Framed in the sights of a Karabiner 98K rifle.
Jacques Bertier caressed the trigger with one finger. He had brought it back to the apartment over the tabac after the search of selected houses in the village.
The man or the girl?
Both.
Temptation flowed from his brain to the finger on the trigger.
He closed his eyes, shook his head.
Madness.
Sweat oiled his trigger finger.
If he killed them he would be sacrificing the task for which he had prepared himself for so long.
In any case, what were they? A lackey of the wealthy and a rich man’s whore.
He opened his eyes and lowered the rifle.
XXI
The palatial lobby of the château was crowded with reporters. Instead of trying to keep them at bay outside the gates, Anderson had advised the management to let them into an area where they could be contained and observed.
Stories had already appeared about secrecy and security and the reporters had been issued with a statement that revealed nothing. The statement sketched the origins of the conference:
‘In the early 1950’s a number of people on both sides of the Atlantic sought a means of bringing together leading citizens, both in and out of government, for informal discussions of problems facing the Western world. Such meetings, they felt, would create a better understanding of the forces and trends affecting Western nations.’
A couple of reporters wearing fake ID cards had penetrated as far as the ballroom, but a French police officer monitoring closed circuit television had checked them against the photographs of the guests and they had been ejected.
Others tried to infiltrate as new members of the staff; several attempted to bribe hotel employees living outside the hotel – the employees took the money and told the police.
When approached by Pressmen, guests replied noncommittally or not at all. The most outspoken was a former British prime minister who said he was looking forward to some good French cuisine ‘and wine, of course.’
Photographers were not permitted beyond the gates and their long-focus lenses were examined in case the pistol-grips were designed to fire bullets.
When Claire Jerome wandered through the lobby, a reporter from U.P.I. called out: ‘Give us a break, Mrs Jerome. Don’t let the male chauvinistic pigs call the tune.’
But she seemed not to hear him, which was unusual for her, because she was usually good with the Press. She seemed distracted and the reporters turned their attention to the German Chancellor – until the shepherd dogs following him growled.
Claire Jerome had, in fact, just left the conference room in the middle of the opening session on ‘Trade Relations between the USA and the Common Market since the European Elections.’
The speeches were relayed in French and English through earphones so that the chamber had the appearance of a United Nations in miniature – except for the murals and immense chandeliers and the vistas through the windows, which seemed to lead back to an era of more dignified affluence.
Claire Jerome couldn’t concentrate on the speeches. Instead her thoughts kept returning to the tape. The date. The threat.
In her blue-and-gold bedroom with its high, moulded ceiling and four-poster bed, she called Room Service, ordered tea and sat at the escritoire beside the window overlooking the lawns.
She wondered whether Pete Anello was in his room next door and whether she should consult him. She hadn’t so far told him about the threat because it implied possessiveness, an assumption that she would even consider paying a fortune to keep him.
Unsolicited, another consideration surfaced. Could he be implicated? Was he so sure of himself that he knew she would pay five million dollars to save his skin? It wouldn’t be the first time that an apparent kidnap victim had been part of the conspiracy.
She remembered the scene in the Bahamas when he had given her back the money and walked out. Had that been part of an elaborate long-term scheme? Perhaps it had begun in the casino …. Pick up the old broad and make her fall for you, but play it cool. After he had walked out it hadn’t been too difficult to find him ….
‘Please God,’ she said aloud, ‘don’t let it be so.’
Pete Anello was the first one. The only one. Did he find it pathetic to see a middle-aged woman behaving like a young girl in love?
A knock at the door. A waitress brought in the tea and a plate of wafer-thin tomato and cucumber sandwiches.
When she had gone Claire poured herself tea with lemon and picked up the article that Pierre Brossard was threatening to publish.
It was a clever piece of journalism. The old moral issues about weapon dealers – without any judgement from Brossard; then the revelation of an extension of those issues. How can anyone with even vestigial principles condone the sale of weapons by a Jew to both the Jews and their enemies, the Arabs?
Ironic, she thought, that she would have to pay Brossard two million dollars to keep him silent when she was for once in her life acting for idealistic motives. Helping the Israelis to survive.
There was a knock on the door and Pete Anello called out: ‘Anyone at home?’
He came in, sat down and began to eat the sandwiches.
‘Didn’t you have any lunch?’ Claire asked.
‘Nope. Too busy carrying out my duties. You’re still alive, aren’t you?’
She watched him devouring the sandwiches. An unlikely blackmailer. She smiled at him. ‘You’re looking neat.’ He was wearing a blazer and flannels bought in London, blue shirt and striped tie. ‘You’ll be playing cricket next,’ she said.
‘Sure, and carrying an umbrella.’ He poured himself tea.
She was going to tell him about the threat on his life when the telephone beside the bed rang.
The phone was linked to a control system contained in a black box the size of a small suitcase. The system defeated wire-taps and incorporated a scrambler. It had been installed in the rooms of all guests requiring telephonic secrecy.
‘Bon jour, Madame Jerome,’ Brossard said. ‘Welcome to my country.’
She said tersely: ‘Okay, I’ve read it.’
‘You liked it?’
‘What do you think? But the answer is, yes, I’ll pay. At the price arranged. How do you want the money?’
Brossard gave her the name of a bank in Monaco and she hung up before he had finished speaking.
When she turned, Anello was staring at her. He said: ‘You tell me, how can anyone?’
She frowned: ‘What are you talking about?’
He pointed at Brossard’s article lying on the chair. ‘How can anyone with even vestigial principles condone the sale of weapons —’
‘You shouldn’t have read it,’ she cut him off.
‘But I did. It was lying there to be read.’ He stood up and walked to the window. ‘Is it true?’
‘Yes,’ she said quietly, ‘it’s true. But there is a reason —’
‘Selling arms to the Israelis AND the Arabs! Jesus, it’s unbelievable.’
‘You don’t understand.’
He turned on her savagely. ‘And if you don’t, someone else will. And all the rest of the crap.’
‘Pete, let me explain. Please.’
Hand on the door-handle, he turned. ‘Who was that on the phone? Midas, or whatever the hell his name is? How much did you sell out for?’ opening the door.
‘Pete, there’s been a threat … on your life,’ as the door slammed behind him.
She ran to the door and opened it. He was striding down the corridor and she called out: ‘Pete,’ but he didn’t turn round and then he was gone.
She closed the door and stood still for a few moments. Then she threw herself on the bed and wept.
* * *
Brossard put down the receiver, attached to the control system in his room in the east wing after speaking to Claire Jerome, and thought: Two million, that leaves three million to find.
That wouldn’t
be difficult. But should he pay? Blackmailers were rarely satisfied with a first demand. Supposing he handed over the five million and was then betrayed in Yugoslavia?
The last-war guerillas, elderly though they might be, wouldn’t tolerate a man who had sent scores of Frenchmen fighting the same battle to their deaths. Nor would they eliminate him commando style because they had agreed to give him sanctuary.
No, they would wait a few weeks. Stage a robbery in his mansion, perhaps. Kill him swiftly and silently. Brossard imagined two grotesque, white-haired killers slipping into his bedroom, felt their knives sliding between his ribs.
But there wasn’t really any alternative to paying the ransom. Whoever was making the threats obviously had all the evidence against him.
Escape? Brossard realised that he must have been under surveillance ever since the first enigmatic message had been delivered. If he made a run for it he wouldn’t get farther than the gates.
There was nothing to be done except await the next move. But who was behind the blackmail? Lying on his bed, hands behind his head, Brossard stared at the ceiling and tried once again to work it out.
He had initially decided that the Russians were responsible for the first message. A theatrical warning. But he had been forced to dismiss the theory: the Soviet Union would certainly not be attempting to extract a miserly five million dollars from an agent who was about to establish for all time their supremacy over the United States. In any case the Russians knew that, by the end of the week, those five million dollars would be worthless. Today was Monday; his column would be published on Thursday morning, leaving two full week-days for the biggest bear raid in financial history.
Perhaps, somewhere within the KGB, there was an agent with capitalist inclinations. Perhaps a member of another intelligence organisation had penetrated Soviet Intelligence and gained access to the files on him.
Whoever it was, he was almost certainly stalking the corridors of the Château Saint-Pierre at this moment.
The telephone rang beside him. Hildegard Metz. She said: ‘Do you wish me to dictate your column to Paris, Monsieur Brossard? Monsieur Mayard has just been on the Telex.’
‘No, I’ll take care of that. As a matter of fact I’m just writing it.’
‘When shall I tell Monsieur Mayard to expect it?’
‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Some time tomorrow. There’s no urgency, the front page is the last to go to press.’
‘Very well, m’sieur.’ She hesitated.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Monsieur Mayard asked if you could give him any idea what the column would be about.’
‘Tell Mayard that he will know the contents of the column when I dictate it and not before.’
‘Very well, m’sieur.’
Brossard replaced the receiver.
Mayard!
But he was forty miles away in Paris.
A knock on the door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Room service, m’sieur.’
But he hadn’t ordered anything.
He opened the door so that it was still held by the chain. A waiter stood outside holding a silver tray; on the tray was a bottle standing on a white napkin.
Brossard slid the bolt on the chain. ‘Who sent this?’
‘I don’t know, m’sieur. We found it standing on the table in our service room. There is an envelope addressed to you.’
Brossard took the tray. ‘Service is included in the bill,’ he said as the waiter hesitated. He closed the door.
Inside the envelope was a plain card, WITH OUR COMPLIMENTS. Nothing more.
He picked up the bottle. Slivovitch. The national drink of Yugoslavia.
* * *
Paul Kingdon had lunched with George Prentice. A cold buffet – Scotch salmon, York ham, Russian salad, Scandinavian roll-mops ….
‘The French don’t seem to have contributed much,’ Prentice remarked.
Kingdon lifted a bottle of Muscadet from a silver ice-bucket. ‘They contributed this,’ as he poured the wine.
He watched Prentice tackle his plateful of food. ‘You eat well, George,’ he said. ‘Where does it all go?’
‘Brain matter,’ Prentice replied.
Kingdon had considered telling Prentice about the blackmail threat but had rejected the idea: you didn’t share knowledge that provided grounds for extortion. All he could do was wait and see if the blackmailers were genuinely in a position to carry out their threat. Kingdon knew that, despite what the trade claimed, any formula that could produce synthetic gem stones cheaply would debase the value of diamonds.
It was common knowledge that the supply of diamonds was controlled to maintain their value. If the Russians, for instance, released their stocks into the world markets, then their value would slump dramatically. The Russians did no such thing for the basic reason that it was in their interests to maintain their value. No-one in the Western world wanted roubles: everyone wanted diamonds.
‘So,’ said Kingdon, eating without appetite, ‘you’re going to deliver an address to Bilderberg.’ He glanced round but the adjoining tables were unoccupied. ‘What’s the subject? Industrial espionage?’
‘Capitalism,’ Prentice said briefly.
‘A wide-ranging subject.’
‘And the contribution of Capitalism to the survival of democracy.’
‘I think you’re preaching to the converted, George.’
‘I can always publish the speech afterwards.’
‘And forfeit any future invitations to Bilderberg.’
‘That wouldn’t worry me unduly,’ Prentice said.
Kingdon raised a hand to acknowledge the greeting of Pierre Brossard as he walked past the table. ‘What’s going to happen to the dollar, George?’
‘Nothing especially that I know of. It will have its ups and downs until the fuel crisis is sorted out. Unless, of course some sort of gigantic bear raid is mounted. But I can’t see that happening.’ Prentice put down his knife and fork. ‘And now, I think, some dessert.’ He returned with a plateful of trifle dripping with cream.
‘Don’t you feel out of place here?’ Kingdon asked as he tackled the sweet.
‘Why should I?’
‘Well, you’ve been wearing that jacket for at least ten years to my knowledge.’
‘Harris tweed,’ Prentice said. ‘Never wears out.’
Hildegard Metz walked past and Kingdon remarked: ‘Brossard certainly doesn’t pick his secretaries for their looks.’
Prentice said: ‘She’s a stupid little bitch.’
Kingdon looked at him in surprise. ‘You sound unusually vehement. You almost sound as if you hate her. Do you, George?’
Prentice watched Hildegard Metz sit down beside Brossard. He had known for three years that she was Helga Keller.
Kingdon said again: ‘Do you, George?’
Prentice’s voice was cold. ‘I just happen to know that she’s a stupid bitch.’
‘And you’re not saying why ….’
That’s right,’ Prentice told him, pushing his plate aside, ‘I’m not saying why.’ He changed the subject. ‘Do you still want me to tackle Gerard? We didn’t dig up much on him. Nothing that can be used as leverage.’
‘No,’ Kingdon said, ‘leave him to me.’
Kingdon sought out Alex Gerard, London-based partner of one of the most illustrious merchant banks in the world, in the bar that evening.
It was 6.30 pm. Most of the guests were sitting at tables. But the British preferred to stand at bars and Alex Gerard, despite his Gallic ancestry, was one of them.
Whatever Brossard predicted about the dollar Kingdon was determined to go ahead with his public offering: he had to maintain ascendancy over the Establishment who, despite the invitation engineered by Brossard, were poised to destroy him. To accomplish that he needed Gerard’s support as an underwriter.
He said: ‘Good evening, Alex. Can I get you a drink?’ He had met Gerard once before at a cocktail party in the Ba
rbican in the City of London.
Gerard, plump and bland, was holding an empty whisky glass. He turned and frowned and thrust out his bottom lip as if trying to identify Kingdon. Two years ago, Kingdon thought, you’d have been grovelling for my custom.
‘I don’t think —’
‘Kingdon. Paul Kingdon. What is it, Scotch?’
‘That’s very civil of you.’
‘Two Scotches,’ Kingdon said to Jules. ‘Water?’
‘Just a little.’
The barman added Malvern water to both whiskies.
They sipped their drinks, appraising each other. Gerard said: ‘Your first Bilderberg?’
‘Correct. I had dinner with some members of the steering committee. We were discussing the future of my companies and they seemed to think their omission should be rectified.’
‘Ah.’
‘You know, of course, that I’m going public.’
‘Yes,’ Gerard said staring at his drink, ‘I did know that.’
Kingdon named three members of the steering committee and told Gerard: ‘They’re going to invest heavily.’
‘I’m delighted for your sake.’
‘Good business for the underwriters,’ Kingdon remarked.
‘I believe you have an impressive list.’
‘Including the Parisien branch of your family business.’
Gerard inclined his head and pointed at Kingdon’s glass. ‘May I get you the other half?’
Jules refilled the glasses.
‘I wondered,’ Kingdon said, ‘why you hadn’t followed the example of your French cousins.’
‘As you know we are quite independent of each other.’
‘But it’s the first time you haven’t taken part in an offering when the French side of the family has.’
‘As I have said, Mr Kingdon, we reach our decisions independently.’
Kingdon fought to curb his anger. Smug, self-satisfied and patronising, Gerard personified the type of businessman that he had out-smarted. When the money was rolling in from all over the world, Kingdon had been feted in the City. Now men like Alex Gerard were circling like vultures for the kill. He hoped Brossard was right in his predictions: he hoped that Gerard was up to his fat neck in dollars. He opened his briefcase and produced a ten-page precis of his proposed prospectus.
I, Said the Spy Page 28
