DISGRACED MONACO PALACE ACCOUNTANT CLAUDE PALMERO...
...Tried to Kill the Monaco Intelligence Service Without Prince Albert's Authorization
On November 30th, 2006, I received a call from Claude Palmero’s secretary requesting for me to meet him at the Palace “when next in Monaco.” We scheduled this for December 11th at ten o’clock in the morning.
Since the beginning of my service to Prince Albert of Monaco—four years and five months earlier—I had never been summoned to the Palace by Palmero, who was tasked with paying my invoices, nothing more.
I called the Prince’s cell phone, left a message, “Do you know that Palmero has asked for a meeting with me?”
No response.
Not having a good feeling about this, I wrote the following into my journal about what I needed to tell Albert: It has taken four-and-a-half years to build an intelligence service from scratch. The dividends are paying out better than ever. It would be just plain dumb to end it now.
On December 8th, I flew into a Nice covered in thick cloud and pouring rain—summoned to an uncertain fate. My driver’s Mercedes had broken down en route to meet me so I grabbed a taxi and rolled toward Monaco in darkness and gloom, reflecting my mood. I jotted in my journal: Monaco was Albert’s to lose. He’s doing his best to lose it, badly misled by corrupt cronies whose hearts are filled with jealousy and avarice.
The electricity was out when I arrived at M-Base. It turned out to be a fuse-box problem, as if someone had been inside and switched off the mains.
Over wild boar in Sans Souci on Boulevard des Moulins, my deputy Jean-Leonard de Massy (Prince Albert’s cousin) and I devised a plan for dealing with Palmero’s summons three days hence. I still had not heard from the Prince, and I was discomfited by the notion of walking so visibly into a Palace meeting without his knowledge. No one at the Palace but the Prince knew of de Massy’s involvement with Monaco’s intelligence service. We decided at dinner to play that card.
At precisely 9:15 on the morning of my scheduled meeting with Palmero, de Massy phoned his office and left a message with Palmero’s secretary to phone him urgently “because it concerns your ten o’clock appointment with Eringer.”
De Massy’s cell phone jingled three minutes later. He explained he was calling on my behalf to say I had not received the Prince’s authorization to attend a meeting with him at the Palace and that I could not expose myself like this without such approval. If Palmero still wanted to meet, he was told, it would have to be at M-Base, “where Eringer meets people in a secure environment.” We offered a car and driver to collect and return him.
Palmero huffed and puffed. Nobody, he scolded de Massy, treated a summons to the Palace this way.
De Massy apologized, but firmly restated that a meeting could take place only under these conditions.
Palmero arrived at M-Base, feathers ruffled. I introduced de Massy as “working closely with me.” Palmero seemed shaken by this development. De Massy departed and Palmero sat stiffly on the edge of my sofa.
“I have been instructed by the Prince, before he left on his trip, to terminate your contract,” he said, adding that this was due to “reorganization.” He followed this by offering to pay one quarter of 2007 “and maybe a month or two beyond if you have not found something else [to do].”
In other words, please leave quietly.
I motioned with my arms at the furnishings around us. “What am I supposed to do about this place? It’s not my home. I work here. The Prince just authorized me to extend the lease for six months.”
This surprised Palmero. “Okay,” he said, “so we pay until the Grand Prix [in May].”
“I spoke to the Prince ten days ago and he gave me no indication of this,” I said.
Palmero said nothing.
“We have two important meetings scheduled this Thursday for visitors coming to Monaco from other countries,” I continued. “They expect to meet with the Prince here in this apartment. Am I to assume that the Prince will not attend, based on this so-called termination?”
More surprise from Palmero about such loose ends. He said it would be an embarrassment for the Prince if he did not appear.
I agreed. “So what should I do?” I asked.
Palmero told me he would meet with the Prince on Wednesday and remind him of his commitments.
“Of course,” I said, “I will have to confirm with the Prince what you say about terminating my contract.”
And I thanked Palmero for coming to M-Base.
“No, don’t thank me,” he said, more discomfited than ever. He tried to rise, but fell back onto the sofa with full force, and this rattled him further. He steadied himself and rose to his feet. I walked him to the elevator, shook his hand, looked him in the eye and thanked him again before the doors closed.
De Massy reappeared.
“He claims termination,” I said.
DeMassy was stunned. By this time, Jean-Leonard fully understood the scope, commitment and progress of our service and its intrinsic value to the Prince as a source of independent, unfiltered intelligence, so he was floored.
I realized I had to cancel Thursday’s meetings with CIA and, separately, MI6. There was too much doubt about whether or not the Prince would appear and I did not trust Palmero to remind him. I could not have our visitors treated this way. First I phoned CIA’s Paris station chief.
“Shall we reschedule?” he asked, not getting it.
“For the moment we are in clean-up and close-down mode,” I said.
Next, I phoned my MI6 contact in London to say our meeting had been disrupted. “Come down if you want,” I said, “but I can’t guarantee my boss will appear.” MI6 canceled.
Captain Yves Subraud and Jean-Raymond Gottlieb appeared at M-Base five o’clock that afternoon. From our demeanor, the boys from SIGER sensed something was wrong. De Massy and I confided in them. They were stunned. One of them immediately said he would retire; the other suggested we go underground to continue our work without authorization.
We agreed that Police Chief Muhlberger should know. I phoned him and, without saying what it was about, requested he visit M-Base for an urgent meeting at 7:30 next morning.
I was still shell-shocked, my mind consumed with the deconstruction of an intelligence service. On one hand, it made no sense; on the other it made all the sense in the world. We had too visibly threatened the bad guys—they wanted us out of there. The Prince was either too weak to stand up to them or too blind to notice—probably both, on top of which, he would typically take the path of least resistance.
De Massy put it another way: “My cousin doesn’t understand it. Watching him with the Romanians [senior intelligence officials], I knew he was thinking, what the fuck am I doing here.”
Another possibility: The bad guys had serious leverage over the Prince. Some were certainly aware that he had fathered a third illegitimate child. Some were privy to the Prince’s sex-capades, including deviant sexual behavior too distasteful to divulge.
My concern was how to break the news of our termination to the other intelligence services with which we liaised—20 in all. They would see it for what it was: The Prince is not a serious leader; he is not serious about cleaning up his principality, his speech about introducing a new ethic was a sham.
I scribbled this notation into my journal for bolstering my own sagging morale: Everything I did was in service to the Prince, carefully avoiding any conflict of interest. I regret nothing. I acted professionally at all times. I did an excellent job, respected by the intelligence services with which I’d created and maintained effective liaison relationships. We were too damned honest and efficient for our own good.
That evening, I returned to Hotel Columbus for a dry martini at the same booth where, 54 months earlier, the Prince asked my assistance to ensure he would be well informed so that, upon assuming the throne, he could crack down on the bad guys.
Then I took MARTHA (a codename for my Russian spy) to Le Beefbar for Argentine entrecote and fine Margaux.
I awakened early next morning.
De Massy arrived; Andre Muhlberger appeared at 7:30 sharp, followed several minutes later by Subraud and Gottlieb. The police chief was stunned by our news. Muhlberger drew a deep breath and sat back in his chair. “They do not want serious investigation,” he uttered.
Everyone agreed on this point: I had not heard from the Prince; it was not over until he said it was over. At ten minutes past eight I sent the Prince this text: I have heard from Palmero. I should hear from you directly and talk this through.
I saw Chief Muhlberger to the elevator. He looked me in the eye. “This story is not over.”
When I rejoined the others, Subraud said, “Palmero is a rat. You must fight.”
But the joy of this job had long since vanished, most of it with the departure of Jean-Luc Allavena, the Prince’s scrupulously honest chief-of-staff who had been done in by... Palmero and Thierry Lacoste, Prince Albert’s corrupt lawyer. In the six weeks since, we had been more consumed with our own survival than our mission—like any other bureaucracy.
I had a long-standing lunch scheduled that day with Iztok P, who had recently retired as Slovenia’s intelligence chief but had traveled to Monaco with Bosnia’s intelligence chief, Almir D—the person Iztok had consulted to validate our intelligence on internal corruption. (We had discovered that Monagasque government officials were using Balkan banks to hide their secret commissions, bribe pay-offs and other ill-gotten gains.)
It may no longer have mattered, but that afternoon we created a new liaison partnership, with Bosnia.
Clair George, the former CIA spymaster, phoned that afternoon, eager for an update. (Clair was a consultant to our service.)
“Everything is going according to plan,” I said, pausing briefly. “Unfortunately, it’s not my plan.”
We laughed.
I phoned Jean-Luc Allavena to tell him our news. “We were led down a false road,” he said solemnly.
I asked him what he had done with our reports on corrupt Monegasque ministers.
“I had to turn over all my files.” He’d given them to Palmero. “I asked him [Palmero] a few days ago if he had read them,” Allavena added. “He was not interested, does not want to know.”
That evening I strolled through Christmas Village along the port, my stomach knotted. It was cold and I sensed danger lurking. Back in M-Base, I turned out the lights, lit candles and listened to the sad violin strains from Songs from a Secret Garden.
De Massy appeared at nine o’clock. Forty minutes later, my original deputy arrived from London. Although no longer my right-hand man, he still contributed to our service on a pro bono basis.
“Glad you’re here,” I told him. “Starting to feel lonely.”
The three of us ventured out to a portside restaurant called Tender To for a late dinner and a bottle of Barolo red wine.
Next morning, I met HUNT (a codename for one of my influential Monegasque assets) for cappuccino at a local Condamine cafe. He was disgusted, if not surprised, by my news.
Later, another old friend of the Prince put it this way: “I’ve been making excuses for Albert my whole life.”
De Massy received a gnarly message on his cell phone from Thierry Lacoste, delivered at two in the morning, denouncing de Massy as a “two-faced bastard” for working with me.
The Prince had not called, despite my having left a half-dozen messages on his two mobile phones and with his secretary, Madame Viale, at the Palace. So I sent this fax:
13 December 2006
Dear Prince Albert,
As you may know, Claude Palmero notified me on 11 December that you have instructed him to terminate my service to you.
If this is true, I am saddened and surprised that you have chosen not to deliver this news personally. I have worked very hard on your behalf during the last five years, and I feel that I have contributed much with little personal gain to myself. This was based on the predication that you desired to be informed by me on matters pertaining to criminal activities within the principality, and that you intended to take action against those engaged in criminal activity.
Furthermore, it is a great shame to close down an entity that has given you access to twenty intelligence services in countries of strategic importance to Monaco. Its value is much, much higher than the funding I have received to put all the right pieces into place. I did this for you because I believed in the new ethic you wished to install in your country.
I explained to you that the measure of my effectiveness could likely be based upon how vehemently others might try to discredit me. I suspect this is what has occurred because your indifference is otherwise inexplicable. You always said that if I fell victim to a disinformation campaign, I would have the opportunity to know what has been said and dispute any false allegations. If this is the case, or even if you have chosen to terminate this relationship because of its cost, I hope you will meet with me, if only for a few minutes, so I can fully understand what you feel has gone wrong.
As you may remember, I had two meetings scheduled for you tomorrow at M-Base. At the risk of embarrassing you and/or our visitors should you not appear, I have cancelled both visits.
As I discussed with Claude, the dismantling of the infrastructure—M-Base, local and international relationships, etc.—is going to take some time and expense, but if this is your desire, I shall, with great disappointment, begin the process. However, before I commence the steps necessary to do so I must hear from you that this is what you truly want, and whether you wish that I transfer these relationships or conclude them.
Frank Schneider from Luxembourg intelligence phoned at 2:15 from Nice Airport to report his arrival, as previously scheduled. I requested he proceed directly to M-Base. Frank possessed a creative mind and I wanted him to absorb our unwelcome news in advance of the dinner we’d planned. When he arrived 45 minutes later and I briefed him on our uncertain status, Frank was shocked.
I spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning out the safe and shredding documents originating from our liaison partners. I spoke again with CIA’s Paris station chief on our cryptographic hotline, assuring him we would safeguard the agency’s cryptographic equipment until it could be collected. He was astonished that we were truly in closedown mode.
“We tried, took chances, did something,” I said. “I’d rather do it right and get pushed out after four-and-a-half years than do nothing and stick around for ten.”
In the midst of this, the Paris station chief of Mossad (Israel’s foreign intelligence service) arrived in Monaco for a pre-arranged meeting. As if in an old spy movie, I met Josey that evening near a carousel in the Christmas Village below M-Base. We walked to Fusion for cocktails. Josey seemed enthusiastic to grow the liaison into a strong relationship. I was honest and told him our meeting could be superfluous as we were struggling for survival. Pending the OK of Frank Schneider from Luxembourg, I invited Josey to join Frank and me for after-dinner drinks at Le Beefbar.
At 7:30 I met Frank and my original deputy in the bar at Hotel Columbus. Frank had phoned his chief in the interim and now relayed to us that Marco Mille was “pissed off” by our news. It was an embarrassment for him to have opened doors for us to other intelligence services only to have them closed, so soon and with such abruptness.
“You can’t close it down,” Frank told me. “All countries have problems with corruption, but they find a balance.” Frank continued to talk about the international ramifications of closing down the Monaco Intelligence Service, and the harsh reaction that should be expected from other countries and their intelligence services.
“What would such an action say about Monaco, about the Prince?” said Frank. “It would say he was not serious, was disingenuous, does not wish to fight corruption, but is happy for Monaco to exist as a criminal state. These doors have been opened,” added Frank. “You cannot just close them. The French, too, would be embarrassed, having signed off with Marco—and others—to meet you, establish contact. To now close those doors would make France very uncomfortable. Phone the Prince,” he urged. “Point out the reality and tell him to grow up, get a grip.”
Frank told us that Marco had offered to do this himself, and to meet with the Prince to point out a) the importance of MIS and its relations with other services and b) how ridiculous and dangerous it would be to terminate these relationships. “Once you’re lucky enough to be invited into this club, you don’t suddenly leave,” said Frank. “You will be considered a pariah from then on.”
We walked over to Le Beefbar for steak and Pomerol. Bolstered by Luxembourg’s encouragement, we decided to keep our service alive—at least until Marco Mille could meet with the Prince for a reality check, or until the French could react. We drew up a plan: After the holidays I would travel to Paris and brief the DST chief, with whom I dealt directly; I would then travel to Luxembourg to consult, and Lux chief Marco Mille would accompany me to Monaco to see the Prince.
When I rose to use the men’s room, I noticed Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s version of Mr. Bojangles playing. It flashed me back to Terri Hart, my high school friend who was killed at age 16 in a Turkish Airlines crash near Paris, and I shed a quick tear in her memory. I had a lot of emotion in me from this rollercoaster of a week.
Josey, from Mossad, phoned at 9:15 and Frank sanctioned his joining us. So along came Josey—and we ate soufflés and drank wine and laughed like maniacs till one in the morning.
At 9:30 the next morning I was in the Priority Lounge at Nice Airport, awaiting my EasyJet flight to London when my cell phone jingled.
It was Prince Albert. “Aren’t we supposed to be meeting today?” he asked.
I could scarcely believe my ears.
“Albert,” I said, “I’ve been told by Palmero we’re out of business, that we must shut down. I’m at the airport.”
“Oh, no—he wasn’t supposed to tell you that.”
“Sorry,” I said, “but I had to cancel both meetings because after hearing Palmero’s news I could not be certain you would appear and I could not risk embarrassing you and inconveniencing our visitors. Didn’t you get my messages?”
The Prince told me he had not heard any of my phone messages.
“What about my fax?”
He had not seen that either. (Intercepted? And, if so, by whom?) This was, apparently, the first he knew of any possible problem.
“So Palmero acted without your authority?” I asked.
“Palmero doesn’t know how complicated this is,” said the Prince. “I’m going to bawl him out. Are you just arriving?”
“No, I’m leaving—it’s been a rather dramatic week.”
“When can we meet?” he asked.
There was no point, we agreed, in my retrieving checked baggage and returning to Monaco (the last place I wanted to be). We’d meet after the holidays, in early January.
I found my original deputy at the other end of the lounge. “You’re not going to believe this…” I began.
At that juncture I felt we’d won a major power play—an inoculation against whatever came next. It didn’t kill us, so it should have made us stronger, right?
Wrong. The Prince should have ended it then. It would have been the humane thing to do, and given me the luxury of time to channel our liaison partnerships to SIGER. What he did instead—not confronting his pivotal swing away from our service—was unforgivable.
We put the word out around Monaco that Palmero and Lacoste tried to make unauthorized decisions in the Prince’s name, but I retained some doubt as to how complicit the Prince had actually been, cognizant of his proclivity for prevarication.
I arrived back in London bullish and buoyant, if emotionally drained. One thing about a crisis, you’re able to identify your true friends. That evening I met my closest MI6 contact in the Cigar Bar at the old Churchill Hotel on Portman Square and recounted the events of the past four days—a cathartic exercise.
“Luxembourg was quite right,” he said when I’d finished. “You cannot raise the flag, say you want to crack down on organized crime, then lower it. It sends all the wrong messages and isolates Monaco much worse than before. But they won’t go away,” he added. “They’ll come back harder next time.”
A few days later I’d nailed it down from inside sources. At the end of November, just before the Prince’s ten-day state trip through Asia, he’d had two meetings with Lacoste and Palmero to finalize a severance arrangement for Jean-Luc Allavena. Near the end of those meetings, the lawyer and accountant staged a “manipulation” of the Prince’s disposition toward my service. After the Prince’s departure, Lacoste told Palmero he possessed the authority to execute a termination, and Palmero executed it.
I phoned Clair George. “It’s not over till the fat lady sings,” I told him. “And the fat lady refused to sing.”
“They don’t understand the complexity,” he said. “I’m proud of you. You’ve lasted 15 rounds and you’re back for more. Enjoy this. It won’t last forever.”
Thereafter, riding a rollercoaster was our new status quo as I questioned whether I should continue to serve a Prince who no longer cared, if ever he had, about the stellar intelligence service we’d created and customized for him.
Sad for the Monegasques.