Derek Lambert - I, Said the Spy

Foster’s thoughts raced ahead. It was significant that Brossard had been placed in a room next to Kingdon, even if he had asked to be moved. Significant, too, that Mrs Claire Jerome and her body guard Anello had been allotted rooms next to them, because he had just learned that Anello had apparently disappeared.

It was no coincidence that everything seemed to lead to that cluster of rooms at the end of a corridor in the west wing.

A conspiracy? Blackmail with Anello as the extortionist? Five million dollars from Brossard, maybe five from Kingdon and Mrs Jerome. He would have to find a way of checking whether they had made any similar transactions.

But first the story of the shooting.

He picked up the tapes, tore the messages off the Telex and slid them into the inside pocket of his jacket. Then he switched off the current and let himself out of the room.

It was 7 pm. Time to catch the first edition in London. The scoop of a lifetime.

Anderson met him at the entrance to the annexe. ‘I’d like to have a little chat with you, Mr Foster.’

‘Can’t it wait?’

‘No, Mr Foster,’ Anderson said, ‘it sure as hell can’t. Shall we go to your room?’

Anderson locked the door behind them, drew the curtains, pointed to a chair and said: ‘Sit down, Mr Foster, and tell me just what the hell your game is.’

Foster sat down while, fingers in the pockets of his waistcoat, Anderson regarded him from above. Nicholas could see the bulge of his pistol beneath the chocolate brown jacket of his suit.

‘I asked you a question,’ Anderson said.

The room seemed smaller than ever with Anderson standing in it. Not only that but there was something subtly different about it; Foster tried to determine what it was.

He said: ‘I heard the question. What am I supposed to say? I’m a trainee manager. I know that, you know that.’

‘We both know you’re lying,’ Anderson said.

‘Correction. You think you know I’m lying. I know I’m not.’

‘And I don’t like smart-asses,’ Anderson said.

Foster shrugged. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me I’ve got important things to do.’

Anderson dangled the door-key on one finger. ‘Like what?’

Foster eyed the telephone. The time element was already finely balanced. He wasn’t an accredited correspondent and they would have to check his story. But a newspaper’s Paris correspondent was expected to have good police and political contacts. Foster also intended to give them the name of the doctor who had attended Brossard. They would put in a barrage of phone calls to the village and the hotel. From the denials and half-truths supplied by unwary members of the staff, the truth would begin to emerge; truth based on information supplied by Nicholas Foster who had established a reputation for reliability on Reuters.

But it was getting late for the first edition….

‘Like what?’ Anderson repeated.

‘Like the preparations for tomorrow’s cocktail party.’

‘They can wait.’ Anderson reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. Foster expected to see a gun in his hand. Instead he brought out Foster’s notes. ‘Funny place to keep them. Under a floor-tile.’

Foster stood up: ‘What right have you—’

‘Every right in the goddam world.’ Anderson pushed him back into the chair and stood over him menacingly. ‘Just what the fuck are these notes?’

‘What do they look like? Notes about the conference,’ Foster said. So that was what was different about the room: it had been searched.

‘Why would you want to make notes like that?’

‘Because I have an inquisitive mind.’

Anderson scanned the notes. ‘I see you recorded the numbers of every guest’s room. Even Brossard’s when he moved to the east wing.’

Suddenly Foster realised where the questions were leading. ‘Christ,’ he exclaimed, ‘you don’t think—’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time a journalist has created his own story. And you are a journalist, aren’t you, Mr Foster?’

‘You think I fired that shot?’

‘I know you did.’

‘This is bloody ridiculous. I’ve never fired a rifle in my life.’

‘The man who fired the shot wasn’t so hot. I’m going to hand you over to the French cops,’ moving towards Foster.

‘Just a minute.’ Foster tried to marshal his thoughts. One thing was obvious: he wouldn’t be able to file a story from a police cell. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’m a journalist.’

‘Okay,’ Anderson said. ‘Tell me all about it. We’ve got plenty of time – we’ve swept the whole goddam hotel and there isn’t a trace of an explosive device. Did you intend to plant a bomb? Or was the story good enough as it stands?’

‘Look,’ Foster said, ‘I’ll be straight with you.’

He told Anderson how he had been sacked, how he had got the job in the hotel. ‘And I’ve got a hell of a story.’ To prove it he handed Anderson the Telex messages. That’s what Brossard filed to his paper.’

Anderson glanced at it, pursed his lips. ‘Dynamite. If it’s true, which I doubt.’

‘Brossard is a highly respectable journalist.’

‘So it’s his story, not yours.’

A part of Foster’s consciousness recorded the fact that Anderson didn’t seem to react sufficiently to Brossard’s sensational revelations. But he was now only concerned with proving genuine journalistic endeavour, establishing that he wanted to co-operate with the American Secret Serviceman.

He said: ‘I’m also onto something else that will interest you.’

‘You’ve been a busy bee.’

‘A conspiracy involving Brossard, Kingdon and possibly Mrs Claire Jerome.’

Later Foster was to conclude that it was at this moment that Anderson’s attitude changed. The toughness remained but it was compounded by a new wariness.

‘What kind of a conspiracy?’

‘I don’t know. But I do know that Brossard and Kingdon are connected. You see, I found out that Kingdon knew what Brossard was going to write in his column. So my guess is that Brossard tipped him off so that he can make a killing before the bottom falls out of the market.’

‘Interesting,’ Anderson said. He sat down opposite Foster. ‘I won’t ask you how you know this. But carry on.’

‘The rooms occupied by Brossard, Kingdon, Mrs Jerome and her bodyguard Peter Anello are all together, right?’

Anderson nodded, staring speculatively at Foster.

‘Now all of a sudden Anello goes missing. I presume you must be working on the theory that he tried to shoot Brossard.’

Anderson measured his words. ‘I can assure you that we have eliminated him from our inquiries. Is that all you have to tell me, Mr Foster?’

Foster shook his head. ‘I have another theory. Supposing Anello found out about the conspiracy between Brossard and Kingdon – through Mrs Jerome, perhaps – and decided to blackmail them.’

‘Blackmail.’ Anderson seemed to savour the word. ‘Now just what the hell gave you that idea?’

‘Because Brossard suddenly decided to transfer five million dollars to a numbered account in Zurich. Now why the hell would he decide to do that in the middle of the Bilderberg conference?’

Anderson’s voice was taut as he asked: ‘Did you get the number of that account, Mr. Foster?’

Foster fished in his jacket pocket and brought out the two short messages that the Telex tape had punched out. He handed them to Anderson who read them carefully.

‘What’s more I’ve memorised it,’ Foster said and recited the number; CR 58432/91812.’

‘Well I’ll be a sonofabitch!’ Anderson reached for the telephone and asked for Prentice’s room, and when the connection was made said: ‘George, get your ass down to Room 38 in the annexe. We’ve got trouble. And George – bring your medical bag.’