Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 22
“He’s quite smart, isn’t he?” replied Sarah pitifully.
“Lady Sarah, you must tell me everything.”
“But I have.”
“No, you haven’t. You knew about the smuggling.”
“Well, yes.”
“Did you participate in it?
“Yes, I…I suppose I did,” said Sarah, her voice breaking, close to tears.
“But why?”
“You haven’t seen my bank accounts.”
“Quite. Did Stephanopoulos propose this scheme?”
“Yes. He said we’d split the surplus equally.”
Hawkins put his hand on the marchioness’s shaking shoulders. He bent over, close to the side of her face and paused for a moment. “And the murders?”
“No, no. I didn’t think they would go that far. I agreed to the planting of the letter. Otherwise, they would go to the police. I knew nothing of the murders.”
“They who?”
“De Ségur and Fiore.”
“And why did you think they asked you to be the decoy?”
“To divert attention. To lead the police down the garden path. This way, they had control over the investigation. The letter was drafted before the murders. But they added the last sentence, the death threat, after the murders.”
“So you gave them a blank cheque?”
“I had no choice.”
“I see.” Hawkins paused, cleared his throat and continued, “Lady Sarah, as your lawyer and friend, I must ask you: are you willing and able to go through all of this, the rigors of a murder trial, the stress? The publicity? It won’t be easy. Also, bear in mind the uncertainty of the result.”
“Those bastards tried to kill me. They killed my John. Poor John, he didn’t deserve to die so horribly.”
“I understand how you feel, but that shouldn’t be the reason for your decision. Vengeance is always a poor substitute for sound judgment.”
“I know, I know. God what a mess I’ve made.” She wept uncontrollably.
“Do you need more time?” asked Hawkins, feeling uneasy.
“No, I’m all right.” She tried to control her heaving shoulders. “What do we do next?”
“I think we have little choice but to accept his offer. That being said, there is still considerable risk.”
“I’m aware of that,” said Sarah, regaining a bit of her composure.
“I’m sure they’ll provide complete protection.”
“I’ll rely on my own.”
“Yes, well, whatever. We’ll have it anyway.”
As Lady Sarah and Hawkins walked back to the room, the journalists were waiting, cameras firing, microphones waving at the senior desk officer. They caught a glimpse of Lady Sarah in tears.
“What did she do?”
Hawkins didn’t reply and, with Lady Sarah, walked into the interrogation room.
* * *
“Gentlemen, my client will accept your offer under the following conditions,” said Hawkins. “She gets full police protection, now, during and six months after the trials. The only charge to which my client will plead guilty is attempting to smuggle the five million. All other charges will be dropped in all countries: England, France, Italy and Switzerland.
“We want an undertaking from the Italian prosecutor that he will ask for the minimum sentence, to be served here in London. In exchange, she will testify in the trials of de Ségur and Fiore. Of course, you will release my client today. No announcements. The official position is you’ve had her in for questioning in relation to the bombing, and the matter is highly confidential. Your registration records will be changed accordingly.”
Dulac conferred with the others for a moment in private, and turned to Hawkins.
“We accept, Lord Hawkins. Your word and Lady Sarah’s that she will deposit her passport here.”
“Agreed.”
“It will take some time to get acceptance from the ministers, but I see no problem.”
“Can we leave through a side entrance?” asked Hawkins.
“They’ll be there also, perhaps less of them,” replied Innes.
* * *
Lady Sarah and Hawkins jostled their way through the microphones and cameras, and into the limousine. Sitting down in the privacy of the rear seat, Sarah felt hugely relieved, as the weight of the duplicity of her life slowly lifted. The limousine began to roll, and she looked outside at the throngs going about their business. She envied them. She began to wonder if she had it in her heart to face the dismal consequences of her acts. After a moment, a small ray of hope emerged from the depths of despair. She turned to Hawkins. “You know, after the bombing, this must be the second worst day of my life.”
Chapter 65
On the plane to Paris with Lescop, Dulac felt exhilarated, celebrative. He shared a bottle of Bordeaux with Lescop. He had got what he came for, the wood wedge that when wetted, widens the crack and eventually breaks the block of granite. He phoned Harris and gave him the good news.
The next morning, Dulac met with Edna Gorma who had come from Lyon at his request. Gorma was head of the financial investigative section of Interpol.
“What do you have, Edna?” said Dulac, as she sat down before him.
The petite, curly-haired woman answered in a deep, masculine voice. “Miranda has been transferring significant amounts of money to various institutions in Italy, Spain, Austria, Venezuela, France, and others. This is done on a regular basis. There are donations to health clubs, Scout organizations, outdoor clubs, charities—”
“What amounts are we talking about?” interrupted Dulac.
“Two to three million US dollars per year, per club.”
“Total?”
“Thirty-three million dollars. That’s on top of the donations to the Vatican.”
“What about income?”
“I don’t have the latest figures, but last year Miranda reported a profit of 750 million Euros. The main source of income is its real estate interests. The Swiss transfers are minor in comparison. It’ll be interesting to see if they stop, now that the Eastland is impounded.”
“Don’t bet on it,” said Dulac. “They’ll keep funding, somehow.”
“We also came across this letter in de Ségur’s files.” She handed it to Dulac, who immediately recognized the letterhead. It bore the crest of the Republic of France.
Strictly Confidential
September 20, 1999
M. Hugues de Ségur, CEO,
Miranda Group
Dear Hugues,
I’m pleased to inform you that the project is well underway, thanks to the splendid work of the Miranda Group. Your contribution is appreciated by all. I cannot overestimate the importance of its impact on the member countries.
Yours sincerely,
Pierre Bétancourt
Minister of State
Dulac’s face sombered. “Have you a list of these institutions and their membership?”
“No, not yet.”
“Get them. What else do you have on de Ségur?”
“Nothing unusual. How are the searches going?”
“We haven’t searched his yacht or the villa in Portofino. We’re betting he’s cleaned out that villa, so Lescop will first search the yacht.”
* * *
The 105 foot, white Camper & Nicholson aluminum sloop, Mon Rêve, lay sparkling against the trees lining the small Bay of Portofino. As she tugged lazily at her mooring, two crew were busy washing her, removing the fine dust and sand brought in daily from the Sahara Desert by the warm Mediterranean breezes.
Lescop and his two policemen, accompanied by four carabinieri, had hired a small fishing boat to ensure surprise. While they motored towards the yacht, Lescop thought, ostentatious, but probably run-of-the-mill in de Ségur’s world. They motored alongside to starboard, when a man wearing a black captain’s cap emerged from below deck.
“Captain, I’m with Interpol. Lower the gangplank. We have a search warrant for this yacht,” said Lescop over his megaphone.
The captain, still looking at the policemen-filled fishing boat, pulled out his cell phone. After a short but heated discussion, he flipped it shut and instructed the crew to lower the gangplank.
The captain stood at the head of the gangplank, as Lescop and his men boarded.
“Your ship’s papers, Captain,” said Lescop. “And open the safe,” he said, as he reached deck level.
“Not so fast,” said the captain. “Identity papers. And I want to see your warrant.”
Lescop obliged.
After a cursory look at the search warrant and Lescop’s identity card, the captain, satisfied of their authenticity, reluctantly said, “We go below.”
“You two stay here on deck,” ordered Lescop to two of the carabinieris, as he started to follow the captain. “No one comes on board or gets off. Clear?”
They nodded.
Lescop, his officers the other two carabinieris started down the narrow stairs, and the intimate luxury of the mega-rich world of yachting unveiled itself before them. The yacht’s spacious interior gleamed with hand-rubbed Indonesian teak, each piece matched and varnished to perfection. A black, upright Blutner piano had been secured to the salon’s main bulkhead, facing the porcelain-lined fireplace. Next to the crews’ quarters, a small, footed bath enhanced the 19th century atmosphere of barely restrained opulence.
As the policemen worked their way meticulously from the bow, they could but wonder at the extravagance. Christofle dinner plates, blue and gold-rimmed, with the name of the vessel baked into the enamel. Again, the name woven into the main salon’s Persian carpets, de Ségur’s family crest on every towel, the Llhadro figurines, their bases glued into the special motion-dampened, windowed bookcases.
Working towards the stern, the policemen went about their distasteful task, prodding, unlocking cabinets, removing cushions, looking under bunks, searching the ship’s stores and refrigerated wine compartment, emptying the lazarette of its sundry spare parts and rigging.
One of the policemen opened the floor boards, exposing the bottom of the boat and the top of its keel. A sailor himself, he couldn’t help but admire the pristine condition in which the boat was kept. But something caught his attention. It annoyed him to see that one of the keel bolts had been negligently left to rust, contrasting with the other bolts, painted a dull grey. He turned the bolt, expecting the rust to come off. Instead, the bolt swiveled easily, opening a small compartment. He called Lescop.
“What have we here?” said Lescop.
Lescop reached down. Beneath the panel lay a small, stainless-steel, watertight box. He opened the box and found an envelope, sealed, with the inscription “Confidential.” Under the printed red letters, two words, in the middle of the envelope: “Chimera Protocol”
Below, a gold, blue, and red emblem depicted a curious animal with the head of a lion, the body of an ox, and the tail of a dragon-serpent.
The men continued the search. Lescop opened the envelope. He looked at the thick document and, upon reading the first page, reached for the seat and sat down slowly, his face white. “Jesus.”
He closed the envelope, grabbed the ship’s papers and logbook, and ordered his men back to the fishing boat. He phoned Dulac. “I have something here you won’t believe.”
“What is it?” said Dulac.
“I must see you. Now.” Lescop wasn’t trusting the confidentiality of his encrypted phone.
Dulac understood immediately. “Get back to Paris,” he said.
“You can expect a call from Harris. And from the Minister of State. I’m sure the captain is phoning de Ségur right now. I’ll call you when I’m in Paris.”
Lescop knew his life was in danger the moment de Ségur found out he had the document. He had to get back to the safety of Paris. He had to hire a plane. He ordered the driver to go to the Genoa private airport. His hot cargo singed the interior of his briefcase. Arriving at the small airport in Paris, he went to the lounge phone and called Dulac’s private number. “Meet me at the Bois de Boulogne, South East entrance,” said Lescop, his speech quickened by panic.
* * *
“The police have the Protocol,” said de Ségur.
“What?” shouted the French Minister of State, Pierre Bétancour.
“They searched my yacht. It’s a chance in a million. It was buried beneath the keel bolts.”
“Do you realize what this means?”
“Painfully.”
“You must warn the others immediately.”
“I can’t. My lines are tapped at Miranda and at my home. Do you have the list?”
“Yes, but it’s eleven o’clock. Why didn’t you call earlier?”
“I was in meetings. My captain didn’t reach me until now.”
“Who are the policemen? I want names, now.”
“A certain Lescop. He works for Dulac, at Interpol. Can you intercept them?”
“We’ll see what we can do. I have to try to reach some of the others. Quel merdier, said the Minister.
The Minister didn’t call the “others” immediately.
He had a more urgent call to make.
* * *
“Monsieur le Président, it’s Pierre. I’m sorry to wake you, but Interpol has gotten hold of the Chimera document. They have a copy of the Protocol.”
There was a short silence. “Who is aware of it?”
“We’re not sure, but at least an Inspector Lescop, and possibly Inspector Dulac. Maybe some of their men. We’ve just received word from de Ségur.”
“Meet me in my office at the Elysée in half an hour,” said the President of the Republic of France. “And get the General Secretary of Interpol there also.”
* * *
In the darkness of the park, Daniel Lescop’s hands were trembling as he fumbled for the envelope in his briefcase and handed it to Dulac.
“I don’t think this document should be in our files,” he said.
Dulac saw the inscription on the cover and turned to the first page.
“Again?” exclaimed Dulac.
“I’m afraid so.”
Both men knew they had uncovered another Gladio.
Chapter 66
As they sat down on the park bench under the light, Dulac’s mind raced. The searing images of murdered shoppers’ bloodied bodies in a Belgian supermarket, the crumpled-up body of Aldo Moro, ex-prime minister of Italy, in the trunk of the red Renault, the bodies of the passengers at the Bologna train station, all flew vividly before his eyes.
Gladio floated back into his consciousness. During the sixties and seventies, terrorist acts and atrocities throughout Europe, initially attributed to leftist groups such as the Red Brigades, were later discovered as being the work of Gladio, the most subversive rightist, paramilitary, undercover group the world had ever known. Gladio hid under the cover of false flags.
Originally organized by the US and Britain after the second world war, Gladio drew its members within the ranks of the “stay behind” counter-espionage agents of Germany, Italy, and France. Gladio had grown like the dragon Hydra of Lerne, its multiple heads across the members of NATO, unknown even to the espionage services of member countries.
They were the first terrorists. They were state-backed. They insured, through the propagation of the fear of communism, the political stability of rightist governments.
Gladio’s personnel had been recruited from paramilitary commandos, teachers, ex-CIA men, MI 6 personnel, architects, and lawyers. The operative cells functioned autonomously in complete secrecy. Member states adhered to Gladio upon the signature of either the Minister of State or Minister of the Interior, often without the knowledge of the other members of the Cabinet. This helped insure the application of the “doctrine of deniability” if found out.
The arsonists, bombers, and killers within each cell had trained in Britain, France, and Belgium. With the breakup of the Soviet empire, and the reduction of the Communist threat, Gladio’s mandate had shifted from the protection against communism to the protection of a member State’s stability, whether a threat existed or not.
If none were present, Gladio would create it, subversively, illegally, but with perfect, state-backed impunity.
Along with its sister organization, P-2 or Propaganda Due, it had “protected” Italy from the threat of a Communist regime. Its member countries had included France, Denmark, Italy, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, Greece, Portugal, Turkey, and Switzerland. The Vatican had been seen as a silent sympathizer, since most of the cells were pro-Catholic.
The scandal had erupted in the late seventies, bringing down the Italian government. Other countries had passed laws banning fifth column groups such as Gladio. However, the pressure on political organizations to keep power at all costs had tempted some governments to exercise a certain laxity concerning the enforcement of their anti-paramilitary laws. Now, Dulac felt it was hitting home. Dulac read the preamble and first few articles of the Chimera Protocol:
Preamble: the purpose of Chimera is to ensure political stability within its member states. It shall combat threats to that stability by all means, including the creation of false flags.
Organization: each member country shall create its network of cells, acting within its territory. Friendly Groups may be used. Friendly Groups are listed in Annex B.
Training: training of cell members shall be coordinated at Chimera headquarters. Training shall occur in host members France, Belgium, United Kingdom, and Switzerland. Trainees shall be sent by member states at their expense.
Headquarters: Chimera headquarters shall be in Antwerp, Belgium.
Funding: funding shall be coordinated by host member Italy. Donations shall be channeled through Miranda Group, for redistribution to member organizations, through Friendly Groups.
Adhesion to the Protocol: member states shall adhere to this Protocol by the binding signature of either the Head of State, Minister of State, or Minister of the Interior.
