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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.

      Brossard, clad only in a pair of briefs, his disciplined body glistening with sun-tan oil, ignored the waiter and concentrated on his pocket calculator while he converted Turkish lire into French francs. ‘Preposterous,’ he finally remarked in English.

      The waiter looked stunned; even he could just about afford a bottle of mineral water at the Golden Dolphin.

      ‘I shall take it up later with the management,’ Brossard told him and dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

      Well satisfied with the one-sided exchange, Brossard leaned back in his canvas chair, contemplated the sparkling blue sea, and considered the good fortune that inexorably came his way these days.

      His empire was flourishing. New office blocks were shooting up in Paris, Marseilles and Montreal; his oil tankers hadn’t yet lost any cargoes through the fuel crisis; the circulation of his financial newspaper published in Paris was climbing steadily, thanks largely to its prestigious columnist, Midas.

      Pierre Brossard found this particularly satisfying; Pierre Brossard was Midas.

      He applied more sun-tan oil, feeling the whippy muscles on his body. He had just completed a course at a health farm and he was trim after ten days of starvation and exercise. Brossard planned to eat well at Cesme, at other people’s expense.

      He slid a plastic protector over his nose to prevent it peeling and turned his attention to his less publicised enterprises. Brossard acted as middleman in oil and armaments deals. He represented many countries, Israel included, but not, to his regret, the hard-line Arab states who dealt exclusively through the debonair Mohamed Tilmissan and Adnan Kashoggi.

      At Bilderberg there was much business to be negotiated.

      He sipped his Perrier water. What a target we represent, he thought. On the charter plane from Zurich to Izmir, fifty miles from Cesme. Here at the hotel, despite the security.

      Brossard didn’t want any harm to come to the Bilderbergers. And not merely out of consideration for his personal safety. If the rumours were to be believed, he was about to be asked to become a member of the steering committee. Brossard calculated that, when he was on the committee, he could expect to be present at the next five conferences. Then

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