I, Said the Spy

by Derek Lambert

  She dropped the letter and ran to the door and into the corridor. She banged on Anello’s door. ‘Pete, Pete, open up, it’s me, Claire.’

  No movement, no sound.

  A housekeeper in a white coat paused and stared at her. Claire turned and said to her: ‘Have you got the pass key?’

  I have, Madame, but I don’t —’

  ‘I think there may have been an accident ….’

  The housekeeper took a bunch of keys from the pocket of her coat, selected one and inserted it into the lock.

  The door swung open.

  The room was empty.

  At that moment Pete Anello was in a motel room ten miles away, staring down the barrel of an Uzi sub-machine gun.

  * * *

  Paul Kingdon, opened the door of Room 207 to pick up the newspapers before the maid arrived with his tea, and spotted the envelope immediately. He wasn’t surprised.

  He slammed the door, ripped open the envelope. Inside were three photostats each bearing the heading THE JAGER FORMULA.

  Kingdon sat down and perused them.

  For at least a century, chemists had claimed to have manufactured diamonds – synthetics as opposed to simulants. The first to receive serious recognition was James Hannay, a Glaswegian, whose claim was verified by the Keeper of Minerals at the British Museum in 1880.

  Kingdon knew that real success hadn’t been achieved until 1953 when the Swedish company, ASEA, managed to produce diamonds of less than one millimeter. In 1955 General Electric of America also produced synthetic diamonds, and because of ASEA’s secrecy, were granted a patent. But the diamonds were only suitable for industrial use.

  De Beers also evolved a method of making synthetic grit, but it wasn’t until 1970 that General Electric announced the production of gem diamonds – white with a few flaws,

  The method was to grow diamonds from seed crystals with a catalyst in pressure chambers at intense heat. But there were several snags: the synthetic stones could be identified as such because, unlike most natural diamonds, they were electro conductive; they contained tiny blemishes and, most damning of all, they cost considerably more to manufacture than it cost to mine natural diamonds.

  Kingdon didn’t understand the Jager Formula but he had no doubt that it purported to have overcome these difficulties. He read the accompanying letter.

  It will have come as no surprise to you to learn from our recorded message that a method of manufacturing flawless white diamonds, indistinguishable from natural crystals, has now been perfected. Nor will you be greatly surprised to know that the formula has been repressed by an international cartel determined to maintain the value of gem stones.

  As you can now see from the enclosed copies we do have the formula. Furthermore we are in a position to go into immediate production; the subsequent glut of flawless diamonds will make existing stocks virtudly worthless.

  Ironically this formula will not enrich us because, of course, although we would be producing perfect diamonds, we would at the same time be killing our own market. We concluded, therefore, that the only way to profit from the possession of this formula is to sell it. We can assure you that it is the only pirate copy in existence.

  If you arrange for five million dollars to be deposited in Account No. CR 5843/91812 of the United Bank of Switzerland, Zurich, by the close of banking hours the day after tomorrow, April 24th, you have our promise that the formula and our equipment will be destroyed and we shall not go into production.

  We appreciate that you will want to verify the validity of this formula and we have no doubt that in your present circumstances at Bilderberg you will not find this difficult. Do not dispose of the envelope before examining it closely: it contains a small gift manufactured at our plant three days ago. One last condition: please make sure that you raise the money from your personal assets, i.e. not from your clients’ investments.

  Kingdon felt the bottom of the envelope with thumb and forefinger. The diamond had lodged in one corner; he turned the envelope upside down and the stone fell into the palm of his hand. It was about one carat and, as far as Kingdon could determine without a loupe, flawless. It looked as though it would rate high in the colour grading system, i.e. River or Blue Wesselton, second and third after Jager which was extremely rare. But doubtless the Jager Formula could reproduce a Jager.

  Kingdon re-read the letter. In the present circumstances? He consulted the guest list. Among the visitors from Holland was van Wyk, chairman of one of the most famous diamond merchant companies in Amsterdam. Kingdon had met him when he was negotiating the purchase of the Kingdon Diamond. Kingdon thought about the diamond lying in its vault in the City of London. It had been described as priceless: if the formula in his hand was genuine it could soon be worthless. Flood any market and you drown it.

  He picked up the telephone cradled in the black box, and asked the switchboard operator to put him through to van Wyk. Van Wyk agreed to receive him in his room in half an hour. Anticipating a sale, Kingdon thought sourly.

  The diamond merchant was a big man, reputed to be homosexual, with a drum belly – Kingdon noticed a corset hanging in the wardrobe – and a jovial disposition that Kingdon suspected was spurious. He was wearing a gold silk dressing-gown.

  ‘Coffee, Mr Kingdon?’

  Kingdon shook his head.

  ‘Something stronger? A little Bols gin perhaps?’ gold teeth gleaming in his smile.

  ‘Not at this time in the morning,’ Kingdon said. Bols gin for breakfast, Christ! He handed van Wyk the diamond. ‘Could you have a look at that for me?’

  Van Wyk fetched a loupe from the dressing-table and inspected the diamond, chuckling as he did so. ‘A little beauty if I may say so,’ and, putting the loupe in the pocket of his dressing-gown: ‘What have you in mind, Mr Kingdon?’

  ‘Is it genuine?’

  Van Wyk guffawed. ‘As genuine as the Kingdon Diamond itself.’

  ‘I’d like you to have a look at this.’ Kingdon handed the diamond merchant the Jager Formula. ‘Tell me if it’s plausible.’

  Van Wyk glanced at the sheets of paper. The joviality evaporated immediately. ‘Where did you get this, Mr Kingdon?’ His eyes had suddenly become as cold and hard as diamonds.

  ‘It doesn’t matter where I got it. I want to know if it’s genuine.’

  ‘This is a serious matter, Mr Kingdon, very serious indeed. If this were to fall into the wrong hands ….’

  ‘As far as I know, it’s the only copy. You can keep it if you want.’ Van Wyk immediately opened his briefcase and slipped the sheets of paper inside, ‘All I want to know is, would it work?’

  ‘You must first tell me where you got it and what you propose to do with the information. Have you copied the formula?’

  Kingdon shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you where I got it. It came into my possession, that’s all I can tell you because that’s all I know. And as for doing anything with it, the fact that I came to see you speaks for itself. I don’t even understand the bloody thing.’

  Van Wyk’s dressing-gown slipped open and an expanse of taut belly came into view. He pulled the gold silk around himself and re-tied the belt. Then he said: ‘You ask me if it will work. The answer is yes. As you probably know, gem diamonds were manufactured in 1970. All it needed was the application of sophisticated electronic equipment to perfect the process. This was achieved eighteen months ago—’

  ‘But suppressed for the sake of the industry?’

  ‘Of course. Why should the world’s most precious possessions be devalued because of some mundane advancement in technology?’

  ‘And diamond merchants’ fortunes ….’

  Van Wyk nodded. ‘And collectors’ fortunes, Which I presume,’ he continued, ‘is why you brought the formula to me. You are presumably as anxious as the rest of us to make sure that the formula should have a very limited circulation.’

  ‘I merely wanted to find out if it’s genuine.’

  ‘Then I’ve answered your questio
n. And now I shall have to investigate this lapse on someone’s part. Are you sure you can’t tell me how this came into your possession?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Kingdon told him, and ‘Thank you for your time,’ as he opened the door and went out into the corridor. ‘You can keep the diamond,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Who the hell wants a hand-made diamond?’

  In his room two doors away from Claire Jerome’s, he sat down on the bed and re-read the letter before taking it into the bathroom and burning it in the washbasin.

  Then he ran a hot bath. He lay in the water for ten minutes thinking. The bastards! The prospect of parting with five million dollars to extortionists filled him with self-disgust. There was only one redeeming feature: the blackmailers would be receiving ransom which, if Pierre Brossard was to be believed, would almost immediately be valueless. Kingdon made his decision and reached for the bath-towel.

  * * *

  At 8 am Anderson made a routine sweep of the conference hall.

  When he reached the microphone, through which guests made their speeches, a green light began to flash on the portable bug-detector.

  Anderson examined the microphone and from the base retrieved a primitive eavesdropping device. Frowning, he slipped the bug into his jacket pocket. So now, he thought, we have an amateur among us.

  XXIII

  Pete Anello had left the château at 5.30 am.

  Since Claire Jerome had confirmed that she was selling to both Arab and Jew, he had been examining her morals. And his own.

  In Nassau he had been a bum. But free with no bouts of introspection, nothing to fear except the nights when he smelled burning flesh and heard the screams. Now his emotions were complicated.

  He opened a bottle of whisky in his room and, over a period of several hours, drank most of it. Then he went to bed and slept.

  When he awoke he felt stifled by the atmosphere of the château, oppressed by the wealth slumbering beneath one roof.

  He opened the window. It was still dark. Mist lay close to the ground, an owl hooted, the moonlit clouds were high and motionless.

  He dressed in a fawn sweater and denim suit and picked up the keys of Claire’s green Porsche, which he had driven to the château from Paris. He let himself out of the room and walked swiftly down the corridor to the elevator.

  As he went past reception the night porter signalled to the dozing switchboard operator who made a house call.

  Anello stood in the drive for a moment, breathing deeply to try and disperse the aftermath of the whisky; then he headed for the car park adjoining the stables at the rear of the château.

  By the time he drove out a man wearing a soft brown hat and black knitted scarf had reached the blue Fiat 124 Sport parked in the drive. A gendarme at the gates checked out Anello, stepped back and saluted; thirty seconds later he repeated the performance for the driver of the Fiat.

  Anello had no idea where he was driving to; he merely knew that he had to get away for a while.

  He didn’t drive fast – he had long since lost any sense of urgency – and the driver of the Fiat had no difficulty in following. Anello decided that if he came across a small hotel somewhere in the countryside he would spend the rest of the night there.

  And then? Anello didn’t know. But he had to reach a decision. He was being kept by a woman who dealt in arms. A woman, he had discovered, who saw nothing immoral in selling weapons to the Jews, her own people, and to their enemies.

  Balance of power, shit! The Porsche accelerated out of a mist-filled hollow in the road, then slowed down again.

  Ahead lay a main road. And on the corner a motel, its name picked out in stuttering pink neon: VOYAGEURS. Anello parked the car in the forecourt and went in.

  He handed his passport to a resentful porter, registered and took the key to Room 303 which the porter flung on the counter. The room was shabby but it had style, flowered curtains, reproduction furniture, everlasting flowers in a vase; the French could invest a prison cell with charm.

  He washed his face and hands, wished he had brought a toothbrush. The knock on the door startled him. ‘Yeah, who is it?’ finishing drying his face.

  ‘We forgot to change the bed linen, m’sieur.’

  Anello glanced at the bed. The sheets didn’t look too dirty, but they didn’t look too clean either. Someone else’s infectious disease was all he needed.

  He opened the door and stared at the man in the corridor. He was vaguely familiar but his face was partially concealed by a black scarf and the brim of his hat. The man was carrying an attaché-case.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘May I come in? We have to talk.’

  ‘Like fuck.’

  Anello tried to slam the door but the man jammed it with his foot.

  Anello took a step forward and threw a punch. Somehow the punch missed and Anello’s arm was behind his back; the man with the scarf pushed and Anello hit the wall on the other side of the room.

  The man shut the door. As Anello began to get up, he pressed the rapid-release button on the handle of the attaché-case; the lid of the attaché-case flew open; with one hand he took out the Uzi sub machine-gun nestling inside, dropping the case at the same time.

  He said: ‘Neat, aren’t they? The Special Branch carry them in Ireland. You’re fully armed within three seconds.’ He waved the gun towards a chair in the corner. ‘I suggest you go and sit there.’

  ‘What the hell is this?’ Anello stood up rubbing his head where it had slammed into the wall.

  ‘I’m sorry it has to be like this.’

  ‘You’re sorry!’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll understand when I explain,’ the man said. ‘You see I have a proposition to put to you.’

  XXIV

  The two top security risks arrived together by helicopter at midday. The President of France and the former American Secretary of State.

  As the helicopter banked like a giant dragon-fly and began to descend, thirty or so delegates made their way to the helipad beside the car-park.

  During the morning, the debate had been passionate. It had been scheduled to relate to the fuel emergency. But it had exploded into the whole Middle East crisis, the Soviet threat to the oil supplies there and the future of the Olympic Games. Hawks and doves angrily mounted the lectern; the possibility of the third world war had been discussed.

  Most of the delegates were relieved when the roar of the helicopter – a twin-engined Bell 212, in which the ex-Secretary had been touring Western Europe – broke up the session.

  The helicopter approached at an angle to avoid its own slipstream and settled on the helipad. The blades scythed the air a few times, stopped. The President emerged first, tall, angular, distinguished; the American, who had once travelled the world as other men commute from home to office, followed closely behind him, physically the antithesis of the Frenchman – dumpy, bespectacled, radiating energy.

  The sun shone. The introductions were informal. An historic occasion. If there had been any cameramen there to record it.

  Anderson watched from the wings, eyes scanning the backcloth to the scene for any movement, any incongruous detail. Security guards milled around in the background.

  Beside Anderson stood Inspector Moitry, the local French plain-clothes police chief. He was stockily built with sleek greying hair and pouchy eyes. He carried with him an air of disillusion. A fall guy.

  Anderson said to the Frenchman: ‘A classic scene for an assassination.’

  Moitry puffed nervously at his cigarette. ‘Don’t even say things like that.’

  The introductions were concluded. The two statesmen went into the château followed by their personal bodyguards. Each had been allotted a suite of rooms on the top floor of the west wing; both suites had been double-checked that morning.

  ‘At least they’re safe inside,’ Anderson said.

  ‘I pray to God that you’re right,’ Moitry said lighting another cigarette. ‘I’m afraid I have a premonition about th
is conference!’

  But Moitry, Anderson thought, was the sort of man who shared his life with premonitions.

  * * *

  In the village at 3.15 that afternoon a series of events took place that would have fully justified Inspector Moitry’s premonition.

  Two years ago Jacques Bertier had taken up trout fishing. Today, instead of his rods, he packed the old German rifle into the long canvas container. He buttoned down the flap at the end and, as an extra precaution, bound it with twine. Into the pocket of the camouflaged jacket he wore on his fishing expeditions, he slipped six rounds of ammunition which his twin brother had stored in the old tin chest all those years ago.

  He locked the door of the apartment behind him and descended the stairs humming to himself. He was pleased with his nonchalant manner because he felt far from nonchalant; his hands were greased with sweat and he could hear the thud of his heart.

  He waved to the old woman in the tabac; the old woman waved back. Stick to the routine he had established: that was the secret. Which was why he dropped into the inn for a rum.

  ‘To keep out the cold,’ he told the black-haired woman behind the bar. It wasn’t cold but it, was his customary excuse.

  ‘Are you going to be away long?’ looking at him significantly because her husband was away and she had indicated that she would come up to the apartment later.

  ‘About an hour.’

  The thought of sex after the shooting excited him even more.

  He was about to leave when the priest entered the bar. The priest ordered a glass of red wine and said: ‘Can I get you one? Rum, I believe ….’

  ‘No thank you, father. One’s enough.’

  ‘Going fishing?’

  He smiled and thought: For big fish.

  He walked into the daylight. The weather had changed and low clouds were scurrying across the sky. The village was at rest. Which was how he wanted it.

  He set off at a brisk pace towards the river that lay half a mile from the village, waving to the uniformed gendarme posted outside the church.