Local time – 9:30am, Saturday 16th June, 2011.
Prague, Czechoslovakia.
Alex North felt ruffled. With little time to pack, she’d forgotten her professional suit jacket. So she was wearing flat black boots, dark denim jeans, a long sleeve white t-shirt and fawn shawl; she looked more like a protestor than a journalist. A fuzzy hangover added to her misery. Drinking her eighth beer last night, she had expected to be enjoying a Saturday morning sleep in. But after a panicky 2:00am phone call from her editor, a tense cab ride to the hospital and then a 6:30am plane from Heathrow to Prague, her day was far off course. She’d had little rest on the plane; after embarrassing herself by flinging out an arm in her sleep and hitting the crew cut young American sitting next to her, she sat awake and rigid for the rest of the flight.
Bernie was meant to be in Prague covering this story. ‘It all boils down to this, my dear,’ he had said last night during their first beer at the local. ‘If I can get a scoop at Bilderberg, I might actually retire. Job done. Go home. It’s that important.’
Bernie left earlier than Alex, keen to go over his notes and finish packing. Alex stayed out with the rest of her colleagues, and she’d barely made it into bed when Gerome had called to pass on the terrible news. Bernie was in hospital. His wife said he collapsed when he got home. The doctors diagnosed a stroke. Alex was so horrified that Bilderberg was the last thing on her mind. But Gerome insisted she go in Bernie’s place. He told her to get a good night’s sleep, knowing she would get dressed and rush to visit Bernie.
Bernie Cook and his wife Laura had been like parents to Alex since she arrived in London four years ago. ‘Aren’t you a bit old to be an intern?’ was the first of many questions Bernie asked. Alex explained that journalism wasn’t her first career choice. She tried her hand at accounting, but found her office job was torture. Her three-year communications degree was far more satisfying, but left her jobless and penniless at age 28. So off to London it was, with an internship at the UK’s best investigative daily newspaper, The Contingent, living in the city’s smallest, cheapest flat and sustained by a weekly roast dinner at Bernie and Laura’s.
Anyone overhearing Alex and Bernie talking would never think there was a 30 year age difference. Bernie’s passion for political debate – and conspiracy theories – kept Alex enthralled for hours. And his talent for journalism had rubbed off. Seeing him lying there unconscious, so still and frail, was a shock to Alex. Laura looked visibly withered, leaning over Bernie’s face as if frightened she might miss something if she glanced away. She barely looked up long enough to give Alex Bernie’s iPad so she could study his notes for the assignment.
Alex pretended to feel confident as she hurried across Charles Bridge towards the conference venue – Prague Castle. She was staying near the Old Town Square, in the predictably modest hotel booked by Bernie. Alex had politely endured the hotelier’s gossip; Bernie always said the people were the best thing about Prague. But Alex loved the pastel feel of the city, the swans on the river and the winding cobbled streets. She knew her way around, having visited once before with a forgettable ex-boyfriend. She recalled being more impressed with Prague than with him. It was no wonder the relationship petered out like all the others.
The castle was the most splendid sight in the city. Nestled in front of the cathedral and bordered by the Vltava River, Alex thought it looked like Cinderella’s palace. But today the whole area was off limits to tourists, secured behind a newly erected mesh fence with razor wire along the top. The castle grounds were already surrounded by a wall, but the Prague police must have decided they needed to erect a second barrier to keep people like her from getting anywhere near the invited guests.
She approached the security checkpoint; the only road to the castle took cars straight through this gate. Bernie had given the impression there would be quite a crowd at the event’s perimeter, so Alex was surprised to find only security staff milling around. The conference didn’t start until that afternoon, but Alex assumed there would be plenty of protesters hustling for front position. Bilderberg had grown in reputation over the last few years, much to the angst of the organisers. It now attracted the same anti-globalisation protests as those at meetings of the IMF or G8 summits. The Prague branch of the Occupy Movement had also planned at sit down outside the conference, and had branded the Bilderbergers ‘the one percent of the one percent’ across social media networks.
Alex recalled Bernie saying it was the first time the Bilderberg conference was not being held at a luxury hotel. There were so many problems with press leaks from hotel staff at past conferences that the Bilderbergers took up the offer from one of their members, Czech President, Václav Klaus, to have the conference in his castle. In return, the Bilderbergers gave the entire a complex a makeover, ensuring it was fit for the prestigious guests, spending a sum of money Bernie described as offensive.
‘Klaus is rubbing his hands together with glee,’ Bernie had said. ‘Once they’re all gone he’ll have a palace he will finally be happy to call home.’ All the staff, from the chefs to the cleaners, were chosen by the conference organisers to ensure no mole could infiltrate the shroud of secrecy enveloping the event.
There was very little activity outside the gate, and the men in dark suits ignored her, so Alex sat on a low stone wall by the side of the road and took Bernie’s iPad out of her leather satchel. She knew the password, since she was the one to show Bernie how to set it up. He didn’t use it for typing, nor did he play games or surf the internet. He just liked to have his notes with him, or what he called his ‘Conspiracy Bible.’ This was a word document, over 1,000 pages long. Originally it had been a stack of notebooks; Laura had patiently typed it out one summer, word for word, onto Bernie’s old laptop. He continued updating it, had learned to type and recently transferred it to his new toy.
Alex knew the file well. There was a comprehensive section on the Bilderberg Group, including the various wild allegations that they were a potential world government. Other headings for some of Bernie’s favourite conspiracies included ‘Mossad planned September 11 attacks’, ‘China faked the Lop Nur Incident’, ‘iPhone collects users’ DNA onto central government database’ and ‘CIA bombed the Lockerbie plane.’ Alex understood Bernie knew most of his research related to nut jobs and their paranoid delusions. ‘It was really just a hobby,’ he had said, a lifelong fascination. But the Bilderberg Group was different. He was positive it was more than a networking group. And it was his dream to reveal their activities to the public.
The last time they spoke about it, Alex reiterated her unwavering argument. ‘If they really are planning a world government like your conspiracy says, someone would have spilled the beans.’ Bernie loved it when Alex challenged him. It just fired him up more.
‘Give them a chance,’ he’d say. ‘It will happen. And when it does, I’ll be there.’
As Alex flicked through Bernie’s notes, she wondered what his scoop was going to be.