Derek Lambert: I, Said the Spy

‘What the hell’s gone wrong?’ Anderson asked.

They sat in his room. Their bags were packed. Helga’s Renault stood in the driveway outside. Anderson had a chess problem in front of him, Prentice a crossword-puzzle; neither was making any progress.

‘Maybe George was right,’ Helga said. ‘Maybe she’s opted out. Maybe Anello called her.’

‘Then why is she still in the hotel?’ Prentice asked. He winced and put one hand to his neck.

Helga looked at him solicitously.

‘Don’t worry,’ Prentice said. ‘I deserved it. It’s time I quit.’

Anderson called the bank again. Nothing. ‘I wonder where the hell Anello is,’ he said.

Claire Jerome finished typing her report for the President of the United States. During the conference she had learned about several big arms deals being negotiated by other czars of munitions. Behind every such deal was a notice of intent – the exchange of one super-power mentor for another, a shift from peaceable to aggressive policies…. The President and his advisers would be able to make much of her information and the intelligence supplied by other participants. Particularly with regard to the crisis in Afghanistan.

She finished the report with an air of finality: she had carried out all her commitments and she didn’t give a damn about anything any more.

Her hair was disarrayed, her clothing crumpled. She wished she had drunk the poison.

The statement announcing her resignation had been published, but Anello hadn’t come back. He was waiting for the five million along with the other blackmailers.

You poor pathetic bitch, she thought. How long ago had he planned it? How long had he been laughing at her? Had he been repulsed by her love-making?

Let him have his share of the five million. But what have I got? Nothing but the empty future. She refused to cry. She picked up her bag, opened the door and walked into the arms of Pete Anello.

And then she cried.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked a few minutes later.

‘Thinking.’

‘About what?’

‘About us.’

For a moment she thought he was going to say that he was leaving. ‘Did you reach any conclusions?’

‘Sure I did. We’re going into business.’

‘I thought I just got out of business,’ she said.

‘Rehabilitation,’ he said. ‘Of Vietnamese veterans. The war’s been over a long time, but a hell of a lot of us haven’t been rehabilitated yet. There are various societies but they need money….’

Then because she felt she might start to cry again she asked: ‘When did you think all this out?’

‘Maybe thirty minutes ago,’ he told her. ‘Sitting in the car. As though I’d been searching for the answer for a long time. How does it grab you?’

‘It grabs me,’ she said and: ‘Pete, why did you come back?’

‘Because I need you,’ he said quietly. ‘ You – not just your money.’

Soon, she thought as she went to him, she would tell him about the $5 million. But not now. There was plenty of time.

At 4.20 the phone rang in Anderson’s room.

Anderson answered it, spoke briefly.

Then he turned to the other two and said: ‘We are now richer by fifteen million bucks.’

He uncorked the bottle of champagne that had been waiting on ice. They touched glasses. ‘Here’s to an honourable retirement.’

‘I’ll drink to that,’ Prentice said.

‘And me,’ said Helga, slipping one arm round Prentice’s waist.

‘And perhaps,’ said Prentice, ‘a toast to our benefactors. The United States of America, Great Britain and the Soviet Union.’

Anderson drove first to the village. While Prentice and Helga waited in the Renault parked behind the church, he told Foster and Suzy Okana about the poisoning attempt.

‘There’s just one thing,’ Foster said after he had thanked Anderson.

‘I know. How the hell can you send the story when you’re trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. Don’t worry, the French police will shortly hear about your plight.’

Foster said: ‘Tell me one thing, why are you doing this for me?’

‘I’m not. I’m doing it for Suzy. You’ll need the bread you earn from the story to keep her in the style to which she’s accustomed.’ He grinned at them. ‘Take care,’ and was gone.

Anderson made one last stop before driving south to Auxerre where they would change the car and their identities, before continuing the journey to Madrid to catch a flight to Rio de Janeiro.

He pulled up outside the hospital where the priest was recovering and went inside carrying a bundle of books he had borrowed from the château library.

He met the nurse he had once kissed in the lobby, and asked her to give them to the priest.

She looked at the books in surprise. ‘But they’re all thrillers. Are you sure he’ll like them?’

‘Tell him they’re from Shaft, he’ll understand.’ He paused. ‘Have you ever been to South America?’

‘No, but—’

‘I’ll call you,’ Anderson said.

After Anderson had gone, Foster and Suzy Okana continued the work they had begun during the night. Pushing and pulling with their legs, trying to dislodge the railings from their wooden foundations.

The hand-cuffs bit into their flesh and their ankles were raw and bleeding beneath the old curtains covering them. Once or twice Suzy had nearly screamed out, but now she had grown used to the pain.

The wood began to splinter… the railings to which their ankles were manacled moved….

‘We’re nearly there,’ Foster said.

‘When the police arrive do we tell them about Anderson and Prentice?’

Foster shook his head. ‘Of course not.’

Push, pull, push… the railings burst free from the woodwork and their feet shot through the space and hit one of the bells.

The bell swung against its neighbour and the chimes rang out across the countryside, summoning police instead of worshippers to the House of God.

Hearing the bells Anderson said: ‘You know something? Right from the start I underestimated Foster.’ He put his foot down on the accelerator. ‘But if I’m any judge of human nature he won’t blow us.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘What do you think?’

Helga said: ‘I think he would have made a good spy.’

‘Well,’ Prentice said, putting his arm around her, ‘there are a few vacancies around.’

Anderson drove onto the autoroute and together they headed south towards the future.

That day the dollar continued the rally that had started the previous evening, and there were those who blamed clandestine dealings at Bilderberg. But, as always, they were unable to prove it.

In his timbered home in Surrey Paul Kingdon digested two unpallatable facts:

(1) According to an expert in Hatton Garden, the Jager Formula was a fake and he had been conned out of five million dollars.

(2) He had been double crossed by Pierre Brossard whose Midas column had not appeared.

The first fierce anger had subsided. He poured himself a generous Scotch. The task at hand was to rally support for Kingdon Investments.

He raised his glass to the old, rust-coloured ten shilling note in the showcase on the wall. ‘Here we go again,’ he said. ‘There’s one born every minute,’ and downed his whisky.

The front door bell rang, and Kingdon saw on the closed circuit television screen the figure of a policeman. He opened the door.

‘Mr Paul Kingdon?’

‘That’s me.’

‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ the policeman said. ‘Failure to answer a summons for exceeding the speed limit….’