The West German Foreign Minister was followed by two Italians. A newspaper editor and the Minister of Social Affairs together in an Alfa Romeo. Then the head of a Danish Bank, the president of a German Finance Company, the Prime Minister of Iceland, a Norwegian ship-owner, a Swiss banker, two British industrialists, the Dutch Minister of Finance ….
Rolls-Royces – Camargues, Corniches and Shadows —Jaguars, Volvos, Ferraris, Mercedes, a few taxis from Paris ….You could almost identify nationality and owner by their style of transport.
A Citroen CX 2400 drew up. Out stepped Pierre Brossard. One of the wealthiest men in Europe. The Citroen was a good car but not in the Rolls-Mercedes bracket. You would have thought … but no, not Pierre Brossard!
The Secretary General of NATO, the West German Chancellor, a Greek diplomat, a former governor of the Bank of Sweden, a Spanish nobleman and financier ….
Still no Americans. Perhaps they had all been eliminated en route!
The British whizz-kid himself, Paul Kingdon, sharing his powder-blue Ferrari with a stunning oriental girl. Anderson consulted his notes. Possibly travelling with girl named Suzy Okana. She would be the booking made by Kingdon at the hostel in the village. But, of course, he had to parade her first in front of the Establishment.
The President of the Federation of Austrian Industrialists; a Canadian executive from the Bank of Nova Scotia; the Irish Minister of Foreign Affairs ….
And then, thank Christ, the first of the Americans, the president of one of the largest oil companies in the world and a celebrated New York banker.
But there were still a lot of Americans to follow. In particular the former Secretary of State, who was due to arrive by helicopter the following day with the French President.
Two English bankers … a Tory peer … Belgians, Austrians, Scandinavians, Then two more Americans – Mrs Claire Jerome, mistress of arms, accompanied by her personal bodyguard, Mr Peter Anello.
Mrs Jerome smiled briefly at Gaudin and went straight up to her room, accompanied by Anello and a receptionist.
An hour later Anderson had ticked off all the names except the French President and former Secretary of State. He went into the bar where a few delegates had already assembled for a drink before the preliminary session.
He ordered a glass of Chablis from Jules. ‘That’s from Burgundy where you were born, isn’t it?’
‘You’re very knowledgable, m’sieur.’
‘And I hope you will be, Jules.’
‘I shall do my best.’
Anderson nodded, drank the cold white wine thirstily and walked out through the French windows leading into the gardens to check on outside security.
Unknown to him there had been one incident after he had left the lobby. Pierre Brossard had returned to reception and demanded to know the price of his room. With service and tax it came to 1,000 francs a night. Outraged, Brossard demanded cheaper rooms for himself and his secretary, Hildegard Metz, who had arrived at the hotel ahead of him.
The young man behind the desk was flustered. ‘But, Monsieur Brossard, the accommodation was arranged weeks ago.’
‘I don’t care when it was arranged. The price is extortionate.’
The receptionist called Gaudin.
Gaudin spread his hands. ‘I don’t understand, m’sieur. All expenses are paid by the host country.’
‘I don’t have to remind you that I am French.’
‘But the west wing is by far the best, Monsieur Brossard. All your fellow countrymen are in the west wing.’
‘You can spare me our calculating national charm,’ Brossard snapped. ‘If the west is the most expensive then I assume the east is the cheapest?’
‘But it gets little sun—’
‘I am not here to acquire a tan. Please have my baggage moved to the east wing.’
Gaudin shrugged. ‘If you wish, m’sieur.’
‘And my secretary’s to an adjoining room.’
Gaudin gave the orders and the receptionist began to make the alterations on the plan on the desk.
* * *
In his room in the annexe Nicholas Foster completed his notes for the morning. He put one copy beneath a loose floor-tile under the mat beside his bed, the other into an envelope addressed to the accommodation address in London.
It was 3 pm. The guests were assembling in the conference chamber. Time to head for the village to post the envelope. He took off his black jacket and striped trousers and put on a brown sports jacket, white roll-neck sweater and flannels.
He was stopped at the gate, guarded by two gendarmes, by Anderson.
‘Taking the air, Mr Foster?’
‘I always take a stroll at this time, Doctor’s orders – for my leg.’
‘Even with such important guests to look after?’
‘One hour, that’s all. Union rules – you forget I’m English.’ He smiled at the big black man.
Anderson consulted a notebook. ‘That’s right, 15.03 hours on the dot. You seem to have established a routine.’
‘It’s the only way,’ Foster said, ‘in a hotel.’
‘It’s the only way anywhere. Take care, Mr Foster.’
Foster limped down the lane leading to the village, The banks of grass supporting the hedgerows on either side of the lane were printed with primroses; the air was heavy and verdant as the sun drew the morning’s rain from the fields. The setting reminded Foster of days walking in gum-boots with his parents in the East Anglian countryside – before he had reached the traditional age for summary dispatch to boarding school.
A thrush settled on a branch of a tree and began to sing; a cow regarded him through a gap in the hedgerow. Behind the trees and bushes and flintstone walls, there lurked men with field-glasses, radios and guns.
All beautiful background for the eventual story …. Already he had recorded in detail the events of the day. The dawn sweep with metal detectors, the check for letter or parcel bombs; the breakfast meeting between the various security agencies, the French uniformed police and the Sureté. He believed he knew the position of every closed-circuit television camera, every electronic beam.
He had made a note of the guests’ rooms – all checked for bugs – their clothes, their dietary preferences – Kosher, fat-free, vegetarian – their newspapers, their telephone and Telex arrangements.
The female presence interested him, because these days women competing in what had once been a man’s world was always good copy. Hildegard Metz, well she was only a secretary …. But Claire Jerome would provide excellent colour. Still strikingly attractive for her age, one of the richest women in the world. Foster wondered how Anello, rugged and lazily assured, featured in her life.
Of the men it was Pierre Brossard who intrigued him most. According to Lucas, he was the most influential financial journalist in Europe, although not everyone knew that he was Midas. Supposing he had decided to break the Bilderberg story …. Surely fate couldn’t be quite as shitty as that. But if Brossard had wanted to write the story he could have done it years ago. He was, presumably, sworn to secrecy like the rest.
In the village he bought a packet of Galloise at the tabac and made his way to the post office, passing the church where a cadaverous-looking priest stood on guard as though protecting God’s House against the intrusion of the owners of so many worldly goods. What did the villagers make of the Bilderbergers esconced in the château across the meadows? It was enough to make the underprivileged Communists for life. Except, perhaps, that they didn’t regard themselves as underprivileged; preferred bicycles to Rolls-Royces and regarded the security precautions that wealth involved as absurd.
He posted the envelope. Then he called Lucas to make sure that arrangements, in the event of a fast-breaking story, were in hand.
‘Everything okay?’
Lucas, speaking from a friend’s house in London, said everything was okay. By which he meant that a daily paper had been alerted that it might receive an exclusive tip during the conference; once
the tip had been received, the paper’s Paris stàff would be able to check out details with police, hospitals, ambulances … if, that was, it was that sort of story. The editor of Foster’s old Sunday newspaper had already been given first refusal on an in-depth exclusive.
Suddenly feeling thirsty, Foster went into the village inn and ordered a beer. The saloon was dark. At first the only person he could see plainly was the woman serving at the bar, plump with dyed black hair. She regarded him suspiciously and served him without speaking.
He threaded his way through the tables and sat down in a corner. As his eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw that the room was sparsely and cheaply furnished. The flagstones chilled his feet, the air smelled of sour wine.
‘It’s not the Ritz, is it?’
He turned and made out the figure of a girl sitting two tables away from him. He tried to place the accent, it had a bit of a lilt to it.
‘At least the beer’s cold,’ he said.
‘Don’t I know you?’
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Foster said uneasily.
The girl stood up and moved to the next table and stared at him. ‘I’m sure I do.’
He studied her profile. Oriental. Unexpected features to find in the recess of a village inn in France. But familiar ….
‘My name’s Suzy Okana,’ she told him. ‘What’s yours?’
Of course he knew. Every week or so she surfaced in the newspaper diaries with some flamboyant pace-setter or fledgling member of the aristocracy. Worse he had once interviewed her!
He said: ‘I know you, of course, but we’ve never met.’
‘Come off it,’ she said. ‘I never forget a face.’
‘Well, you’ve made a mistake this time.’ He finished his beer. ‘My double probably. My doppelganger. We’re all supposed to have one.’
‘And if you meet your doppelganger then you die. But you’re no doppelganger.’ She bit her lip. ‘It’s coming ….’
‘Well,’ he said standing up, ‘I’ll see you around. I suppose you’re here for the conference?’
‘Sort of,’ still frowning at him.
‘Who are you with this time?’ He couldn’t resist it; it was his undoing.
‘I know – a reporter. I recognise your voice when you ask a question.’ She wagged her finger. ‘Got it. At the opening of some damn concert hall in South London. I was with Paul. Everyone was asking questions about his taste in music. Music! He doesn’t know the difference between Gilbert and Sullivan and Gilbert O’Sullivan. And you asked me if I ever had any difficulty in remembering who I was with at such occasions. Something like that.’
Foster sat down resignedly. ‘You’re right, we have met.’ He grinned. ‘Sorry about that question.’
‘Forget it. It was the only bright one anyway. And the answer is Yes, sometimes I do forget who I’m out with. At the cinema I have to go to the loo so I can get a good look at his profile on the way back.’ She laughed. ‘I’m with Paul Kingdon this time – as far as I remember. Can you make anything out of that?’
‘I’m not in journalism any more,’ Foster told her. He decided to have another beer. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘A glass of red plonk would do nicely. I like plonk. A good old glass of vino with no one examining the bottle and sniffing it and passing judgement. And a hunk of bread and cheese for lunch.’
Foster, suspecting that she might already have consumed several glasses of plonk, ordered the drinks from the sullen woman behind the bar.
‘And do you know what else I like?’ Suzy called out from behind him.
He shook his head as he handed her a glass.
‘Tizer. It’s got a beautiful smell. Reminds me of the little shop at the end of the street.’
‘In Tiger Bay,’ he said sitting down beside her.
‘You’ve got a good memory.’
‘Not really. Almost everyone in Britain who reads a newspaper knows you come from Tiger Bay.’
‘That’s where Shirley Bassey came from.’
‘I know. She’s in the newspapers quite a bit too.’
‘The difference,’ Suzy said sipping her wine, ‘is that she’s got talent.’
Relieved that the discussion had wandered from the reason for his presence in the village, Foster said: ‘I’m sure you’ve got talents.’
‘Oh yes. And we all know what those are.’ She put down her glass and rested her chin on one hand. ‘Now tell me why you’re here.’
‘I’m working at the château. I’m going into the hotel business.’
‘Pull the other leg,’ Suzy said. ‘It’s got bells on it.’
‘I’m a trainee manager. Check it out if you like. I was no bloody good as a reporter.’
‘Got the old heave-ho did you?’
Foster nodded.
‘Marvellous.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m out with a failure. The first in years. Bloody marvellous.’
Foster burst out laughing.
‘You haven’t told me your name,’ she said.
‘Nicholas Foster.’
‘Not a bad by-line. Nicholas Foster. Very authoritative. Mmmmmmm, I like it.’
‘I’m glad you like it,’ Foster said. ‘Perhaps I should write it down for you because you’ll never see it in print.’
‘I can see it now. THE TRUTH BEHIND BILDERBERG. An exclusive report by Nicholas Foster.’ She lit a cigarette and quickly blew out a little puff of smoke as though she didn’t like it. ‘Come off it. It’s pretty obvious why you’re here, isn’t it. All right, so you’re a trainee manager. But once a journalist always a journalist.’
‘Are you with Paul Kingdon?’
She nodded. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
Foster considered the possibilities. If he kept up the deception she might tell Kingdon that a journalist was working at the hotel. Kingdon, who liked journalists as much as he liked tax inspectors, would immediately inform Anderson and he would be thrown out. The alternative was to enlist her help. An inside contact; she might stumble on an exclusive; she was bright enough, although a little drunk at the moment.
She solved it for him. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I could help you. I could be an informant, a grass.’
He sighed. ‘All right, I confess.’
And he told her how it had come about.
She said: ‘I’ll help you if you promise me one thing.’ ‘Which is?’
‘Don’t become a rip-roaring great success.’
‘Journalists never make any money.’
‘Okay,’ she said with finality, ‘you’ve got yourself an accomplice. What do you want to know?’
‘Everything.’
‘That’s quite a challenge for a first assignment.’
‘And I want you to promise that you won’t blow it.’
She licked one finger, dried it on her sleeve. ‘See this wet, see this dry, cut my throat if I tell a lie.’ She put one hand on his wrist; her hand was small and dry and the nails were shell-pink; like a child’s hand, he thought. ‘And I know what you’re thinking. “She’s smashed and she’ll forget.”
Well, if you find me with my throat cut you’ll know I did forget.’ She stood up. ‘And now let’s go for a walk.’
‘I’m going back to the hotel.’
‘Marvellous,’ she said, ‘I’ll walk with you.’
Outside the air was scented with spring blossom. Daffodils bloomed in window-boxes and the church bells were pealing.
‘Why did you get the sack?’ she asked, taking his arm as though they had been walking out for weeks.
He told her about the poorly documented article he had written about Bilderberg.
‘At least you’re honest about it. And the limp?’
‘A bullet in Beirut.’
She absorbed this information without comment. Instead of commiserating with him she said: ‘I suppose everyone asks you if you’re Irish.’
‘A lot of them do.’
‘I don’t t
hink you’re Irish,’ Suzy said. ‘But I can understand people thinking you are. Cleft chin the devil’s within …. Do you think you’ll be able to make anything out of the conference?’
‘It depends on my contacts.’
He glanced at her. A breeze ruffled her black hair and there was sunshine in her dark eyes.
In the lane she plucked a blade of grass and nibbled it. ‘So,’ she said, ‘what do you want me to find out? You know, I’ve got to have something to work on.’
‘Well, for a start, I read in the English papers that your Paul Kingdon—’
‘Not mine.’
‘Well, Paul Kingdon. According to the papers he was indisposed – a virus infection or something – and couldn’t attend his booze-up at the Savoy. And yet here he is right as rain.’
‘There never was anything wrong with him,’ Suzy said. ‘In fact he flew to America.’
‘Did he now.’ Foster frowned. ‘And just before Bilderberg. Perhaps you could sound him out.’
‘He said something about changes.’
‘What sort of changes?’
‘I don’t know. He was very vague – out of character. But I got the impression that the changes were connected with the conference.’
Foster, instincts aroused, said: ‘Anything else? Think carefully.’
‘He was very different on the ferry. Broody and snappy. As though something had happened after his return from America …. Wait a minute,’ she said, hand to her mouth. ‘He bought some diamonds.’
‘Where?’
‘In Antwerp.’
‘I thought you said he went to the States.’
‘He came back via Antwerp. He showed me the diamonds.’
‘Did he seem pleased with them?’
‘And himself. So it must have been something that happened after that.’
As they neared the château he said: ‘We’d better split up now. Trainee managers aren’t supposed to chat up rich clients’ girl friends.’
‘Companion,’ she said. ‘I’m his companion.’
‘It makes you sound about ninety.’
She disengaged her arm from his. ‘How am I going to tell you if I find out anything?’
‘We’d better meet again tomorrow at the pub. Same time.’ They stood framed in the sunlight looking at each other, both sensing that something was beginning.
I, Said the Spy Page 27