Derek Lambert - I, Said the Spy

‘We are, of course, checking to see if anyone is missing,’ Moitry said with dignity.

Anderson said: ‘Also check to see if anyone in the village owned an old Wermacht rifle.’

One of the German Chancellor’s guards exclaimed: ‘How do you know it was an old German rifle?’ as though it surely couldn’t possibly be the Germans who were going to be the villains once again.

Anderson tossed the cartridge case on the table. ‘Ballistics. We’ve got the slug too.’ He leaned down and picked up his briefcase; the other men watched him curiously. The catches snapped open and, with a pair of tweezers, Anderson lifted out the photostats. ‘I’d like to know if you have any theories about these,’ he said laying the sheets on the table. ‘I found them beside the cartridge case.’

No-one had any notable theories. Only the obvious. The names with the crosses beside them were the intended victims… the names without the crosses were the intended victims… the would-be assassin was trying to tell them something – a familiar characteristic of a paranoic criminal….

There were no crosses beside the French President or the ex-Secretary of State.

Nor, Anderson brooded, against the names of Pierre Brossard, Paul Kingdon or Claire Jerome. Which could be good news; or it could be catastrophic.

Anderson said to Moitry: ‘I want these photostats fingerprinted.’

‘It is not what you want,’ Moitry said as the telephone on the desk by the window shrilled.

He picked up the telephone. His attitude changed. He almost stood to attention. Anderson felt even more sorry for him because he knew what was being said on the telephone….

Before coming up to Gaudin’s suite, he had told Brossard to call Paris. To use the influence that, according to Helga, he wielded with France’s top policemen. Brossard certainly didn’t want police checking him out, calling at his home, perhaps stumbling across some of his last-minute getaway arrangements.

Nor, for entirely different reasons, did Anderson want the police interfering with Brossard’s private life. Questioning, for instance, the transfer of $5 million to an account in Zurich.

Moitry replaced the receiver. He didn’t look surprised, merely resigned. He lit another Gauloise and in a quiet voice said that he had been told to co-operate with Anderson.

Anderson took over. He said to the men seated around the table: ‘Now we have to take this place apart all over again, because the obvious danger is a bomb.’

He turned to Moitry. ‘And I want you to telephone the hospital and authorise them to let me see the priest.’

‘Whatever you say,’ Moitry said dully.

The priest’s face was serene but his breathing was stertorous. Judging by the wound, he had been hit from behind with the rifle butt. But it was just possible that he might have a theory about the identity of his attacker. Who, for instance, had access to the church?

The nurse said: ‘One minute, no longer,’ and added: ‘You shouldn’t be here anyway.’

The priest had just been wheeled back from the X-ray department. Anderson sat on a chair beside the bed. He spoke softly. ‘Can you hear me, father?’

He thought he detected a movement of the eyes beneath the lids.

‘It’s me. Shaft. Remember?’

The priest’s eyes opened.

‘Who did it, father? Do you have any ideas?’

The beginnings of the wondrous smile. His lips moved. Anderson leaned over the bed to try and catch the words.

‘A case for Maigret, my son.’

His eyes closed as he lapsed into unconsciousness again.

In the corridor outside, Anderson asked the nurse: ‘Is he going to make it?’

‘God willing,’ the nurse said. ‘He has a hair-line fracture of the skull and he’s concussed. It’s not very serious.’

Relief surged through Anderson. ‘Call me at the Château Saint-Pierre when he regains consciousness.’

And such was his relief that he bent and kissed the startled nurse before striding out of the hospital to the Chevrolet.

Members of the steering committee of Bilderberg summoned Anderson to their presence at 5 pm.

They sat round an oval table in an ante-room overlooking the fountains. The walls were Regency-striped, the drapes heavy green brocade.

The New York banker, who was regarded as the doyen of Bilderberg, had been called to Paris that afternoon. In his place the chairman of a Texas-based oil company, Roland Decker, was doing most of the talking.

Decker wore rimless glasses and his eyes behind them were grey – like his suit and his hair. His accent was Bostonian, the tone rasping. He was also a member of the Council on Foreign Relations. He looked a mean bastard, Anderson thought, momentarily intimidated by the aura of power present. They looked dour. With good cause: they had been discussing the Common Market all morning. And now this.

Decker polished his spectacles with his handkerchief, replaced them and stared at Anderson. ‘Well, Mr Anderson, how bad is it?’

Anderson reeled off the facts – or those he thought they ought to know.

‘Well, gentlemen, what do you think?’ Decker asked the other members of the committee.

Anderson surveyed them curiously. The omnipotent conferring with the omnipotent. How did they react to each other? Did some personalities still dominate? Did any one commodity – oil, steel, chemicals, money – predominate?

A steel magnate, also in grey, said: ‘So you think he’s out to get the lot of us?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

They regarded him without emotion, calculatingly, like first-night critics about to crucify an unrehearsed actor.

Decker said: ‘Have you made any progress, Mr Anderson?’

‘Not so far. It didn’t happen all that long ago.’

‘It shouldn’t have happened at all. The church tower was an obvious vantage point for a sniper.’

‘If it hadn’t happened, then we wouldn’t have had this warning.’

‘Are you suggesting that your inefficiency had benefited us, Mr Anderson?’

Another Bilderberger spoke up. ‘We wouldn’t have had this warning about what?’

Anderson said: ‘My guess is a bomb.’

‘That shouldn’t be too difficult to trace.’

‘I guess not,’ Anderson said.

‘Are you sure you can handle it?’

‘I can handle it. What you have to decide is whether you’re going to pull out or stay put.’

Decker said: ‘The question doesn’t arise. Terrorism only flourishes through weakness. If we dispersed, the Press would get hold of the story. Capitalism routed by one freak. Next year we’d have a dozen freaks and maybe some pros as well. No, Mr Anderson, we don’t quit although I don’t doubt that you’d like us to.’

In a way you had to admire the old bastard. Anderson said: ‘On the contrary, sir, I consider it a privilege to have your lives in my care.’

‘Are you being sarcastic?’

‘No sir.’

The second grey-suit said: ‘It’s a personal decision, of course. Everyone will have to be told about the shooting and Mr Anderson’s fears for our safety. The French President has indicated that he intends to stay.’

‘And we’ll have to make damn sure everyone keeps their mouths shut,’ Decker added. To Anderson he said: ‘That will be all. Keep us informed of your progress.’

Outside the ante-room Anderson glanced at his wrist-watch. In one hour he had to meet more important people than members of the steering committee: he had to meet George Prentice and Helga Keller.

Reporters have a habit of making friends with hotel telephonists. It helps if you are also a trainee manager.