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Summer 2004
As a member of the International
Olympic Committee, the Prince traveled to the Athens Olympics and
lost his cell phone, rendering him more difficult to find than usual. (“He’s probably happier without it,” remarked
one of his close friends.)
Early
on, I’d asked the Prince if there was someone he trusted at the Palace, or
elsewhere, easier to reach than himself, who could be point man between us. “No,” he’d said, “report only to me.”
CIA Station Chief Bill
Murray had packed his bags, readying to leave Paris, and wanted to introduce his
replacement, Pat N, to the Prince and me.
Pat N arrived on a bright note:
Not only was
his new director, Porter Goss, already aware of this liaison relationship, but had taken a special
interest in it. It was Pat N's dream assignment to screw up. And in time he would.
Over
tomato and mozzarella salad at Quai des Artistes, followed by salmon with
spinach for three, I acquainted myself with Pat N, whom we would soon code-name
LIPS because his strongest suit, when he wasn’t outright lying, was to pay lip
service.
Within the agency, LIPS was renowned
for risk averseness—and also for becoming a butt-lick to ambassadors at the
embassies in which he served.
How he
got named to so important a post as Paris was anyone’s guess, but probably
because so many senior intelligence officers had recently departed and there was a shortage of more worthy personnel.
LIPS had served mostly in Latin America, supposedly knew
Spanish, but (I was told) had taken much longer than expected to learn French at language
school.
The
Prince was scheduled to join us at M-Base for a 2:30 introductory meeting.
I stood in the lobby awaiting his arrival,
the customary protocol, while our guests waited upstairs.匿名伕理ip
At 2:45, I rang the Prince’s cell phone.
No answer.高匿名ip伕理
I rang the Palace.匿名伕理ip
They said he
was at Roc Agel, the Grimaldi family country estate on French territory in the mountains.
I asked the secretary to please phone the
Prince and remind him of our meeting.
Ten
minutes later, the Prince phoned me.
“Is
that central control?” he asked. Turns out, he'd forgotten. Or lost track of time. “I’ll
be there in an hour.”
An
hour later he phoned again. “Can you
come up to Roc Agel?”
Alas, he could not
escape from a long lunch with his demanding dad, Prince Rainier.
I
found a driver. He collected us 30 minutes later and drove the 35 minutes to Roc Agel.
With
its Willys Jeeps and security guards garbed in commando jumpsuits, this farm
had the feel of a paramilitary survivalist camp.
We were shown to the pool house and waited
another 30 minutes in stillness and quiet, the occasional dog bark.
|
Roc Agel |
At 5:45, the Prince finally appeared, looking somewhat sheepish, as if he was worried his father would come looking for him.
Said
LIPS to the Prince, “Your concerns are our concerns,” and he echoed Bill Murray's invitation to visit CIA Headquarters.
The
Prince and I had no time to meet privately, so we scheduled a late drink at
Flashman’s, a Monte Carlo bar, where we nailed a timeframe for the
Prince’s visit to CIA headquarters: late
October, about seven weeks hence.
The
Prince instructed me to phone his aide-de-camp Bruno Philipponnat to organize logistics.
Then
we moved our meeting to the privacy of M-Base for a briefing.
I provided the Prince with the findings of
our investigation into Simon Reuben—a British national with Monaco
residency—that he had authorized.
Our
detailed report was quite illuminating:
Monaco’s
police had investigated Reuben for money laundering associations with Russian
organized crime in the 1990s.高匿名ip伕理
According
to French police services and Interpol, Reuben had ties to companies named
Randal and Off Shore TL.
As a result of that earlier investigation, in 2002,
Reuben’s residency permit had been revoked, resulting in his expulsion from
Monaco.
However, following an approach
to someone at the Palace by Madame Escaut-Marquet (Monaco’s Bailiff of
Justice), Reuben had been quietly readmitted with a “privileged” resident card dated
April 7th, 2003, a move that had appalled and demoralized Monaco’s
police.
As
was our system, the Prince did not leave M-Base with the report; it was locked
in a large safe.
To further enhance our
security we had also changed the entry system, choosing a heavy-duty, expensive
door lock.
By September, Prince Rainier had
taken a “downhill change” and the end was said to be “hastening.”
Sixty cigarettes a day for most of his life
had taken a toll on his lungs and heart, and now he was failing mentally to boot.
Decisions
were being made by a troika comprised of his personal secretary Madame Siri,
his chef de cabinet (chief of staff)
Raymond Biancheri, and the Palace accountant, Claude Palmero—decisions that
best served the troika.
They were
grooming Raymond’s son, Franck the finance minister, to be Prince Albert’s chef de cabinet, so that they, once Albert assumed the throne, could continue to run Monaco and keep him traveling and in the dark.
We
knew it would be important for the Prince to forge a warm, personal
relationship with Nicolas Sarkozy, whom we forecast to become the next
President of France.
Our contacts
arranged for Sarkozy to phone the Prince and invite him for a drink in
Paris. I asked him to watch for this
call.
When we spoke by phone eight days
later, the Prince had not yet heard from Sarkozy, adding, “I lost the last ten
messages.”
On
October 21st, I met with Bruno Philipponnat at his Palace office to
coordinate logistics for our CIA briefings in Washington, D.C.
Philipponnat assured me that nothing in the
Prince’s official schedule would mention a visit to CIA headquarters; it had
been written in as a "private meeting" with me.
That
evening I dined at Quai des Artistes with LIPS and his colleague, who had
driven from Paris with a cryptographic phone and fax machine for communicating with us securely.
LIPS conveyed that Director Goss had
authorized the agency to assist us to the hilt, and that we could plan on 15 minutes with him, personally, during our visit to CIA headquarters.
Next
morning, my driver Det (we called him “The Det Collector”) drove LIPS, his
technician and me up the Rock to the Palace to see the Prince.
The CIA duo were determined to place their
cryptographic phone and fax (called STE) in the Prince’s office, but after 15 minutes of fumbling in his presence, could not find a way around the
Palace switchboard.高匿名ip伕理
So the cryptographic
equipment was driven to M-Base and installed, and the crypto-key necessary to
operate the system given to me for placement in our safe.
And just as well; Albert probably would have lost it.