On Retainer to Prince Albert of Monaco
April-May 2006
I was in London when a smoking
gun rolled out of my fax machine.
Transmitted by LIDDY, the letterhead was Bosna Bank International of
Sarajevo, Bosnia—a letter confirming to Christine Giudici (Philippe Narmino’s
wife) that 18,750,000 Saudi ryals (about $5 million) had been
received by wire transfer from Al Rajhi Banking & Investment Corporation in
Saudi Arabia and deposited into her account.
The fax was copied to “Philippe” and “Franck.”
As
much as I wanted to swiftly show this to the Prince in person, I had plans to
be in Washington, D.C.
I flew there on
April 18th —my first dinner, as usual, with Clair George. We had much to catch up on over chateaubriand
and Ridge Geyserville zinfandel in Georgetown's Citronelle.
When
I finished relating my latest adventures, Clair had only one question: “How are you with Al?”
I shrugged. “Fine, I guess.”
He
told me that the late CIA director Bill Casey used to say, “I have only one
friend in Washington—but it’s the President.”
Next
morning at nine, I hunkered down with a CIA team in the conference room of a
Tyson’s Corner hotel. They briefed me,
mostly on Russia, so that I could brief the Prince.
Later
I met with CIA alumnus Tyler Drumheller and Bill Murray for dinner at Clyde’s in
Georgetown. They thought my idea for a Micro-European intelligence cooperative was brilliant and provided me a contact in
Luxembourg’s intelligence service.
Two
weeks later, in a late evening meeting at M-Base with JLA, it seemed clear the chef de cabinet was sorry he’d ever left the civility of Paris and Lagardere.
Every weekend, when he left Monaco, Minister of State Proust
beat a path straight to the Prince’s door, and then, with the Prince’s tacit
approval, spent the weekend undoing everything the Prince agreed with JLA.
Franck Biancheri would finally leave his position as finance minister. Proust adopted the idea as his own Proust and gave Biancheri a better-sounding job.
I
truly appreciated a front row seat in this theatrical travesty/farce.
Every time I felt like bailing, I reminded
myself that spectators paid good money for such entertainment—all grist for a
novel one day.
Thus I deferred to Robert McKee, the master of story structure, who
wrote, “Life is conflict—no conflict, no story,” and “Welcome pressure as an
opportunity to exhibit character.”
If
one wasn’t born royal, intelligence was the next best occupation, as both
required mystique.
It was to my huge advantage that I never concerned myself about my standing with the Prince,
while all others in court cliques would transform into Chicken Little if he hadn’t
returned their calls in three days.
(Richard Nixon, as president, was said to skillfully use subtle lack of contact to keep
his senior officials on pins and needles, guessing where they stood with
him. The Prince did this without
calculation, oblivious to the angst.)
On
the heels of the Prince’s visit with Russian President Vladimir Putin, three
Russians wrote to the Palace purporting to have met him in Putin’s company—and
now, in Putin’s name, they desired to visit Monaco to discuss several business
ventures.
JLA provided me their names,
and my service checked them out.
The Prince had met none
of the three—nor did they have Putin’s authorization to contact the Prince on
his behalf.
The Russians are a bold
bunch.
I
received an urgent telephone call from CIA in Paris:
Their cryptographic phone was not working
properly, they said. They needed to
collect it for servicing...
There’s a problem, needs fixing, crackling
on the line.
Uh, no, that would be flatulence.
(We had moved it to the WC after learning it could be used to eavesdrop on us.)
On
May 4th, the Prince graced M-Base with his presence at martini
time.
Early
May is an ugly time of year in Monaco, pre-Grand Prix, when bleachers and
barricades make one feel like a lab mouse in a maze.
Albert told me that the North Pole was “awesome”
and that he’d felt Putin’s “cold steely side” in Moscow—and that was just from
attending the Russian president’s state dinner in his honor.
Putin mentioned to the Prince he had been to Monaco in 1992 as part of a
Russian trade delegation. (Ah, that
would be MING’s introduction of Russians to Monaco.)
Leonid Slutsky, the Prince told me, had
pushed his way into every aspect of the North Pole expedition, except dinner at
the Kremlin, where Putin pushed him out.
Then
I got down to it. “Rarely in life does
one find a black and white situation,” I began.
“But we actually have one here.
JLA is doing a great job, implementing your program. Proust is trying to play you against your own
chef de cabinet, even leaking to VSD
magazine that people are calling JLA ‘Albert the Third’ because Proust believes
it will turn you against him. The knives
come out for JLA every weekend.
"Proust
tries to undercut JLA’s authority by seeing you in his absence and then twists
the facts against JLA to get you to nod and agree so he can return to his
office and convince himself and his staff that he has your approval.
"Proust does not want to relinquish the power
that belongs constitutionally to the Palace, and JLA is your enforcer. He needs your support. Proust,” I added, “is impeding all
progress. You must get rid of him.”
The
Prince nodded. The same nod most people interpret as obtaining his tacit
approval.
Then
I produced the Bosna Bank letter—the smoking gun the Prince had requested several
months earlier: a fax implicating
Philippe Narmino in a dirty deal.
“What?” He adjusted his glasses and studied it
closely.
This
single, profound document seemed to make an impact.
“You’ve
got to clean out the government,” I said quietly.
“What
about the French?” the Prince asked.
“That’s
part of the problem,” I said. “According
to our spy, LIDDY, the French already know about this. That’s another reason you have to get rid of
them: the French know—and they know you know. Until the fundamentals are right, no progress
can be made.”
As
part of Operation Scribe, I’d met
with Jeff Stinson, London-based foreign correspondent for USA Today.
On deep background, I had outlined a highly positive story on how the Prince meant business cracking down on dirty money in Monaco.
On deep background, I had outlined a highly positive story on how the Prince meant business cracking down on dirty money in Monaco.
The concept, as the Prince and I had discussed, was to spook the bad
guys through positive PR. Stinson had
expressed interest. As any good
reporter, he would have to investigate the situation for himself. So he would fly down to see firsthand and
conduct interviews. The Prince agreed to
an interview. Then he had to leave. Michael Smurfit expected the Prince aboard
his yacht, along with Bruno Philipponnat—and a new Russian they wanted him to
meet.
“Probably
one of Bruno’s business deals,” I commented.
The
Prince affected a grim expression. “It’s
a problem.” (Not enough of a problem to take
a pass, apparently.)
Next
morning, JLA confronted Proust and told him his “promotion” for Franck Biancheri
sucked to high hell.
Proust offered his
resignation, and JLA said he’d take it.
Proust aimed to see the Prince on Monday—and I hoped beyond hope the
Prince had cultivated the moxie to accept his resignation or, if Proust had changed his mind, demand it anyway.
When
I next met JLA, in his Palace office, it was to show him a letter from Jeff
Stinson, the USA Today reporter,
which itemized the topics he wished to cover in interviews with both JLA and
the Prince.
I
rebounded to the Palace two-and-a-half hours later for a meeting with the
Prince in his office. We confirmed a USA Today interview five days hence,
then confirmed a meeting with SIS eight days after that. And we confirmed the next M-Base party for
July 10th, which the Prince would attend.
We
discussed the Bosna Bank fax and agreed that Philippe Narmino must go.
“Paris will applaud you,” I said.
“But
they’re corrupt in Paris,” said the Prince, and he said this as if somebody had
planted that very phrase in his mind.
(Was this, ultimately, a defense for permitting corruption in Monaco
after announcing to the world the introduction of a new ethic?)
“And they’re corrupt all along the
Mediterranean,” I said. “But we’re
trying to do something different here.
Aren’t we?”
I
urged the Prince to accept Proust’s resignation, if tendered, and I reminded
him that no progress in our clean-up program could be made until the
fundamentals were right.
The
Prince had a new requirement: Find out
about Chalva Tchigirinski, the Russian to whom he had been introduced by
Michael Smurfit and Bruno Philipponnat.
It
did not take long.
Our
operation, going on almost four years, had become ultra slick by now.
Chalva
“Chig” Pavlovitch Tchigirinski was a Russian with Israeli citizenship—a crook,
but not as dirty as many of the others coming in from Russia.
He was aligned
with Mayor Luzhkov of Moscow, at odds with Putin. Chig had a real estate background.
He owned President Mobuto’s old villa on Cap
Martin, and presumably wanted to dabble in Monaco property, assisted by
Philipponnat, who had a way of greasing these things for a commission, probably
in the Prince’s name.
In other words, royal court business as usual.
SPYMASTER RULE # 19
True character is revealed under pressure.
Welcome pressure: it is a true test of your own character.
It is easy to display character when all is going well.
True character is revealed when the sky is falling.
Do you flip out, lose your head, and blame others?
Rudyard Kipling said it best in his poem If.
If you can keep your
head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you…
So welcome pressure, and see it as an opportunity to
demonstrate your strength, conviction, and dignity in the face of whatever is
thrown at you by those with lesser character.