‘I am suggesting, Mrs Jerome, that you are in a unique position to be able to report back to me any … any extracurricular activities. Trends in the sale of the commodities in which you specialise – and anything else which you think would be in the interests of the United States.’
‘But surely —’
The President cut in: ‘I will, of course, receive many reports. One of my assistants is attending. But your contacts will be rather special, Mrs Jerome.’
‘But surely Mr Danby has such matters in hand.’
The President said: ‘I don’t doubt that Mr Danby is also represented at Bilderberg. I do doubt that his representative – or representatives – will operate in the same circles as yourself, Mrs Jerome.’
For the first time Claire Jerome sensed hostility between the two men. The President wanted an end to intrigue outside his authority. And he wanted Danby to know that he wanted it.
She said ‘You know, of course, that there is a gentleman’s agreement not to divulge anything that happens at Bilderberg.’
‘I know that very well, Mrs Jerome. But you are not a gentleman. You are a woman. And, if I may say so, a very attractive one.’
The President’s heavy-handed charm reached her; what saved it, was its apparent sincerity. Flattery will get you everywhere. ‘Mata Hari, Mr President?’
He smiled. ‘Everything hinges on your priorities. Which is more important: Bilderberg or the United States of America?’ He swivelled round in his chair and Claire caught a glimpse of the President’s responsibilities – in his family photographs. Wife, children, dogs … millions of them.
She asked: ‘What worries you about Bilderberg?’
He answered promptly: ‘Their power and, paradoxically, their vulnerability. Can you imagine what a temptation they must present to the enemies of the West?’
He stood up, towering over them. ‘Lunch-time, all fifteen minutes of it. Bill has got to be on his way too – to decide whether or not his organisation ever contemplated assassinating Fidel Castro.’
Danby stood up unsmiling. ‘Not to mention the Kennedys, John or Robert, take your choice.’
The President clumped him on the back, a considerable clump. ‘Don’t be bitter, Bill. All I seek is a little honesty. God knows we need it.’
Danby said tersely: ‘I’m sure the Russians agree with you,’ and walked swiftly to the door.
As the President escorted her out of the office, Claire said: ‘Do you mind if I ask you just one question?’
‘Fire away, Mrs Jerome.’
‘Do I gather from our conversation that you believe that Bilderberg constitutes a greater authority than the Presidency?’
‘A good question, Mrs Jerome. Perhaps you will help me to answer it.’
The door closed behind her.
* * *
The Golden Dolphin Hotel – or holiday resort as the management prefers it to be called – is located in the Turkish village of Cesme overlooking the Aegean Sea. It is a modernistic complex of buildings, boasting 900 rooms and private moorings for those guests who own yachts.
On Friday, April 25, it was virtually a fortress. Armed Turkish troops and police stood guard, and the casual visitor – if he were allowed to get that far – might well have assumed that terrorists were holding a bunch of wealthy guests as hostages. (Had this been so, the captors would have been in a position to demand an astronomical ransom; what’s more they would probably have got it.)
The prisoners were, in fact, there by choice. A wise choice because Cesme is remote, and ‘easily accessible’ is not a phrase that lightens the hearts of Bilderbergers gathering in force.
Sitting in the sun on one of the balconies, a middle-aged Frenchman with a long lean body and sparse hair combed into grey wings above his ears, was disputing a bill for a bottle of Perrier water with a waiter. The host country picked up the tab, but Pierre Brossard queried all financial transactions on principle.
The waiter who, like the rest of the hotel staff, hoped to make a killing in tips, gazed with astonishment and chagrin at the Frenchman who, he had been told, was one of the richest men in Europe.
Brossard, clad only in a pair of briefs, his disciplined body glistening with sun-tan oil, ignored the waiter and concentrated on his pocket calculator while he converted Turkish lire into French francs. ‘Preposterous,’ he finally remarked in English.
The waiter looked stunned; even he could just about afford a bottle of mineral water at the Golden Dolphin.
‘I shall take it up later with the management,’ Brossard told him and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
Well satisfied with the one-sided exchange, Brossard leaned back in his canvas chair, contemplated the sparkling blue sea, and considered the good fortune that inexorably came his way these days.
His empire was flourishing. New office blocks were shooting up in Paris, Marseilles and Montreal; his oil tankers hadn’t yet lost any cargoes through the fuel crisis; the circulation of his financial newspaper published in Paris was climbing steadily, thanks largely to its prestigious columnist, Midas.
Pierre Brossard found this particularly satisfying; Pierre Brossard was Midas.
He applied more sun-tan oil, feeling the whippy muscles on his body. He had just completed a course at a health farm and he was trim after ten days of starvation and exercise. Brossard planned to eat well at Cesme, at other people’s expense.
He slid a plastic protector over his nose to prevent it peeling and turned his attention to his less publicised enterprises. Brossard acted as middleman in oil and armaments deals. He represented many countries, Israel included, but not, to his regret, the hard-line Arab states who dealt exclusively through the debonair Mohamed Tilmissan and Adnan Kashoggi.
At Bilderberg there was much business to be negotiated.
He sipped his Perrier water. What a target we represent, he thought. On the charter plane from Zurich to Izmir, fifty miles from Cesme. Here at the hotel, despite the security.
Brossard didn’t want any harm to come to the Bilderbergers. And not merely out of consideration for his personal safety. If the rumours were to be believed, he was about to be asked to become a member of the steering committee. Brossard calculated that, when he was on the committee, he could expect to be present at the next five conferences. Then he would retire – from Bilderberg and business life. After a coup, already burgeoning in his mind, that would shatter the financial structure of the Western world.
The bell on the door to the hotel room rang and Brossard called out: ‘Who is it?’
‘Mrs Jerome.’
Brossard removed the nose-protector, slipped on a Navy blue sports shirt and let her in. ‘Right on time,’ he said leading her onto the balcony. ‘But in my experience Americans are usually punctual.’ He moved a seat into the shade for her. ‘Can I get you anything?’
‘Why not? It’s on the house. How about some tea?’
Brossard called Room Service and sat down opposite her. She was wearing a white skirt and a pink silk blouse with a rope of pearls round her neck. With her black hair shining in the sun, she looked attractive and ten years younger than her age.
But not my type, Brossard thought. During sex she would be passionate and practised but at the same time watchful, looking for weakness. Like so many successful American women.
Not my type at all. Pierre Brossard thought of the blonde girl in the black corselette in Montmartre, whose apartment he had vacated prior to catching the plane to Izmir. The pain had been truly delicious, the weals beneath his shirt and briefs there to remind him of it.
Claire Jerome would interpret such sexual behaviour as a sign of decadence, weakness. Why? He remained strong and purposeful and his preferences hurt no-one; no-one but himself that is.
The waiter served the tea, glancing nervously at Brossard. Brossard signed the bill without looking at it and the waiter fled.
Claire Jerome added sugar and lemon and said: ‘Don’t you ever tip them?’
&nbs
p; ‘I presume service is included,’ Brossard said.
‘You certainly live up to your reputation.’
Brossard smiled thinly. ‘You flatter me. Have you just arrived?’
‘No, yesterday. I stopped off at the Efes Hotel in Izmir to see how Bernhard handled the Press.’
‘And how did he?’
‘Effortlessly. He told them that they hadn’t got a hope in hell of getting into the Golden Dolphin and that’s about all he told them. But it was hilarious really. As you know, the United States imposed an arms embargo on Turkey this year because they invaded Cyprus. The Turkish journalists think that’s why we’re all here.’
Brossard stretched and winced; the blonde girl had perhaps been a little too zealous. ‘I have no doubt the arms embargo will be discussed,’ he remarked. He picked up an agenda. ‘What have we here? The Economic, Social and Political Consequences of Inflation. Well, I think we all know the answer to that – things become more expensive.’ He shifted his position in the chair; odd that the residue of pain gave no pleasure, only its infliction. ‘And here’s another item. The Arab-Israel Conflict. A titillating subject, Mrs Jerome.’
‘Stop sending arms to the Arabs,’ Claire Jerome said. ‘That would resolve it.’
‘And stop sending them to the Israelis?’
‘The Israelis are under siege.’
Brossard shrugged. ‘Anyway, this is a pleasant setting in which to do business.’
‘Bilderberg always seems to choose well.’
‘Shall we go into the bedroom, Mrs Jerome? Our voices may carry out here ….’
In the bedroom he wiped the oil from his face with a towel, and said softly: ‘Have you come to a decision about the Iranian deal, Mrs Jerome?’ adding: ‘I’m assured that the rooms have all been debugged.’
‘You know I have. Frankly I don’t know why —’ But Brossard interrupted her: ‘One and a half billion is a lot of money, Mrs Jerome.’
‘And a lot of commission.’
‘You make it sound immoral. I don’t think an arms dealer should ever sound moral, do you,’ and, walking across the room, he said: ‘Will you excuse me a minute.’
In the bathroom he examined the weals. They were really quite painful. But how could he ask anyone to bathe them? He managed to sprinkle talc on his back, then slipped into a soft, towelling robe.
‘Well, Mrs Jerome?’ he said when he returned to the room. He glanced at his watch. ‘I haven’t much time. I have other interested parties. That’s what’s so convenient about these get-togethers.’
‘The only Middle East country I sell to is Israel.’
‘Then I can’t fully understand why you bothered to come up here.’
‘I thought you might have other business to discuss.’
‘I might have had. But there are other Dealers in Death ….’
‘And there are other middlemen dealing in death.’
She picked up her purse and strode out of the room.
In the lobby Claire noticed a big black man immaculately turned out in a pearl-grey lightweight suit. Vaguely familiar … something missing … the waistcoat and the watch-chain … the American head of security at the Knokke conference.
He smiled at her and said: ‘Howdy, Mrs Jerome.’
She smiled back. ‘You looked naked without it,’ she said.
‘Come again, Mrs Jerome?’
‘The vest – and the chain.’
He relaxed. ‘You’re very observant, Mrs Jerome.’
‘And you have a very good memory, Mr —’
‘Anderson, ma’am. Take care,’ as she walked towards the reception desk to see if there were any messages.
One. Please call Mr Stephen Harsch.
To hell with Mr Stephen Harsch, directing the anger aroused by Pierre Brossard at the Marks International executive in New York.
In the corridor leading to her room, she heard a whistle. She swung round. The only other occupant of the corridor was a diminutive pageboy with an angelic face.
The anger subsided. If pageboys whistled at you in your 39th year, things couldn’t be all that bad. Suddenly she hadn’t the slightest doubt that she could handle the stockholders.
She advanced upon the pageboy who stood staring at her, terrified. ‘Here.’ She handed him a five-dollar note. ‘Go and buy yourself a new whistle.’
* * *
For three days Pierre Brossard listened attentively to what the Bilderbergers had to say in their debates. They sat alphabetically and they were allowed five minutes to air their views – longer if Prince Bernhard, who exercised control with red and green lights, thought they merited it.
At cocktail time Brossard stayed in his room making notes. Then he adjourned to private chambers and suites to meet government ministers, bankers, industrialists, financiers, heads of family dynasties, men even richer than himself …
He suggested deals, clinched deals. He heard many secrets. From Western hawks and doves; from the EEC and NATO (in particular the intent of Turkey which had closed four of America’s bases and listening posts in reprisal for the arms embargo); from men juggling dollars, marks, francs, yen, pounds …. He heard about sanction-busting in Rhodesia, diplomatic overtures in China to counter Soviet expansionism … about arms and oil – or lack of it – which were his specialities.
At midnight he retired once again to his room, where he collated what he had learned. Then slept fitfully, awoken from time to time by disquiet. Power and wealth paradoxically created weakness. Every guest in the Golden Dolphin was vulnerable – to the assassin’s bullet, to blackmail ….
The conference wound up without a hitch, and on Sunday evening Brossard boarded the Zurich-bound charter with the other Bilderbergers and their women-folk who had been accommodated at the Efes Hotel at Izmir.
At dawn on Monday, April 28, Brossard drove to the Bois de Boulogne from his house, taking with him a briefcase containing his Bilderberg notes and observations – and a memorandum outlining the embryo of his plan to wreck the Western economy and bring the American dollar to its knees.
He handed the briefcase containing the notes to a thickset man in a raincoat named Shilkov. By lunchtime the notes, transported by diplomatic bag, were in the hands of Nicolai Vlasov, head of Soviet Intelligence.
VIII
Most of those who harboured fears about the eventual outcome of the Bilderberg conferences – and that included the President of the United States – thought big. In terms of international conspiracies or multi-kidnapping by such terrorist organisations as the Black Septembrists, the Red Brigade or the Bader Meinhof – or, worse, a combined assault by guerilla groups.
Only a few realised that the future of Bilderberg could be jeopardised by relatively insignificant individuals. Or that the threat could be posed in events of seemingly little importance.
One of those who did appreciate such imponderables was Owen Anderson. He had taken the trouble to study history in the context of his profession … an officer of no consequence inadvertently leads his men across a border and the guns of war erupt … a nonentity with a deranged mind fires a gun and a head of state drops dead ….
Anderson was fully aware that history does repeat itself, and it was therefore the menace of the obscure and insignificant that worried him more than the presence of the obvious and infamous. How could you combat an unspoken threat from obscurity?
As he feared Anderson was quite powerless to influence two unrelated happenings involving men of whom the world was largely unaware. Each was destined to endanger two of the Bilderbergers’ most precious possessions.
Their privacy. And their lives.
* * *
In London, a little-known journalist named Nicholas Foster, was ordered by the editor of a Sunday newspaper to write a follow-up to the resignation of Prince Bernhard of the Netherlands from all public positions.
The Bernhard scandal had astonished the world and stunned the Dutch people, who had long believed that he had achieved the impossible: the f
usion of the Royal family and big business.
Bernhard was the director of dozens of companies including the KLM airline. He had been a pilot with the RAF the war, commander of armed forces outside Holland. With a white carnation in his lapel, he was the symbol of the new post-war spirit of Holland. And he even found time to launch the World Wild Life Fund.
What few people suspected was that, owing to his life style, the prince was short of cash. The revelation came when an executive of the Lockheed Corporation appeared before a U.S. Senate subcommittee on Multinational Corporations.
He was asked if Lockheed had paid any money to Prince Bernhard and replied: ‘I wish you hadn’t asked that question.’ The Dutch were aghast and set up their own committee to investigate the allegations.
The committee confirmed that the swashbuckling prince had taken bribes, and for a while it looked as though the Monarchy might tumble.
When Nicholas Foster was handed the story, he was confronted with the problem that haunts every Sunday newspaperman: he had to find an aspect of the scandal that would not be covered in the daily papers.
He discovered Bilderberg.
Because of the Bernhard furore, the 1976 conference destined for Hot Springs, California had been cancelled. Wasn’t it reasonable to suppose that, if the chairman took bribes, then he had been presiding over an organisation where such practices were commonplace?
The crusading spirit consumed Foster.
He was twenty-three years old and with his dark wavy hair and slightly cleft chin was often taken for an Irishman, which he was not. He was determined to succeed without the assistance of his father, who owned a world-wide chain of hotels, and, such was his determination, that he was occasionally inclined to be impetuous.
He studied the thin envelope of cuttings on Bilderberg supplied by the newspaper library; he contacted the Liberty Lobby in Washington; he tried to interview participants.
‘No comment, no comment …. Not available for comment …. Out of the country at the moment … I’ll call you back’ (they never did) ….’ And from one evasive humorist: ‘Bilderberg? Never heard of it – sounds like a construction kit for children.’
I, Said the Spy Page 10