All the transactions were being conducted on behalf of fictitious persons whose identities, careers, nationalities and credibility had been fully documented from birth.
‘So we have a situation,’ Anderson remarked, ‘where we still stand to lose if our assassin hits any of our subjects before they’ve completed the financial arrangements.’
‘Fifteen million if he hits all three of them,’ Prentice said. ‘We’ve got another whole day tomorrow. And then till 4.30 pm the following day.’
‘My guess,’ Anderson said, ‘is that the sonofabitch works in the hotel.’
‘Which reminds me,’ Helga said, ‘the English trainee manager, Foster … I found him in Brossard’s room. He claimed he was checking to see if Brossard had everything he wanted. He was lying.’
Anderson stood up. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is very interesting. I shall have to pay a call on Mr Foster. By the way,’ as he reached the door. ‘That Yugoslav booze that was delivered to Brossard. A nice touch that, George. A touch of class.’
* * *
The Telex room was empty. Foster locked it from the inside and sat at one of the machines. The tape he had stolen from Brossard’s briefcase was in three parts, one of them long, the other two short.
He switched on the machine, fed in the long tape and sat back to watch the message being hammered out at breakneck speed – as in the past he had watched his own stories being transmitted.
The byline, Midas, followed by the dateline and then the first paragraph …. After that Foster sat transfixed as one stunning revelation after another appeared in front of him.
The dollar about to crash … OPEC countries blocking all exports of oil to the United States … Russians dumping dollars … followed by the major speculators … whizz-kid Paul Kingdon involved ….
As the last serpentine coil of tape sped through the machine, Foster leaned back in the chair. ‘Christ,’ he exclaimed aloud.
He had infiltrated Bilderberg to put together an exclusive, but he had never envisaged anything on this scale: the facts in front of him spelled out the destruction of the Western economy.
But were they facts? He had no way of knowing; the story wasn’t his. Certainly the author was one of the most reputable financial journalists in the world. But for Nicholas Foster, who had learned responsibility the hard way, that wasn’t sufficient. It had to be his own story. He decided to call Lucas on the Financial Times and seek his advice.
Meanwhile what had he got? Sufficient, certainly, to file a story to the newspaper that had been primed to expect a call from him. It had now been established beyond all doubt that an attempt had been made on the life of Pierre Brossard.
It didn’t require any stroke of genius to write the second paragraph to the story: —
Police and security guards responsible for the safety of some of the most powerful men and women in the Western world fear that the would-be killer may strike again.
Then the fact that the Bilderbergers, including the President of France and the former globe-trotting American Secretary of State, had decided to stay put. Followed by details of the search for bombs and the theory that the shot had been fired from the church tower.
All that was sensational enough. But Foster’s instincts told him that there was more. Paul Kingdon had told Suzy Okana that the financial structure of the world was about to change: Kingdon was named in the story written by Brossard ….
He fed the two short tapes into the machine. Brossard seeking and obtaining confirmation that $5 million was being transferred to a numbered account in Zurich. Why had he waited until Bilderberg to make such a transfer?
Foster’s thoughts raced ahead. It was significant that Brossard had been placed in a room next to Kingdon, even if he had asked to be moved. Significant, too, that Mrs Claire Jerome and her body guard Anello had been allotted rooms next to them, because he had just learned that Anello had apparently disappeared.
It was no coincidence that everything seemed to lead to that cluster of rooms at the end of a corridor in the west wing.
A conspiracy? Blackmail with Anello as the extortionist? Five million dollars from Brossard, maybe five from Kingdon and Mrs Jerome. He would have to find a way of checking whether they had made any similar transactions.
But first the story of the shooting.
He picked up the tapes, tore the messages off the Telex and slid them into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he switched off the current and let himself out of the room.
It was 7 pm. Time to catch the first edition in London. The scoop of a lifetime.
Anderson met him at the entrance to the annexe. ‘I’d like to have a little chat with you, Mr Foster.’
‘Can’t it wait?’
‘No, Mr Foster,’ Anderson said, ‘it sure as hell can’t. Shall we go to your room?’
Anderson locked the door behind them, drew the curtains, pointed to a chair and said: ‘Sit down, Mr Foster, and tell me just what the hell your game is.’
Foster sat down while, fingers in the pockets of his waistcoat, Anderson regarded him from above. Nicholas could see the bulge of his pistol beneath the chocolate brown jacket of his suit.
‘I asked you a question,’ Anderson said.
The room seemed smaller than ever with Anderson standing in it. Not only that but there was something subtly different about it; Foster tried to determine what it was.
He said: ‘I heard the question. What am I supposed to say? I’m a trainee manager. I know that, you know that.’
‘We both know you’re lying,’ Anderson said.
‘Correction. You think you know I’m lying. I know I’m not.’
‘And I don’t like smart-asses,’ Anderson said.
Foster shrugged. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got important things to do.’
Anderson dangled the door-key on one finger. ‘Like what?’
Foster eyed the telephone. The time element was already finely balanced. He wasn’t an accredited correspondent and they would have to check his story. But a newspaper’s Paris correspondent was expected to have good police and political contacts. Foster also intended to give them the name of the doctor who had attended Brossard. They would put in a barrage of phone calls to the village and the hotel. From the denials and half-truths supplied by unwary members of the staff, the truth would begin to emerge; truth based on information supplied by Nicholas Foster who had established a reputation for reliability on Reuters.
But it was getting late for the first edition ….
‘Like what?’ Anderson repeated.
‘Like the preparations for tomorrow’s cocktail party.’
‘They can wait.’ Anderson reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. Foster expected to see a gun in his hand. Instead he brought out Foster’s notes. ‘Funny place to keep them. Under a floor-tile.’
Foster stood up: ‘What right have you —’
‘Every right in the goddam world.’ Anderson pushed him back into the chair and stood over him menacingly. ‘Just what the fuck are these notes?’
‘What do they look like? Notes about the conference,’ Foster said. So that was what was different about the room: it had been searched.
‘Why would you want to make notes like that?’
‘Because I have an inquisitive mind.’
Anderson scanned the notes. ‘I see you recorded the numbers of every guest’s room. Even Brossard’s when he moved to the east wing.’
Suddenly Foster realised where the questions were leading. ‘Christ,’ he exclaimed, ‘you don’t think —’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time a journalist has created his own story. And you are a journalist, aren’t you, Mr Foster?’
‘You think I fired that shot?’
‘I know you did.’
‘This is bloody ridiculous. I’ve never fired a rifle in my life.’
‘The man who fired the shot wasn’t so hot. I’m going to hand you over to the French cops,’ moving towards Foster.
&
nbsp; ‘Just a minute.’ Foster tried to marshal his thoughts. One thing was obvious: he wouldn’t be able to file a story from a police cell. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’m a journalist.’
‘Okay,’ Anderson said. ‘Tell me all about it. We’ve got plenty of time – we’ve swept the whole goddam hotel and there isn’t a trace of an explosive device. Did you intend to plant a bomb? Or was the story good enough as it stands?’
‘Look,’ Foster said, ‘I’ll be straight with you.’
He told Anderson how he had been sacked, how he had got the job in the hotel. ‘And I’ve got a hell of a story.’ To prove it he handed Anderson the Telex messages. That’s what Brossard filed to his paper.’
Anderson glanced at it, pursed his lips. ‘Dynamite. If it’s true, which I doubt.’
‘Brossard is a highly respectable journalist.’
‘So it’s his story, not yours.’
A part of Foster’s consciousness recorded the fact that Anderson didn’t seem to react sufficiently to Brossard’s sensational revelations. But he was now only concerned with proving genuine journalistic endeavour, establishing that he wanted to co-operate with the American Secret Serviceman.
He said: ‘I’m also onto something else that will interest you.’
‘You’ve been a busy bee.’
‘A conspiracy involving Brossard, Kingdon and possibly Mrs Claire Jerome.’
Later Foster was to conclude that it was at this moment that Anderson’s attitude changed. The toughness remained but it was compounded by a new wariness.
‘What kind of a conspiracy?’
‘I don’t know. But I do know that Brossard and Kingdon are connected. You see, I found out that Kingdon knew what Brossard was going to write in his column. So my guess is that Brossard tipped him off so that he can make a killing before the bottom falls out of the market.’
‘Interesting,’ Anderson said. He sat down opposite Foster. ‘I won’t ask you how you know this. But carry on.’
‘The rooms occupied by Brossard, Kingdon, Mrs Jerome and her bodyguard Peter Anello are all together, right?’
Anderson nodded, staring speculatively at Foster.
‘Now all of a sudden Anello goes missing. I presume you must be working on the theory that he tried to shoot Brossard.’
Anderson measured his words. ‘I can assure you that we have eliminated him from our inquiries. Is that all you have to tell me, Mr Foster?’
Foster shook his head. ‘I have another theory. Supposing Anello found out about the conspiracy between Brossard and Kingdon – through Mrs Jerome, perhaps – and decided to blackmail them.’
‘Blackmail.’ Anderson seemed to savour the word. ‘Now just what the hell gave you that idea?’
‘Because Brossard suddenly decided to transfer five million dollars to a numbered account in Zurich. Now why the hell would he decide to do that in the middle of the Bilderberg conference?’
Anderson’s voice was taut as he asked: ‘Did you get the number of that account, Mr. Foster?’
Foster fished in his jacket pocket and brought out the two short messages that the Telex tape had punched out. He handed them to Anderson who read them carefully.
‘What’s more I’ve memorised it,’ Foster said and recited the number; CR 58432/91812.’
‘Well I’ll be a sonofabitch!’ Anderson reached for the telephone and asked for Prentice’s room, and when the connection was made said: ‘George, get your ass down to Room 38 in the annexe. We’ve got trouble. And George – bring your medical bag.’
‘What was that all about?’ Foster asked.
‘You got yourself a story,’ Anderson said. ‘Trouble is you’ve just blown it,’ as he drew a .32 Cobra pistol from his shoulder holster and pointed it at Foster’s head.
They told Foster to walk in front of them and head for the car-park. If he met anyone he knew, he was to acknowledge them politely and keep walking.
Anderson slipped the pistol into his jacket pocket. ‘Try anything and you lose your head.’
Behind him Foster heard them talking in whispers. The rapport between the black security officer and the professor of economics baffled him.
Wasn’t Prentice connected with Paul Kingdon in some way?
Intuitively Foster knew that he wasn’t being taken to the French police. What he had told Anderson had changed everything. In particular the numbered account in Zurich.
Half way between the annexe and the car-park they met Suzy Okana.
She smiled at him. ‘I was just coming to see you.’ She ran towards him. ‘I’ve just left Kingdon.’
‘Good evening, Suzy,’ he said.
‘Nicholas, it’s me!’
‘I’m sorry, I haven’t got time to talk at the moment.’
She stopped. She looked as though he had hit her across the face with the back of his hand.
‘Nicholas ….’
‘Some other time, Suzy.’
He walked on. He thought it was the worst moment of his life.
Prentice climbed into the driving seat of the Chevrolet.
Anderson opened the rear door, prodded the gun through the cloth of his jacket and said: ‘Get in.’ He sat in the back beside Foster.
The Chev took off without lights. At the gates Anderson lowered the rear window and spoke to the gendarmes. They opened the gates.
The Chev accelerated down the lane, its headlights suddenly carving light in the darkness.
Anderson said: ‘Now lie on the floor face down.’
‘But —’
‘Move it.’
Foster calculated that they had been driving for about fifteen minutes when the car stopped. Prentice climbed out and opened the boot. He handed Anderson a rag through the window.
Anderson tied the rag round Foster’s eyes. It smelled of oil and petrol.
‘Okay,’ Anderson said, ‘now get out.’ He prodded the barrel of the pistol in Foster’s back.
Foster heard a key turn in a lock. Anderson pushed him forward. Foster smelled rotting vegetables.
Anderson said to Prentice: ‘Put the blanket down there, George.’
Foster said: ‘Do you mind telling me what the hell’s going on?’
Prentice said: ‘Don’t worry, we’re not going to hurt you.’
‘The fact is,’ Anderson said, ‘you’re too smart. We under-rated you.’ He whispered to Prentice, then said: ‘Okay, now take your jacket off and lie down.’
Foster felt the needle of the syringe slip almost painlessly into the vein on the inside of his arm. His last conscious thought was about Suzy. And how he had hurt her.
Then nothing.
* * *
Suzy Okana stood for a moment watching the retreating figure of Foster, followed by the black security officer and another man in a leather-elbowed sports jacket.
At first she couldn’t comprehend what had happened. Nicholas, who a few hours earlier had been kissing her, understanding, had walked past her as though she were an overnight whore he wanted to forget.
But had he understood? Why should he? It was a dreary and sordid story. But I had to tell him. We had to begin with honesty. Perhaps even then he had only wanted to get away from her. To escape without fuss.
She began to walk towards the gates. Strips of light shining through slits in the curtains made zebra-skin patterns on the grass.
How could he behave so cruelly? It wasn’t in his nature. But it happened, Suzy Okana.
Ahead of her, an American limousine with its lights doused sped down the gravel drive. It stopped at the gates; then the headlights came on as it accelerated in the direction of the village.
Suzy walked slowly along the lane between the hedgerows, so high in places that they formed a tunnel in the night. A few hours of hope, that was all she had been allowed. And somehow in the previous years she had always known that it might happen like this: that what she had been doing then might erase her one chance.
But her way of life had been predestined. Just like her
meeting with Nicholas. There was a pattern and you conformed and she would return to the regular symmetry of that pattern, and one day she would marry a rich man and never again would she come alive.
She went up the stairs to her room in the inn. In the morning she would pack and return to London, because she never again wanted to meet Nicholas Foster. First she would call Paul Kingdon; perhaps she would settle down with him; perhaps it was written.
She went to the window to close the curtains and noticed the American limousine parked down the street. She pulled the curtains, undressed and climbed into bed.
Once in the melting moments before sleep, she called out Nicholas’s name. Then she slept unaware that, three doors away, he lay unconscious on a car blanket, his jacket draped over his chest to keep him warm.
* * *
Because of the presence of the French President, dinner that evening was more of a banquet.
The château specialised in recreating great meals from the past. Tonight it was the Dinner of the Three Emperors, served at the Café Anglais on June 7th, 1867, to guests including the Czar of Russia, Alexander II, the Czarevich who became Alexander III and the King of Prussia, later Emperor William I.
Among the courses: hot quail paté, lobster à la parisienne, canapes of duckling, aubergines à l’espagnole, iced bombe and fruit The wines were chosen to correspond as closely as possible to the originals – Château-Yquem 1847, Château-Latour, 1847, Château-Lafite, 1848 ….
But there were no speeches. There had been enough of those for one day.
The President sat between the former Secretary of State and Bilderberg’s Honorary Secretary General for Europe. Also at their table were the Austrian Finance Minister, the German Chancellor, the Icelandic Prime Minister, the Foreign Ministers of Ireland and Portugal and a member of the British Labour Party’s Shadow Cabinet.
I, Said the Spy Page 37
