Derek Lambert - I, Said the Spy

If the Midas column failed to appear then the speculators, poised to sell, would draw back. And the Soviet Union would be left out on a limb selling dollars which might then rally. The Kremlin – not the White House – would be humiliated!

Banished to obscurity? Hardly a fitting punishment for such a catastrophe. No, he would be taken to Lubyanka Prison which lay somewhere beneath his own office. The head of the KGB suffering the same fate as the thousands he had personally consigned to the bleak white-tiled dungeons. Vlasov pondered on their fate and his soul was touched with ice.

He decided to visit the President of the Foreign Bank and seek his assessment of the crisis. He told his secretary to call his chauffeur.

The black limousine pulled away from the bleak building – part of it once owned by the All-Russian Insurance Company before the Revolution, the other portion built partly by Germans captured in World War II – and Vlasov settled back in the cushions.

He had three alternatives:

(1) Call the whole thing off. He would be disgraced and prematurely retired but at least he would be able to salvage some dignity.

(2) Proceed with the plan without consulting the Politburo, which would only acknowledge complicity in the event of success.

(3) Get to Brossard who was apparently incommunicado and force him to publish the column.

The whole operation, he ruminated, had started to go wrong with the attempt to kill Brossard. In all probability, according to a previous message from Helga Keller, the work of a madman.

The limousine stopped outside the headquarters of the bank and Vlasov was ushered into the presence of the President, Sergei Visotsky.

Visotsky, a bulky man with incongruously tiny hands, produced a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka and two glasses. He chain-smoked and his crumpled suit was scattered with ash. He always appeared to be weighted with worry, and when he sat down it was as though the weight had dragged him to the seat.

Vlasov handed him the decoded message, waited while he read it and said: ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘It’s a disaster.’

Visotsky drank his vodka in one swallow and picked up the bottle again with his little hands.

Vlasov looked at him contemptuously. Fear should be contained in company: it was part of an unwritten code. He had seen men die under torture without displaying it.

‘The point is,’ Vlasov said, ‘is it true?’

‘How should I know? That’s your job.’

‘Agreed. But why should a man with everything to win and nothing to lose by publishing lies, suddenly back out? I’m asking,’ Vlasov said, ‘because you know the man as a financier. I only know him as a spy.’

‘He would only do it if he thought the dollar was going to rally. Obviously he would buy then rather than sell.’

‘Without informing us?’ Vlasov put his fingers to his fragile-looking temples. ‘No, Monsieur Brossard wouldn’t do that. He knows the penalty for betrayal.’

‘Are you suggesting he didn’t cancel the column?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘Then what are you going to do?’ a little courage gained from the bottle.

Vlasov listed the three alternatives.

Visotsky said: ‘In the circumstances we cannot possibly proceed without informing the Politburo.’

‘That is for me to decide,’ Vlasov snapped. ‘All I want to know from you is this: Can we succeed without Brossard’s column?’

‘It’s possible – if other parties start selling on a large enough scale. And if we issue a statement through Tass which will be picked up by the Western media. But I wouldn’t advise it.’

‘I didn’t think you would. Bankers are not by nature adventurous. But don’t worry, comrade, it’s my responsibility. You are under my orders and if anything goes wrong it is I who will suffer.’

They were silent for a moment, musing on the form the suffering would take.

‘Anyway,’ Vlasov said, ‘we still have a little time. I have to make contact with Brossard.’

‘Is that so difficult?’

‘If he is reluctant, yes. As you know he is at Bilderberg – and he is surrounded by police. But I can make contact with his secretary. It so happens that she works for us.’

‘And is she completely trustworthy?’

Vlasov, who trusted no-one, considered the question. Within his own personal assessment of human frailty, Helga Keller was as trustworthy as any agent. However….

He told Visotsky: ‘She has served us well,’ and thought: ‘It would be the simplest thing in the world for Helga Keller to have transmitted a false message to Paris.’

Vlasov stood up. ‘Leave it to me, Comrade Visotsky. Stay close to your telephone.’ He paused at the door. ‘And please remember that this conversation has been confidential. You will not discuss it with anyone.’

‘I understand,’ Visotsky said, reaching once again for the bottle of fire-water.

Back in his office Vlasov composed a message to be coded and sent to the Soviet Embassy in Paris.

Then he picked up the dossier on Pierre Brossard. Really, the bastard didn’t deserve to live. If he had betrayed them then, of course, he wouldn’t. It would be a job for Department V.

Mayard read the Telex message, which had been waiting for him on the machine, when he got to the newspaper office.

He read it with relief.

The column had been altogether too sensational. Barely credible. Granted Brossard had access to exclusive information at Bilderberg. But surely a financial editor would have heard at least a whisper of such incredible developments.

The cancellation now presented one outstanding problem: a great blank space on the front page.

Mayard reached for a cigar from the box on his desk and re-read the message.

CANCEL COLUMN TRANSMITTED YESTERDAY STOP NONE OF THE INFORMATION CONTAINED IN THE COLUMN MUST BE PRINTED STOP REPEAT NONE SIGNED BROSSARD.

Did Brossard intend to write a substitute column?

In a way Mayard wished Brossard hadn’t cancelled his story. If, as it appeared, the facts were wrong then Brossard would have become a laughing stock. Mayard would have enjoyed that.

Now he had to determine Brossard’s intentions. He picked up the telephone, called the Château Saint-Pierre and asked for Brossard.

The telephonist told him that Brossard was not to be disturbed. All calls were being referred to Fraulein Metz. Mayard shrugged: it was virtually the same as talking to Brossard.

He waited for a couple of minutes while they contacted her.

‘So,’ Mayard said when she came on the phone, ‘he has got cold feet. Quite rightly I should think. The point is, does he intend to write another column?’

‘I doubt it,’ Helga said. ‘He’s suffering from shock.’ She told Mayard about the shooting.

Mayard listened incredulously and thought: ‘Why did the stupid bastard miss?’

‘Of course, none of this must be repeated,’ Helga said. ‘And naturally there must be no mention of it in the paper.’

‘Naturally. So what shall I do? Write his column for him? You are his eyes and ears.’

‘The decision is yours. After all, you are the editor.’

‘Thank you for reminding me, Fraulein Metz.’

Mayard replaced the receiver and stared at the blank sheet of paper on which he had to make up the front page. Should he write the Midas column? No, he thought, to hell with it; another row within the EEC, blaming as usual the British, would suffice for the lead story.

But if only the gunman had taken better aim….

In Washington Vlasov’s opposite number on the CIA, William Danby, had also considered a report from the Château Saint-Pierre with alarm.

According to Owen Anderson, there was a possibility that their shared annual nightmare might come true: a homicidal maniac might have found a way to perpetrate mass murder.