THE SPYMASTER & ME: 25) ANOTHER WAR COUNCIL

A Throwback Thursday Memoir of Intrigue & Lunacy

January 1997

Clair telephoned the countess in St. Moritz to wish her a Happy New Year.   

"You must come see me," she said.  "It is time for another war council."

Our driver arrived at my home in a super-stretch limousine; Bruce Willis was his next ride with no time in between to change vehicles.

We cruised to Clair’s house.  His neighborhood had been without power for 36 hours after a freak ice storm cut the lines.  His cold neighbors, outside on the dark street to exchange updates, watched with curiosity as the super-stretch limo drew up to Clair’s modest house.

Raincoat clad, magic bag in hand, Clair waved at his neighbors. "I'm off to the French Riviera—see ya!"

The search for an appropriate birthday gift for our countess led us to the bookstand inside Dulles airport.  I picked up a copy of The Art of Happiness by the Dalai Llama.  "How about this?"

Clair smirked, flashed a book of his own.  Eat the Rich by P.J. O'Rourke.

We purchased neither, passed on The Blood Countess by Andrei Codrescu, and minutes later, boarded Virgin Atlantic's Airbus, Upper Class, to London.

At Heathrow we talked our way into the Club Class of British Airways' Riviera Route and landed in Nice before noon.  A taxi dumped us at the Monte Carlo Grand. 

At noon precisely, we met our countess at Hotel Metropole in Beaulieu. Her hair was no longer gray, but dark brown; her voice, an octave higher than before.  She was overjoyed to see Clair.  Truth be known, were he unmarried and so inclined, she would have hired him as an escort, if not all-out live-in companion.

We found a nook and sat.  Obsequious waiters scurried for mineral water, olives and crispy twists.  The countess talked mostly gossip.  The only indication that a work-related matter existed was an aside that her Swiss Banker (not the Gray Fiduciary) would arrive imminently, and that our presence was required next morning for a serious powwow.

At one o’clock we embarked on a full-scale lunch in the Metropole's formal dining room:  ravioli stuffed with courgettes and lima beans, grilled turbot—and chocolate soufflé for dessert.

Next morning we taxied back to Beaulieu.

The Swiss Banker was overjoyed to see us.  I could guess why:  In our absence—six months—it was the banker who had borne the brunt of her compulsive meddling into her daughter's affairs.  His eyes conveyed weariness.  We were, he determined, well worth the expense. 

The countess commenced:  "My late husband, the count was adamant that our money is European money, not American money."

The problem:  Lara continued to speak as if she were American and talked about returning to Santa Fe after her son completed high school and attend college in the USA.

The countess acted it out as only she could, alternating sternness with sorrow, angst with misty eyes, and finally, optimism for the future. The countess demanded our total focus, hence, three hours in her company was a draining experience.

In the course of our discussion, it became apparent that lines had been drawn, trenches dug.  On one side, the countess, her Swiss Banker, the spymaster and me; on the other, Lara, the Gray Fiduciary and another distant relative who had been around the family for decades chipping away at the fortune.

At stake:  Inheritance.

In the middle:  Lara’s son, who had been shielded from these various machinations.

The wild card:  Baron von Biggleswurm, who was this month vacationing in the Caribbean and conjuring up “new problems with the boy" to keep his ex-mother-in-law’s cash flowing in his direction.

The countess desired to alienate Lara from the United States and stop her incessant referral to it as "my country"—in addition to keeping her (and her grandson) in Europe.

During lunch, the countess looked at me with a sly smile. "This would make an interesting book, no?" 

"No one would ever believe it," I replied.