I, Said the Spy

Anderson knew about that meeting. It had been chronicled in a book by B. C. Forbes, former editor of Forbes magazine, in a book Men Who Are Making America published in 1917. And it was true that a new currency system had been written on the aptly named Jekyll Island. A government outside the government …. Just what the critics claimed Bilderberg was.

Of the 1957 Bilderberg, Pegler wrote: ‘The public knows substantially nothing about the meeting nor even who selected the company to attend or on what qualifications.’

Well, the guest-list was drawn up by an international steering committee, and Bilderberg had a Secretariat located at Smidswater 1, The Hague, Holland.

The bedside telephone buzzed and Anderson reached for it.

‘Mr Anderson?’ The nasal voice of the janitor.

‘Speaking. What is it, the bathroom?’

‘ ’Fraid so, Mr Anderson, another complaint from the folk underneath.’

‘How many times is that?’

‘About ten, I guess.’

‘Well fix it, goddam it,’ Anderson said with the full authority of a man who owned a property. He cradled the phone, drank some cold coffee and picked up a sheaf of ammunition supplied by the Liberty Lobby.

The Liberty Lobby, with offices at 300, Independence Avenue, S.E., Washington D.C., was the sworn enemy of Bilderberg. Over the years they hadn’t achieved much; small wonder when they were pitted against the power-elite of the West. But they were a thorn in the sides of Prince Bernhard and the other participants.

Anderson ran one finger down the list of Bilderberg meeting places ….

1955 – Barbizon, France, and Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany; 1956 – Fredensborg, Denmark; 1957 – St. Simon’s Island and Fiuggi, Italy; 1958 – sleepy little Buxton in England; 1959 – Yesilkoy, Turkey; 1960 – Burgenstock, Switzerland; 1961 – Quebec, Canada; 1962 – Saltsjobaden, Sweden; 1963 – Cannes, France; 1964 – Williamsburg, Virginia; 1965 – Lake Como, Italy ….

Anderson, who hadn’t become the Bilderbergers’ guardian angel until 1971, was sorry he had missed that one. They had stayed, of course, at the best hotel, the baronial Villa d’Este, said by some to be the best hotel in Italy. And the guest list had, as always, been impressive. Among those present, the Duke of Edinburgh, George W. Ball, one of the two innovators and Under-secretary of State, David Rockefeller (a regular), Lord Louis Mountbatten, Denis Healey, Britain’s Minister of Defence and Manlio Brosio, secretary of NATO.

Writing about the Lake Como get-together, Walter Lucas of The Christian Science Monitor, had commented: ‘But there is nothing mysterious or sinister about it all.’

A good Christian conclusion, Anderson thought. If a little naive ….

1966 – Wiesbaden, Germany; 1967 – Cambridge (surely a dangerous location!), England; 1968 – Mont Tremblant, Canada; 1969 – Copenhagen, Denmark; 1970 – Bad Ragaz, Switzerland.

Then Woodstock, followed by Knokke in Belgium – a golden opportunity to screw the Russians sabotaged by George Prentice, Saltsjobaden once again, Megeve in France and now Cesme.

He thumbed through the documents supplied by the Liberty Lobby, stopping at an extract from the Congressional Record dated September 15, 1971. John R. Rarick, of Louisiana, had once again raised Bilderberg in the House of Representatives – his fifth foray that year.

Rarick asserted that he had tried, so far unsuccessfully, to get the U.S. Attorney General to take action against Bilderberg on the grounds that it violated the Logan Act.

He also inserted into the Record a revised article by two authors, Eugene Pasymowski and Carl Gilbert, which first appeared in the Temple University Press. The article was the most comprehensive Anderson had come across.

It drew attention to the preponderance of members of the Council on Foreign Relations, among the American participants. It also underlined the ties with NATO and the big bands of the West.

But even these two writers, who had obviously exhaustively researched their subject, had failed to discover what was actually said during discussions on such subjects as the ‘contribution of business in dealing with the current problems of social instability.’

They should have access to my little bugs, Anderson thought.

The critics, of course, claimed that Bilderbergers schemed outside the conference chamber. Claimed, for instance, that after the Woodstock meeting, American speculators dispatched billions of dollars to West Germany – and made billions when Richard Nixon devalued the dollar a few weeks later.

Well, only the mentally-retarded would believe that fluctuation in currencies, in gold and silver, was outside the interests of Bilderbergers; that they didn’t concern themselves with political manipulation, the removal of unfriendly regimes, supplies of armaments and raw materials to the right people ….

The few Bilderbergers who had ever discussed the meetings – albeit uncommittally – had agreed that contact was everything. Only a simpleton would accept that they didn’t profit from that contact.

The Vietnam War that had ended for America on January 23, 1973, had undoubtedly taken up much of their time – Henry Kissinger frequently attended the meetings …. Soon the Prince Bernhard scandal would break. Would the fact that their illustrious chairman had accepted bribes be the end of Bilderberg? Anderson doubted it: that sort of clout could ride any storm.

One of the most succinct comments in Anderson’s file was made by C. Gordon Tether in the London Financial Times. On July 10, 1974, he ended an article with the words: ‘It might be added that, if those foregathering at the Bilderberg shrine want to demonstrate that there is nothing questionable about their “humane activities”, they could with advantage go to more trouble to avoid fostering the opposite impression.’

Anderson considered the list of participants at the meeting to be held at Cesme. Even if Bilderberg secrecy was undented, changes were being wrought: sex equality had touched its calculating soul.

Among the women invited was Mrs Margaret Thatcher, leader of the Conservative Opposition in Britain. Which, Anderson thought, was a happy omen for Mrs Thatcher. The Western world’s leaders, so it was said, were drawn from the ranks of Bilderberg. Gerald Ford was a relatively unknown member of the House of Representatives when he attended.

Anderson yawned and stretched. Not for him to pass judgement on the deliberations of the Brotherhood. It was his job to stop them being spied upon – or killed.

He turned his attention to two stacks of dossiers piled up beside the bed. One contained the computerised background on newcomers to the conference; the other, material on regulars which had been substantially revised.

He began with the second stack and picked up the top two files. Mrs Claire Jerome and Pierre Brossard. He decided to study Mrs Jerome first: not only was she prettier but she had an appointment later that day with the President of the United States.

* * *

In a penthouse two blocks away from Owen Anderson’s apartment, Claire Jerome was luxuriating in a bathtub gazing at a building which may or may not have been the Taj Mahal. In a blue pool in front of the building a muscular young man was swimming energetically in pursuit of a girl who looked not unlike Dorothy Lamour in her prime. It had so far taken him five years to catch her; perhaps, Claire pondered lazily, she should recall the painter and shift the young man a little nearer to his goal on the mural.

She lay back in the black marble bath, toyed with the foam and breathed the perfume rising from the water. The bathroom really was decorated in atrocious style. Which was just how she wanted it. For fifteen minutes every day she escaped from convention. Black back (gold taps), white-tiled floor, a multitude of steam-proof mirrors and the wall-painting, which looked like a still from an early colour movie, was just about as vulgarly unconventional as you could get.

Claire adored the place. She glanced at the Philip Patek watch on her wrist: she still had five more minutes left in which to let her thoughts roam away from board meetings, executive decisions, business luncheons, scheming colleagues ….

She stretched out one leg and squeezed a sponge over it. Why did girls advertising baths or bath-salts always do that? Four minutes left …. Her thoughts drifted into the future; recently this was the direction they had been taking, accompanied by a vague sense of dissatisfaction. Unfulfilment? Now she was becoming her own psychiatrist. Perhaps she should restrict her therapy to ten minutes.

She stepped out of the bath and surveyed herself from every angle in the mirrors. Pushing thirty-eight, not bad. Full firm breasts, flat belly; the figure of a woman ten years younger. And yet there was something unfulfilled about it. You’re getting neurotic, she told herself; she towelled and anointed herself, removed her shower cap and let her jet black hair fall over her shoulders.

The unease dispersed.

Mrs Claire Jerome, fifth richest woman in the world, de facto head of Marks International, the multi-national corporation founded on armaments, strode into the bedroom and gazed dispassionately at the man propped against the pillows in the big round bed reading a copy of Time magazine.

‘I see we made it again,’ he remarked, tapping the magazine with one finger.

‘We?’

‘Okay, you.’ He yawned. ‘Are you always crabby like this in the morning?’

‘I enjoy my privacy.’

‘Then why didn’t you tell me to get out last night?’

‘I thought I did,’ said Claire, sitting in front of the dressing-table and beginning to apply foundation cream.

‘I’m sorry. I guess we both fell asleep.’

Claire observed him in the mirror. Crisply handsome and physically in good shape, age only beginning to show in that tautness of the facial muscles peculiar to men who had knifed their way to the top, and knew that other blades were flashing behind them.

Well, almost to the top. Stephen Harsch was in his early forties, an age when you could still be described as ‘an up-and-coming young executive.’ Forty-five and you were a middle-aged fixture. Harsch was No. 4 in the Marks hierarchy and was anxious to become No. 3 as quickly as possible.

Which, Claire knew perfectly well, was why he was in her bed. Ostensibly he was at the moment very pro Claire (No. 2) and her father, the titular head of the business. A proxy vote was looming and Harsch was marshalling the stockholders behind father and daughter. When he had won that round, Harsch would be agitating against them.

The knowledge didn’t disturb Claire. She understood the Harschs’ of the world: she was their female counterpart. And her reasons for wanting Harsch in her bed were equally calculating: sexual satisfaction. And to have someone beside you, an unsolicited voice whispered.

Angry with herself, she smudged her lipstick.

Behind her Harsch began to read aloud from the Time article in the Business and Economy section headed ARMS AND THE WOMAN. It struck her, as she erased the smudge with a tissue, that the article contained exactly the sort of ammunition that Harsch would direct against her when/if he got the No. 3 job.

When is an enemy of Israel not an enemy? When he’s a Persian, according to U.S. arms dealers assuaging their consciences about the destination of their weaponry in the Middle East.

Few armaments manufacturers would overtly clinch deals with states committed to anti-Israel policies. But for a long time Pentagon officials have succeeded in the not-too-daunting task of persuading them that the pro-West Iran falls into a different category. That by strengthening Western clout in the Middle East they are, in fact, helping the cause of the beleagured Israelis. In 1974 a staggering $3.9 billion of the total $8.3 billion arms sales went to Iran.

Currently facing the dilemma of whether or not to help satisfy the Shah’s insatiable appetite for the most sophisticated arms is Mrs Claire Jerome, 38, head, in all but title, of Marks International, the California-based conglomerate. Mrs Jerome is Jewish and she has in the past proved to be intransigent on her Middle East policy to supply only the Jews. But this time the Shah from his Peacock Throne is dangling a $1.5 billion carrot. Can Mrs Jerome, bearing in mind the interests of stockholders and employees, afford to disregard it?

‘Well,’ Harsch asked, ‘can she?’

Claire Jerome began to brush her shiny hair. ‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ she said. ‘And Stephen ….’

Harsch looked up inquiringly.

‘I think I did tell you to get the hell out of it last night. Would you oblige now please?’

‘Okay, okay.’

‘And shower in the other bathroom, would you. This is strictly private.’

Harsch gathered together his crumpled clothes and headed for the door. In the circumstances, Claire thought, he managed to muster a little dignity.

At the door, shielding his nakedness with his clothes, he turned and said: ‘You know you’ll have to make up your mind about that order from Iran pretty damn soon.’

She said: ‘I’m flying to Washington today to discuss it.’

Harsch frowned. ‘Who with?’

Claire Jerome enjoyed her moment. ‘With the President of the United States,’ she told him.

Happier now, she put on a dark-grey, two-piece suit and red cashmere roll-neck sweater, fetched her mink and went down in the elevator to the lobby, where the driver of her Rolls Corniche was waiting for her.

* * *

1.43 pm. The Oval Office of the White House.

Claire Jerome entered nervously. The President rose to greet her. It was odd, she reflected, that a couple of years ago she would have been quite composed in the presence of this man; now because he was President by default she was agitated.

The President, tall and hefty and a little gangling with pale thinning hair, did his best to put her at her ease. He wagged his pipe at her. ‘Do you mind this?’

She managed a smile and shook her head. ‘But I don’t care for cigar smoke.’ He probably smoked them in secret.

‘I wish,’ the President said, ‘that every business tycoon I met looked like you.’

Claire began to relax because he was so relaxed.

‘I want you to meet Bill Danby,’ the President said. He corrected himself. ‘Although I think you two know each other already.’

Danby inclined his head and smiled. ‘We have met.’

The last time had been in Danby’s office on the outskirts of the city, when she had assured him that she intended to continue Marks International’s policy of collaborating with the CIA.

A steward in a red jacket served coffee. Claire declined and the President said: ‘Bill will have your cup. He lives on the stuff. Would you prefer tea?’

Claire, who would have preferred a beer, shook her head. So did the President; perhaps he would have liked a beer too. Danby sipped his coffee – contained and watchful as always but not as omnipotent as he seemed in his own office. The Oval Office did that to people.

As Claire glanced around the room, history enfolded her. Oil-paintings of Lincoln and Washington resurrected the past; so did the furniture – an antique chest of drawers, a grandfather clock loudly ticking away the present into the past.

The President – or his wife – had taste.

The Presidential desk and its environs, however, were an island on which the man’s own personality was stamped. Behind his swivel seat, between desk and the gold-draped windows, was a table on which stood photographs of his family; on the desk was a pennant bearing the name of a College baseball team.

The President relit his pipe and said: ‘It’s been Cambodia day today. Do you think we should cut aid, Mrs Jerome?’ He peered at her through a cloud of smoke.

‘It’s in my interests to say no, I guess. But to be truthful, I don’t think it’s going to do much good. The Government will fall however much we send them.’

‘I’m afraid you’re right. But we can’t reduce our commitment. Never let it be said that the United States has been niggardly.’ He pointed his pipe at Danby. ‘Bill, I think agrees with both of us.’

‘That’s how I keep my job,’ Danby remarked. His spectacles glinted in the light pouring down relentlessly from the ceiling. The only hint of human frailty about him was the suspicion of a quiff in his hair, a relic of innocence. ‘In fact, I do agree with both of you. Yes, we should stick to our commitment, no it won’t do any good.’

The President traversed the Asian continent and said: ‘I hear you’ve been offered the opportunity to provide aid where it might do more good, Mrs Jerome.’

Claire noticed clips from Time, Newsweek and a couple of newspapers on his desk. ‘I’m not so sure about the latter part of your remark, Mr President.’

‘Indeed? Why not, Mrs Jerome?’

‘I believe our commitment’ – their phraseology was infectious – ‘in Iran is becoming gross. The Shah hoards arms like other people hoard gold. He needs advice, not guns.’

‘Well, Bill,’ the President said easily, puffing on his pipe, ‘what do you say to that?’ ‘Simple. No prevarication this time. I think Mrs Jerome is wrong. The Shah needs us, we need the Shah. According to our information, he’s in a strong position and we need to keep him that way. What’s more,’ Danby added, ‘I don’t think Mrs Jerome is being totally honest with herself.’

Claire Jerome understood Danby’s resentment: it was the first time since her father had agreed to sell arms to U.S. Intelligence customers that she had questioned the Agency’s judgement.

She said: ‘I presume you mean the fact that I’m Jewish. Well, of course, you’re correct up to a point. In the Middle East I’ll only sell to Israel. One day Iran could become actively hostile to the Jews.’

‘I rather doubt that,’ Danby remarked, reaching for the cup of coffee intended for Claire.

Claire said: ‘I think you rather underestimate the power of Islam. Come to that, so does the Shah.’

Danby said: ‘The Iranians are not in the same bracket as Libya or Syria.’

‘They worship the same God,’ Claire said. ‘And as you probably know,’ wondering if he did, ‘Persia was conquered by the Arabs in 671 A.D. and their principal language, Farsi, is written in Arabic script.’

The President grinned. ‘I’m learning,’ he said. ‘Does it amount to this, Mrs Jerome, that irrespective of the pros and cons about Iran, you have no intention of doing business with the Shah?’

‘None whatsoever.’

‘I wonder,’ Danby said, taking off his spectacles and polishing them with a white handkerchief, ‘what your stockholders will think about losing one and a half billion dollars worth of sales.’

The President’s manner became less easy-going. ‘That’s a private matter for Mrs Jerome,’ he said. ‘Doubtless she will be able to handle it and doubtless some other company will be only too pleased to accommodate the Peacock Throne. I hear,’ he said to Claire, ‘that you will shortly be visiting one of the Shah’s neighbours.’

Claire looked at him sharply. She realised suddenly that this was the reason for the summons to the White House, not Iran. ‘You mean the Bilderberg convention in Turkey, Mr President?’

‘Exactly. Bilderberg worries me, Mrs Jerome.’

‘But —’

He held up one large, well-manicured hand. ‘I know what you’re going to say. I’m an old Bilderberg hand myself. Well, that’s true enough. It would have been very stupid of an obscure politician to refuse their invitation, now wouldn’t it.’

‘I guess so,’ warily.

‘You are in an extremely advantageous position, Mrs Jerome. You are not, as yet, a member of the clique. You haven’t completely thrown your hand in with them.’

Did he want her to spy on them? If so, why hadn’t Danby made the approach? She glanced at the Director of the CIA; he had replaced his spectacles and his face was expressionless.

‘I am suggesting, Mrs Jerome, that you are in a unique position to be able to report back to me any … any extracurricular activities. Trends in the sale of the commodities in which you specialise – and anything else which you think would be in the interests of the United States.’

‘But surely —’

The President cut in: ‘I will, of course, receive many reports. One of my assistants is attending. But your contacts will be rather special, Mrs Jerome.’

‘But surely Mr Danby has such matters in hand.’

The President said: ‘I don’t doubt that Mr Danby is also represented at Bilderberg. I do doubt that his representative – or representatives – will operate in the same circles as yourself, Mrs Jerome.’

For the first time Claire Jerome sensed hostility between the two men. The President wanted an end to intrigue outside his authority. And he wanted Danby to know that he wanted it.

She said ‘You know, of course, that there is a gentleman’s agreement not to divulge anything that happens at Bilderberg.’

‘I know that very well, Mrs Jerome. But you are not a gentleman. You are a woman. And, if I may say so, a very attractive one.’

The President’s heavy-handed charm reached her; what saved it, was its apparent sincerity. Flattery will get you everywhere. ‘Mata Hari, Mr President?’

He smiled. ‘Everything hinges on your priorities. Which is more important: Bilderberg or the United States of America?’ He swivelled round in his chair and Claire caught a glimpse of the President’s responsibilities – in his family photographs. Wife, children, dogs … millions of them.

She asked: ‘What worries you about Bilderberg?’

He answered promptly: ‘Their power and, paradoxically, their vulnerability. Can you imagine what a temptation they must present to the enemies of the West?’

He stood up, towering over them. ‘Lunch-time, all fifteen minutes of it. Bill has got to be on his way too – to decide whether or not his organisation ever contemplated assassinating Fidel Castro.’

Danby stood up unsmiling. ‘Not to mention the Kennedys, John or Robert, take your choice.’

The President clumped him on the back, a considerable clump. ‘Don’t be bitter, Bill. All I seek is a little honesty. God knows we need it.’

Danby said tersely: ‘I’m sure the Russians agree with you,’ and walked swiftly to the door.

As the President escorted her out of the office, Claire said: ‘Do you mind if I ask you just one question?’

‘Fire away, Mrs Jerome.’

‘Do I gather from our conversation that you believe that Bilderberg constitutes a greater authority than the Presidency?’

‘A good question, Mrs Jerome. Perhaps you will help me to answer it.’

The door closed behind her.

* * *

The Golden Dolphin Hotel – or holiday resort as the management prefers it to be called – is located in the Turkish village of Cesme overlooking the Aegean Sea. It is a modernistic complex of buildings, boasting 900 rooms and private moorings for those guests who own yachts.

On Friday, April 25, it was virtually a fortress. Armed Turkish troops and police stood guard, and the casual visitor – if he were allowed to get that far – might well have assumed that terrorists were holding a bunch of wealthy guests as hostages. (Had this been so, the captors would have been in a position to demand an astronomical ransom; what’s more they would probably have got it.)

The prisoners were, in fact, there by choice. A wise choice because Cesme is remote, and ‘easily accessible’ is not a phrase that lightens the hearts of Bilderbergers gathering in force.

Sitting in the sun on one of the balconies, a middle-aged Frenchman with a long lean body and sparse hair combed into grey wings above his ears, was disputing a bill for a bottle of Perrier water with a waiter. The host country picked up the tab, but Pierre Brossard queried all financial transactions on principle.

The waiter who, like the rest of the hotel staff, hoped to make a killing in tips, gazed with astonishment and chagrin at the Frenchman who, he had been told, was one of the richest men in Europe.