I, Said the Spy

by Derek Lambert

  He thought: ‘By Christ, I’ve got a story.’

  But what sort of a story? An ambulance, an empty hotel room, blood and broken glass ….

  He picked up the telephone. The voice of the girl with the wistful face answered him. He asked her which room Brossard had been moved to.

  His original room in the west wing, she told him.

  The excitement that every newspaperman knows at least once in his life gripped Foster. The window must have been broken by a bullet. He peered through it. A clear view of the church tower ….

  Why had the church bells been chiming?

  The awesome possibilities of the story began to unfold before him. But first some facts. The obvious person to confront was Brossard.

  Foster closed the door behind him and made his way to the west wing.

  * * *

  Brossard had agreed to be transferred back to the west wing without protest. ‘East wing prices,’ Gaudin had told him comfortingly.

  In Room 205 he had struggled into another suit and discarded the sling provided by the doctor – no need to be unnecessarily conspicuous. Then shock had set in. He began to tremble violently. When the telephone rang he started. It was Anderson.

  ‘All right, I’ll do it,’ he said, and called police headquarters in Paris. Then he poured himself a large whisky and drank it neat.

  The trembling subsided, the wound began to throb. He lay on the bed and tried to think who would want to kill him.

  Not the blackmailers, certainly not until the money transfer had been completed. Kingdon? Again he was only useful to Kingdon alive. Not the Russians for the same reason.

  During his life he had made many enemies. But none of them would choose to kill him at the one time that he was surrounded by police.

  But he couldn’t make a run for it; the last coup had to be carried out. If it wasn’t, the Russians would kill him. The safest way to transmit the column was by Telex. No eavesdroppers. He called Hildegard Metz and asked her to come to the room to arrange his belongings brought from the east wing.

  Then he went down to the lobby and asked a receptionist for the key to the Telex room. It was empty. He locked the door behind him. Instinctively he taped the column first: it was cheaper that way because you were charged according to the time you spent on the machine, and the tape, with its message punched out in tiny holes, raced through the machine.

  It took him ten minutes to type the column on the keyboard. Then he called the office of his newspaper in Paris and asked for Mayard.

  Back came the reply on the paper in front of him; they were fetching Mayard. Brossard waited impatiently until Mayard indicated that he was waiting to receive the copy.

  Brossard pressed a red button and the punched-out tape began to speed through the Telex machine, rising from its own coils twitching on the floor.

  In front of Brossard, the column appeared as it was being received in Paris. When it was finished he tore the typescript off the machine.

  Finally he punched out two messages to banks in Monaco and Geneva, seeking confirmation that arrangements for the transfer of $5 million to Account No. CR 58432/91812 at the United Bank in Zurich were in hand.

  Within five minutes he had the confirmation.

  In the corridor outside his room he met a youngish man in a black jacket and striped trousers. He limped and his face was vaguely familiar, one of the under-managers.

  Anderson had emphasised: ‘Speak to no-one. No-one, do you understand, Monsieur Brossard ?’

  ‘Excuse me, m’sieur,’ the young man said.

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘I wondered how you were feeling.’

  Conscious of his injured arm stiff at his side, Brossard said: ‘I’m perfectly well, thank you. Did Gaudin ask you to inquire?’

  ‘We are all concerned.’ Which wasn’t any sort of reply.

  A little clumsily, Brossard transferred the Telex copy and tape from one hand to the other. Then he opened the door to his room. ‘I’ve no idea what you are concerned about,’ he said and shut the door.

  Inside the room he placed the tape and the copy into his briefcase.

  * * *

  Paul Kingdon was one of the last delegates to hear about the shooting.

  During the last session of the conference a brief announcement was made by Roland Decker. Bilderbergers were told that it was up to them whether or not they quit; they were also warned that, if they did, Bilderberg would in future be a prime target for terrorists.

  At the time Kingdon was making arrangements for $5 million to be transferred to Zurich, and it wasn’t until a typewritten version of Decker’s announcement was delivered to his room that he knew a gunman was on the loose.

  Later he called on Brossard in the room next door. Brossard was sitting in an easy chair – well away from the window. He was drinking Scotch and seemed a little drunk.

  Kingdon helped himself to some whisky and said: ‘Who was it, Pierre? Has anyone got wind of your impending transactions?’

  ‘Only the dealers who are selling. And you, of course.’ Brossard stared at Kingdon.

  ‘It wouldn’t be in my interests to knock you off, would it? One of the speculators? Perhaps – if he’s decided to pull a stroke. Maybe buy dollars instead of selling them. But I doubt it. The dollar’s too shaky as it is.’

  Brossard said: ‘There wouldn’t be any point’ He winced as he moved his wounded arm.

  ‘Do the speculators know what’s going into your column?’

  ‘Some of it,’ Brossard told him.

  ‘Have you written the column?’

  ‘Written it,’ Brossard said, ‘and sent it.’ He drank some whisky; a little dribbled down his chin.

  ‘Well keep away from that window,’ Kingdon said. ‘I want you good and alive.’

  Kingdon went down to the bar and ordered a beer. Gerard was standing there; Kingdon ignored him – you had to salvage some pride.

  By now most of the staff knew that something had occurred in Brossard’s room in the east wing; as usual Jules Fromont knew more than most.

  Kingdon asked: ‘What’s new?’

  ‘I understand they’re looking for bombs.’

  ‘Have they found any?’

  ‘Not as far as I know, m’sieur.’

  ‘Any idea why anyone should take a pot shot at Brossard?’

  Jules shook his head. ‘I gather the shot may have been fired from the church tower.’

  ‘Makes sense. Lousy shot though. Although it wouldn’t have made much difference if he’d shot him in the heart.’

  ‘Why’s that, m’sieur?’

  ‘The bullet would have been deflected,’ Kingdon said. ‘Brossard’s heart is made of stone.’

  * * *

  Claire Jerome walked in the gardens.

  The air was chill but she didn’t notice it. She hadn’t eaten and her head ached.

  She had paid off Tilmissan and Brossard; she was negotiating payment of the ransom money. A fortune disposed of in a few days.

  But it wasn’t money that she was thinking about. She wanted Pete Anello beside her. That was all she wanted, all she had ever wanted since she met him.

  She ached for him.

  She leaned on the wall of the water-gardens and stared down. Fat carp moved lazily in the mossy depths.

  Supposing he was implicated in the plot. If he returned to her, she would never question him. So much for pride. There had been too much of that in her life: it could shrivel your soul.

  She walked back to the château, past the maze and the fountains. In the lobby, detectives wearing earphones were searching for bombs with portable detectors that reacted to explosive vapours and the tick of timing devices. The Press had been banned from the building and the grounds.

  She collected her key and went up to her room.

  On the table was a vase of daffodils and narcissi arranged with maiden-hair fern. An envelope was propped against the vase.

  She ripped it open. It was Pete Anello�
�s hand-writing. She felt faint and sat down.

  Dear Claire,

  I am being held by a group called LAW – the League against Weapons. They say that they will release me on condition that you resign from all companies connected with the manufacture and sale of arms.

  They insist that you make a public announcement in the media to this effect. The announcement must also urge:

  (1) resumption of arms-control talks with the Soviet Union

  (2) a total ban on the manufacture of sophisticated weapons of horror, such as the concussion bomb.

  These people are not, I can assure you, freaks. They plan to pressurise arms dealers both outside and inside the Communist blocs.

  Nor are they so naive that they expect your announcement to have any immediate effect. But, they say, it is a beginning.

  As soon as your announcement is published I will be set free. The decision is yours.

  Pete

  P.S. I can’t help wondering if the gun pointing at my head at the moment is one of yours.

  A wave of joy swept through her. He was alive.

  Beside her the telephone rang.

  ‘Mrs Jerome?’ The same woman’s voice.

  ‘Yes, who is it?’

  ‘Did you receive the note with the flowers?’

  ‘Yes, but —’

  ‘Act on it, Mrs Jerome. For your own sake act on it.’

  The line went dead.

  Claire Jerome picked up the note. The P.S. was pure Anello. She smiled.

  When the first wave of euphoria had passed, the problems began to present themselves.

  She could hardly quit the armaments business and continue directing the other businesses. Marks International was armaments and it was the cornerstone of the whole empire.

  Furthermore, what would happen to her father if she resigned?

  But she had to obey the instructions in the note; of that there was no doubt. She picked up the telephone and called Stephen Harsch in New York.

  Over there it was mid-morning. Harsch sounded surprised to hear from her. ‘Hi,’ he said, ‘how’s it going?’

  Cutting through all such niceties, Claire said: ‘I’m quitting, Stephen. Provided you agree with a few formalities you are, as from now, No. 2 at Marks International, which as you and the rest of the world knows means in effect No. 1.’

  A long pause. Claire pictured Harsch staring at the telephone in his hand and wondering, because humour wasn’t his strong point, whether she was joking, a frown on his tight, watchful features.

  Finally he said: ‘Are you kidding, Claire?’

  ‘I want you to listen, Stephen. Tape what I’m saying.’ As if he wasn’t doing so already. ‘I’m quitting on one condition – that you make provision for my father. He stays as President, right?’

  ‘Sure, but —’

  ‘I want you to sign an affidavit to that effect and I want you to promise me right now that you’ll carry him whenever he gets a little lost …. It won’t be for long, Stephen,’ Claire said, ‘we both know that.’

  ‘Why, Claire?’

  ‘Private reasons. I’m going to issue a Press release the usual way through Hartman and Wilson. Your appointment will have to go to the board, of course. But you won’t have any trouble there; you’re the right guy for the job. My father thinks so, even I think so.’

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ Harsch said.

  ‘You don’t have to. One more thing, Stephen …. Has that deal with the Pakistanis gone through?’

  ‘The one you made on the side? Sure it has. The stuff’s on its way to the East Coast now.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘Does it matter so much?’

  ‘My last deal with Marks International. Of course it matters. And Stephen …. Don’t try too hard.’

  It took her half an hour to compose a Press release which she telephoned to an executive of the PR firm of Hartman and Wilson, who was so astonished that he asked permission to call her back and confirm it.

  Two more formalities remained. To instruct the switchboard not to put any Press calls through to her – and to tell her father what she’d done.

  It was a long time before Nathan Marks understood. When he did his thin old voice was incredulous. ‘You’re leaving me in charge? Are you out of your mind, Claire?’ ‘No, papa. I’ll explain when I get back to New York.’

  ‘But I can’t carry it without you, Claire, You know that.’

  She imagined his small, hunched body clad in the old dressing-gown sitting in the chair in front of the television. She knew that he was frightened;’ that this was one set-back that he couldn’t turn to his advantage.

  She tried to comfort him. Told him that he would have Harsch behind him and that she would always be close at hand.

  Perhaps, she thought, she should persuade him to retire with her, but he answered her thoughts: ‘Okay, okay, so maybe I can handle it. But why, Claire. Why?’

  ‘Because it’s time for me to get out, papa.’

  ‘Tell me something, is it hot out there? Are you suffering from the heat, Claire?’ She could hear his rapid, bird-like breaths. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘No, papa, I’m not out of my mind. Everything is going to be fine, I promise you. Now I have to go. Turn up the television again. Is it Citizen Kane?’ And when he said it was: ‘Take care, papa, take care ….’

  So it had been as easy as that. A few phone calls and all that endeavour, that crusade begun when only men reigned in the kingdoms of industry, was terminated.

  But she felt elated, and it was only later that evening that she found herself wondering whether Pete Anello had known about the demand for $5 million when he wrote the note.

  * * *

  Just before 6 pm that evening Pierre Brossard received a telephone call in his room. The President of France requested his presence in his suite on a matter of vital importance.

  A request was a command. Brossard wished he hadn’t drunk so much. He tried to get in touch with Hildegard Metz but she wasn’t in her room.

  He managed to slip the jacket of his suit over his shoulders, then, swaying slightly, made his way down the corridor towards the elevators.

  When Brossard was safely inside the elevator, Nicholas Foster made his way to his room and opened the door with the pass-key. The Telex message: every journalistic instinct told him that was the key to the mystery.

  Brossard’s briefcase was beside the bed. And it was unlocked. He was rifling the compartments when he heard a key slide into the doorlock.

  There was the tape, no time for the sheets of copy. In one movement he removed the tape, slipped it into his jacket pocket and closed the briefcase. As Hildegard Metz walked into the room.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘I came to make sure that Monsieur Brossard had everything he needed. I thought I should check when there was no reply ….’

  ‘Well, you’ve checked,’ staring at him suspiciously.

  Foster nodded and walked into the corridor as the door closed behind him.

  At approximately the same time a Presidential aide was informing a puzzled Pierre Brossard that the President had most certainly not requested his presence.

  ‘Lucky for him that he didn’t,’ the aide said to the guard posted outside the door, as they watched Brossard stumble away. ‘The President abhors drunkards.’

  The guard, who thought that a man who had just been shot had a reasonable excuse for getting drunk, didn’t reply.

  * * *

  In a motel room eight miles from the Château, Anello stood at the window watching the traffic speeding past on the highway. He wondered if Claire had received the note. Wondered if she would act on it.

  The proposition which the man with the submachine-gun had put to him had made sense. He had told him to put away the gun, he wouldn’t need it.

  Anello suddenly found that he had a purpose. The effect on the international trade in arms would be negligible. But it was his own gesture. It was a be
ginning.

  XXX

  One disturbing aspect of the shooting nagged Owen Anderson, as he made his way to his room for the 6.15 pm meeting with George Prentice and Helga Keller. It looked as though the gunman had known that an empty room in the Château had suddenly been occupied. Which means that, in all probability, he was inside the hotel.

  All members of the staff living outside the hotel had been screened and cleared and there wasn’t time to repeat the performance. All they could try and do was check their movements at the time of the shooting.

  Where, for instance, had the trainee manager Nicholas Foster been? The previous day he had walked into the village; he may have done the same today. Anderson decided to check with the guards at the gate.

  Anderson had a feeling about Foster: he was incongruous in this Gallic setting: he was also a comparative newcomer and his past history was vague. He didn’t look like a killer, but Anderson had long ceased to equate looks with criminal intent.

  Of one thing Anderson was sure: the shooting had been a diversion. The would-be killer had bigger things in mind.

  Prince and Vixen were waiting for King in his room.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I promised you an unpredictable. I keep my promises.’ He sat on the bed beside Helga. ‘Kingdon is still making arrangements for the transfer of the money. How about your two?’

  Prentice said: ‘Luckily we left the old bug in Brossard’s original room. Brossard’s as scared as hell. Who wouldn’t be? But he’s pushing the money through.’

  Helga said: ‘So is Mrs Jerome. She got the note from Anello. Thanks to George,’ she added smiling at him.

  Prentice lit a cigarette and leaned against the wall. ‘Anello was as good as gold, A nice guy into the bargain. He seemed to think it’s about time Mrs Jerome was taught a lesson.’

  ‘Does he know we’re demanding cash?’

  Prentice shook his head.

  Anderson turned to Helga. ‘And our own financial arrangements?’

  ‘Proceeding smoothly,’ Helga said. ‘I do know about Swiss banking.’

  Dollars deposited in Swiss accounts, to be converted into Swiss francs as a hedge against devaluation and inflation, were no longer welcome and the United Bank had readily agreed, at a price, to diversify the money. Some of it was being transferred to interest-earning accounts in Andorra, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein and the Bahamas. Some was being deposited in a fixed-time deposit account in the Zurich bank. Some was being deposited to earn interest abroad in the name of the United Bank to avoid Swiss taxation. Some was being gambled on currency speculation. Some was being invested in gold and silver. A comparatively small proportion was being channelled into Brazilian checking accounts for immediate use.