptors who adorned Fontainbleau. Van Loo for instance. And the stairways are said to be the models for the two Louis XIII stairways at the palace.’
Gaudin snapped his fingers. ‘Monsieur Foster, please take the Minister to his room.’
Anderson watched from the shadows at the entrance to the ballroom. Foster still worried him. Did anyone really take up hotel management at the age of twenty-eight? He shrugged: there were at the moment greater worries than Foster, not the least of them the proliferation of security agencies tripping over each other’s big feet. The French doing it their own way as usual; the Germans with their shepherd dogs; the British Special Branch as obvious in their tweeds and suede shoes as the two FBI agents with their clipped hair-cuts, chunky black shoes and pistol-bulging suits.
I, Said the Spy Page 26
