I, Said the Spy

by Derek Lambert

  Ironic all right, Anderson reflected. He had gone to considerable trouble to arrange the accommodation so that Brossard, Kingdon and Claire Jerome had adjoining rooms.

  In the lobby the reporter from Paris-Match, a big man with cropped hair, approached him. ‘What’s going on around here?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Why?’

  ‘I saw you driving like a lunatic. Then I saw an ambulance.’

  ‘I always drive like a lunatic,’ Anderson said.

  ‘And the ambulance?’

  Anderson shrugged. ‘How should I know? A road accident in the village maybe.’

  ‘My photographer reckons he heard a gun-shot.’

  ‘He’s got better hearing than me. Although come to think of it,’ Anderson said frowning, ‘I did hear a jet crash the sound barrier about twenty minutes ago. Where were you twenty minutes ago?’

  ‘Phoning Paris.’

  ‘In a booth?’

  ‘No, in a bar in Etampes.’

  ‘There you are, a noisy bar. If you’d been outside you’d have known it was a jet.’

  In the corridor in the east wing, Anderson spoke to the British Special Branch officer. ‘Any trouble?’

  ‘Nothing. We told Brossard not to speak to anyone about the shooting, but it wasn’t necessary. He seems more anxious about keeping it quiet than us. But he did ask to see his secretary, a Fraulein Metz. Is that all right?’

  ‘I can’t see any harm in it,’ Anderson said. ‘I believe you’re an authority on ballistics. Can you spare a minute?’

  ‘Of course.’ The Englishman, whose name was Crawford, followed Anderson silently on his crepe-soled suede shoes.

  In his room Anderson threw the cartridge-case on the table and said: ‘What do you make of that?’

  ‘German,’ Crawford said without looking at it. ‘Last war.’

  Anderson stared in surprise at the squarely-built policeman in tweeds who looked as though he had just been shooting grouse – except for the shoes. ‘You can tell without even examining it?’

  ‘Your colleague from the FBI found the bullet.’ Crawford took it out of the pocket of his trousers and tossed it onto the table beside the case. ‘Hardly damaged. It had spent itself. Brossard was well out of effective range.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Well, my guess is that this was fired by a Karabiner 98. The Germans had them at the beginning of the war. Based on a rifle designed in 1898. Range? Anything between 2,200 and 3,000 yards maximum. Effective – not more than 600.’

  ‘Could it have been fitted with telescopic sights?’

  ‘No reason why not. In the early days of the war snipers used a commercial sight – the ZF 39 made by Hensoldt – on the Karabiner 98K. Later they used the ZF 42.’

  ‘I was right, you do know your stuff. What sort of a killer would use a rifle like that?’

  ‘A raving madman,’ Crawford said. ‘Certainly an amateur. A gun buff maybe?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll have another go?’

  Anderson shrugged. ‘Like you said, the guy’s a crank. What surprises me is that it’s never happened at Bilderberg before.’

  After Crawford had left the room, Anderson stared thoughtfully at the photostats of the guest list. What, he wondered, did the crosses beside certain names indicate? There was no obvious pattern to them; they were neither the most nor the least important guests. But there was a common denominator there somewhere.

  Anderson knew from experience that homicidal maniacs frequently liked to give notice of intent. They wanted to prove how clever (not crazy) they were and they enjoyed observing the frantic evasive action taken by the intended victims and their guardians.

  He had, therefore, to assume that the shooting was a notice of intent. And that in all probability it was a diversionary tactic to enable the gunman to sit back and enjoy the action.

  A diversion from what? A bomb?

  The powers behind the thrones of the Western world wiped out in one big bang. Brossard, Claire Jerome and Paul Kingdon eliminated – before they had finished transferring $15 million to the bank in Zurich. But that was academic: the three blackmailers would be dead too!

  Anderson picked up the phone and called the hospital where the priest had been taken.

  A woman said: ‘He is as well as can be expected, m’sieur.’

  ‘Is he conscious?’

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘Police,’ trying to shed any trace of an American accent.

  ‘No, m’sieur, he is not yet conscious.’

  Gaudin was waiting outside the booth. ‘Our own police would like a word with you,’ he said. ‘I have made my personal suite available.’

  Before making his way to the suite Anderson called Brossard, now back in the room originally assigned to him in the west wing.

  The suite had been assembled from the past. An amalgam of periods – Louis XIV, XV and XVI – packaged with grey and yellow moiré drapes and wallpaper. In front of the marble fireplace stood a 19th century table, fashioned from lime and sycamore with ormolu mounts.

  Inspector Moitry was there, together with Surete and SDECE agents from Paris and the representatives of other internal security organisations. They were sitting around a table which looked very fragile in their presence.

  Anderson expected trouble. He wasn’t disappointed.

  Moitry took the stage, pouchy-eyed and hostile. Acting, Anderson suspected, on instructions from the Surete and the SDECE who would want him to exercise Gallic authority but remain the fall-guy in case anything worse followed the shooting.

  When Anderson entered the room, Moitry stood up and said sarcastically: ‘Good of you to spare the time, Monsieur Anderson.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Anderson said, lowering himself gently into an antique chair at the table.

  ‘I want to be as brief as possible. An attempt has been made to murder a French citizen on French soil. French authorities,’ without identifying them, ‘will therefore be in charge of the investigation.’ He pointed one finger at Anderson. ‘You seem to regard this château as a fortress, within which you exercise total power. As from this moment all that has changed.’

  He was, Anderson concluded, undoubtedly saying what he had been told to say. Anderson felt a little sorry for Inspector Moitry; he was hopelessly out of his depth.

  On either side of him the other Frenchmen listened expressionlessly. They had more on their minds than an attempt to kill a wealthy and influential businessman: the life of the President of France was in their hands. Anderson didn’t doubt that he had already been urged to return to Paris; nor did he doubt that he had refused.

  A German addressed Moitry in schoolboy French. ‘What steps have you taken so far?’

  ‘Purely routine measures. A full-scale search has been mounted. Road blocks have been set up. The movements of everyone in the village are being checked. We hope that if the priest regains consciousness he will be able to help, although it would seem that he was struck from behind.’

  An FBI agent said in slightly better French: ‘I hope you’ve impressed upon your men the need for absolute secrecy.’

  ‘Of course. I am fully aware that the distinguished company beneath this roof has requested absolute privacy, Happily most of the Press were away telephoning stories at the time of the shooting. Although the Paris-Match team are proving to be a little difficult,’ he added.

  Anderson said: ‘What about the people in the village?’

  ‘They have been told that the two explosions in the graveyard were the work of schoolboys.’

  ‘And the priest? That wasn’t the work of schoolboys.’

  ‘He was startled by the first explosion. He slipped and fell down the steps leading from the belfry. In fact,’ Moitry said, gaining confidence as he listened to his own catalogue of efficiency, ‘he shouldn’t have been in the church at all. He normally has a sleep at that time in the afternoon. But apparently he had left a book in the churc
h.’

  ‘James Bond probably.’

  ‘M’sieur?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Anderson said. ‘How do you know he left a book there?’

  ‘He was taking a glass of wine in the village inn. He told some of the villagers.’ Moitry lit a Gauloise from the butt smouldering between his fingers.

  Crawford, the British Special Branch officer, said: ‘Whoever shot Brossard knew the church pretty well. That indicates a local man.’

  Moitry looked pointedly at Anderson. ‘I believe you dealt with the villagers.’

  ‘I didn’t interrogate 800 people if that’s what you mean. But I did check out all members of the hotel staff living there. And anyone with a police record.’

  The SDECE agent spoke for the first time. He looked, Anderson thought, like a Marseilles gangster dressed by a Parisien tailor. He said in a flat, cold voice: ‘It goes without saying that there has been a lapse in security. The church was insufficiently protected. It was the obvious vantage point.’

  Anderson didn’t like doing it to Moitry but he had no choice. ‘I’m afraid that was the responsibility of the French police. Inspector Moitry did his best with the resources at his disposal.’

  The FBI agent said: ‘Even if the gunman did live in the village he sure as hell won’t be there now.’

  ‘We are, of course, checking to see if anyone is missing,’ Moitry said with dignity.

  Anderson said: ‘Also check to see if anyone in the village owned an old Wermacht rifle.’

  One of the German Chancellor’s guards exclaimed: ‘How do you know it was an old German rifle?’ as though it surely couldn’t possibly be the Germans who were going to be the villains once again.

  Anderson tossed the cartridge case on the table. ‘Ballistics. We’ve got the slug too.’ He leaned down and picked up his briefcase; the other men watched him curiously. The catches snapped open and, with a pair of tweezers, Anderson lifted out the photostats. ‘I’d like to know if you have any theories about these,’ he said laying the sheets on the table. ‘I found them beside the cartridge case.’

  No-one had any notable theories. Only the obvious. The names with the crosses beside them were the intended victims … the names without the crosses were the intended victims … the would-be assassin was trying to tell them something – a familiar characteristic of a paranoic criminal ….

  There were no crosses beside the French President or the ex-Secretary of State.

  Nor, Anderson brooded, against the names of Pierre Brossard, Paul Kingdon or Claire Jerome. Which could be good news; or it could be catastrophic.

  Anderson said to Moitry: ‘I want these photostats fingerprinted.’

  ‘It is not what you want,’ Moitry said as the telephone on the desk by the window shrilled.

  He picked up the telephone. His attitude changed. He almost stood to attention. Anderson felt even more sorry for him because he knew what was being said on the telephone ….

  Before coming up to Gaudin’s suite, he had told Brossard to call Paris. To use the influence that, according to Helga, he wielded with France’s top policemen. Brossard certainly didn’t want police checking him out, calling at his home, perhaps stumbling across some of his last-minute getaway arrangements.

  Nor, for entirely different reasons, did Anderson want the police interfering with Brossard’s private life. Questioning, for instance, the transfer of $5 million to an account in Zurich.

  Moitry replaced the receiver. He didn’t look surprised, merely resigned. He lit another Gauloise and in a quiet voice said that he had been told to co-operate with Anderson.

  Anderson took over. He said to the men seated around the table: ‘Now we have to take this place apart all over again, because the obvious danger is a bomb.’

  He turned to Moitry. ‘And I want you to telephone the hospital and authorise them to let me see the priest.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ Moitry said dully.

  * * *

  The priest’s face was serene but his breathing was stertorous. Judging by the wound, he had been hit from behind with the rifle butt. But it was just possible that he might have a theory about the identity of his attacker. Who, for instance, had access to the church?

  The nurse said: ‘One minute, no longer,’ and added: ‘You shouldn’t be here anyway.’

  The priest had just been wheeled back from the X-ray department. Anderson sat on a chair beside the bed. He spoke softly. ‘Can you hear me, father?’

  He thought he detected a movement of the eyes beneath the lids.

  ‘It’s me. Shaft. Remember?’

  The priest’s eyes opened.

  ‘Who did it, father? Do you have any ideas?’

  The beginnings of the wondrous smile. His lips moved. Anderson leaned over the bed to try and catch the words.

  ‘A case for Maigret, my son.’

  His eyes closed as he lapsed into unconsciousness again.

  In the corridor outside, Anderson asked the nurse: ‘Is he going to make it?’

  ‘God willing,’ the nurse said. ‘He has a hair-line fracture of the skull and he’s concussed. It’s not very serious.’

  Relief surged through Anderson. ‘Call me at the Château Saint-Pierre when he regains consciousness.’

  And such was his relief that he bent and kissed the startled nurse before striding out of the hospital to the Chevrolet.

  * * *

  Members of the steering committee of Bilderberg summoned Anderson to their presence at 5 pm.

  They sat round an oval table in an ante-room overlooking the fountains. The walls were Regency-striped, the drapes heavy green brocade.

  The New York banker, who was regarded as the doyen of Bilderberg, had been called to Paris that afternoon. In his place the chairman of a Texas-based oil company, Roland Decker, was doing most of the talking.

  Decker wore rimless glasses and his eyes behind them were grey – like his suit and his hair. His accent was Bostonian, the tone rasping. He was also a member of the Council on Foreign Relations. He looked a mean bastard, Anderson thought, momentarily intimidated by the aura of power present. They looked dour. With good cause: they had been discussing the Common Market all morning. And now this.

  Decker polished his spectacles with his handkerchief, replaced them and stared at Anderson. ‘Well, Mr Anderson, how bad is it?’

  Anderson reeled off the facts – or those he thought they ought to know.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, what do you think?’ Decker asked the other members of the committee.

  Anderson surveyed them curiously. The omnipotent conferring with the omnipotent. How did they react to each other? Did some personalities still dominate? Did any one commodity – oil, steel, chemicals, money – predominate?

  A steel magnate, also in grey, said: ‘So you think he’s out to get the lot of us?’

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  They regarded him without emotion, calculatingly, like first-night critics about to crucify an unrehearsed actor.

  Decker said: ‘Have you made any progress, Mr Anderson?’

  ‘Not so far. It didn’t happen all that long ago.’

  ‘It shouldn’t have happened at all. The church tower was an obvious vantage point for a sniper.’

  ‘If it hadn’t happened, then we wouldn’t have had this warning.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that your inefficiency had benefited us, Mr Anderson?’

  Another Bilderberger spoke up. ‘We wouldn’t have had this warning about what?’

  Anderson said: ‘My guess is a bomb.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be too difficult to trace.’

  ‘I guess not,’ Anderson said.

  ‘Are you sure you can handle it?’

  ‘I can handle it. What you have to decide is whether you’re going to pull out or stay put.’

  Decker said: ‘The question doesn’t arise. Terrorism only flourishes through weakness. If we dispersed, the Press would get hold of the story. Capitalism routed by one
freak. Next year we’d have a dozen freaks and maybe some pros as well. No, Mr Anderson, we don’t quit although I don’t doubt that you’d like us to.’

  In a way you had to admire the old bastard. Anderson said: ‘On the contrary, sir, I consider it a privilege to have your lives in my care.’

  ‘Are you being sarcastic?’

  ‘No sir.’

  The second grey-suit said: ‘It’s a personal decision, of course. Everyone will have to be told about the shooting and Mr Anderson’s fears for our safety. The French President has indicated that he intends to stay.’

  ‘And we’ll have to make damn sure everyone keeps their mouths shut,’ Decker added. To Anderson he said: ‘That will be all. Keep us informed of your progress.’

  Outside the ante-room Anderson glanced at his wrist-watch. In one hour he had to meet more important people than members of the steering committee: he had to meet George Prentice and Helga Keller.

  XXIX

  Reporters have a habit of making friends with hotel telephonists. It helps if you are also a trainee manager.

  After he had spotted the ambulance and the Chevrolet with Anderson at the wheel, Foster went straight to the switchboard. In the small cheerless room where it was housed he spoke to a pale girl with a wistful face.

  ‘Are they keeping you busy?’ He smiled at her.

  ‘There have been a lot of calls today,’ she said. ‘London, New York, Tokyo, Zurich ….’

  Why had Anderson been in such a hell of a hurry and why the ambulance? ‘I thought the emergency might have overloaded the switchboard.’

  ‘Emergency, m’sieur?’ Her dark eyes looked at him questioningly. ‘I did have a call for the doctor ….’

  ‘Who wanted him?’

  ‘Monsieur Brossard.’

  Nicholas touched her shoulder. ‘Well, if you have any problems you know where to find me.’

  ‘Thank you, m’sieur,’ as she reached forward and plugged a lead into the switchboard.

  Foster helped himself to a pass-key from behind the reception desk and headed for Brossard’s room in the east wing.

  He knocked. No reply. He opened the door and felt the draught on his face through the broken window. On the carpet he saw broken glass – and spots of blood.