Derek Lambert - I, Said the Spy

They closed up the apartment where Jacques Bertier had mixed his death cocktails and began to walk towards the chȃteau.

‘Now, of course,’ Anderson went on, ‘I understand Fromont’s obsession with Nicholas Foster. I implied I was interested and he tried to plant the blame. He didn’t see Foster and the girl from the French windows on the day of the shooting: he saw them in the village.’

‘One thing puzzles me,’ Moitry said as they entered the lane. ‘What was the significance of the crosses on the photostats of the guest list?’

Anderson grinned at him. ‘Simple when you think about it. The crosses indicated the teetotallers.’

‘But they were all going to be served with the same cocktail – the Bilderberg Special.’

‘Not quite,’ Anderson said. ‘You see alcohol dissipates the bitter almond smell of cyanide, so Bertier had no problems there. But he did with the non-drinkers because they would have smelled the alcohol.’

‘So he found something else to kill the smell of bitter almonds for the teetotallers?’

‘Peppermint,’ Anderson said. ‘As simple as that. Here’s to Bilderberg and down the hatch and the whole goddam lot of them would have been dead within three to five minutes.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Moitry said as they entered the grounds of the chȃteau and headed for the maze. ‘It took Himmler twelve minutes to die.’

The body of Jacques Bertier was being carried away on a stretcher. Spring had re-assembled overnight and the daffodils were raising their rain-battered heads.

Staring at the stretcher, Anderson said: ‘He was very sure of himself. Odd that he should have carried a spare capsule with him, as though he expected failure.’

‘ He didn’t expect to fail,’ Moitry said. ‘It was Georges Bertier who expected to fail.’

‘You know something? You’re a dark horse, inspector,’ Anderson said.

‘I have my moments,’ Moitry said smiling. ‘But I wonder why Foster disappeared….’

Anderson shrugged. ‘God knows, maybe he stole some silver.’ He put his hand on Moitry’s shoulder. ‘I’m going to put in a good word for you, inspector. Tell Paris that without your help we wouldn’t have stopped Fromont.’

‘And in return?’ asked Moitry, who knew that there was always something in return.

‘That reporter from Paris-Match is sniffing around outside. Lock him up for a week or so will you?’

‘It would give me great pleasure,’ said Inspector Moitry.

It was the least he could do for Nicholas Foster, Anderson reflected. Prevent him being scooped while he was locked up in a bell tower.

Prentice told Pete Anello about the attempted massacre, He said: ‘Fromont could have knocked off the whole bunch of them with a poison made from the pips of apples or pears, or the stones of peaches or cherries. How about that?’

‘How about that!’ Anello sat down on the edge of the bed in the motel, picked up a morning newspaper and pointed at an item, MARKS INT. QUITS ARMS RACE. And underneath: SHOCK STATEMENT BY CLAIRE JEROME. ‘Can I go now?’ Anello asked.

‘Not quite yet,’ Prentice said apologetically.

‘Why the hell not, she’s done what we asked her to do?’ Prentice’s eyes strayed towards the attaché case he had brought with him. ‘There are one or two points—’

‘Bullshit!’ Anello lunged with one foot and kicked the attaché case across the room. ‘You know something, old buddy, you look as much like an idealist to me as an Eskimo.’

As Prentice came towards him, he kneed him in the belly. ‘And no Kung Fu stuff this time,’ as Prentice grunted and collapsed on the floor. As he tried to get up, Anello hit him on the side of the neck. Prentice fell back paralysed.

Anello took the car keys from Prentice’s pocket, went into the corridor and locked the door. The Caprice was parked in the driveway; Anello drove in the direction of Paris.

He needed time to think. He had agreed to return to Claire when the announcement about her resignation was made. Now it had been. But what am I? A pathetic pawn, an object to be bartered?

What have you become, Pete Anello?

And why hadn’t Prentice wanted him to go?

Ten minutes later he pulled into a lay-by. The spring sunshine beat through the windscreen. He curled up with his head on the passenger seat. He closed his eyes and soon he smelled burning flesh and cried out as the Viet Cong machine-gun opened up.

The first five million dollars to be received by the United Bank of Switzerland was the ransom transferred by Paul Kingdon.

Helga Keller called him from the booth in the village and said, ‘Goodbye, Mr Kingdon. You have kept your side of the bargain, we shall keep ours.’ She hung up.

Kingdon stared at the receiver for a moment, then replaced it in its cradle. He tried to contact Brossard, but the Frenchman wasn’t taking any calls. Kingdon hammered on the door; no reply.

Could anything have gone wrong? Kingdon, who had left the conference chamber before Prentice announced the change in the attitude of the OPEC countries, shrugged.

He still had his diamonds.

He drove the Ferrari onto the auto-route and headed for Paris. Why the hell had that bastard Prentice suddenly turned on him in his speech?

Bilderberg. Never again. Kingdon shuddered as he thought of the glass of poison six inches from his lips.

He pressed his foot on the accelerator and the Ferrari surged forward at 100 mph.

The deposit of Pierre Brossard’s ransom was confirmed by the bank in Zurich at midday.

Anderson telephoned Brossard from his room to dispatch him on his way and said to Helga Keller: ‘You’re sure he doesn’t know anything about Prentice’s bombshell at the conference?’

Helga shook her head. ‘He’s been sleeping the sleep of the dead. He’s only just woken up.’

‘And he hasn’t contacted Mayard?’

‘I’ve taken all the calls.’

‘He may try to call Mayard now.’

‘Then I’ll have to attend to that.’

She opened the door as George Prentice staggered in.

‘What the hell happened to you?’ Anderson asked. Prentice told them.

‘It needn’t affect anything,’ Anderson said.

‘Unless Mrs Jerome hears that Anello’s got away. She could call off the deal.’

‘She’s late as it is,’ Helga said.

‘A woman’s privilege,’ Anderson said.

Helga went up to Brossard’s room and knocked on the door. ‘Who is it?’

‘Me. Hildegard.’

Brossard opened the door. He looked terrible, Helga thought. His movements were slow and dreamy, his complexion grey.

He said: ‘Call Mayard. Make sure the column’s been published.’ He hardly seemed able to control his voice.

‘Very well, Monsieur Brossard.’

She called her own apartment in Paris and said: ‘Monsieur Mayard, please,’ and asked the phantom at the other end about Midas’ column.

Brossard went into the bathroom. She replaced the receiver quickly and called out: ‘Everything’s fine, Monsieur Brossard. Mayard says the column is causing a sensation.’

Brossard came out of the bathroom. He seemed to have gathered a little strength. ‘Help me pack my luggage,’ he said. ‘You will make your own way back to Paris?’

‘As soon as you have departed.’

On the way to the Citroen, Helga told him about the mass murder attempt.

He leaned against the car as though he were about to faint.

‘Good-bye, Monsieur Brossard,’ she said as Brossard switched on the ignition. ‘For ever,’ she said as the Citroen moved away from her towards the gates of the chȃteau.

It was 4 am.