Derek Lambert - I, Said the Spy

‘Of course.’ The Englishman, whose name was Crawford, followed Anderson silently on his crepe-soled suede shoes.

In his room Anderson threw the cartridge-case on the table and said: ‘What do you make of that?’

‘German,’ Crawford said without looking at it. ‘Last war.’

Anderson stared in surprise at the squarely-built policeman in tweeds who looked as though he had just been shooting grouse – except for the shoes. ‘You can tell without even examining it?’

‘Your colleague from the FBI found the bullet.’ Crawford took it out of the pocket of his trousers and tossed it onto the table beside the case. ‘Hardly damaged. It had spent itself. Brossard was well out of effective range.’

‘Which is?’

‘Well, my guess is that this was fired by a Karabiner 98. The Germans had them at the beginning of the war. Based on a rifle designed in 1898. Range? Anything between 2,200 and 3,000 yards maximum. Effective – not more than 600.’

‘Could it have been fitted with telescopic sights?’

‘No reason why not. In the early days of the war snipers used a commercial sight – the ZF 39 made by Hensoldt – on the Karabiner 98K. Later they used the ZF 42.’

‘I was right, you do know your stuff. What sort of a killer would use a rifle like that?’

‘A raving madman,’ Crawford said. ‘Certainly an amateur. A gun buff maybe?’

‘Could be.’

‘Do you think he’ll have another go?’

Anderson shrugged. ‘Like you said, the guy’s a crank. What surprises me is that it’s never happened at Bilderberg before.’

After Crawford had left the room, Anderson stared thoughtfully at the photostats of the guest list. What, he wondered, did the crosses beside certain names indicate? There was no obvious pattern to them; they were neither the most nor the least important guests. But there was a common denominator there somewhere.

Anderson knew from experience that homicidal maniacs frequently liked to give notice of intent. They wanted to prove how clever (not crazy) they were and they enjoyed observing the frantic evasive action taken by the intended victims and their guardians.

He had, therefore, to assume that the shooting was a notice of intent. And that in all probability it was a diversionary tactic to enable the gunman to sit back and enjoy the action.

A diversion from what? A bomb?

The powers behind the thrones of the Western world wiped out in one big bang. Brossard, Claire Jerome and Paul Kingdon eliminated – before they had finished transferring $15 million to the bank in Zurich. But that was academic: the three blackmailers would be dead too!

Anderson picked up the phone and called the hospital where the priest had been taken.

A woman said: ‘He is as well as can be expected, m’sieur.’

‘Is he conscious?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Police,’ trying to shed any trace of an American accent.

‘No, m’sieur, he is not yet conscious.’

Gaudin was waiting outside the booth. ‘Our own police would like a word with you,’ he said. ‘I have made my personal suite available.’

Before making his way to the suite Anderson called Brossard, now back in the room originally assigned to him in the west wing.

The suite had been assembled from the past. An amalgam of periods – Louis XIV, XV and XVI – packaged with grey and yellow moiré drapes and wallpaper. In front of the marble fireplace stood a 19th century table, fashioned from lime and sycamore with ormolu mounts.

Inspector Moitry was there, together with Surete and SDECE agents from Paris and the representatives of other internal security organisations. They were sitting around a table which looked very fragile in their presence.

Anderson expected trouble. He wasn’t disappointed.

Moitry took the stage, pouchy-eyed and hostile. Acting, Anderson suspected, on instructions from the Surete and the SDECE who would want him to exercise Gallic authority but remain the fall-guy in case anything worse followed the shooting.

When Anderson entered the room, Moitry stood up and said sarcastically: ‘Good of you to spare the time, Monsieur Anderson.’

‘My pleasure,’ Anderson said, lowering himself gently into an antique chair at the table.

‘I want to be as brief as possible. An attempt has been made to murder a French citizen on French soil. French authorities,’ without identifying them, ‘will therefore be in charge of the investigation.’ He pointed one finger at Anderson. ‘You seem to regard this château as a fortress, within which you exercise total power. As from this moment all that has changed.’

He was, Anderson concluded, undoubtedly saying what he had been told to say. Anderson felt a little sorry for Inspector Moitry; he was hopelessly out of his depth.

On either side of him the other Frenchmen listened expressionlessly. They had more on their minds than an attempt to kill a wealthy and influential businessman: the life of the President of France was in their hands. Anderson didn’t doubt that he had already been urged to return to Paris; nor did he doubt that he had refused.

A German addressed Moitry in schoolboy French. ‘What steps have you taken so far?’

‘Purely routine measures. A full-scale search has been mounted. Road blocks have been set up. The movements of everyone in the village are being checked. We hope that if the priest regains consciousness he will be able to help, although it would seem that he was struck from behind.’

An FBI agent said in slightly better French: ‘I hope you’ve impressed upon your men the need for absolute secrecy.’

‘Of course. I am fully aware that the distinguished company beneath this roof has requested absolute privacy, Happily most of the Press were away telephoning stories at the time of the shooting. Although the Paris-Match team are proving to be a little difficult,’ he added.

Anderson said: ‘What about the people in the village?’

‘They have been told that the two explosions in the graveyard were the work of schoolboys.’

‘And the priest? That wasn’t the work of schoolboys.’

‘He was startled by the first explosion. He slipped and fell down the steps leading from the belfry. In fact,’ Moitry said, gaining confidence as he listened to his own catalogue of efficiency, ‘he shouldn’t have been in the church at all. He normally has a sleep at that time in the afternoon. But apparently he had left a book in the church.’

‘James Bond probably.’

‘M’sieur?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Anderson said. ‘How do you know he left a book there?’

‘He was taking a glass of wine in the village inn. He told some of the villagers.’ Moitry lit a Gauloise from the butt smouldering between his fingers.

Crawford, the British Special Branch officer, said: ‘Whoever shot Brossard knew the church pretty well. That indicates a local man.’

Moitry looked pointedly at Anderson. ‘I believe you dealt with the villagers.’

‘I didn’t interrogate 800 people if that’s what you mean. But I did check out all members of the hotel staff living there. And anyone with a police record.’

The SDECE agent spoke for the first time. He looked, Anderson thought, like a Marseilles gangster dressed by a Parisien tailor. He said in a flat, cold voice: ‘It goes without saying that there has been a lapse in security. The church was insufficiently protected. It was the obvious vantage point.’

Anderson didn’t like doing it to Moitry but he had no choice. ‘I’m afraid that was the responsibility of the French police. Inspector Moitry did his best with the resources at his disposal.’

The FBI agent said: ‘Even if the gunman did live in the village he sure as hell won’t be there now.’