Derek Lambert - I, Said the Spy

‘Meanwhile we shall profit by that mistake; that is the function of mistakes. Do not believe for one second, gentlemen, that the shortage of oil is confined to those countries that we represent here today – even though there are those who would have you believe it. As I have said, the separate ideologies are set to coalesce. The catalyst may well be the co-operative endeavour of the great powers to find the solution to the crisis which threatens to bring the world to a standstill.’

If he had made the address a couple of years ago Prentice would have stopped there. At least he had preached hope.

But now he had to add a clause – to prevent a crime of global proportions being perpetrated. And to safeguard his own future.

He said to the chairman: ‘If you would spare me just one more minute of the conference’s time….’

The chairman nodded.

Prentice said: ‘I should like to offer you a measure of proof of my optimism which is admittedly idealistic. At the moment the crisis is confined to oil. Can anything be more optimistic than the intelligence that has just reached me?’

He paused. Silence. He had his audience. They knew that George Prentice’s sources were always good.

He waved a sheet of paper and said: ‘I have just learned that the OPEC countries have agreed to lower – yes, lower – the price of oil and continue its uninterrupted flow to the United States of America.’

He sat down and watched as, one by one, those delegates who speculated in currency made their apologies to the chairman and headed for the telephones.

‘…allow its uninterrupted flow to the United States of America.’

Suzy said: ‘Three cheers.’ And then: ‘What do you think they’re going to do to us?’

‘God knows,’ Foster said. ‘They can’t release us until they’ve escaped.’

‘I wouldn’t want to hand them over to the police anyway,’ Suzy said.

‘Nor me.’

‘I don’t think they would have killed us in the graveyard.’

‘What I want to know is what the hell they’re up to. It’s got to be blackmail. And yet that doesn’t seem like them. The victims would have to deserve being blackmailed.’ He thought about it. ‘Brossard, yes. Kingdon?’

‘Why not?’ Suzy said. ‘He can afford it. He’s robbed enough people in his time.’

‘What about Mrs Jerome?’

‘Arms,’ Suzy said.

‘So what form does the blackmail take? Brossard, for instance. I suppose we shall never know. If he hadn’t been so bloody mean, he wouldn’t have been shot in the first place. And if he had paid to teletype his column direct to Paris instead of cutting the cost by taping it, I might not have found it.’ He sat up and switched off the tape recorder with his manacled hands. ‘They’re taking a break, we mustn’t waste the tape.’

‘What about Mrs Jerome?’ Suzy said. ‘How would they blackmail her?’

‘Got to be something to do with arms dealing. Double-dealing probably. What about Kingdon?’ staring down into her eyes.

‘I promised.’

‘My guess is diamonds. Something to do with all his lousy diamonds. Am I right?’

‘You shouldn’t ask me.’

‘You’re right, I shouldn’t.’

‘So let’s assume they’re each being blackmailed for five million dollars. Fifteen million to be split three ways because I’m sure Brossard’s secretary’s in on it. Fifteen million!’ Nicholas whistled.

‘You’ll have quite a story to tell,’ Suzy said.

‘If anyone cares about Bilderberg after Brossard’s published his column.’ Nicholas lay back uncomfortably and stared at the bells. ‘Wait a minute, if Brossard’s right and the dollar crashes, then the fifteen million dollars ransom won’t be worth the paper it’s printed on.’

Suzy said: ‘In that case they must be trying to kill his story.’

‘Which will leave me with mine.’

‘Just remember, don’t get too successful.’

‘It’s got the lot,’ Nicholas said, ‘Shooting, blackmail, verbatim transcripts of secret meetings….’

They heard footsteps on the stairs. It was Prentice. He brought more food and two bottles of wine, one red and one white.

He unlocked the cuffs around their ankles and took them to the rest room in the vestry separately, then he secured their ankles again.

He said: ‘What did you think of my speech?’

‘Great,’ Nicholas said.

‘I meant it, you know. It’s got to happen one day. The game will shortly be up for those who feed off discord. Not necessarily through the energy crisis – I used that for immediacy. But we are merging.’

Nicholas and Suzy nodded.

Prentice poured them some wine. ‘What did you think about the last part?’

‘Getting in before Midas?’ Foster asked.

‘As I said, bright as a button.’

‘If, that is, the Midas column ever appears….’

‘Too bright,’ Prentice said and closed the door behind him.

At 4.15 pm, a quarter of an hour before the Swiss banks closed for the day, Anderson telephoned Zurich. The United Bank had been alerted to expect large deposits in the numbered account but so far none had arrived.

He wandered into the bar where Jules Fromont was lining up his Bilderberg Specials on the bar for the cocktail party. He contemplated drinking one, opted instead for a beer.

He said to Jules: ‘Anything more?’

‘Nothing, m’sieur. Everyone seems convinced that the man who shot Brossard was Nicholas Foster. I did mention to you that he had been to the village with that Chinese girl….’

Anderson said: ‘Well, it isn’t over yet. Keep your ears open.’

‘Oui, m’sieur.’

Anderson stared through the French windows. The drizzle had thinned to a thick mist. The sky was grey and the gardens were a melancholy place.

The Tannoy crackled. ‘Will Monsieur Anderson please pick up the nearest telephone.’

It was the hospital: the priest had regained consciousness.

He called Helga Keller, then drove to the hospital ten miles away.

The nurse he had kissed when he knew that the priest wasn’t badly hurt, was standing beside the reception desk. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. He has relapsed into unconsciousness.’

‘Does that mean he’s worse?’

‘We don’t think so. He will drift back and forth for a little while now.’

‘Okay,’ Anderson said, ‘I’ll hang around for a while. Will you call me as soon as he comes round again?’

‘Of course.’ She looked at him warily but not, he decided, without interest; then she walked briskly away.

But it wasn’t until 6.15 that she returned. ‘You can see him now,’ she said. ‘The doctor in charge says it’s all right. But only for a few minutes.’

The priest was propped up against two pillows. His head was swathed in bandages. As before, the sight of him lying there wounded, angered Anderson more than anything else that had happened at Bilderberg.

The priest’s smile spread between the bandages. ‘Good evening, my son.’

‘Good evening, father.’ Anderson sat on the chair beside the bed and spoke urgently. ‘Did you see who did it, father?’

The priest looked at him vaguely. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘he knew I hadn’t seen him. If I had he would have killed me.’

The priest was talking as though he knew the identity of his attacker. ‘Who, father?’ Please God, WHO? The priest closed his eyes but the smile remained.

Anderson sat back; sweat trickled down his chest inside his shirt.

The priest opened his eyes again. ‘Monsieur Anderson, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, father, I’m Anderson. Can you… please… do you know who hit you?’

‘You see,’ said the priest, blinking his eyes, ‘he must have heard my footsteps on the stairs. He was waiting behind the door….’