Leon Uris (22 page)

“I’m glad Michele phoned so I could talk her out of driving back from Dieppe tonight.”

“Ahhhh,” Jacques said as the cognac hit the spot. “Well, I’m a bachelor. Paulette left for Normandy early this morning ... in a huff I’m afraid. Now that I’ve got you all to myself why don’t you let me take you out to dinner?”

“I have a better idea. Let’s not go out in the mess. I’ll cook something here.”

“Beautiful.” Jacques phoned his office to give his whereabouts, then unlaced his shoes. His socks were soaked.

“You’re half drowned,” Nicole said. “Trot on back to André’s room. Raid his closet and make yourself comfortable.”

When Jacques entered the kitchen, Nicole was aproned and flitting about in preparation to assault the oven. She approved of the baggy velour shirt, old trousers, and André’s slippers.

“Nothing serious with you and Paulette?”

“Frankly, we’re heading for the rocks.”

“Not again, Jacques.”

“It’s a talent with me,” he berated himself. He sat up to the kitchen table, poured a glass of wine. Nicole opened the refrigerator and studied.

“You can have a choice of ... ummm ... let’s see ... lamb, but that will take a while, or sweetbreads or, yes, I have some scallops.”

“Surprise me.” He picked up a magazine on the table whose cover was adorned by the lord and master, Pierre La Croix. After a quick thumb-through he set it aside. “How’d you get on with Guy de Crécy?”

“Oh, fine. Charming man. Shame about his wife. Pour me a little wine.”

He set her glass next to her at the sink where she peeled potatoes. She finished her chore, wiped her hands on her apron, brushed back some fallen strands of hair and saluted with her wineglass.

Jacques became rather grim. “I wanted to see you because I’m worried about André.”

“So am I,” Nicole said.

“Nicole. I’m going to confide in you and tell you some things I shouldn’t be speaking about, but I trust you implicitly.”

“Don’t worry, my dear. I’ve been married to an intelligence man for a long, long time.”

“You know, of course, André has been in Cuba.”

“Sometimes he tells me where he is going. Other times he doesn’t. In this case it wasn’t hard to figure out.”

“Against a lot of opposition he took it upon himself to do a job primarily for the Americans,” Jacques said. “His report has arrived at SDECE. We conclude he found evidence of Soviet offensive missiles.”

“That’s frightening.”

“An understatement. If it’s true, the Americans are going to have to act and act soon. God knows what it can lead to. But André’s part. He is a French official. By his action he may have put France into a precarious position, involving us against our will.”

“That’s our André,” she said with a crisp tone of irony. “I’m certain he was wise enough to figure out the consequences in advance.”

“Even if his case is strong enough to justify it, he’s in the same tub of hot water he’s been in for five years in this continuous waltz with the Americans. NATO is unpopular and his views are unpopular. You know Admiral Brune. Brune is the prime mover of the Secret Service and he’s out and out to get André. I know my title as Aide to the Presidential Executive sounds impressive as hell but I’m just La Croix’s errandboy. I’ve managed to stop a lot of reports downgrading André from reaching La Croix.”

“As his oldest and dearest friend,” Nicole said, “then you know his damn martyred dedication.”

“Nicole. There’s also a report on his health I’ve been able to break and this little finger of mine can’t hold back the flood.”

“How can you get him out of Washington ... feet first?” she said bitterly.

“André has friends throughout the whole spectrum of the government. His reputation is almost like that of a holy man. I’ve talked around. We can get him out of this, honorably.”

“I’d give anything,” Nicole whispered.

“There’s an Ambassadorship opening soon. It’s his if he’ll take it.”

“Where?” she asked shakily.

“A bit far away but it’s quite decent. And mainly, it’s peaceful. New Zealand.”

Nicole turned her back and held her face in her hands, then quickly controlled herself before she came to tears.

“You must help me convince him,” Jacques said.

“I don’t even know if I have a husband. We’re in serious trouble.”

“André will come back to you,” Jacques said firmly.

“He may be involved with another woman.”

“I know my man,” Jacques said, “he’s no Granville. He’ll come back.”

Nicole calmed herself and returned to preparing the meal. Jacques refilled his wineglass and stared long and hard at her.

“I’m glad it’s raining,” he said. “And I’m glad Michele won’t be back tonight and I’m glad Paulette is in Normandy. I’ve never been anything but a bastard all my life and I won’t change this minute. Nicole, I want to take you to bed.”

She accepted it calmly, then smiled and tweaked his nose. “After three young beautiful wives, what do you want with an old girl like me? I know you’re just doing it to comfort my sorrow and I’m flattered you asked.”

“Now, damnit, Nicole. I’ve had a thing for you for a long time. I’ve behaved for twenty years, but under the present mutual circumstances I don’t think we have to moralize the situation.”

“Jacques ... I believe you’re serious.”

“I want to make love to you, Nicole. You can turn me down, but don’t take me lightly.”

The man before her was far too handsome, far too smooth. He was a beautiful rake and she was sure that her name would be forgotten among his lost legion of mistresses. She put her arm about his neck and kissed him.

Sooner or later the piper would be paid. But for now she handled it all with discretion ... in the French way.

S
EVERAL DAYS AFTER HIS
return from Cuba, André had fully indoctrinated himself on the Kuznetov interrogation and was ready to sit in attendance in what was obviously to be the crucial moment of revelation.

Boris Kuznetov asked to see him alone before the session began and was wheeled into a private office. He shooed the nurse out.

“Well,” André greeted him, “you look much better than the last time I saw you.”

“I wish I could return the compliment,” the Russian answered. “It appears that you’ve had a difficult journey.”

“You might say that.”

“The concept of a next life beyond this one is a delightful hoax, but if there is one, I’m certain we’ll both choose a different line of work.”

“Mind if I smoke?”

“Please.”

“You’ve read the interrogation to date?”

“Yes.”

The lighthearted manner that Kuznetov had developed during the weeks of questioning suddenly faded, and he was again the same fear-filled man as in the days following the defection.

“I wanted to talk to you alone,” he said, with a sudden lurch of desperation. “I’ll come right out and ask you. Will the Americans keep their bargain with me?”

“Do you have any reason to suspect they won’t?”

“No, nothing concrete. But, on the other hand, I haven’t told them much of value yet.”

“I personally have never known Michael Nordstrom to go back on his word.”

“I’m convinced of Nordstrom’s good intentions,” Kuznetov answered, “but he doesn’t have the final word. Suppose there is a policy change, or suppose a superior backs off. Whom do I turn to if Nordstrom suddenly can’t deliver? What if they decide to get rid of me?”

“You know damn well they don’t play that way. Look, Kuznetov ... Boris ... your apprehension is natural, but you made a deal and you’ll just have to go through with it and trust them.”

“All right, suppose I do? Now let me ask you about yourself. With the information you are about to learn, you may be put in a very difficult position with your own government.”

“That won’t be anything new.”

“But you also may need American help. Are you so certain they won’t turn their backs on you after you’ve been used for all they can get out of you?”

André gave it a long thought. Kuznetov was warning him they were in the same boat, and now he showed the same kind of hesitation the Russian showed.

“Whatever,” André whispered, “we’re both committed.”

“If I were of religious conviction,” Kuznetov said, “I’d suggest we pray for each other.”

The interrogation room was as familiar to Boris as a second home. He knew every grain in the big table, the way the curtains hung, the sway of the leaves of the maple tree just outside the window. He knew every nuance and gesture of the men he nodded good morning to. In addition to Kramer, Jaffe, W. Smith, and Billings, Michael Nordstrom and Sanderson Hooper were in attendance. Never before had there been such tension.

He was wheeled to the head of the table. The nurse took her station as the four interrogators scanned their pads and the thick book of his testimony to date. Dr. Billings turned on the tape. There was a moment of confusion until they decided to continue in English because of the newcomers.

“In 1952,” W. Smith began, “you were the Soviet Resident in Berlin and you were recalled to Moscow. For what purpose?”

Kuznetov hedged, looked rather pathetically toward André. He poured his Pepsi-Cola slowly. They waited expectantly. “I would like a large blackboard,” he said.

It was sent for and placed next to Boris so that everyone in the room could view it. Boris pushed himself out of his wheelchair over several objections. He assured them he had the doctor’s permission to stand and walk for short intervals. Chalk in hand, he drew a number of squares which were obviously to show the chain of command in some kind of organization.

“Do you know what this is, Devereaux?”

“Perhaps.”

Across the top of the board he chalked in the letters “SDECE,” the initials of the French Secret Service. Slowly and meticulously, Kuznetov began filling in the squares, starting at the top with the Director’s office. Then he turned to the squares on the left side of the board.

“ R —1 is your intelligence service.” Under this he filled in the following boxes:

Under each of these he proceeded to enter the names of the directors, the deputy directors, and their code names. Then he moved to the center of the blackboard and again filled in a new set of squares.

“French Counterintelligence is known as Service 2,” Boris said. He listed the various divisions of the worldwide organization, including the highly secret “3/5—Communist Section,” and named its chief and principal deputies.

On the lower right side of the board he filled in a single large square: “Service 7—Administration.”

On the far right he wrote, “Service 5—Action.”

Subdivisions under the Action Section were “A/1—Paramilitary” and lastly “FFF—Secret Operations.”

Kuznetov set the chalk down, brushed his hands clean, and was assisted back into the wheelchair. Then he addressed André.

“FFF, your Secret Operations Section, is directed by one of your closest friends, Robert Proust. His code name is Panorama.”

The silence in the room remained intense, and André bore a stone face.

“FFF has particular interest to us all, as you will soon learn. FFF has sprouted a baby, a new subsection. Your friend Robert Proust has as his chief henchman one Ferdinand Fauchet. Do you know Ferdinand Fauchet?”

André nodded faintly.

“Well, let me enlighten our American friends. Ferdinand Fauchet keeps his office at Orly Field under the guise of a customs control. Actually, his office is rigged out with some remarkable listening apparatus, camera equipment, and ingenious devices for picking locks and breaking seals. He is an expert at opening and photographing the contents of diplomatic pouches which are not properly sealed. So be careful when your diplomatic mail passes through Paris.”

André felt shaky but controlled it.

“Let me tell you some more about Robert Proust and his henchman, Fauchet. Fauchet is the SDECE liaison with certain French gangsters and underworld people who carry out most of the actual kidnapings, beatings, and killings for Secret Operations. Two years ago, Fauchet purchased a small but exquisite hotel, the Miami, located on Rue Montparnasse. But, you see, it does not belong to him. It belongs to the French Secret Service.”

Sid Jaffe licked his lips, remembering that he had visited the bar and restaurant of the Miami on a number of occasions, once with Michael Nordstrom, who now exchanged a glance with him.

“The underworld has supplied a number of very high-class prostitutes who are extremely well trained. They work diplomatic receptions for the SDECE, usually under the guise of being models or even housewives. An amorous or drunk diplomat is apt to leave the reception in the company of one of these young ladies and be taken to the Miami. Or a married diplomat may want to rendezvous with a so-called married girl in this group and she’ll also take him to the Miami. Every room is wired and can be photographed by hidden cameras.”

Kuznetov scratched the end of his nose, trying to recall a figure. “If memory serves me correctly, there are twenty-two thousand phone taps in France and four thousand in Paris off a central switchboard. But back to Ferdinand Fauchet. Sometimes he doesn’t use gangsters, but instead asks a fanatical right-wing organization to carry out assassinations. For example, the three German industrialists who were murdered last year in Switzerland in what appeared to be an automobile accident. Because of their sudden demise, a French firm was able to get a NATO contract for short-range rockets and carriers that had been about to be awarded to the Germans.”

Kuznetov continued to detail other murders and operations that could be known to someone with remarkable contacts. André managed to maintain his outward appearance of calm, but inside him a storm was raging.

“All you have told us.” André said, “is that you have some extremely good sources of information about the workings of the SDECE.”