Derek Lambert - I, Said the Spy

The girl said: ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Gaudin, we have been trying to locate Monsieur Foster but he is not answering his telephone.’

The subject scheduled for discussion that morning was the fuel crisis. But, inevitably, the resurgence of the Cold War following the Soviet intervention in Afghanistan intruded into the debate. And the American hostages in Iran.

Hawks sharpened their talons and raised contingency plans for military action to safeguard oil supplies in the Middle-East. And the cooing of doves was heard not at all.

Some of the delegates listened to the speeches through headphones supplying instant translation into French and English. Some scarcely listened at all, their minds on the threat hanging over the conference.

One or two founder members considered the possibility, tentatively discussed outside the chamber, that the gunman was a guest – and rejected the possibility as preposterous.

Gaudin had told Roland Decker about the telephone call that morning. But Decker had decided not to make an announcement. Members knew that a threat existed. They had all agreed to stay and there was no point in dramatising the situation. In their time most Bilderbergers had received threatening calls.

Brossard did not make an appearance. The conference was told that he was ‘still shaky’. Helga Keller told the switchboard not to put any calls through to his room; any urgent messages were to be diverted to Hildegard Metz.

In the kitchens, preparations for the dinner that night after the cocktail party got under way. This time it was to be a Burgundy-style feast. Rich and spicy. Escargots, veal braised in varieties of Dijon mustard, wine from the Romanée-Conti vineyard. For those who would find such a menu unacceptable the head chef, who presided over twenty-five cooks, had on the advice of the Secretariat devised other meals, volubly expressing his disgust.

Lunch would again be a buffet, accompanied by a choice of wines from twenty-five vineyards.

As the day got underway, the switchboard dealt with an increasingly heavy load of international calls. The three Telex machines chattered unceasingly. Security officers again swept the hotel from cellar to attic.

During the morning the weather changed. Bruised clouds hung heavily from the sky. And, as the conference broke up for the mid-morning break, the first heavy spots of rain fell. Then the deluge.

The rain spattered mud as high as the ground-floor windows; it filled the gutters and devastated the clumps of daffodils; it drowned the splashing of the fountains and in the water-gardens the carp rose to the surface.

Claire Jerome attended the opening session of the conference. Members agreed that she looked exceptionally attractive – dressed in lime-green with gold hooped earrings – but a little drawn. Which was understandable: the announcement of her resignation from the board of Marks International had been in most of the European newspapers that morning.

There was considerable speculation about the reasons for her resignation among the guests – as there was in the Press. Why had she chosen to synchronise the announcement with the convention? It only served to strengthen the hand of those who accused Bilderberg of intrigue and manipulation.

Perhaps it was connected with the disappearance of her bodyguard. A lovers’ tiff…. How old was Claire Jerome anyway? ‘God knows,’ murmured one delegate to another. ‘But if my wife looked like that at her age I wouldn’t be spending tomorrow night in Paris.’

When they adjourned for coffee, Claire went to the porter’s desk to pick up her key. In her pigeon hole was a bunch of messages, all requests for her to contact the media – the New York Times , NBC, CBS and ABC television networks, Time and Newsweek magazines….. She tore up all of them except one: A Mr Tilmissan called. Please telephone him immediately in Beirut

She went up to her room and placed the call to the number he had given her at their last meeting.

While she waited for the call, she lay on the bed and watched the rain streaming down the window. It was typical of the middleman that he had reacted so swiftly to the announcement.

Before the men holding Pete Anello!

She closed her eyes. In the announcement she had fulfilled all their demands. Surely they should have released him by now? Unless he was one of the conspirators….

In which case everything had been taken from her. The man she loved and the purpose in life which had sustained her before she met him.

The phone rang; she picked up the receiver attached to the control system.

Tilmissan said: ‘Is it true?’

‘It’s true.’

‘What about our deal?’

‘Marks International doesn’t renege on contracts. Your merchandise is on its way.’

‘And future deals?’

‘You’ll have to consult Mr Stephen Harsch.’

‘What surprises me,’ Tilmissan said, ‘is the abruptness of your decision. The timing. It’s almost as if someone was standing behind you holding a gun.’

‘One of mine, I hope.’

‘Why, Mrs Jerome? Why?’

‘I’ve been thinking about it for a long time.’

‘You weren’t thinking about it the last time we met.’

‘As I recall it, we didn’t discuss my personal life. You were dealing with Marks International then and you can continue to do so. You’ve got your million bucks, Mr Tilmissan. Just leave it at that.’

A million dollars, she reflected as she hung up the receiver, and an appointment with death in the shape of a ship-load of flawed weaponry.

The phone rang again. The telephonist said: ‘A call for you from Washington, Madame. The gentleman on the other end of the line insists that he’s not from the Press and says it’s very urgent.’

‘Put him on.’

In Washington it was barely dawn. Bein or Eyal?

The voice on the phone was flat and disciplined and dangerous. Bein. She imagined him not in Washington but in the desert wearing combat fatigues speaking into a field telephone, which was where he would probably prefer to be.

He said: ‘I heard your announcement on the radio. I just wanted to know if this changes anything.’

‘It changes nothing.’

‘May I ask why, Mrs Jerome?’

‘Personal reasons.’

‘Then I respect them. Thank you for what you have done, Mrs Jerome. On behalf of my country.’

Then she was alone again in her room that was a cell, staring through the raindrops shivering on the window-panes before streaming down the glass.

There was a bus into Etampes at midday with a connection to Paris. Suzy Okana was packed and ready to leave by 10 am.

Dawn had been a bleak and hopeless experience. But now her despair was rasped with anger. No-one treated Suzy Okana as though she were dirt, as though she had been paid and dismissed for services rendered.

Watched suspiciously by the wife of the owner who had disturbed her packing, she walked to the public phone booth in the village.

The rain was just starting to fall. She called the château and spoke first to Paul Kingdon.

She said: ‘I’ve been thinking about your proposition.’

‘And?’

‘Why not? I’ve got nothing to lose.’

‘Your enthusiasm overwhelms me.’

‘I haven’t changed. It’s just an extension of our relationship. Right?’

‘I hope our relationship will change when this is all over.’

‘Are they—’

‘Not over the telephone,’ Kingdon interrupted her. ‘But nothing’s changed. I have to pay the… the fee. Then we settle down in Switzerland.’

‘I’m going to London first,’ she said.

‘Why the hell are you doing that?’

She said: ‘It doesn’t matter why.’