THE SPYMASTER OF MONTE CARLO: 9) ENTER MI6
A Throwback Thursday Memoir of Intrigue & Lunacy
June 2003, London
I met Prince Albert early in the morning (after our Bedlam Bar briefing) to rendezvous with senior management from Her Majesty's Secret Intelligence Service (MI6), who’d booked a suite at the London Hilton on Park Lane for our meeting.
At my suggestion, Albert and I dressed casually, without ties, in keeping with the unofficial-ness of the occasion.
The SIS European Division Chief and Division Chief for Finance & Narcotics (a division later abolished) were dressed for business in suits and ties and their trademark French cuffs with links.
Together, they wasted no time trying to cut me out of what they hoped would be a direct relationship with the prince.
It was actually a joy for me to watch them work.
Clair George, the former spymaster, had warned about this standard intelligence procedure.
But even our chairman emeritus would have been taken aback by their brazenness.
“Do you have a chief of staff we can call?” the Finance & Narcotics Chief asked the prince, as if I were not even present.
“No,” Albert replied. “Contact me through Eringer.”
“How about a secretary?”
“No.” The prince pointed at me. “Eringer”
“What if there’s an urgent need to meet?” the European Chief pressed.
I felt like saying, It has taken a year for you chaps to reach this point after endless deliberations—and now you’re worried about emergencies?
But I just smiled.
I knew something they did not know: They needed me.
I was the only person who could coordinate communication and action between parties because of the prince’s busy travel schedule and erratic communication skills.
How could they know that Albert strove to be away from Monaco—and his domineering father—as much as possible?
Or that half the time Albert's voicemail was clogged with lovesick messages from dozens of erotomanic women who all believed—each and every one—it was their destiny to be his princess?
“But you’re not in Monaco full-time,” said the Finance & Narcotics Chief, finally looking at me.
“I’m practicing bi-location,” I cracked.
No smile, no acknowledgement at all.
But they finally gave up.
When I met with my SIS contact at the Bedlam Bar in London two days later, he asked, “How did it go from your end?”
“The prince and I had a good laugh,” I said. “Your superiors still don’t get it.”
“They do now,” he replied.