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Baron von Biggleswurm |
Private-Sector Intelligence with Clair George
The French Riviera and Paris, France, October 1992
Two weeks after Clair George and I returned home from seeing Countess Bossi in Geneva, Art Stimson's report on Baron von
Biggleswurm rattled out my fax machine.
Posing as a
reporter, Art had interviewed the mayor of Biggleswurm, and the baron’s own
father, who had much to say about a do-nothing son he evidently loathed.
Art had also collected a smattering of local newspaper clippings pertaining to his target.
Art had also collected a smattering of local newspaper clippings pertaining to his target.
As with Harry
Schultz's tormentor, Clair and I concluded that the best way to find out
what Biggleswurm was up to would be to befriend him and become an essential
element in his life. An insertion operation is much less
expensive—and far more elegant—than round-the-clock surveillance.
Clair called it “weaseling your way in.”
Clair called it “weaseling your way in.”
For Clair,
most secret work involving influence or manipulation was based upon creating
illusions.
Case in
point: To influence the population of an
African village to behave a certain way, frighten them with a river of
blood. Idi Amin would slaughter a
thousand people to create such a scenario.
The CIA would use red paint—and probably get blamed later for
slaughtering a thousand people.
Art's intelligence provided all I
needed to know to create an illusion for weaseling my way into the baron’s
existence.
I picked up
my phone and touch-keyed the number of Biggleswurm Castle.
A male
voice answered.
“May I
speak with Baron von Biggleswurm?” I asked.
“Yaa. This is me!”
he blurted, excited, it seemed, to receive a call.
I told
Biggleswurm my name. “I am a book
publisher,” I said. “A friend of mine in
Germany sent me some newspaper clippings about you.”
“Yaa?”
“Yes. You were in Dubrovnik recently, right? You were the only musician to show up for a
music festival while war raged everywhere.
They called you a hero—and you said, Bach
brings peace.”
I held my
breath. The next moment would decide the
future of this operation; you get but once chance for a cold-call insertion.
“Yaa! That’s me!
I make those words!”
“And very
good words they are,” I said. “Perhaps even the title of a book about bringing peace through music.”
“Yaa, it
could be me.”
“You could
write such a book yourself?”
“Yaa,
yaa! I love literature. And philosophy. And I write!”
“Marvelous,”
I said. “Could we meet in Paris next
week?”
I, of course, already knew from Art Stimson that the French capital was Biggleswurm’s favorite European city.
I, of course, already knew from Art Stimson that the French capital was Biggleswurm’s favorite European city.
“Yaa, I
must be in Paris also. I am very
enthusiastic about this project. Where
shall we meet?”
“Le
Bristol,” I said. "Do you know it?"
I also knew this hotel housed Biggleswurm’s favorite restaurant.
“Excellent
choice,” he said.
We set a
date five days hence. “Let’s meet at
twelve noon,” I said. “We’ll have
lunch.”
“Splendid."
I caught a
jet, not to Paris, but to Nice, and whizzed by taxi to my client’s villa.
Countess Bossi descended her marble staircase and greeted me in the foyer, poured a
Bitter and sat me beside her on the sofa overlooking her beautiful garden.
“I’m going
to have lunch with your ex-son-in-law in Paris tomorrow,” I said straight out.
The
countess reacted with stunned silence.
Then she grasped its ingenuity and gleefully clasped her hands. “Magnifico!” Her expression turned to trepidation. “You know, he’s a very smart man.”
Odd, how the baron went from "village idiot" to "very smart man."
Odd, how the baron went from "village idiot" to "very smart man."
I plucked a
business card from my wallet and handed it to the countess.
“He will reach
Enigma Books, where they will confirm I am a book publisher.”
“Magnifico!”
Exhilarated, the countess led me to the Plate Room—the late count’s favorite—featuring 100 blue and white china plates affixed to the walls, each lit with its own light bulb.
“I have a little surprise for you,”
she said, eyes twinkling. “Do you like truffles?"
A white-gloved servant appeared
with a fresh truffle the size of a tennis ball.
“These
white ones from northern Italy are especially rare,” she said.
The servant
shaved truffle (a gourmand’s cocaine) onto my ravioli, the best I've ever eaten.
Next
morning, I flew to Paris and checked into Le Bristol, not a moment too soon (my
flight had been delayed due to fog).
Five minutes later, the concierge rang to announce one Baron von
Biggleswurm in the lobby.
One last
look in the mirror.
Showtime!
Downstairs,
I played my role as publisher and Biggleswurm played his role as batty old
aristocrat, wearing a bold pinstripe double-breasted suit with cuffed sleeves (“my own
design,” he said) and two-toned wingtips on his feet.
A colorful silk handkerchief drooped flamboyantly out of his breast pocket. Oval-shaped granny specs dipped down his
Hanoverian nose, maturing him ten years beyond his age, an image he cultivated
for himself.
The baron
asked about my publishing house.
But he
was only mildly interested in what I had to say about the beauty of independent
publishers versus conglomerates. This
was politeness, until the opportunity arose to talk about his favorite
subject: himself.
Once started,
he didn’t stop.
In fact,
Biggleswurm had so much to tell me about himself, he had trouble organizing his
thoughts, and so he shot his rather large wad in fragments:
He was a philosopher, had lectured philosophy at the University of Heidelberg. He had just broken bread with Gorbachev. He was a musician, a cellist—one of the world’s best. He was a writer. Not yet published, no, but this was because he had not yet found a publisher worthy of his genius.
He was a philosopher, had lectured philosophy at the University of Heidelberg. He had just broken bread with Gorbachev. He was a musician, a cellist—one of the world’s best. He was a writer. Not yet published, no, but this was because he had not yet found a publisher worthy of his genius.
I listened,
nodding with enthusiasm.
Biggleswurm
gestured with his arms in the direction of the dining room. “Let’s have lunch.”
He wanted to
be wined and dined and fawned over by white-jacketed servers. No better place for this than Le Bristol’s
dining room, whose waiters and sommeliers vastly outnumber patrons. They draped fine linen on our laps and placed
menus in our hands.
Biggleswurm mumbled something about his delicate digestive system; he ordered a carrot and tomato salad, stressing more than once that the carrots be shredded, followed by filet of sole.
Biggleswurm mumbled something about his delicate digestive system; he ordered a carrot and tomato salad, stressing more than once that the carrots be shredded, followed by filet of sole.
I insisted the baron choose a bottle of wine to his liking.
He ordered pouilly fume, and when it arrived I complimented him on his exquisite taste.
Then I asked the baron to tell me about his life.
“Start from the beginning,” I
suggested.
He did not
have to be asked twice.
Biggleswurm
began by saying he was a child prodigy, had studied under master cellists in
Paris and London. Now he was a master
cellist himself.
Eventually he got to the part about his “bad marriage” and how it resulted in a son he could only visit several times a year.
He claimed his ex-wife had gone off the deep end, influenced by Far Eastern religious “cults,” such as Buddhism…
Eventually he got to the part about his “bad marriage” and how it resulted in a son he could only visit several times a year.
He claimed his ex-wife had gone off the deep end, influenced by Far Eastern religious “cults,” such as Buddhism…
(A
principle of sting-undercover, as taught to me by Walt Perry, a sting
specialist for the IRS: If you let people talk, without trying to
guide them, they usually get to what you want to hear. In Biggleswurm’s case, we got there a lot sooner
than I expected.)
I shook my
head in dismay. “Custody battles are
sad. How does the future look?”
“I’ve lost
my enthusiasm for the legal fight,” said Biggleswurm. “But I might try to change the jurisdiction
to Germany.”
And then he told me
something that rendered our client’s main worry needless.
Past and
present exhausted, the baron charged into the future.
He was unhappy at his ancestral castle in Germany because his village was beneath his dignity. He said he had returned two years earlier “to try to make something of it,” but it wasn’t working.
“Germany is too materialistic,” said Biggleswurm. “And I’m anti-materialism.”
He was unhappy at his ancestral castle in Germany because his village was beneath his dignity. He said he had returned two years earlier “to try to make something of it,” but it wasn’t working.
“Germany is too materialistic,” said Biggleswurm. “And I’m anti-materialism.”
Served
sorbet between courses, I realized this would be a ridiculously expensive lunch
rather than just an expensive one.
This was not lost on Biggleswurm; he had carved a whole career out of sponging ridiculously expensive lunches.
This was not lost on Biggleswurm; he had carved a whole career out of sponging ridiculously expensive lunches.
By this
time I was scribbling in front of him.
There was just too much information pouring from his mouth to
remember. I did this with the baron’s
permission.
Indeed, he felt complimented that someone should wish to note his pronouncements. If anything, it egged him on.
Indeed, he felt complimented that someone should wish to note his pronouncements. If anything, it egged him on.
“Where
would you go if you left Germany?” I asked.
“In the
midst of France,” he replied. “Or a
southern European island. But it would
not be until a year from now.”
Biggleswurm
continued to chatter while I tried to enjoy my filet of sole.
He talked about “formations of nostalgia” and existential this and existential that ad nauseum until I felt like grabbing him by his lapels and yelling shut the hell up!
He talked about “formations of nostalgia” and existential this and existential that ad nauseum until I felt like grabbing him by his lapels and yelling shut the hell up!
Instead, I nodded, caught his eye, occasionally smiled and otherwise pretended to be an enthusiastic listener.
“If you are
looking for intellectual clichés, that’s not me,” the baron admonished, arching
his eyebrows.
At this point, I seriously considered pushing my chocolate mousse into his daffy face.
Having
earlier trounced his ex-wife’s spirituality, Biggleswurm turned to his own
spiritual affectations over dessert.
“A
few years ago in Paris,” he whispered, “I was at a recital given by an elderly
Russian pianist. After he played, we
shook hands and talked, and he said to me, ‘You are going to write a book that
will be a big success and go all around the world.’ Yaa, he said this."
I had become the baron’s destiny,
in addition to becoming his new best friend, a phrase I learned from
Clair George.
(As an intelligence officer, when you want to recruit someone, you become that person’s new best friend.)
(As an intelligence officer, when you want to recruit someone, you become that person’s new best friend.)
Biggleswurm
wanted me to instruct him how to proceed with the masterpiece he would write
and I would publish.
“You need
to write a proposal,” I said. “Fifteen
to twenty pages.”
“How about
three or four?”
“Start with
three or four,” I replied, agreeably.
I signaled
for a check. After the waiter
disappeared with my plastic, the baron made a lame attempt to share the
tab.
I waved him away. “No chance, baron—it’s my honor.”
I waved him away. “No chance, baron—it’s my honor.”
We shook
hands in front of Le Bristol.
“I had no
idea you were such a fascinating person,” I said.
“I know,”
said Biggleswurm. “It’s true!”
Upstairs in
my room, I dialed my client’s number and she answered.
“I just had lunch with your ex-son-in-law.”
“I just had lunch with your ex-son-in-law.”
“Oh, yes!”
the countess squealed. “Tell me!”
“He’s nuts”
I said. “He talks nonsense.”
“Yes! That’s what the count always used to say. ‘He talks nonsense.’ You see—it’s true.”
“You have
no need to worry anymore,” I said.
And then I dropped the major revelation that should have dispelled all worry:
Biggleswurm had remarried and his new wife was pregnant.
Biggleswurm had remarried and his new wife was pregnant.
The countess gasped and, after a moment, said, “Poor girl."
“Which means,”
I added, “he’s not running off to South America—or anywhere for that matter. Problem solved. You don’t really need us anymore.”
Nothing
doing, said the countess.
She wanted the
spymaster and me to keep the ruse spinning.