‘One thing puzzles me,’ Moitry said as they entered the lane. ‘What was the significance of the crosses on the photostats of the guest list?’
Anderson grinned at him. ‘Simple when you think about it. The crosses indicated the teetotallers.’
‘But they were all going to be served with the same cocktail – the Bilderberg Special.’
‘Not quite,’ Anderson said. ‘You see alcohol dissipates the bitter almond smell of cyanide, so Bertier had no problems there. But he did with the non-drinkers because they would have smelled the alcohol.’
‘So he found something else to kill the smell of bitter almonds for the teetotallers?’
‘Peppermint,’ Anderson said. ‘As simple as that. Here’s to Bilderberg and down the hatch and the whole goddam lot of them would have been dead within three to five minutes.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Moitry said as they entered the grounds of the chȃteau and headed for the maze. ‘It took Himmler twelve minutes to die.’
The body of Jacques Bertier was being carried away on a stretcher. Spring had re-assembled overnight and the daffodils were raising their rain-battered heads.
Staring at the stretcher, Anderson said: ‘He was very sure of himself. Odd that he should have carried a spare capsule with him, as though he expected failure.’
‘He didn’t expect to fail,’ Moitry said. ‘It was Georges Bertier who expected to fail.’
‘You know something? You’re a dark horse, inspector,’ Anderson said.
‘I have my moments,’ Moitry said smiling. ‘But I wonder why Foster disappeared ….’
Anderson shrugged. ‘God knows, maybe he stole some silver.’ He put his hand on Moitry’s shoulder. ‘I’m going to put in a good word for you, inspector. Tell Paris that without your help we wouldn’t have stopped Fromont.’
‘And in return?’ asked Moitry, who knew that there was always something in return.
‘That reporter from Paris-Match is sniffing around outside. Lock him up for a week or so will you?’
‘It would give me great pleasure,’ said Inspector Moitry.
It was the least he could do for Nicholas Foster, Anderson reflected. Prevent him being scooped while he was locked up in a bell tower.
* * *
Prentice told Pete Anello about the attempted massacre, He said: ‘Fromont could have knocked off the whole bunch of them with a poison made from the pips of apples or pears, or the stones of peaches or cherries. How about that?’
‘How about that!’ Anello sat down on the edge of the bed in the motel, picked up a morning newspaper and pointed at an item, MARKS INT. QUITS ARMS RACE. And underneath: SHOCK STATEMENT BY CLAIRE JEROME. ‘Can I go now?’ Anello asked.
‘Not quite yet,’ Prentice said apologetically.
‘Why the hell not, she’s done what we asked her to do?’ Prentice’s eyes strayed towards the attaché case he had brought with him. ‘There are one or two points—’
‘Bullshit!’ Anello lunged with one foot and kicked the attaché case across the room. ‘You know something, old buddy, you look as much like an idealist to me as an Eskimo.’
As Prentice came towards him, he kneed him in the belly. ‘And no Kung Fu stuff this time,’ as Prentice grunted and collapsed on the floor. As he tried to get up, Anello hit him on the side of the neck. Prentice fell back paralysed.
Anello took the car keys from Prentice’s pocket, went into the corridor and locked the door. The Caprice was parked in the driveway; Anello drove in the direction of Paris.
He needed time to think. He had agreed to return to Claire when the announcement about her resignation was made. Now it had been. But what am I? A pathetic pawn, an object to be bartered?
What have you become, Pete Anello?
And why hadn’t Prentice wanted him to go?
Ten minutes later he pulled into a lay-by. The spring sunshine beat through the windscreen. He curled up with his head on the passenger seat. He closed his eyes and soon he smelled burning flesh and cried out as the Viet Cong machine-gun opened up.
* * *
The first five million dollars to be received by the United Bank of Switzerland was the ransom transferred by Paul Kingdon.
Helga Keller called him from the booth in the village and said, ‘Goodbye, Mr Kingdon. You have kept your side of the bargain, we shall keep ours.’ She hung up.
Kingdon stared at the receiver for a moment, then replaced it in its cradle. He tried to contact Brossard, but the Frenchman wasn’t taking any calls. Kingdon hammered on the door; no reply.
Could anything have gone wrong? Kingdon, who had left the conference chamber before Prentice announced the change in the attitude of the OPEC countries, shrugged.
He still had his diamonds.
He drove the Ferrari onto the auto-route and headed for Paris. Why the hell had that bastard Prentice suddenly turned on him in his speech?
Bilderberg. Never again. Kingdon shuddered as he thought of the glass of poison six inches from his lips.
He pressed his foot on the accelerator and the Ferrari surged forward at 100 mph.
* * *
The deposit of Pierre Brossard’s ransom was confirmed by the bank in Zurich at midday.
Anderson telephoned Brossard from his room to dispatch him on his way and said to Helga Keller: ‘You’re sure he doesn’t know anything about Prentice’s bombshell at the conference?’
Helga shook her head. ‘He’s been sleeping the sleep of the dead. He’s only just woken up.’
‘And he hasn’t contacted Mayard?’
‘I’ve taken all the calls.’
‘He may try to call Mayard now.’
‘Then I’ll have to attend to that.’
She opened the door as George Prentice staggered in.
‘What the hell happened to you?’ Anderson asked. Prentice told them.
‘It needn’t affect anything,’ Anderson said.
‘Unless Mrs Jerome hears that Anello’s got away. She could call off the deal.’
‘She’s late as it is,’ Helga said.
‘A woman’s privilege,’ Anderson said.
Helga went up to Brossard’s room and knocked on the door. ‘Who is it?’
‘Me. Hildegard.’
Brossard opened the door. He looked terrible, Helga thought. His movements were slow and dreamy, his complexion grey.
He said: ‘Call Mayard. Make sure the column’s been published.’ He hardly seemed able to control his voice.
‘Very well, Monsieur Brossard.’
She called her own apartment in Paris and said: ‘Monsieur Mayard, please,’ and asked the phantom at the other end about Midas’ column.
Brossard went into the bathroom. She replaced the receiver quickly and called out: ‘Everything’s fine, Monsieur Brossard. Mayard says the column is causing a sensation.’
Brossard came out of the bathroom. He seemed to have gathered a little strength. ‘Help me pack my luggage,’ he said. ‘You will make your own way back to Paris?’
‘As soon as you have departed.’
On the way to the Citroen, Helga told him about the mass murder attempt.
He leaned against the car as though he were about to faint.
‘Good-bye, Monsieur Brossard,’ she said as Brossard switched on the ignition. ‘For ever,’ she said as the Citroen moved away from her towards the gates of the chȃteau.
* * *
It was 4 am.
‘What the hell’s gone wrong?’ Anderson asked.
They sat in his room. Their bags were packed. Helga’s Renault stood in the driveway outside. Anderson had a chess problem in front of him, Prentice a crossword-puzzle; neither was making any progress.
‘Maybe George was right,’ Helga said. ‘Maybe she’s opted out. Maybe Anello called her.’
‘Then why is she still in the hotel?’ Prentice asked. He winced and put one hand to his neck.
Helga looked at him solicitously.
‘Don’t worry,’ Prentice
said. ‘I deserved it. It’s time I quit.’
Anderson called the bank again. Nothing. ‘I wonder where the hell Anello is,’ he said.
* * *
Claire Jerome finished typing her report for the President of the United States. During the conference she had learned about several big arms deals being negotiated by other czars of munitions. Behind every such deal was a notice of intent – the exchange of one super-power mentor for another, a shift from peaceable to aggressive policies …. The President and his advisers would be able to make much of her information and the intelligence supplied by other participants. Particularly with regard to the crisis in Afghanistan.
She finished the report with an air of finality: she had carried out all her commitments and she didn’t give a damn about anything any more.
Her hair was disarrayed, her clothing crumpled. She wished she had drunk the poison.
The statement announcing her resignation had been published, but Anello hadn’t come back. He was waiting for the five million along with the other blackmailers.
You poor pathetic bitch, she thought. How long ago had he planned it? How long had he been laughing at her? Had he been repulsed by her love-making?
Let him have his share of the five million. But what have I got? Nothing but the empty future. She refused to cry. She picked up her bag, opened the door and walked into the arms of Pete Anello.
And then she cried.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked a few minutes later.
‘Thinking.’
‘About what?’
‘About us.’
For a moment she thought he was going to say that he was leaving. ‘Did you reach any conclusions?’
‘Sure I did. We’re going into business.’
‘I thought I just got out of business,’ she said.
‘Rehabilitation,’ he said. ‘Of Vietnamese veterans. The war’s been over a long time, but a hell of a lot of us haven’t been rehabilitated yet. There are various societies but they need money ….’
Then because she felt she might start to cry again she asked: ‘When did you think all this out?’
‘Maybe thirty minutes ago,’ he told her. ‘Sitting in the car. As though I’d been searching for the answer for a long time. How does it grab you?’
‘It grabs me,’ she said and: ‘Pete, why did you come back?’
‘Because I need you,’ he said quietly. ‘You – not just your money.’
Soon, she thought as she went to him, she would tell him about the $5 million. But not now. There was plenty of time.
* * *
At 4.20 the phone rang in Anderson’s room.
Anderson answered it, spoke briefly.
Then he turned to the other two and said: ‘We are now richer by fifteen million bucks.’
He uncorked the bottle of champagne that had been waiting on ice. They touched glasses. ‘Here’s to an honourable retirement.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Prentice said.
‘And me,’ said Helga, slipping one arm round Prentice’s waist.
‘And perhaps,’ said Prentice, ‘a toast to our benefactors. The United States of America, Great Britain and the Soviet Union.’
* * *
Anderson drove first to the village. While Prentice and Helga waited in the Renault parked behind the church, he told Foster and Suzy Okana about the poisoning attempt.
‘There’s just one thing,’ Foster said after he had thanked Anderson.
‘I know. How the hell can you send the story when you’re trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Don’t worry, the French police will shortly hear about your plight.’
Foster said: ‘Tell me one thing, why are you doing this for me?’
‘I’m not. I’m doing it for Suzy. You’ll need the bread you earn from the story to keep her in the style to which she’s accustomed.’ He grinned at them. ‘Take care,’ and was gone.
Anderson made one last stop before driving south to Auxerre where they would change the car and their identities, before continuing the journey to Madrid to catch a flight to Rio de Janeiro.
He pulled up outside the hospital where the priest was recovering and went inside carrying a bundle of books he had borrowed from the château library.
He met the nurse he had once kissed in the lobby, and asked her to give them to the priest.
She looked at the books in surprise. ‘But they’re all thrillers. Are you sure he’ll like them?’
‘Tell him they’re from Shaft, he’ll understand.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever been to South America?’
‘No, but—’
‘I’ll call you,’ Anderson said.
* * *
After Anderson had gone, Foster and Suzy Okana continued the work they had begun during the night. Pushing and pulling with their legs, trying to dislodge the railings from their wooden foundations.
The hand-cuffs bit into their flesh and their ankles were raw and bleeding beneath the old curtains covering them. Once or twice Suzy had nearly screamed out, but now she had grown used to the pain.
The wood began to splinter … the railings to which their ankles were manacled moved ….
‘We’re nearly there,’ Foster said.
‘When the police arrive do we tell them about Anderson and Prentice?’
Foster shook his head. ‘Of course not.’
Push, pull, push … the railings burst free from the woodwork and their feet shot through the space and hit one of the bells.
The bell swung against its neighbour and the chimes rang out across the countryside, summoning police instead of worshippers to the House of God.
* * *
Hearing the bells Anderson said: ‘You know something? Right from the start I underestimated Foster.’ He put his foot down on the accelerator. ‘But if I’m any judge of human nature he won’t blow us.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘What do you think?’
Helga said: ‘I think he would have made a good spy.’
‘Well,’ Prentice said, putting his arm around her, ‘there are a few vacancies around.’
Anderson drove onto the autoroute and together they headed south towards the future.
XXXVII
That day the dollar continued the rally that had started the previous evening, and there were those who blamed clandestine dealings at Bilderberg. But, as always, they were unable to prove it.
In his timbered home in Surrey Paul Kingdon digested two unpallatable facts:
(1) According to an expert in Hatton Garden, the Jager Formula was a fake and he had been conned out of five million dollars.
(2) He had been double crossed by Pierre Brossard whose Midas column had not appeared.
The first fierce anger had subsided. He poured himself a generous Scotch. The task at hand was to rally support for Kingdon Investments.
He raised his glass to the old, rust-coloured ten shilling note in the showcase on the wall. ‘Here we go again,’ he said. ‘There’s one born every minute,’ and downed his whisky.
The front door bell rang, and Kingdon saw on the closed circuit television screen the figure of a policeman. He opened the door.
‘Mr Paul Kingdon?’
‘That’s me.’
‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ the policeman said. ‘Failure to answer a summons for exceeding the speed limit ….’
Kingdon said: ‘Don’t stand out there in the cold, officer. Come in and have a drink. A Scotch maybe?’
‘Well, I don’t mind if I do.’
Kingdon smiled at him. There was still hope.
* * *
In Paris the wife of Pierre Brossard knelt in prayer in an apartment on Rue d’Alésia. Also kneeling were six of her new-found friends. But Madame Brossard’s prayers were of a different calibre to those of the rest of the group. She was praying for deliverance – from her husband; praying that in some miraculous fashion the Almighty could intervene and prevent his return to Paris.
In Moscow Nikolai Vlasov, who had a
dvised the Politburo to cancel the dollar operation, when the dollar began to rally the previous evening, issued one last command before penning his resignation.
The command was to Department V of the KGB.
Pierre Brossard was nearing the Yugoslav border when he noticed a flash of light on the mountains to his left.
A piece of glass, perhaps, or a discarded beer can.
For the second time in two days Brossard was framed in the telescopic sight of a rifle. The sight was trained on his head and this time the marksman didn’t miss.
The Citroen wheeled off the road and smashed into a tree. The marksman, dressed as a peasant, ran down the mountainside to make sure that Brossard was dead. Not much doubt: bone and brain were spattered over the windows.
He collected three cans from his van parked down the road, doused the Citroen with gasolene and set fire to it.
Only a few charred remains of Marcel Rabier, architect, were later found by the Italian police.
EPILOGUE
Nicholas Foster was in despair.
It was ten days since Bilderberg and no-one would touch his story – the shooting, the attempt at mass assassination, the bid to bring down the dollar … everything given credibility by tapes of debates and the minutiae of his background material.
But Bilderberg was omnipotent.
Suzy watched him in her apartment in Chelsea as he pushed aside the telephone in disgust after a last abortive attempt.
‘It’s no good,’ he said. ‘They don’t believe me. Or say they don’t. For the first time in its history Bilderberg secrecy has been breached, but in the end they come out smelling of roses.’
‘Don’t worry, love,’ she said. ‘I don’t really want to be married to a journalist anyway.’
He picked up a copy of Paris-Match ‘They made a stab at it – buried in a general piece about the conference – but, God, it’s nothing like the truth. Just vague rumours. The sort that surround Bilderberg every year.’
‘Do you want some plonk with your steak? You’d better wash it down with something, it’s as tough as a legionnaire’s boot.’
‘And now there’s a story in the papers that Pierre Brossard’s missing. Backed-up, of course, by the statement that he left the conference in one piece. Bilderberg exonerated once again.’
I, Said the Spy Page 42