Jacques said he remembered, wondering where it was leading.
‘Well, I cheated a little. I made some really sensational discoveries – and I hid them. I didn’t know why then; I was just greedy, I suppose. Perhaps I didn’t think you were the right half of us’ – smiling up at Jacques – ‘to have such things. But now I know why I hid them. A part of me knew that one day I would need them.’
‘What, Georges?’
The trembling in his hands had spread to the rest of his body. ‘You remember the barn?’
Jacques nodded.
‘I buried them under the floor beside the old water tank ….’
‘Buried what? For God’s sake, what?’
And then Georges Bertier screamed and the nurse came running into the room, and Jacques Bertier walked out into the green-walled corridor.
Or was it Georges?
Three days later Georges Bertier died.
Jacques grieved, but the intensity of his grief was dissipated by the knowledge that everything that had motivated Georges had been passed on to him.
We are now one, he thought, as he methodically set about implementing his twin’s plans, Georges’ compulsions blending perfectly with his own cautious approach to life.
First he drove their grey Citroen van to their birthplace.His father was in hospital dying from alcoholism; his mother still cooked and cleaned; his sister had married a travelling salesman and gone to live in Limoges, and his three younger brothers worked among the vines, beginning to tipple as enthusiastically as their father.
Jacques, a stranger to his family, went out to the barn and with a garden fork began to dig beside the rusty old water tank. Almost immediately the prongs of the fork hit metal. Fifteen minutes later he was gazing at a tin chest to which patches of dark green paint still adhered. It was padlocked and Georges had told him nothing about a key; he fetched an axe and smashed the rusting lock with three blows.
Inside were a few collector’s items and a rifle, German of course, fitted with a telescopic sight; it had been oiled and greased and, as far as Jacques could make out, was in perfect condition. At the bottom of the chest was a long wooden box covered with greased brown paper. Jacques levered open the top with the blade of the axe – and stared with dawning comprehension at the means with which Georges Bertier had hoped one day to exterminate the very core of the Capitalist Society.
Hoped. Jacques was beginning to realise that his twin had not been as purposeful as he had supposed.
He loaded the chest into the back of the van.
In Paris he bought a trunk, also made of tin but bigger than the chest. He transferred the contents of the chest into it, fitted it with a double padlock and stored it in another hotel, where he had found employment as a porter after the abortive strike called by his brother in their previous workplace.
Then he considered his priorities: he needed a new identity and, with it, a new occupation; he needed to know where the Bilderbergers intended to meet in the future; he needed money. His ally was time: of that he had an abundance.
First money.
The hotel, just off the Place Pigalle, was frequented by businessmen from the provinces who slept there with women other than their wives. Hostesses, mostly, from expensive night-clubs. Overcome by the joie de vivre of Paris, the businessmen were frequently careless with their money and Jacques Bertier was able to rob three of them. They complained to the hotel but took it no further because of the circumstances …. As the police weren’t involved, the hotel manager scarcely bothered: you were lucky, he reasoned, if there was only one thief among an hotel’s employees.
Through a member of the kitchen staff, Jacques obtained an introduction to the Parisien underworld which flourished all around the hotel. There, with the substantial sum of money he had stolen, he accomplished the remainder of his priorities.
He bought himself a new identity. The man to whom the documents had belonged, he was assured, was weighted by concrete at the bottom of the Seine; he had only been missing a couple of days and there was no reason why Jacques shouldn’t continue his life from where he had abruptly departed it. He left the hotel and the friendly hostesses – some of them appeared willing to be more than friendly (that was the Georges in him!) – went to night-school and found himself a new job.
He had studied the brief reports in the Press about the Bilderberg meeting at Mégève and, when he read that the European honorary secretary, a Dutchman, was staying at the Hotel Meurice on the Rue de Rivoli, he paid a professional hotel thief to break into his room.
The robbery went unnoticed. One document from a briefcase bulging with papers …. But enough to provide Jacques Bertier with all the information he needed – the probable venues for the Bilderberg conferences for the next few years.
He ran his finger down the list. Stopped at the last entry. Perfect. It gave him all the time he needed and it was nearby. The Château Saint-Pierre near the small town of Etampes, not all that far from Paris.
The man, who now applied himself assiduously to the task of multiple assassination, was the personification of the character that Owen Anderson had always feared. A psychopath who kept himself to himself.
IX
You’re getting too old for this sort of thing, George Prentice thought as pain from his injured ankle shot rhythmically up his leg.
It was his fortieth birthday. He had planned spending the latter part of it in the casino in Campione d’Italia, a pinprick on the map of Europe that had never quite made up its mind whether it was Italian or Swiss. But he had hurt his leg scaling a wall, the safe he was cracking was proving obstinate and there he was still inside the house of a German industrialist at 11.30 at night.
Prentice’s assignments on behalf of Paul Kingdon took him to tax havens around the world. Many of them delightful spots in which to sojourn, but each permeated by a sense of shifty unease for anyone but the bona fide tourist or genuine inhabitant. The Bahamas, Cayman Islands, Panama, Bermuda, Monaco, Luxembourg, Liechtenstein ….
Campione is one of the least known havens; in fact it is not always recognised as one. But it does provide sanctuary for the rich, in particular Germans who are not intimidated by the currency which is Swiss francs.
Officially Campione is Italian. But its minute acreage (pop. 3,000) is embedded in Switzerland on the shore of Lake Lugano. Its money is Swiss – lire is used only for games of Monopoly – its postal and telephone systems are Swiss, as are most of its lawyers, and it relies on Swiss banks to conduct its business.
Foreigners pay no tax and the attitude of the Italian Government to Campione’s dual standards is benign, because it collects a considerable percentage of the takings from the Casino, reputed to be the most prosperous in the world.
Prentice’s attitude to life had changed since the death of Karl Danzer. He made a point of enjoying to the full the benefits of his profession. He stayed in the best hotels and frugally ate and drank with a gourmet’s palate; the change was apparent in his dedication to enjoyment: it had become a substitute for all he had lost with the revelation of Annette du Pont’s treachery. He even gambled at the tables, employing a progression system which he had perfected: he had proved to himself that the roulette wheel could be beaten; it was a painstaking process but Prentice enjoyed beating the odds. He had not made love to a woman for six years ….
The safe gave itself up as the tumblers finally obeyed him. It had been a mathematical certainty – like his roulette system. But, like the system, a long and arduous business.
Prentice shone a flashlight into the safe which had been amateurishly hidden behind a gilt-framed mirror. The German, he supposed, wasn’t too bothered about losing the wads of German marks and Swiss francs stuffed inside the stainless-steel cavity in the wall. What was a few thousand dollars to a millionaire? Nor would he appreciate that anyone might be interested in the documents relating to the palatial house in Campione.
Prentice removed the money and placed it on a desk. Then he reached into
the safe for the documents. In doing so, he altered his balance. Pain swept up his leg like a flame. A sprain – he hoped. He limped down into the German’s well-stocked cellar in case the electronic flash on his camera could be seen through the drapes covering the windows in the lounge, and photographed the documents.
He then replaced the papers and the money, re-set the combination, locked the safe and replaced the rather cheap-looking mirror. He glanced at his digital wrist-watch: it had taken him two hours. Outside, the German shepherd dogs would be stirring from the sleep induced by drugs inserted into generous portions of raw fillet steak.
Prentice, who had previously defused the burglar alarm system – Prentice acknowledged only one equal in electronic surveillance, the arrogant, knuckle-head American, Owen Anderson – let himself out of the French windows into the courtyard. It was a cold February night; it was also moonlit.
Moonlight. An injured ankle. Waking guard dogs. All he needed was an inquisitive patrol of carabinieri!
One of the three dogs lying beside the brick-built kennels growled. Breaking in, Prentice had scaled the 12-foot high wall in the interests of speed. Breaking out, he had intended to manipulate the lock on the lofty iron gates. Not now, not with guard dogs who probably preferred human flesh to fillet steak on the move.
One of the dogs stood up and opened its mouth. A noise which was part yawn, part whine, part growl, issued from between its jaws. The other two dogs stirred.
Dragging one foot, Prentice made for the wall. When he had broken in, it had been pitch-dark and black trousers and roll-neck sweater had merged with the night. Not now. He felt as though he had been picked out by the beam of a searchlight.
One of the dogs was loping after him.
He reached the hinged, rubber-stepped ladder with the grappling hooks, which he had used to climb the wall. It reminded him of a coiled snake lying at the foot of the wall.
The dog following him began to bark. The other two took up the chorus. They were all on their feet now. At least they would have hangovers, Prentice thought.
He picked up the ladder. Took his weight on his injured foot. The pain made him cry out. The first dog advanced as though smelling blood.
He hurled the two hooks at the top of the wall. Missed. Pain, anger, frustration. Too old …. The second time the hooks caught. Prentice began to climb as the dog hurled itself at him, lips curled, teeth white in the moonlight.
Prentice kicked back with his good leg, taking his weight again on his injured foot. The sword-thrust of pain nearly made him lose his grip on the ladder. His good foot made contact with the dog; it fell back to be joined by the other two.
As he began to climb, all three dogs hurled themselves at him. One set of fangs ripped the leg of his trousers. Gashed his flesh? He wasn’t sure, his whole leg was on fire with pain ….
Then he was above their reach. Their bodies thudded against the wall, their barking filled the night …. At the top of the wall he paused. He could hear running footsteps and raised voices. But he couldn’t jump, not with that foot.
He hauled up the ladder, turned the hooks and let it down the other side of the wall. He began his descent. The footsteps grew nearer; moonlight pinned him against the wall ….
He hit the ground with his good foot and jerked the ladder free. Two carabinieri appeared as, running like a man on invisible crutches, he rounded the corner.
One more corner and there was his dark-blue rented Fiat, parked in the shadow of a tree. He paused for a moment and tossed the ladder over the wall of the house adjoining the one he had burgled.
Then he climbed in the Fiat and coasted down the hill. The carabinieri must have stopped where the dogs were barking; then they would find the ladder next door ….
Half way down the hill, Prentice braked and started the engine of the car. It was, thank God, automatic and he could rest his injured foot. He pressed his good foot on the accelerator and headed for the autoroute leading to Milan.
* * *
Paul Kingdon sat down beside the bed and said: ‘So, did you get it?’
‘Aren’t you going to ask about my foot?’
‘I know about your foot,’ Kingdon said. ‘Your ankle is broken in two places and the fractures were aggravated by use.’
‘If I hadn’t used it, I would be in an Italian jail instead of the London Clinic. And, yes, I did get the documents.’ Prentice pointed to the locker beside his bed. ‘They’re in there. Tell me something, Paul, were they worth all this?’ gesturing at his foot which was in plaster.
‘Of course. As you know the West Germans passed a law called the Aussensteuergesetz in 1972. It stated that it didn’t matter a monkey’s toss whether a German became a resident in a tax haven, because he’d still have to pay tax in Germany if he was also a resident there. So our friend won’t get away with it.’
‘Do you think he really intended to try? He’s as rich as Croesus ….’
‘The rich, as you know bloody well, don’t like giving their money away. Wasn’t Paul Getty said to have a pay-telephone in his house?’
‘So those papers,’ as Kingdon took them out of the white locker, ‘are ammunition …. Blackmail, Paul?’
Kingdon slipped the papers into the inside pocket of his jacket. He shrugged eloquently. ‘A lever. Only a fool conducts business without a lever ….’
‘A scalpel,’ Prentice suggested. He opened the cardboard box with the fancy handle that Kingdon had brought with him. Peaches. He moved them out of Kingdon’s reach and said: ‘So you’re moving into Germany, Paul?’
‘Where else? That’s where all the work’s done, and so that’s where all the bread is.’
‘Logical,’ Prentice said biting into a peach. Juice ran down his chin. The private ward in the Clinic, he thought, was more like a room in the Savoy. ‘What’s the deal?’
As Kingdon explained, Prentice stared at him curiously. As though he were appraising a stranger, which Kingdon most certainly was not. He saw a man in his mid-thirties, sharply but not elegantly dressed in a fawn suit with a chocolate shirt and yellowish silk tie; sleek brown hair; features wolfish – that was the only way to describe them – as yet bearing no evidence of the immense strain of being head of Kingdon Investments.
In the past Prentice had regarded Kingdon with affection. With his mutual fund enterprises he had actually helped small investors get rich in a world dominated by the privileged. But the affection was waning; Kingdon was getting greedy.
A pretty nurse came into the room, fussed around to no obvious avail, asked: ‘Have you got everything you want, Mr Prentice?’ and departed smiling when he held up a peach and said he had.
Kingdon crossed his legs and asked: ‘Were you listening to me, George?’
Prentice said he had been listening.
‘I don’t think you absorbed a single bloody word I said.’
‘You know me, Paul. It’s the field-work that I enjoy. I don’t give a damn what you do with it afterwards.’ Which was no longer strictly true; he cared if the small investor was getting hurt.
‘You’re an enigmatic sod, George. You know as much as I do about our … our business associates. And yet you’re content to let me make all the bread.’
‘Once a spy always a spy. I wasn’t cut out to be a tycoon.’
‘And you carry all those dossiers around up here ….’ Kingdon tapped his temple with one finger. ‘Which is your biggest dossier, George?’
Prentice smiled. He was, after all, being discharged tomorrow; he would take his system and his plaster-weighted foot to Monte Carlo for a week or so. He said: ‘The biggest dossier? That’s easy. Paul Kingdon.’
* * *
The foundation for Paul Kingdon’s fortune, invested these days largely in diamonds, had been a rust-coloured ten shilling note, No. 79C 867324, now obsolete.
Aged sixteen, Kingdon had wagered the ten shillings on the second favourite in the Derby and lost. From that moment he had become convinced that all gamblers were fools. Lesso
n: take their money, there’s one born every minute.
He had borrowed ten shillings in coins and recovered the ten shilling note from a startled bookmaker, who engaged him the following day as a runner in the East End where he was born.
Street fights … knuckles hardening, razor in his sock—he was stockily built but when you were on the shortish side (5 feet 7 inches) you needed that razor. Promotion to a betting shop from which, behind the grille, he observed cupidity and gullibility; his resolve to capitalise on these weaknesses hardened.
But the real money wasn’t in an Aldgate betting shop. It was up the street, in the City of London. On Sundays he roamed the slumbering streets of the City, keeping company with cats and caretakers and patrolling policemen. He brooded about the fortunes lying dormant inside the great sooty buildings. Money should never be dormant.
On the eve of his 18th birthday he borrowed a pin-stripe suit and, armed with forged certificates asserting his academic accomplishments, presented himself for an interview for a job with a small stock-brokers and got it.
The company was later hammered but by that time, Kingdon, having learned the basics of Stock Exchange practice, had formed his own company with negligible capital.
His premise was simple. Instead of buying shares, laymen were now buying unit trusts, or mutual funds – hedging their bets by investing in companies that spread the money in well-balanced portfolios.
Why not go one better? Create a fund, or trust, that invested in other such funds? Create a force of silver-tongued salesmen who, inspired by generous commissions, could persuade the public – and charge them for the privilege – to hand over their money.
Paul Kingdon was not quite the pioneer that he professed to be: but he learned from the mistakes of the crusading spirits and elaborated on their techniques.
The first priority was to go offshore to a tax haven to avoid tiresome laws designed to part the entrepreneur from as much of his profits as possible. Kingdon chose B.V.I. – the British Virgin Islands, eighty kilometres east of Puerto Rica. Not only was B.V.I. favourably disposed to the formation of private companies but one of the sixty islands was reputed to be Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island!
I, Said the Spy Page 12