by Jon Ronson
“Are you…” I paused. There was something indistinctly alarming about the things he was saying to me. I could not imagine that he really did want me to think of this hotel as my home. So why did he say that?
I presume, in retrospect, that the message he was sending to me was: “We have noticed you, you are not welcome, but we are allowing you to leave without incident just so long as you don’t come back.”
At the time, however, the message I picked up was: “I am extremely sinister and powerful. This is so evident that I can afford to feign generous subservience, a charade which is, of course, intended to make me seem all the more menacing.”
Jim Tucker was standing to one side, his arm draped over the balcony, watching this exchange with a lazy amusement, in contrast to the dread that was now swelling within me.
“Are you with the Caesar Park?” I asked the charming man.
“Oh no,” he laughed. “No. I am not with the hotel. So, as I say, think of this hotel as your home. Really, everything’s fine and there’s no problem. What problems could there be?”
What problems could there be? I wanted the young hotel manager to intervene. I suddenly felt that he could be my ally in this situation. But he remained impassive.
“Don’t feel as if you have to go,” said the charming man, his arms outstretched. “Stay as long as you like. Enjoy the facilities. Have a swim!”
“So if you’re not with the hotel,” I said, “who are you with?”
“I am with” – he paused – “another organization.”
“Which is called…?”
He laughed and looked at the ground. He said nothing. Then he clapped his hands together.
“Enjoy your afternoon,” he said.
He shook my hand, and gave me a bow. Then he wandered idly towards Jim.
“I don’t want any trouble,” I said to the hotel manager.
“Yes,” he smiled, coldly.
♦
I waited for Jim down in the lobby, right by the revolving doors that led outside to the car park. The hotel manager stood nearby, watching me with a constant, even gaze. After five minutes, Jim ambled towards us. When he noticed the hotel manager, he slowed his gait to the laziest of strolls – a little gesture of southern gentlemanly defiance. We walked outside together. I hiked. Jim ambled.
There was something new in the car park now, a dozen police motorcycles lined up by the revolving doors.
“The big shut-down is beginning,” whispered Jim. He pulled out his camera and photographed the police. “We’re lucky,” he said. “An hour later, we wouldn’t have gotten near the place.”
“What did that man say to you?” I asked.
“Oh,” said Jim, “he would just love to be of service and provide any help I needed, blah blah blah.”
“How can you say blah blah blah?” I said. “That wasn’t blah blah blah. That was actually fucking sinister.”
“Those Bilderberg boys can be pretty sinister,” said Jim.
We climbed into our car. I started the engine.
“So I told him that I didn’t need any help wandering around the hotel, thank you all the same,” said Jim. “Then he asked where we were staying – ”
“Did he?”
“And I said, oh, just some flea-pit down the road.”
I looked over at Jim.
“They’re going to have some pretty good photographs of us by now,” he said. “I hope you’ve been smiling pretty.”
♦
That evening, when I went for dinner, I put a sliver of paper in the crack between my hotel room door and the frame, as I had seen done by James Coburn in Our Man Flint. Actually, James Coburn put a single hair in his door. But my door crack was too large for single hairs and they kept falling onto the floor and disappearing into the carpet. I was standing there in the corridor tugging my hair out. So I switched to a sliver of paper. When I returned from dinner, the sliver was still there. There was always a possibility, of course, that they’d taken a look around and put the sliver back where they’d found it. I slept fitfully that night, but nothing happened.
∨ Them ∧
4
Bilderberg Sets A Trap!
“Mother.” It was Tuesday morning. Jim was leaving his regular answerphone message with his friend back in Washington, DC to confirm he had not been murdered during the previous twenty-four hours. “Your dutiful son is playing kick the can in Portugal. Thank you very much.”
This was supposed to be an easy day. Jim simply wanted to verify that the complete shut down of the Caesar Park had been accomplished. We would drive up there and be turned away at the gate. Jim would ask why, for the record, and document the response in his notepad. Then we would turn around and drive back to our hotel for a leisurely afternoon by the pool and in the bar.
But this was not to be. We arrived at the Caesar Park to discover no police, no cordon, no shut down. The gatekeeper lifted the barrier and waved us on with a cheerful smile. For the first time, Jim appeared sidestepped.
“That’s surprising,” he admitted. “That’s surprising already.”
“Do we drive in?”
“I’m confounded,” murmured Jim. “We saw the shut down begin yesterday. We saw it with our own eyes. And now no shut down. This is not what’s supposed to happen.”
“What should we do?”
Jim faltered. The gatekeeper approached the car.
“Just drive in,” said Jim urgently.
Impulsively, I took my foot off the brake and we cruised up the drive. This was a disconcerting new twist. We were venturing into a place where it had been made perfectly clear that we were not welcome, and we didn’t even want to be there. We were accidental agent provocateurs, propelled on by circumstance, simply because we had been waved on at the gate.
“The hotel is deserted,” I said, as we pulled into the car park. “We’re the only people here.”
“Let’s get lunch,” said Jim. “Just two guys getting lunch.”
We wandered through the now-deserted marble lobby. There were no more civilians. We walked out into the silent grounds and sat at the poolside bar, the only two customers in a hotel designed for thousands. A young waitress appeared.
“Ma’am,” said Jim, raising his trilby.
“Sir?” she said.
“What time do you get off work?”
The question seemed to startle her.
“Nine o’clock,” she said, cautiously.
“And what bars do you like drinking in?” said Jim.
“There are some nice bars in the village near the Cathedral.”
“Any bars in particular?” Jim laughed. “Don’t worry. I’m buying.”
“Just lots of nice bars in the village,” she said, evenly.
“That’s good information,” said Jim. “Thank you, ma’am,” he called after her.
He turned to me. “Now we know where the waiting staff drink. Could be good contacts.”
“So.” I said. “Shall we try the bars near the Cathedral?”
“Sure,” he said.
“Will we go then?”
“OK,” said Jim.
♦
We walked back to the car and began driving the half-mile towards the exit. I glanced into my rear-view mirror. A dark green Lancia had pulled out behind us.
“Jim,” I said.
“Mmm?”
“I think we’re being followed.”
Jim turned around.
“No shit,” he grinned. “Don’t worry. Once we’re on the public highway they’d be pretty foolish to try anything.”
“OK,” I said.
“They’re not going to want to have a fat old dead reporter on the side of the road,” said Jim. “That’s too big a news story.”
“OK,” I said.
“But here they could say, ‘Oh, we thought they were armed. They looked threatening. We told them to stop but they didn’t stop.’ Bango!”
“I get the picture,” I said.
A flock of geese wandered idly up the drive in front of me. I honked my horn. We finally reached the peach gates.
“You watch,” said Jim. “He’ll turn around now. He’s done his job. Poor fool.”
But the Lancia didn’t turn around. It began to follow us down the deserted lane.
“Uh oh,” said Jim.
♦
“British Embassy.”
“OK,” I said, “I’m a journalist from London. I’m calling you on the road from Sintra to Estoril – ”
“Hold on.”
“Press office.”
“I’m a journalist from London,” I said. “I’m calling you on the road from Sintra to Estoril. I’m being tailed, right now, by a dark green Lancia, registration number D4oz8, belonging to the Bilderberg Group.”
There was a sharp intake of breath.
“Go on,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I just heard you take a sharp breath.”
“Bilderberg?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “They watched us scouting around the Caesar Park Hotel and they’ve been following us ever since. We have now been followed for three hours. I wasn’t sure at first, so I stopped my car on the side of a deserted lane and he stopped his car right in front of us. Can you imagine just how chilling that moment was? This is especially disconcerting because I’m from England and I’m not used to being spied on.”
“Do you have Bilderberg’s permission to be in Portugal?” she said. “Do they know you’re here?”
“No,” I said.
“Bilderberg are very secretive,” she said. “They don’t want people looking into their business. What are you doing here?”
“I am essentially a humorous journalist,” I explained. “I am a humorous journalist out of my depth. Do you think it might help if we tell them that?”
From the corner of my eye, I saw Jim wind down his window. He leant his head out and blew an antagonizing lady-like kiss at the Lancia.
“Hold on a second,” I said.
“Jim!” I said, sternly. “Please stop that.”
I lowered my voice.
“I’m here with an American,” I said, “called Big Jim Tucker. He’s an agent provocateur. That might be the problem. Perhaps you can phone Bilderberg and explain that I may be in the car with Jim Tucker, but I’m not actually with him.”
“Listen,” she said, urgently, “Bilderberg is much bigger than we are. We’re very small. We’re just a little embassy. Do you understand? They’re way out of our league. All I can say is go back to your hotel and sit tight.”
“I’m actually just pulling into our hotel car park right now. The Paris Hotel in Estoril. He’s right behind me. He’s pulling up on the street right next to the hotel. He’s getting out of his car…”
“Sit tight,” she said. “I’ll make some phone calls. Whatever happens, don’t incite them in any way. Don’t fan the flames.”
♦
Before the chase had begun, Jim was lumbering and supine. Now he jumped out of the car with the agility of a young deer. The man from the Lancia climbed out of his car and took up a position behind a tree. He was young, in his thirties, with short black hair. He wore sunglasses and a dark green suit.
“I can see you!” sang Jim. “You’re behind the tree. Peek-a-boo! Smile pretty for my idiot-proof camera.”
“Jim,” I said, “will you stop that.”
But everything was beyond my control. It was as if the invigoration of the chase had transformed Jim into a sprightly teenager.
A one-sided game of peek-a-boo ensued, during which the chaser maintained a steely expression behind his sunglasses, Jim performed a little ballet dance, and I sidled towards the swimming-pool area, attempting to distance myself from the unfolding crisis. Jim wandered over to me.
“Am I being paranoid,” he said, “or did Bilderberg set a trap for us? No, listen. Yesterday, we saw the shut down begin. We saw it with our own eyes. Today, surprise surprise, no shut down. They let us in with a smile…” Jim trailed off.
“But they weren’t going to keep the entire resort open on the off-chance that the two of us might…” I trailed off and looked over to the tree.
“Whatever,” said Jim. “It looks like we have ourselves a waiting game.”
He smiled and blew a cloud of smoke from his nostrils. “I consider it a great honour to be followed back to the hotel by those Bilderberg boys,” he said.
♦
Jim said he needed a lie down. He may have twisted something when he leapt out of the car. He retired to his bedroom. I sat by the pool. The man behind the tree shrugged and paced around and adjusted his tie and busied himself there behind the tree. Holidaymakers splashed all around us. From time to time I made eye contact with the chaser, which meant, “Can I come over and tell you who we are and what is going on?” But he waved me away with a flick of his hand.
Sandra from the British Embassy called me on my mobile phone to inform me that she had spoken to the Bilderberg office at the Caesar Park and they said that nobody was following us and how could they call off someone who didn’t exist?
“He is,” I said, in a staccato whisper, “behind the tree.”
“The good news,” said Sandra, “is if you know you’re being followed, they’re probably just trying to intimidate you. The dangerous ones would be those you don’t know are following you.”
But this was scant comfort. What if these men were the dangerous ones, and I just happened to be naturally good at spotting them? What if I was adept at this?
“But that isn’t logical,” I said. “Big Jim Tucker is obviously not intimidated. I don’t think they’d waste their time trying to intimidate us when it is quite obviously failing.”
“You sound a little intimidated, if you don’t mind me saying,” said Sandra.
“Perhaps so,” I said, “but I am not behaving in a visibly intimidated manner. From across the car park I do not seem to be intimidated.”
♦
Two hours passed. Jim and I reconvened at a hotel bar down the road. As I wandered through the lobby, two men in dark suits immediately grabbed brochures and began scrutinizing them. I found Jim some yards away staring into his beer glass.
“There are two men by the door,” I said, “reading brochures.”
“I see them,” said Jim.
“They are only pretending to read brochures.”
“How do you know?” said Jim.
“You can tell by their demeanour,” I said.
“Here’s the plan,” said Jim. “We leave the bar together. When we get within earshot of the chasers, I say, ‘I’m gonna meet my Bilderberg contact at the Tiny Bar.’ You say, ‘Shhh.’ Say it urgently as if you don’t want them to overhear. Feed them disinformation.”
“I’m not going to do that,” I said.
Jim and I left the bar together.
“JON,” said Jim loudly, “I’M GONNA MEET MY SECRET BILDERBERG CONTACT AT THE TINY BAR.”
I scowled and said nothing and marched ahead. “Very good,” murmured Jim outside.
♦
We split up. I walked down to the beach and found a seafood restaurant. I do not think I was followed there (unless, of course, I was being followed by the people who didn’t want me to know they were following me – perhaps an elaborate tag operation was in place involving Portuguese pensioners, a man painting some railings and small boys in bathers, but on balance I do not think so).
When I returned some hours later to the bar of the Paris Hotel, Jim was drunker than any man I’ve ever seen. He was surrounded by four Danish ladies and they were all singing ‘Yes, We Have No Bananas’.
“Jim,” I said, urgently, “are you still being followed?” I coughed. “Sorry, ladies,” I said.
“Excuse me, ladies,” said Jim, bowing graciously. He turned to me.
“So what happened?” I said.
“I went to the Tiny Bar,” he said. “They call it the Tiny Bar because it is a tiny bar.”<
br />
“And did they follow you there?”
“…We have string beans and onions/Cabbages and scallions…”
“I’m a superstitious old boy,” said Jim. He paused. “Abe Lincoln was a good man. Shame he was an abolitionist. Well, I guess nobody’s perfect. I’ve lost my train of thought.”
“You went to the Tiny Bar…” I prompted.
“They call it that,” said Jim, “because it is a very tiny bar. So I’m a superstitious boy and I never sit with my back to the door. Don’t want to end up like old Abe Lincoln. But I didn’t want them to know, see, that I knew they were there.”
“And were they there?”
“I don’t know,” said Jim. “I had my back to the door. Ha ha ha ha ha!”
Jim nearly fell off his chair laughing.
“Jim,” I said, sternly, “when you left, were you followed?”
“Who’d want to follow an old boy like me?” said Jim. “The amount of pills they make me take for my plumbing, anyone would think I was F.A.G. Positive.”
“Jim!” I said, startled. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“I’m a Neanderthal,” said Jim. “Grrrrr.”
♦
Early the next morning, a Do Not Disturb sign hung on Jim’s door, and sounds of typing echoed down the corridor. At 2 p.m., Jim let me in to read me his report.
Dateline Portugal.
Bilderberg Sets A Trap! Was that car following them or was paranoia setting in?
Tucker climbed several steps to the swimming-pool area and poked his camera between tree branches. Chaser took up position behind tree and played peek-a-boo.
“Come on, smile pretty,” Tucker ordered. Chaser struggled against it but for a brief moment his grim expression turned to an involuntary grin, then was reset.
Hours later by pre-arrangement, Tucker went to another hotel bar a block away. Chaser’s car was gone so the stalking was over, right? Wrong. When Ronson joined Tucker he reported two new stalkers in the hotel lobby. How did he know the two men were stalking them?
“You can tell by their smell,” Ronson said.
“I did not say that,” I interrupted with indignation.
“You didn’t say that?” said Jim. “I thought I heard you say that.”
