Dead Bishops Don't Lie, page 23
Policy of deniability: any member state that suspects an imminent breach of confidentiality of this Protocol shall advise the other member states immediately. A breach of the confidentiality shall trigger the automatic resignation of the signing authority of the breaching member state.
Dulac flipped to Annex B, the Friendly Groups:
France: Rainbow Group, H. de Ségur.
Denmark: Absalon group, A. Harding.
Italy: DSSA, Gino Servolo.
Belgium: SDRA 8, J Van Wouerts
Germany: BDJ-TD, N. Huber
Greece: L.O.K. Red Sheep, T. Papandolos
Austria: OWSGV, H. Offenbach
Switzerland: P-26, L. Siegenthaler
Vatican: Cardinal Eugenio Volpe
Venezuela: E. Gonzales
Britain: British Outing Club, Lord Bever
Religious Groups:
Opus Dei: P. Lemaitre
Pistis Sophia: Marchioness of Dorset.
Dulac’s eyes blurred as he tried to digest the enormity of what he had read, and fathom its implications. He jumped when his cell phone rang. “Dulac.”
“Bonsoir. Pierre Bétancourt, Minister of State.”
“Yes, Minister.”
“Where are you, presently?”
“At the Bois de Boulogne, why?”
“The President, for whom I speak, requires that you come immediately to the Elysée. You will be given a pass at the gate and escorted to the President’s office. We are waiting.”
Dulac knew the obvious subject of discussion.“I’ll be there shortly.”
“Here, take it,” said Dulac, giving the envelope to Lescop.”
“Why?” said Lescop, as if he’d been handed a live hand grenade.
“I’m being summoned to the President’s office at the Elysée, right now.”
“Mon Dieu.”
“Go to the Orly train station and leave it in a baggage locker. Phone me and leave a message with the number of the locker, and throw away the key. Oh, and call yourself some protection for tonight. See you in the morning.”
Dulac sped through the perpetual Parisian traffic. He tried to reach the General Secretary several times: busy. Probably blocked. He reached the guard house at the Elysée’s entrance, and, after a hurried identification, was escorted in by a black Renault. Two Secret Service agents were waiting at the door and led him to the presidential suite, where Louis XVI furniture was reflected in the vast, wall-sized mirrors.
The President of France sat facing the Minister of State and two empty chairs, awaiting their occupants.
Dulac thought the President looked smaller, more compact than he had expected.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Dulac, please sit down,” said the President.
“Monsieur le President, Monsieur le Ministre,” said Dulac, nodding respectfully.
“I’m told you’ve been made aware of some highly confidential information,” said the President.
“Possibly.”
“Come, Dulac, we know your men have come across the Chimera document aboard de Ségur’s yacht. Correct?”
“Mr. President, before we discuss this matter, I request the presence of the General Secretary on the line.”
“Mr. Bétancourt, get the General Secretary on the conference phone.”
After a short pause, the Minister of State said, “Mr. General Secretary, Pierre Bétancourt. I’m in the office of the President. We will conference you in. We are here with the President and Inspector Dulac.”
“Mr. Secretary, this is the President. We are discussing the Chimera document with Mr. Dulac.”
“Which document?” said Harris.
“You are not aware of Chimera?”
“No, I’m not.”
Silence. The men looked at each other in discomfort. Dulac knew it was his move. If he didn’t reveal the existence of Chimera, his life wasn’t worth much. If he did, there was no going back. His instinct for self-preservation kicked in.
“This is Dulac. I have been made aware of a document containing information on the Chimera Protocol. It looks like a repeat of Gladio.”
“And where is this document?” asked Harris.
“In safekeeping,” replied Dulac.
“Mr. Secretary,” said the President, “this is a State document. Inspector Dulac will hand it over immediately.”
“Mr. President, with all due respect, this is now an Interpol matter, and I require that we discuss it tomorrow in the presence of the General Secretary,” said Dulac.
“Dulac, does anyone else know of this?” said Harris.
“Yes, Lescop knows.”
“Does he have it?”
“As I said, the document is in safekeeping.” He wanted to protect Lescop’s life as well.
“Mr. Dulac, please wait outside for a moment,” said the President, as he signaled the Minister to escort Dulac out of the room.
“Where does this leave us, Mr. Secretary?” said the President.
“Mr. President, I have to see the document, but my mandate is clear: to uphold the laws of the member countries of Interpol. What is the legitimacy of this document?”
“I don’t know, I’ve just learned of its existence tonight,” lied the President.
“How embarrassing,” said Harris.
“To put it mildly. When can you get here?”
“Say by six a.m.?”
“I’ll be waiting. Pierre, fetch Mr. Dulac.”
Dulac entered the room again and stood in front of the seated president.
“The General Secretary will be here at six a.m.,” said the President. “Be here also. Goodnight, Mr. Dulac. Mr. Bétancourt, stay!”
Chapter 67
The last thing Dulac wanted was to be alone. He knew he would be followed out of the Elysée. He took the Benelli out of the glove compartment and tucked it inside his belt. He drove around Paris until he was sure he’d lost the black Renault tailing him. He parked his Renault and took the subway to Karen’s.
“Who is it?” said Karen sleepily over the intercom.
“It’s me,” replied Dulac.
“Do you realize what time it is?”
“My watch says 2.20 a.m.”
She buzzed the door, and he walked up the darkened staircase to the apartment.
“This had better be…My God, you look terrible,” she said.
“Nowhere near how I feel. I could use a Scotch.”
“I guess.” Karen led Dulac into the living room, went to the small bar, and poured two Glenlivets.
Dulac took the glass and sat down on the plush leather sofa. “I’ve just come from the Elysée, with the President and Minister of State. We’ve discovered another subversive paramilitary group. It’s called Chimera.”
“So?” said Karen, sitting down across from him in one of the Le Corbusier chairs.
“It means that if it becomes public, this document will bring down the government of France.”
“Holy shit!”
“As you Americans say. It’s a repeat performance of Gladio, that brought down the Italian government in the late 70s. France is a member of Chimera.”
“Where did you find it?”
“On de Ségur’s yacht.”
“What’s the connection?”
“Miranda acts as a conduit for the money to each country’s organization. Pistis Sophia and Opus Dei are also used. Worse, the Vatican is a signatory state, represented by Volpe.”
“Jesus. Where is this document?” she said, clasping her glass with both hands.
“In safekeeping for the moment. Karen, I have to decide what to do with this and I haven’t much time. I have a meeting with the President and the General Secretary of Interpol at six a.m. tomorrow morning.”
“This is incredible.”
“It’s all making sense now. They killed Salvador and Conti because they were threatening to expose not only the Vatican, but some, or all of the member countries. They crucified the archbishops to warn the members that this is what awaited them if they broke the code: Omerta. They had to set a horrific example, the ultimate deterrent. The plaques made reference to the mythical animal, to the Chimera, not to the Evangelists, as they wanted us to think. We were duped into believing the murders were at first a Pistis Sophia reprisal, then, a drug money laundering matter: both false flags. They’re experts at it.”
“What do you mean, ‘false flags’?”
“It’s an old maritime warfare term. It’s an accepted tactic for an enemy ship to hoist a friendly flag in order to approach, subversively, its prey. Once the first shot is fired, the ship must lower its false flag and hoist its true colors. The German raiders used the tactic very successfully during World War II. Now, any organization committing a criminal activity and hiding under the colors of another creates a false flag. Gladio did it brilliantly.”
“But I don’t understand. What does Chimera fight against?”
“It depends who you ask.”
“What do you mean?”
“I suspect the President will say it’s to combat fundamentalists and extremist religious groups by infiltrating, taking quick action, and let’s not forget, planting false flags. If you ask me, I’ll tell you that with Gladio or Chimera, you’re bypassing the legal system in the name of the supposedly greater good, the good of the State. These people have license to kill.”
“And I thought the CIA was bad. More individual rights being trampled by the rights of the State.”
“In a nutshell, yes.” He rose, walked to the window and looked at the darkened street below.
“Karen, I took a chance coming here. They tried to follow me. You should leave France, wait till this blows over.”
“Maybe, but what about you?” She walked over to the window and clasped Dulac’s hands in hers.
“I’ll be all right. They won’t get rid of me without knowing where the document is. Besides, now the General Secretary, Lescop and some of his men know about it. They can’t kill us all.”
“That’s comforting as hell.”
“We’ll see what tomorrow brings. It should be one very interesting meeting.”
Next to Karen, Dulac slept fitfully. He pored through the different scenarios. He knew he had to get Harris on board. Would the Elysée try and circumvent the General Secretary? Would Harris suspend him in the name of the affairs of state? With the threat of a leak to the press, would they dare? Would the President resign, sacrifice himself for the sake of his government? Alternatively, would he throw the Minister of State to the wolves? Would the whole Cabinet resign and create parliamentary chaos?
After a quick breakfast, he kissed Karen at the door.
“Wish me Merde, as we French say.”
“You’ve got it.”
* * *
At 6:15 a.m., Dulac entered the President’s office. Before him the President sat smiling, open-shirted, his legs crossed, relaxed, as if nothing had happened. He certainly isn’t resigning, Dulac thought.
To the right, the Minister of State looked pale, hiding behind his dark rimmed glasses, head bowed, staring at the table.
Harris stood, shook Dulac’s hand, and looked at his watch. “You’re late,” he said, in a chiding voice.
“Sorry, gentlemen,” replied Dulac, quickly trying to assess the mood.
The President took charge. “Let’s get down to business. Mr. Dulac, under normal circumstances, the document you have—it’s very existence—is never revealed. Documents of state are key to the security and welfare of France. Every country has them and guards their confidentiality fiercely. Their exposure can threaten national security, and worse, cause civil chaos. We need not remind you of all the political unrest that was created in Italy for years, after the disclosure of Gladio and P2. Personally, I feel their disclosure was a mistake. I don’t have to tell you that the potential for an economic crisis within all the member states is very, very real. We’re talking here of destabilizing the whole of Western Europe.” The President paused and sipped his coffee.
“Now consider a moment, Mr. Dulac, the reason why Chimera was created. Are you aware of the growth rate of fundamentalist groups in France recently?”
“I have a rough idea, Mr. President.”
“Do you? What if I told you your limited resources at Interpol don’t allow you to penetrate even one tenth of these groups?”
“I am not aware of that number, Mr. President.”
“This is not a reproach,” said the President turning to the General Secretary, “it’s simply a fact.”
Dulac knew that his next question would blow the powder keg. He lit the fuse.
“Are you saying that you’re justified, Mr. President, in allowing the existence of an illegal, subversive organization because of the supposed inadequacy of the French police force?”
“Mr. Dulac, my fundamental responsibility, as President, is to ensure the security of France’s citizens.”
“By any means?” replied Dulac, feeling increasingly alone. Why doesn’t the GS react?
“No, and I disagree with your classification of Chimera as illegal and subversive. We have legal opinions to the contrary.”
“What about public opinion, Mr. President?”
“Mr. Dulac, don’t threaten me.”
“Wouldn’t think of it, sir.”
“What do you intend to do with the document?”
At that moment, Dulac’s cell phone rang. “Gentlemen, please excuse me, I forgot to turn it off.”
“Petrov here.”
“Yes, just a minute.” Astoundingly, Dulac rose from his chair, turned away from the President, and took the call.
“What is this?” said the President, incredulous, turning to Harris.
The General Secretary, embarrassed, hunched his shoulders in ignorance.
“We have a written confession from Oleyev,” said Petrov.
“Fantastique.” Dulac didn’t want to even think of how Petrov had obtained it.
“Cardinal Volpe and de Ségur, through a Swiss company named Soderca, gave him the contract.”
“Will he testify in their trials?”
“He will be in prison for a long time.”
“What about a rogatory commission?”
“A what?”
“Never mind,” said Dulac, “I’ll check into it later. Thanks, Petrov. Thanks for the call.” Dulac returned to the meeting.
“Please excuse me, gentlemen. It was Moscow.”
“And?” asked the President.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Harris in private. It’s concerning the archbishops’ murders.”
“Go ahead then,” said the President, irritation in his voice.
Dulac rose and the General Secretary followed him out the door.
Dulac faced Harris and said, “Oleyev confessed. De Ségur and Volpe hired him. Listen, I need your support in there.”
“I haven’t seen the document. I can’t attest to its legitimacy,” said Harris defensively.
“I have. I can tell you that the Minister is going down. Maybe the President also.”
“Dulac, don’t play God here. There’s too much at stake.”
“Like the lives of our citizens, perhaps?” He felt like adding, you gutless wonder, but bit his tongue.
“Well, yes, that also,” answered the General Secretary lamely.
As they returned, Dulac made up his mind: if he had to go it alone, he would.
“So gentlemen, care to share your secrets?” said the President.
“It’s really only evidentiary issues,” replied Harris.
“Then let’s get on with the matter at hand,” said the President.
Dulac screwed up his nerve. “Mr. President, I will not divulge the document to the press under two conditions.”
“Which are?” said the President, looking concerned.
“That the Minister of State resign before the end of the week, and that you create a parliamentary investigative committee into Chimera.”
“Only that?” said the President, looking in amusement at the Minister and Harris.
“Dulac, you really have no idea,” said the Minister of State.
“Mr. Minister, as Mr. Nixon found out, even the government isn’t above the law.”
“Thank you for reminding us of that, Mr. Dulac,” said the President. Turning to Harris, he asked, “Is that the position of Interpol?”
The General Secretary fumbled for words, “Ah, as I told Mr. Dulac, Mr. President, I haven’t seen the document, so I can’t really judge if such drastic measures are necessary.”
Old spineless is true to form, thought Dulac, as his stomach did a quarter turn.
“Well then, Mr. Dulac, you seem to be playing this dangerous game here by yourself. Are you sure you know what you’re getting into?” said the President.
“Mr. President, I know full well my chances are slim, but I cannot stand by and simply forget about the innocent civilians that were butchered in Italy, in Belgium, in Spain, in the name of the supposed protection of democracy. Mr. President, do what you must. I’ll do what I must. There won’t be blood on my hands.”
“I see,” said the President, “then we have nothing further to discuss.”
“Good day, Mr. President, gentlemen,” said Dulac, as he rose to leave. “I trust you will make an honorable decision.”
Chapter 68
“Can’t you stop this madman?” shouted the Minister of State, turning to the General Secretary.
“I can get him off the case, but that won’t solve your problem, will it? Can you phone the editors?” asked Harris.
“Are you insane?” said the Minister. “He can go to any leftist newspaper, like the Canard Enchainé, and have us all before a judicial inquiry in an instant.”
The President finally spoke. “Gentlemen, I’ve had enough of your inanities. I’m calling an emergency session of my Cabinet. That will be all.”
* * *
Bleary-eyed and half-dazed from his meeting with the President barely a few hours earlier, Dulac saw that his friend Jean Vinet, former editor-in-chief of Le Figaro, was already sipping a coffee at a table of Chez Martine, the rive gauche hangout of the journalistic elite of Paris. “Bonjour, Jean, thanks for coming,” said Dulac.
