The Defector's Diary

By Ray C Doyle

Pete West, a political columnist, travels to Prague to find a missing diplomat, later found murdered. He attempts to discover more about a cryptic note received from the diplomat and is immediately entangled in the secret Bilderberg Club's strategy to form a world federation.

 

Pete meets a Czechian agent who wants asylum. She has a murdered EU Commissioner's diary containing clues to the civil unrest planned by the club, encrypted in algebraic chess notations. West seeks answers and links up with retired MI6 officer Tosh. While escaping would-be captors, they decode enough chess moves to reveal the anarchy of the Bilderbergs' plan. Desperate, West abandons their last clue to save a parliamentarian from assassination. Questions remain, which are answered unexpectedly by the BBC.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray C Doyle
• Release date: Feb 3, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223065517

Book preview

Chapter One

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DIANNE CAME BOUNDING up the stairs and rushed into the bathroom. I took the note and envelope waved at me and read the message scrawled across one side of the paper. Puzzled, I recognised the Czechian name.

Aurora, if anything happens to me, you must find a diary a Czechia agent stole from Jozef Novotney. She wants to cross the road and will bring the diary. Listen to her and trust her and no one else. Pete will know who should have the diary. Stay away from the British Embassy.

It was in the post today, said Dianne breathlessly. Adam is in some sort of trouble.

I sat, looking at her for a moment. Adam and Valerie’s wedding was set for the end of September in Prague, six weeks away.

From how Adam has written this message, I’d guess he’s gone into hiding. That’s why he didn’t call you. I picked up the envelope off the shelf. He’s a diplomat, for Christ’s sake. You bet he’s in trouble.

A small card lay inside the envelope dated August 12th, 2019. I pulled the card out. The legend read: Capo & Café Cocktail Bar, and underneath a message neatly written:

Every Tuesday— 7.00 pm—Table 22.

I studied the note again. Jozef Novotney is an EU commissioner. He’s heading a committee that’s going through a tough trade negotiation with the Ukrainians.

But what has that got to do with a defector? What would Adam know about this Novotney? Dianne rubbed her forehead and sighed.

I’ve no idea, I answered. We need to tread carefully here. Adam’s asking us to break the law. Let’s think this through. The obvious thing to do is call the authorities.

Dianne reached out to touch my arm. Surely, we can do something. I’ll try to ring him before you do that.

I turned the note over. A sentence in Czech was handwritten across the page. I took little notice of it and turned my attention to the card.

Try, by all means, but I’m sure you’ll get no reply, I said and held up the card.  This is interesting. I could go along and meet whoever turns up.

Trust you, said Dianne. Just remember this is a friend of mine.

Yes, of course, I agreed, but one who appears to be in a lot of trouble. From the tone of this message, I’d say he’s skipped the Embassy, and if he has, there will be an almighty panic going on in Whitehall. Whatever, I think you should calm down and we can sort things out after breakfast.

Dianne took the note from me and returned downstairs.

The mouth-watering smell of sizzling bacon and eggs wafted around me as I followed her a minute later.

Dianne sat munching toast and marmalade. I’ve just been reading an article about Prague, she said without looking up.

I leaned over and kissed her cheek, enjoying a moment of capturing Gardenia over bacon and eggs. Her long, blonde hair was pinned up as usual when around the house. It was her large blue eyes and Scandinavian look that seduced me four years earlier. I was hopelessly in love with her, and we married two years later.

Our marriage was a happy one, which surprised many of our friends, mainly because we could not have been more diverse socially, something I was reminded of on occasion. My middle-class parents died while I was still at school, and with no siblings, I was brought up by an aunt. Dianne, daughter of a Swedish industrialist, grew up in British high society, got tired of the social merry-go-round, and made her way into photographic journalism, but kept touch with what, much to her annoyance, I called the ‘Rich and Infamous Set’.

So, what’s going on in Prague? I asked.

I picked up the teapot and poured the Darjeeling before dropping a single cube of sugar into my cup. Dianne fluttered her long, slender fingers at me from behind the newspaper.

The Bilderberg Club is meeting there in six weeks at the same time as Adam’s wedding.

She looked apprehensively at me. That’s if the wedding takes place.

I know, I answered, trying to make light of the situation. Just think, we might get to see Richard’s best Downing Street friend, complete with SIS toadies from the dirt factory. Wouldn’t that be something? The city will be teeming with spies.

It was strange, I thought, that Prague had once earned the reputation as a romantic spy centre. The word romantic far from painted an accurate picture of the modern world of politics. What dark side there was, lay carefully hidden behind plastic smiles and barbed innuendos that were well-practiced within Whitehall and the Secret Intelligence Services HQ, affectionately nicknamed ‘The Dirt Factory’ by me. Times changed since the Cold War.

Foreign spies, the old raincoat types, were now scarce on the ground, replaced by a more dangerous kind. The new spy terrorist was the enemy within our ranks.

Dianne gave me a cold stare and folded the newspaper, slapping it on the table. Can we have breakfast without you making silly jokes about the PM, please? Let’s talk about Adam and Valerie, yes?

There was not much I knew about Adam Denton. Dianne met him after going to an art gallery in Paris. He held a post as a junior diplomat at the British Embassy where they met at some foreign trade reception. Their friendship continued after Dianne moved to New York a year later to start a career with the New York Herald. They remained in touch ever since, as far as I knew. After a whirlwind romance in Prague, according to Dianne, Adam proposed to Valerie after just three months.

I winked and continued eating while Dianne raised the newspaper and resumed reading. Still thinking about my first visit to Prague, I closed my eyes. The paper rustled again.

What are you doing?

I opened my eyes as she lowered the paper. I was trying to visualize the Charles Bridge over the Vltava River. You know, the bridge you cross to get to the castle where the Bilderberg conference is held. I remember the first time I walked across it. It was raining hard. I was soaked after being held up by two Russian soldiers stopping people to check identity papers. Can you imagine the security involved this year for that damned conference?

We finished breakfast before dealing with Prague again.

You try calling Adam, and I’ll contact our newsroom desk to see if anything interesting has come in overnight. You and Adam were pretty close at one time? I added.

We have always been good friends, she replied.

I picked up my cell phone, already regretting that I had not probed Dianne more on Adam to get a broad background, but worried Dianne might feel I was treading on the privacy of her pre-Pete ground. If Adam had gone missing for whatever reason, the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS) would be on to Dianne as soon as her name came up as a friend or a past romance, especially as she was a journalist. That was the last thing I wanted if a big story was about to break. Max, my editor, would be getting calls from the owner of the Herald, Richard Hart, and then I would be involved. It would be best to remain ignorant about the letter.

I decided to see how things played out.

The gruff voice of George O’Connor sounded loud in my ear.

Morning, Pete. No, nothing for you.

I haven’t asked you anything yet, I replied.

I’ve known you for fifteen years. Go back to bed. You’re off for four weeks. Now leave me alone.

The phone went dead. So, there was nothing on the wire about a missing diplomat. I waited for Dianne to finish her call. She looked up and shook her head.

I’ll call the Embassy and see if he’s there, she said.

No, I’ve got a better idea. It occurred to me that it might be wiser for us to assume there is nothing wrong at all. It could be that Adam has a situation he cannot manage himself and is hoping we can help and get him out of what could be a right mess. As I have already said, I think we should wait until we know what is going on and then decide whether or not to go to the authorities?

Dianne looked at me with her eyes lowered. Adam is not the kind of man to dabble in things that don’t concern him.

Maybe, I persisted, but he’s a junior diplomat, I believe. Supposing he stumbled across something or someone and saw a way to further his career. Too late, he realized he was in over his head and could not go to the Embassy to explain, as he should have right from the start."

That’s silly, Pete. Dianne folded her arms. He is not an idiot. If anything happened like that, he would do what was expected of him. He must have been prevented from doing so, and that’s why he wrote to us.

Whatever, darling. You might be right. I’ve never met him. The point is, he has something important to hide—being a spy, for goodness’ sake, or so he says. I would guess he’s perfectly okay and going about his normal duties while keeping quiet until we contact him.

But he warned us not to go near the Embassy and trust no one. I can’t raise him anyway.

I could see Dianne getting more agitated. She had decided for us to fly to Prague the following weekend, plenty of time before the wedding. As I wondered if I should go earlier, an absurd thought crossed my mind. After years of expecting the unexpected in politics, I looked at this situation and stored a scenario in my memory that was highly probable but too fictional to voice aloud.

Why don’t you get us on an earlier flight and change our hotel booking? We can then go and find him.

Dianne smiled and left me to enjoy another coffee.

Although I never met Adam, she had told me about him, but strangely more about his family, career, the embassy receptions, and dinners they attended. There had never been mention of their social life away from jobs, and I guessed they had been more than friends, hence the concern.

I picked up the paper and turned to the article Dianne was reading. The Bilderberg Club was a secret society. The media widely knew about its annual meeting place and guessed the agenda. Heads of state, presidents, industry captains, and even royalty were invited to discuss world events, finance, and industry. They were meeting in Prague Castle, the official residence of the president of Czechia.

I looked through the rest of the news, most of which I was already aware of, but could not keep my thoughts away from Adam’s letter. The card seemed more of a mystery than the message itself. I felt a tinge of excitement at the idea there might be a great story here, but as always, Max never liked me going off on my own assignments. There was no need to mention a thing to him. He knew we were heading to Prague for a wedding anyway. Dianne’s concerns toned down my enthusiasm.

Despite my feelings, Adam was a close friend of hers, and treading softly until I had a clearer picture was imperative.

Dianne’s head appeared as the door opened. With cell phone to ear, she whispered, I’m just on the phone to the airline. I’m afraid it will cost another three hundred and eighty pounds.

I cringed dramatically. That’s okay. I’ll pay the mortgage later. We got away with that before.

She frowned at me and disappeared down the passage as my phone rang. It was Max.

His gritty voice invaded my ear. Get your backside here and bring Dianne with you.

As always, Max was straight to the point. I love the man, but he still has a habit of annoying me with calls like this one.

Well, good morning, Max. Yes, I’m fine, thanks. How are you? Sorry, but I have a few weeks off. Perhaps you would like to speak to Dianne? She’s just preparing our dinner for tonight. You know, in our limited social life that revolves around a damn newspaper, we have guests coming.

None of your bloody sarcasm, Pete. Something big has come up and I need someone with in-depth savvy in diplomacy despite your obvious cynicism about those who practice it.

Well, that was a funny line, Max. There was a loud cough. I’m going to a wedding, and whatever you have will have to go to someone else. Surely, another journalist can be assigned, and anyway, I have a column of my own. I’m no longer a damn run-of-the-mill correspondent. What the hell, Max?

It’s right up your street, literally. I need you in Prague.

Any other time, I would have argued with him, but it sounded as though I was about to hear what Adam Denton may have done.

Don’t blame me if my wife slaps you. Be there as soon as. And by the way, try not smoking and shouting at the same time.

Bollocks. The phone went dead.

I slipped my shoes on and went looking for Dianne. If I was going to get involved in Adam’s plight, I needed to talk to her and agree on what we would or wouldn’t tell Max, depending on the breaking news he was about to reveal.

True, there was a promise of a big story, but with it came the risk of breaking the law. Keeping Dianne out of trouble was going to be hard too. I had already decided what I wanted to do. Her reaction to my plan was immediate.

No, Pete. You’re not leaving me behind!

I’m not advocating that, I explained. All I’m suggesting is that I go a week early on my own and see what’s what. If I do get into a sticky patch, I can have you, if necessary, sort things with Max or the authorities on this end. No one knows about the note. If Max has something that involves Adam, we can tell him about the letter. If not, we keep it to ourselves, at least until I’ve found Adam, or made sure this is not a damp squib.

I don’t like the idea of you going it alone. You’re not a young man anymore.

I laughed. Well, thanks a lot.

She gave me a playful push. What if this isn’t a damp squid? How long are you going to keep this to yourself?

If it stinks, I replied, I’ll call Max, knowing we have a big story. He can inform the authorities and give me time before anyone knows the Herald’s involved.

Dianne put her arms around me. What about Adam?

I wanted to ask her about Adam but thought better of it.

I’ll look for him, but you should know if he’s involved in anything naughty, I’ll report things as is. I’m not going to hide anything to help him.

She kissed me gently. I wouldn’t expect anything else from you. Thank you. Okay, I’ll call the airline and sort things out, but I’m warning you, if you get into trouble with the authorities, I can assure you, that will be nothing compared to dealing with me.

Chapter Two

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AS SHE SHOWERED, Dianne tried to relax. The Post brought Adam’s warning letter that morning, causing more stress. A medical report the day before had crushed her emotionally. After two years of marital bliss, she had agreed with Pete that having a family would be fantastic, something he enthusiastically welcomed. They had seen a specialist, and both were given a medical. They waited with impatience to receive the results, and Pete’s arrived days before. When hers came, she did not wait to open it with Pete as promised. She was glad she had not.

The medical found fibroid tumours and suggested a further exam. There was a possibility that a hysterectomy might be necessary. There was still hope. Emotion overwhelmed her as she looked at the unopened box in the corner of the kitchen. Pete put it there, ready to fix the baby bouncer sling and spring to a hook in the doorframe. She dismissed her feelings and instead gave the forthcoming wedding and invitation from Adam more thought.

The wedding gave her something to worry about, something that would happen, although she hoped she would steer Pete away from trouble. Pete had a habit of courting trouble every time he heard a whisper of wrongdoing from or around Whitehall. Her worry was the Bilderberg Club conference being held in Prague Castle that coincided with the wedding. Pete was already looking forward to going to Prague, his third time, according to him. He had upset Whitehall over an article he wrote about the Club a year previously.

Dianne had managed a smile, knowing how ridiculous it was keeping Pete out of things. She pushed the letter from the clinic to the back of her mind.

Her marriage had been a success so far, although her colleagues and close friends were a little surprised, not at the age difference of fifteen years, but that Pete’s social background was the exact opposite of hers. A bachelor for several years, his innocence and awkwardness over matters of the heart appealed to her. His persistence at reporting the truth without fearing backlash if his work upset Westminster, had gained her total respect. He was something of a maverick among journalists. His unending enthusiasm and dedication to ‘keeping Joe public informed of the truth’ enflamed her, and she fell in love with the rebel within him.

She remembered their affair had not been without many angry spats as she fought to make the marriage work without changing the maverick. It was during that period that their love for each other deepened to a point of no return. It had been hard going but successful.

Adam’s letter that morning stunned her. At first, it looked as though he mailed an empty envelope, a silly joke, or a reminder of the wedding perhaps. Dianne knew it was from him. The Czech stamps gave it away.

Anger coursed through her, mixed with concern for Adam’s safety. The content of the letter was alarming, demanding attention. The affectionate name ‘Aurora’ could not be ignored either. Her immediate thought was that Adam might be reminding her of his feelings for her that she had rejected. The affair had ended. She sighed, hoping Pete would understand. Perhaps it was Adam’s final reminder before he married Valerie of a relationship that could have been a lot more.

His feelings of yesteryear were hidden innocently behind the affectionate name.

Chapter Three

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WAPPING IS NOT THE MOST ATTRACTIVE location in Central London. Traffic at ten in the morning was usually slow-moving among the mass of tall, uninteresting glass architectures thrust together with historic masonry to create an ugly skyline. At St Katharine’s dock, under a grey sky, the procession of frustrated drivers came to a halt at the junction leading to Wapping High Street.

Dianne sat silently beside me, annoyed, lips tightly closed. Max was not playing on her mind. It was Adam. Jealousy is not part of my makeup, but not knowing much about the man left me feeling a little frustrated, unable to find the right words of comfort. I decided killing conversation would be better than trying to cheer her up. Worse still, it began to rain, adding more gloom to the day. As we drove across the junction, I inwardly cursed Max. He was a great editor and colleague, and our mutual respect paid dividends when I needed him to keep me out of trouble. Unfortunately, his whole life revolved around the Herald. A widower, he lived near Canary Wharf in a modest townhouse and spent his spare time keeping tabs on Number Ten incumbents, as well as many influential backbenchers from both sides of the House. If anyone heard whispers first, it was Max.

Dianne agreed with me not to say a word to Max unless he brought up Adam’s name. Whatever was going on in Prague was significant, or Max wouldn’t have called me. I had read through the Herald a second time but saw nothing that could hint at what he wanted with us. The Bilderberg meeting was all I could think of, and that was already news.

It took another ten minutes before we parked and hurried into the Herald reception out of the rain. The elevator took us to the third floor, and an unusually worried-looking Max was waiting impatiently.

Okay, Max, we’re here. What’s going on? Is our beloved paper going bust? 

Dianne gave me a nudge and pushed me forward.

I’m warning you, Pete. No bloody cheek. Max motioned us into armchairs. I’ve had Richard on the line practically all bloody night. He asked for you to manage this.

I whistled. It must be a dirty job.

Dianne sank into an armchair and crossed her legs. I couldn’t help feeling a little out of place. She was a woman who looked attractive no matter what she wore. My worn corduroy trousers and outdoor waterproof jacket that had seen better days looked drab against her smart suit neatly displaying the curves of a beautiful woman. It was, I reasoned to myself, the weekend, and this was my day off, officially. I tried to look unconcerned about my pair of scuffed and unpolished brown leather shoes.

Max pushed wavy white hair away from his eyes and pulled a cigar from a pouch on the desk, avoiding Dianne’s wary stare. Seconds later, clouds of blue smoke drifted up to the ceiling. Mindful of Dianne’s aversion to smoke, I stepped to the wall to turn on the extractor fans before sinking back into the armchair.

What do you know about Jozef Novotney? Max asked. He blew smoke from his nostrils and picked a small piece of cigar leaf from the tip of his tongue with a little finger.

So that was it. There it was a connection to the letter from Adam. I remained silent and glanced sideways at Dianne.

She feigned ignorance. I can’t remember what he does, but I’m pretty sure he’s in the European Parliament in Brussels. EU trade secretary, perhaps. She shrugged and looked at me.

No, I corrected. Jozef Novotney is an EU commissioner for Czechia.

Max coughed. Not anymore, he’s not. Someone bumped him off a couple of days ago in his Prague office. He paused to let the news sink in. The rumour has it that he was corrupt. He annoyed someone, and that person or persons got rid of him. That’s a load of crap, and you know it. I smell an EU cover-up for some reason, so Richard wants you there.

He raised a hand as I opened my mouth.

In a minute. Just let me finish. Brussels is screaming about the lack of security, and the Czechia government is recalling its EU trade secretary for an urgent meeting. The bloody Americans, believe it or not, are worried about security arrangements for their attendees at this year’s Bilderberg conference. And they’ll have dozens of security agents there.

Brussels and the European Union were no different. There were so many so-called security agents around, that one could trip over them. As I had experienced over several years, the rise in terrorist activity meant security personnel had doubled.

Max drew deeply on his cigar. That can only mean the bloody President or some White House gofer is going to attend. Bloody stupid secret society.

I nodded. Was there another connection? You’re probably right, Max, although I doubt Novotney’s death has anything to do with the Bilderberg Club.

Max rolled the cigar between his fingers. And don’t start thinking you’re getting involved in that. I know the way your mind works. We had enough trouble over your interference last time you investigated them. You were damn lucky you didn’t land in jail. Leave well alone, Pete, or so help me, I’ll bloody throttle you myself. This job needs your full attention, so you will not go off down another road because you have some politician in your sights. Even if he’s been a naughty boy. He pointed the cigar at me. No matter what you think, Richard wants a professional profile on Novotney. Forget any skeletons he might have been hiding. Novotney hosted the Prime Minister’s visit to Czechia last year.

I closed my eyes. That figures. Why the hell me, Max? This story is a reporter’s job, not a journalist with a column. Surely the conference is worth a few lines.

Did you hear what I just said? Max glared at Dianne. For Christ’s sake, can you please keep him in line? Journalists have looked into that organization and found nothing harmless about them. Novotney had nothing to do with them.

I sighed, remembering the incident three years earlier when a fellow journalist I was working with interested me to look into the Bilderberg Club, which just met in Saltzberg. He was writing an article about the Club and wanted any thoughts I had about them.

What made these conferences special, the Bilderberg Club was a secret society formed in 1954. A steerage committee put together a list of subjects for discussion ranging from world finance, manufacturing, global warming, and terrorism. Attendees included captains of industry, banking, nuclear power, and European politicians who discussed all the topics, but no minutes existed. The original concept was to foster dialogue between Europe and North America. Later, my colleague moved on and Max was on leave.

I took full advantage of the situation. With a little tongue in cheek, mixed with serious undertones, I wrote an article, asking the question, ‘Was there a long-term plan to change the way the world is governed?’ The article was a ‘what if’ conversation piece. It worked. The readers loved and hated it, and all Wapping print went crazy for a week.

Richard Hart went mad on the phone to Max, demanding I resign. As a life-long supporter of the Tory Party, he was subjected to several embarrassing questions from Number 10, who suggested I may have broken terms of the Official Secrets Act. Lots of threats followed, but Max sailed through them all. Six months later, I got my column as a political correspondent. It was not a reward, far from it. Max had a more significant say in things.

I suppose you two are still having time off for a break and a wedding, and that’s fine as long as you, Pete, get me a quick opening story on the murder with statements from the police and EU officials. You can follow up with a fuller account on Wednesday. Max snapped his fingers at me. And don’t forget the Americans. Hart reckons it may have been a political robbery. If it is, then we need it out by tomorrow night.

That means a flight out within hours, Max.

Here. He tossed an envelope into my lap. Four this afternoon from Heathrow. He looked through cigar smoke at Dianne. Not you. You still have a week here before you go.

I was pleased. Despite Dianne’s agreement, Max had confirmed she was staying home anyway. Why the rush? I asked.

Ukraine and Russia. They hate each other. Moscow sees the EU as courting their former territories and undermining their trade deals.

You think or you know?

Max drew on the cigar until the tip glowed red. A lump of ash fell onto the desk. He brushed it away. The police found Novotney’s attaché case empty on the floor beside his bed. There’s no telling what was in it, but he’d recently been working on a trade deal Brussels was putting the final touches to with Ukraine, so there might be a connection to Moscow.

He pointed the finger