Private-Sector Intelligence with Clair George
Geneva, September 1992
I phoned Clair’s room in Le Richemond at 8:30 and
awakened him from deep slumber.
When we met a half-hour later on the verandah, I greeted him with Time magazine, which had just published a full-page article about him.
When we met a half-hour later on the verandah, I greeted him with Time magazine, which had just published a full-page article about him.
“Uh-oh,” was all he said.
Time
reported that Clair had returned home from a post-trial vacation in Maine. Little did anyone know, least of all any reporters, that he was sitting here with
me in Geneva, about to consult with a billionaire countess.
At 11:20
our Mercedes taxi stood waiting. I climbed in first. Then Clair.
Brrrrrrrrrrraaaap! Clair looked at me sheepishly. Too
much champagne the night before?
No. His business suit trousers had
split at the crotch.
“You want
to carry on without me?” he asked.
“No, I’ll
wait.”
Clair
returned to his room and emerged eight minutes later in a blazer and khakis.
It forever boggled my mind how Clair always found whatever he needed from the small travel
bag he carried on our many trips to Europe. I would come to call it The Magic Bag because it
seemed bottomless.
Our driver
whisked us to the office of a colorless individual I dubbed The Gray Fiduciary—every billionaire needs
one.
It was apparent within 30 seconds of joining the countess and her fiduciary that the assignment was a
given; a decision had already been made to retain our services.
The Gray
Fiduciary provided his fax number for invoicing; he had, a week earlier, wired
thousands of dollars to cover the cost of our presence in Serene City.
We left the
fiduciary, and the countess joined us at Le Richemond with her cousin, Bruno.
Our morning session had confirmed the business transaction. Now we moved onto substantive issues.
Our morning session had confirmed the business transaction. Now we moved onto substantive issues.
The countess elucidated us with
further detail about her ex-son-in-law, Baron von Biggleswurm.
He had met her daughter, Lara, at a party in St. Moritz, where the count and countess owned a chalet.
He had met her daughter, Lara, at a party in St. Moritz, where the count and countess owned a chalet.
They had not liked the baron from the start;
the count considered him the village idiot of St. Moritz.
The baron then wooed Lara by mail for two
years, recognizing, said the countess, that she was one of Europe’s wealthiest
and most eligible bachelorettes.
When
Lara finally agreed to meet him again, Biggleswurm postured himself as a
struggling cellist in need of a benefactor.
She came to his aid by organizing a concert appearance for him, renting
a hall and underwriting the advertising.
Seven persons showed up; one of them was a critic who panned his
performance.
And then she fell in love with the
baron.
Her parents and all her friends
begged her to recognize that Biggleswurm was a gold-digger. But despite their pleas, she wed the baron. (The
count and countess boycotted the wedding, which took place in Paris.)
Within a year, Lara became pregnant with their son.
Within a year, Lara became pregnant with their son.
The marriage turned sour almost
immediately; the baron’s charms and affection switched off.
His wife stuck with it, embarrassed that her parents had been right all along, but finally, after suffering more than enough, she fled and filed for divorce.
His wife stuck with it, embarrassed that her parents had been right all along, but finally, after suffering more than enough, she fled and filed for divorce.
Biggleswurm quickly ran through his
pay-off and henceforth used the boy as a weapon to gouge more.
The countess provided us with full
names, birthdates, addresses and other details needed for us to get started.
Her only stipulation was that we were to work around her daughter, who, she insisted must know nothing of our mission.
Her only stipulation was that we were to work around her daughter, who, she insisted must know nothing of our mission.
Lara apparently considered the
predicament her own problem, her own mistake, and did not want her mother
meddling into her affairs. She would, we
were told, become angry if she knew the countess had retained us.
“It’s a pride thing,” said the countess. “We were right all along about Biggleswurm
and she knows it. She doesn’t want to be
humiliated any further.”
Cousin Bruno
seemed to have other ideas. “Lara needs
a man,” he chirped in.
Clair and I
exchanged glances, like, is this part of
the assignment?
We saw them to the door,
watched them revolve onto the street, and took off other direction for some
fresh air.
With little sleep, fatigue
had cut in big-time, my brain unwilling to connect with my mouth.
A solution occurred to me:
McDonald’s.
(Nothing like a belly full of grease to get you up and running.)
A solution occurred to me:
McDonald’s.
(Nothing like a belly full of grease to get you up and running.)
So we pigged out on scrumptious Big Macs and French fries and milk shakes (better in Europe than the USA), relishing each bite and every slurp.
Afterwards,
we took a long lakeside walk, followed by a stroll around the old town,
stopping at J. Weston, a high-class shoe store to inspect its window
display. I pointed out a pair of black
crocodile monk strap shoes to Clair, and converted the price: $1700.
He almost choked.
Then back
to Le Richemond—and Art Stimson, who flew in from Germany after a summons from Clair through me.
Art arrived punctually.
He, Clair and I sat in a detached part of the verandah away from prying ears, and I laid out the assignment.
Clair listened quietly while Art nodded his head and scribbled notes.
He, Clair and I sat in a detached part of the verandah away from prying ears, and I laid out the assignment.
Clair listened quietly while Art nodded his head and scribbled notes.
Art's mission in a nutshell: to visit the village of
Biggleswurm in northern Germany and dig up intelligence on our nutcase baron, Von
Biggleswurm.
Business
concluded, Art departed, his seat taken within minutes by Jim Fees.
After ensuring
it was okay with me, Clair told Fees the name of our new client
Fees whistled softly. “An introduction like
that is worth a million dollars,” he said.
Clair
continued on with a slow, rambling description of our assignment, concluding
with Bruno’s suggestion that Lara needed a man.
“And that’s
where you come in,” Clair eased into his deadpan punchline, which was so very
Clair. “We’re going to marry you into
the Bossi fortune!"
Dining on perch at a lakeside
restaurant, Fees reeled off a dozen more Cold War stories, with Clair jumping in, and
I could only sit back in awe, a student of spy lore and tradecraft as taught by the best in the biz.
When serving in Yemen, Fees awakened
to find his house completely surrounded by tribesmen on horseback. Their leader turned out to be from Brooklyn,
had come to Yemen years earlier to take over the tribe, and, feeling an
affinity for Fees, offered his army for hire; for the right price, they’d take
on whomever the CIA wanted them to fight.
The real story wasn’t today’s CIA,
which, listening to them, one would believe had been over-bureaucratized and
emasculated.
The story was Clair’s Net—a
worldwide network of former operations officers, many of whom had run large
stations—first generation spooks, the smartest of their generation, who had
been wined and dined and wooed in style to join the agency (the way they used to do it), and who could look
back only in dismay at what their old shop had become.
Harry Schultz was staying temporarily in Lausanne and wanted
us to come see him.
So we trained 65 miles to the other end of the lake.
So we trained 65 miles to the other end of the lake.
Arriving, like good spooks, an hour early, we appointed ourselves at an open-air café outside Hotel Central, read
newspapers and sipped hot chocolate.
Mega-millionaire
Harry looked like one of the mole people that live beneath New York’s subway
system as he crossed the boulevard toward us. He wore several layers of ragged, mismatched
clothing, and carried a plastic bag on either arm.
“I got a
new hearing aid,” said Harry. “Sit
anywhere you want.”
When Harry opened his mouth, I noticed that he’d had a lot of gold put in—probably to
replace mercury filling, or maybe because he thought it was the safest place to
keep it.
Harry was happy
because, a few days earlier, his psychic had told him his most important work
was yet to come.
The psychic convinced Harry that it was his destiny to create the final economic formula that will save mankind.
The psychic convinced Harry that it was his destiny to create the final economic formula that will save mankind.
No more
inflation. No more deflation. No more recession or depression.
Harry was now waiting in suspense for the formula to occur to him.
Harry was now waiting in suspense for the formula to occur to him.
Harry then
revealed to us that the world as we knew it would cease to exist in 1997. California and Great Britain would be
gone—swallowed by the ocean after several earthquakes. Many other parts of the world would suffer
the same fate, he added.
Clair
leaned in, cupping a hand around his mouth conspiratorially, as only Clair
could. “What about Washington?”
“Unfortunately,”
said Harry, “Washington will be okay.”
“Are you
still interested in UFOs?” I asked. The
last time we talked, Harry wanted us to track down aliens from outer space.
“Uh, yeah,”
said Harry. “You know, they’re among
us. That’s what the psychic told
me. You’re supposed to say to new people
you meet: ‘Are you a walk-in?’ That’s
what they’re called, walk-ins. But I suppose they would deny it.” Harry thrust two copies of his current newsletter
at us. “Look at the centerspread,” he
commanded.
A smattering
of black and white photographs: Harry
standing next to British Prime Minister John Major; Harry standing next to French
President Francois Mitterrand and German Chancellor Helmut Kohl.
Harry appears animated, earnestly conversing with his new friends.
Harry appears animated, earnestly conversing with his new friends.
“What do
you think?” snapped Harry.
“I think
it’s great,” I said. “How did you manage
that?”
Harry sat
back in his chair, beaming.
“Congratulations,”
said Clair.
We moved to
another table for lunch, overlooking Lausanne’s train station.
“I still
think you’re wrong,” Harry admonished, “for not doing anything about Loony.”
“What did
you want us to do, break his legs?” I asked.
Harry did
not answer. That’s exactly what he wanted.
“Our
objective was to get him off your back,” I reminded, “not incite him further.”
Harry was
growing lonelier—and wackier—in self-imposed exile.
Clair and I
bid him farewell (we’d never see him again) and found a train going our
way.
As we glided the rails back toward Serene City, I scrutinized Harry’s
photo-spread. The caption said they were
snapped at a G-8 meeting in Brussels.
“Look at
this.” I held it out to Clair. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but I think the only
real person in these photos is Harry.”
Clair
rubbed his eyes, straightened his glasses and looked hard at the photos.
“Major,
Mitterrand, Kohl…,” I said. “They’re wax figures.”
Clair shook
his head, astonished. “I’ll be
damned—you’re right.”
You've heard of waxing poetic?
Harry invented waxing prevaricate.
You've heard of waxing poetic?
Harry invented waxing prevaricate.