Leon Uris (39 page)

“Yes, I must be a very stupid person.”

“Is that all?”

“If I have any cards to play,” André said without emotion, “I prefer not to play them at this table.”

Brune’s forefinger hit the table like a woodpecker. “I don’t like threats. Speak up now or the report stands.”

“A moment please,” Léon Roux said from the other side of the table. His little eyes twinkled more than usual. “The Department of Internal Protection of Sûreté intends to file a separate report on the Topaz investigation. It is the expressed opinion of Inspector Steinberger that there exists a Topaz network, that Disinformation has been used against the French and that, indeed, someone quite close to the President is a Communist agent.”

“I am suggesting,” Colonel Brune said with a heightening pitch to his voice, “that the Sûreté is doing this to embarrass a sister service. This investigation team stands five to one. Certainly President La Croix will recognize your position as a petty interservice quarrel.”

Roux was unimpressed with Brune’s anger.

“Perhaps,” he said, “the good Colonel will explain something to me?”

“Just what do you have in mind?”

“Yesterday, Henri Jarré, of NATO, was arrested in the act of transferring secret NATO documents to a member of the Soviet Embassy. En route to prison, he was extremely talkative.”

Roux deliberately stopped his explosive announcement to luxuriate in the stupefaction he had wrought on the room. Pixielike, he looked to the portrait of La Croix at the end of the room. “Inspector Steinberger,” he said slyly, “you were a member of the arresting team, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“Did you accompany Henri Jarré to La Santé Prison?”

“I did.”

“Did he talk ... say something about himself?”

“Yes.”

“Specifically, what did he call himself?”

“He called himself Topaz No. 2.”

“G
ET OVER HERE RIGHT
away!”

There could be no mistaking the urgency in Léon Roux’s voice in his middle-of-the-night summons. André groggily fought into a pair of slacks, a sport shirt and overcoat.

He sped toward Montparnasse through a sleeping Paris, knowing in his heart that the worst had happened. Inspector Marcel Steinberger, also haphazardly dressed, awaited him at the main entrance of La Santé Prison. They walked briskly across the courtyard, past the cell blocks, until a barred gate blocked their way. Steinberger rattled it to arouse a drowsy jailor.

Their leather heels clicked in unison as they continued down a long dim corridor. Léon Roux waited and led them into a small, foul-smelling, concrete-walled room holding a line of slabs.

Roux pulled the sheet back, revealing a waxen, hate-filled face, that of Henri Jarré, now permanently etched in death.

“When? How?”

“He was found an hour ago,” Steinberger said and pointed to the red indentation about the neck of the corpse, “hanging in his cell.”

“Suicide?”

“We don’t know yet, but in either event he’ll have no more to say.”

“His confession?”

“It was verbal. Nothing is in writing.”

Roux put the sheet back over Jarré’s face. “I’m sorry, Devereaux,” Roux said, “I’m really very sorry. I’ll have to stay around to hold the press off. Steinberger, see Devereaux out, will you?”

Their breath frosted in the chill air as they retraced their steps over the courtyard to the street. André leaned against the car and sighed wearily.

“Don’t let this beat you,” the Inspector said.

“The enemy forces have us routed, Inspector. You saw Léon Roux now. He’s had a loss of heart.”

“The Chief is a practical police officer. I’m impractical and I want Columbine flushed out as much as you do. Roux will tell you how dogged I am. I have access to all the records and files of the Department. You keep quiet, lay low, and give me guidance. I’ll do the rest. Tomorrow we’ll set up a way of contacting each other.”

“Why are you really doing this?”

“I owe you a great favor.”

“Me? But I’ve just met you.”

“We met before, a long time ago. I have a sister who lives in Israel. She and I are all that remain of our family. I was able to get her out of France before the Gestapo picked me up. You see ... you took us over the River Cher twenty years ago when we were children.”

A
NDRÉ WAS SUMMONED TO
the office of Charles Rochefort. A strange mixture of persons had gathered. There was the ever-present Colonel Gabriel Brune. There were Robert Proust and the sinister Ferdinand Fauchet, and Jacques Granville was present.

Jacques spoke. “The President asked me to come here today to advise you of his decision on the Topaz matter. He has been fully briefed and the SDECE report has been accepted. The President sees no reason to investigate the Secret Services, and is further advising that he gives full confidence to the present leadership.”

“Then, of course, gentlemen,” André answered, “you will have my resignation before the end of the day.”

“I spoke at great length with the President,” Jacques said, “and was able to convince him you were the victim of a master plot and should not be discredited. There’s too much good work in the past and too good an organization built. Of course, you have all the best contacts. The President has agreed that you should return to your post in Washington.”

André knew the price that was about to be named. The victorious Colonel Brune smiled. “All things considered, you are very fortunate.”

“Everything exactly the same?” André asked.

“Well, almost,” Brune said. “A slight expansion of your operation. You’ll be given additional personnel and funds, of course.”

“Actually,” Robert Proust said, “it will be a small, highly secret subsection under my department that will be administered by Monsieur Fauchet. It will be known under the code name of Section P.”

“I hate to disappoint you, gentlemen, but the Americans already know of the intentions of Section P. The information was revealed by the nonexistent Boris Kuznetov.”

“We believe,” Brune said, “the Americans got wind of Section P through other sources. In order to prove Kuznetov’s authenticity they instructed him to reveal it to you.”

“You see,” Granville said, “you have the confidence of the Americans. If we were to send a new man in your place, he would come under complete suspicion and any and all chance for intelligence cooperation would disappear. But ... if you return to America and they know you know of Section P, then you will be able to convince them in time that we’ve abandoned the idea.”

André came out of his chair slowly and thoughtfully. “Just what is it you want to know?”

“Through French exchange scientists working in America we should be able to get a complete wrap-up on American military installations, location of Minutemen, and other ICBM rocket sites, location of missile fabrication plants, location of atomic stockpiles, organization of coastal defenses.”

“And you have no fear of this information getting back to Moscow?”

“Of course not,” Rochefort said indignantly. “The plan to discredit us has failed. The SDECE has a clean bill of health.”

“But it’s immoral to commit this kind of espionage on an ally,” André said.

“We’re not monks in a monastery,” Brune said, “and intelligence work is not a morality play.”

“In the end, André,” his friend Jacques said, speaking in most familiar terms, “you are a Frenchman, and you must act in the national interest even though you personally disagree.”

André looked from one to the other. His old friend Robert with downcast eyes, and Jacques, a debonair politician. Rochefort, born with the silver spoon, but was he quite so innocent of it all? Colonel Gabriel Brune, who had rotted the service. And the trigger man, Ferdinand Fauchet. How far did Fauchet’s personal little empire reach?

And suddenly it all became quite clear. The riddle of Topaz was solved. Columbine, the master spy, sat before him. He knew the answer and in that instant he had made his decision.

T
HE MAGNIFICENT MULTIBALCONIED
library of the Peabody Institute in Baltimore made a perfect setting for small concerts.

This night, the seats were filled with students, parents, and teachers for an introduction recital of a number of the new scholarship winners.

Midway through the affair, Dr. Schoeberlein, Dean of Students, came on to the stage. “I wish to announce a change in the program,” he said. “Unfortunately, Mr. Richard Holtz, who was to play next, has come down with the virus. Substituting in his absence I should like to introduce a brand new student of extreme promise, Miss Anita Dahlander.”

A slim, poised and extremely lovely young lady once known as Tamara Kuznetov came to center stage, rested her hand on the piano, and spoke in a sure voice with only the faintest trace of accent.

“For my first number,” she said, “I should like to play a short composition of my own which I call, ‘An American Dream.’ ”

As the library become hushed save for the melody of Tamara’s piano, Boris Kuznetov took his wife’s hand .... “We did the right thing,” he said. “I’m so glad they let me come from the hospital tonight ... we did the right thing.”

When the concert was over, Anita Dahlander and her parents accepted congratulations at a tea.

“You can be mighty proud of that girl,” Dr. Schoeberlein said.

“Yes, we are,” Boris answered.

“Where do you folk call home?”

“California. I’m recuperating from an illness but we will be heading west soon.”

“Great country. I’ll bet you’re anxious to get back.”

“Yes. It is always wonderful to go home.”

“Oh, by the way,” Dr. Schoeberlein said, “did you hear the late news?”

“No, what?”

“The United States has stopped and boarded a Russian ship.”

A
NDRÉ WALKED ENDLESSLY AND
aimlessly about Paris by night, a stooped and semitragic figure.

At three in the morning he found himself standing before the door of Michael Nordstrom’s apartment on Rue de la Fontaine. Mike locked the door behind them and stretched to wakefulness. André looked out of the window to the street where a pair of men shifted about in the cold just beyond the light of the lamp post.

“My honor guard,” André said. “They walk a hundred paces behind me at all times. Do you have a drink?”

Nordstrom tugged at the ice cube tray in the kitchenette while André raided the liquor cabinet. He spun the tinkling cubes, staring into the glass. “La Croix is going to reject the Topaz letter.”

“It’s not possible!”

“Anything is possible at the Élysée Palace these days.” André took a healthy belt. “It’s the same kind of position they set up on the Cuban missile business.”

“I can’t comprehend that a man of La Croix’s mind would believe this.”

“Pierre La Croix believes what is convenient for him to believe. He’ll take whatever position is necessary to protect his personal power.”

“And there’s going to be no investigation of your service?”

“No. The whole thing is whitewashed. La Croix is not going to risk an open scandal that would discredit his Secret Service. Nor would he allow it to be proved that someone near him is a Soviet agent. It would make him look like a fool and weaken his grip on the throat of the country.”

In sudden anger, Michael Nordstrom’s large fist cracked the cabinet top. “What the hell’s the matter with France! The worst of it is you people allow these slime pots into office!”

André glared at Nordstrom with contempt. “You’re shouting,” he said.

“I’m sick of this whole goddamned French treachery!”

“Are you?”

“Yes, I am, André. Sick of the insults our citizens receive in your streets. Sick of the attempts to break us financially. Sick of French ingratitude. Sick of the fifteen billion dollars we poured down a sewer pulling this place together. And I’ll tell you what else makes me sick. I’m sick that eighty-five thousand American boys sleep in graves in France ... fighting for what ... so you can crap on us?”

“There are half a million Frenchmen buried in Verdun,” André said, “and in that battle we probably lost more than America has in all her wars combined. When you speak of debts, you owe us more than you can ever repay, for France has taken the blows and been destroyed, and because we have perished you have flourished. Well, in the next war, all the casualties and all the ruin may be on your sacred soil.”

“Well, we hope to God we don’t have to come to France for help.”

“The way you helped us? France, your oldest ally, lay bleeding and what did you do? You recognized the traitors of Vichy. We pleaded for arms and you turned your backs. You plotted to reduce us to obscurity. And you plotted to occupy us as though we were a defeated enemy. And after the war you sat and applauded in silence while Frenchmen died in Vietnam and Algeria. And now you try to dictate to France her life and death .... Yes, Pierre La Croix may be guilty of making peace with the Communists, but here is a fact you can carry to your grave: If America had backed Free France, we would have never dealt with the Communists. You are a sanctimonious hypocrite.”

André heaved a stifled gasp as his glass fell to the floor. He clutched his deadened left arm as he sunk to his knees and fished desperately for the pills.

Mike quickly stretched him on the floor, got a pill into him, loosened his tie and then phoned for the doctor. Tears streamed down Nordstrom’s cheeks as he looked down at his friend.

In a few moments the attack had waned and André’s eyes fluttered open. “I’m sorry, Mike. I’m so sorry we’ve all come to this.”

M
IKE
N
ORDSTROM STARED LISTLESSLY
at the stack of paper work on his desk. He was not in the mood to tackle it. He walked to the window and leaned against the frame looking out to the always splendid view down the Avenue Foch. From his Paris office he could get a glimpse of the Place de l’Étoile and the Arc de Triomphe. He turned as his secretary entered.

“Mr. McKittrick is on his way up.”

“Send him right in.”

Michael returned to his desk and sorted out a number of documents that McKittrick was to take back to the States with him.