Leon Uris (14 page)

“The only tobacco I’m allowed to get near is that other people smoke in my presence. So kindly exhale in my direction.”

“You see the tape machine here, of course,” Nordstrom said. “All tapes will be transcribed and also translated into English. You can make any corrections after you have read the transcription. Is that agreed?”

Boris agreed quickly, grateful that the whole business would be carried out without police-state tactics or menace.

“He’s all yours, gentlemen,” Nordstrom said.

“I’ll begin,” said Kramer of counterintelligence, scanning his note pad.

“Name?”

“Boris Alexandrovich Kuznetov.”

“Aliases?”

“I have many, but that comes later.”

“Birthplace?”

“Smolensk.”

“Year?”

“Nineteen-sixteen. A baby of the Revolution.”

“Family?”

“My mother died when I was three. There was left my father, a sister, and an older brother.”

“Was your father active in the Revolution?”

“No, no interest. He was a carpenter, like Jesus’ father.”

As Kramer was forced into cracking a smile, Dr. Billings picked up the questioning, more slowly and softly.

“About your formal education. Where did you attend primary school?”

“Smolensk.”

“What was the number of your school?” W. Smith fired out down the table.

“Sixty-two.”

“Where was it located?” W. Smith snapped.

“Pushkin Boulevard near Brofka Avenue.”

“There was a tobacco factory about a block away, was there not?”

“No. No tobacco factory.”

“My records show a factory.”

“Your records are in error. It was a residential neighborhood.”

“Your school was a four-story building,” Kramer said.

“No, two. It needed paint badly.”

“Would you name the restaurants in your area?”

He did. Smolensk was thoroughly scrutinized, street by street.

They brought him through a round of questions to establish a normal, poor, hard-working family unit quite devoid of deep involvement with early Soviet politics.

“When did you become interested in Communism?” Dr. Billings asked.

“Well, in those days one had to make a choice. During the counterrevolution we sympathized with the Reds against the Whites. First my brother, then I, became members of the Pioneers in normal course as the Reds won control. However, the Pioneers, or youth movements, were not highly organized in the beginning. My first real interest was when I entered gymnasium, similar to your high school, in 1931. I joined Komsomol, the Young Communists, and was quite active in our unit.”

“You went to gymnasium in Smolensk also?”

“Yes.”

W. Smith, the Russian expert, dominated much of the questioning, feeding a great deal of false information. Boris remained calm, occasionally displaying barbed humor to slap their wrists.

“Now what position did you hold before your defection?” Kramer asked suddenly, skipping ahead.

“First, Mr. Kramer, I did not defect. One defects out of choice. I fled for my life without choice. Second, I will not answer that question until Mr. Devereaux is present.”

Both W. Smith and Kramer displayed detailed knowledge of Russia as they led him through his secondary education. At the end of the fourth hour he looked hopefully to Michael Nordstrom. His nurse quickly picked up the signal and indicated that that would be enough for the day.

S
EVERAL MONTHS BEFORE THE
Bay of Pigs there came that moment in Juanita de Córdoba’s villa that seemed a natural extension of the relationship between herself and André.

Juanita was having a sinking spell, depressed over the departure of her sons for schooling in Switzerland.

André was in a funk of his own. The first attack of narcolepsy had been followed by a severe round of arguments with Nicole. He was terribly down when he arrived in Havana.

Juanita de Córdoba was a striking woman, able to carry off severe hairdos, exotic colors, and large jewelry that gave her a look of total Latin femininity.

They sat quietly that night for a long while on the terrace watching the sun put on its closing display. It was an old place to them. They had sat there many times when Héctor was alive and later, when André cultured and tutored the espionage ring. Shadows came, and with them Juanita’s sudden tears.

André put his arms about her to offer comfort, but beyond his motivation of compassion he was stirred by the touching, the silk, the scent, and the woman’s softness.

He held her off at arm’s length and stared at her, puzzled. “Juanita.”

She nodded “yes,” that she felt the same thing. It was simple and so very natural.

André, who was a sophisticated and traveled man of many nights, had known the enchanted routes of Europe and Latin America and North Africa. It would not seem likely that he would be so moved by just another affair. Yet he loved Juanita de Córdoba in a way that he was neither able nor desirous to discount. With Juanita he had broken his own rule that dictated he could not become emotionally involved with any woman. But even after the pain of the first parting he was unable to bring himself to cut it off.

Cubans are sensual children. When it was apparent that the Little Dove’s mourning period had come to an end, it was looked upon by outsiders as permissible for her to take a lover discreetly.

Along with André Devereaux’s worldliness, there was a strong vein of male vanity. She accepted the ground rules that she was to make no demands, keep her scenes reasonably quiet for a Cuban, and always anticipate an end to the affair and accept it gracefully.

Theirs was to become an affair of silent understanding without eternal pledges and devoid of an examination of its depth and meaning.

As convenient as the arrangement was for André, he somehow did not find it acceptable. Secretly, he admitted to himself he wanted to reach her deeply, have her think of him as he thought of her, wrest from her a kind of love that would leave her lonely and wanting him when he was gone.

There was a rude awakening when she took up company with the Venezuelan tycoon, Fernando Iglesias, and on occasion served as hostess aboard his fabled yacht during its legendary cruise parties about the Caribbean.

There was another man often linked to Juanita. Manganaro, an Italian manufacturer who frequented Cuba. When his fabrication plant there was nationalized he opened a new one in Jamaica where she visited him.

André Devereaux’s pride told him that he was the only man who really counted in her life. Yet he could not hide the hurt with his own common sense when he learned of the others.

He rationalized. Juanita was a needing feline creature. Perhaps she would be faithful if he could spell out his love. But with him out of Cuba most of the time, it was unrealistic for her to sit and wait for his ship to come in.

First, came the mission.

And so long as she was there for him alone when he was in Cuba and so long as she gave him the continued tenderness he could expect no more.

There was the terrible experience when he arrived unexpectedly from South America to learn she had gone off with Iglesias. André was wounded far more than a casual affair demanded. Moreover, he was making a basic error of an intelligence man. Never love ... that was the rule.

But he did love her and he knew it then. And he had to remain quiet about it. He had no rights nor could he make any demands.

And in all eyes he simply remained a charming French diplomat who breezed in and out of her life ... among others.

After André had made his inspection trip of Havana and conferred with Alain Adam and the French staff, he knew there was going to be trouble for him this time.

The pressure of keeping the missiles a secret would dictate that the Cubans maintain a tight watch on him. If they got on to his game, they might try to do away with him. At the moment he left the Embassy to go to Juanita, his fears were for her. But, like his undeclared love, their danger was never talked about. She knew the risks from the beginning and they would not be discussed, ever.

And what about Rico Parra’s unhealthy desire for her? It too could explode at any time.

As he drove into the hills west of the city he was consumed with a terrible sensation that his affair with Juanita de Córdoba was coming to an end just as their war together on Castro was also coming to an end.

She was there at the door when he arrived at the villa. The thrill was more intense than it had ever been. They embraced and swayed in the tightness of the way they held each other and they searched with their fingers ... hers nervously clawing at his back and his fingers running through her black hair and over her cheek, and their lips sought each other out a hundred times. And at last the fervor mellowed to contented sighs and they were satisfied that it was all real that they were together again.

Juanita slipped him a note before he could talk. It read that he should be extremely careful as she suspected the house was being watched and maybe tapped. He slipped the paper into his pocket, placed his arm about her waist and they walked lazily to the veranda and spoke of small things. Their fires had to be held in check for later.

In the evening they dined, as usual, in full view of everyone.

The only decent restaurant in a city once filled with fine dining places was La Torre, atop an apartment house. The Cuban government finally established it after numerous complaints by the diplomatic corps about the poor facilities.

With a majority of the diplomats visiting La Torre frequently, the room was profusely wired. This stratagem of Muñoz and the G-2 was crude indeed but André enjoyed using the opportunity to plant false information. Much of what he said was not bought by the Cubans and Russians but it could cause confusion.

Over their dinner, the small talk continued. Juanita spoke of the letters she had received from her sons in Switzerland. Their schooling was going very well and they looked forward to the ski season and her coming visit. Could André possibly be in Europe when she was there?

He no longer promised his time for he had had to break that promise too often.

They gossiped about the comings and goings of Washington and New York and the superficial social nonsense of Havana.

A stinging whistle brought all activity in the restaurant to a halt!

There at the entrance stood Rico Parra flanked by a half dozen Castroites of lesser rank.

Making certain his appearance did not go unnoticed he yelled at a harassed maitre d’, who nervously led the party toward their table. They made through the room with the fumes from their cigars fouling the air.

Parra stopped abruptly!

André came to his feet and extended his hand. It was not accepted. Parra glared from Juanita to the Frenchman. His clenched teeth caused a bulge of muscles about his jaw. A snarl changed to a strange giggle.

“I want to see you ... now,” Rico growled to Juanita.

André stepped slowly around the table so that he stood between Rico and the woman. “Not tonight, Señor Parra,” he said quite softly.

The Cuban bullied with his eyes. André did not budge. Parra then let out a small cruel laugh, turned on his heels and walked from La Torre with his confused entourage trailing behind.

André returned to his seat, smiled reassuringly to Juanita, took her hand and kissed it.

“Hello there, mind if we join you for an after-dinner drink?”

It was the welcomed sight of the French Ambassador and his wife, Blanche Adam.

“I have a new travel film on the Cannes Festival,” Adam said. “Why don’t we all go back to the Embassy and I’ll have it run.”

“Not tonight, Alain darling,” Juanita said.

“Don’t be a killjoy. The cognac at my place is still French.”

Juanita relented.

“By the way, Juanita,” Blanche said, “the Chinese have a new First Secretary. Terribly clever chap. We’re giving him a cocktail party next Friday. Perhaps you’d like to meet him. Now that France and China will probably be recognizing each other, we should get to know them.”

“Yes, I’ll be delighted to come,” Juanita said.

“If you ask me, it’s asinine of the Americans to withhold recognition of the Chinese. And they’re not going to be able to keep them out of the United Nations forever.”

There was further discussion of the conversation, made solely for the enlightenment of the G-2 wire taps. And then, the four of them swept from La Torre.

In the car on the way to the Embassy, Juanita allowed herself the luxury of becoming upset over the scene by Rico Parra.

“I would like very much,” André said, “to have the pleasure of pulling his beard out, hair by hair, but I am afraid that my gallantry must be restricted in this country.”

“He’s the worst of the lot,” Juanita cried. “He’s a filthy beast and he’s dangerous.”

In the sanctity of the French Embassy, the charade of the day could be dropped. After Blanche poured their cognacs she excused herself from her husband’s office.

“What is it, André?” Alain asked. “Something smelled rotten here for weeks.”

“Yesterday,” André said, “the port of Viriel was closed to all outside shipping. Clearing of the woods and other building activity at the Finca San José in Pinar del Río have been intense.”

“What does it all mean?”

“The United States suspects that Russia is about to bring offensive missiles into Cuba, and I’m here to find out.”

“Good God,” Alain muttered.

“It could mean war,” Juanita said.

“Yes, it could,” André said. “The best chance there is to avoid a war is to detect the missiles and expose them before they become operational. Juanita, everything we’ve built in the past two years must pay off now.”

“I see that we have our work cut out, my dear,” she answered. “I believe in our people, André. We’re not going to fail.”

André nodded. “Alain, have Blanche figure out as many occasions as possible to have Juanita and me here together so I can give her instructions. It’s impossible to do at her house anymore.”

The Ambassador nodded.

“Information will be passed in the usual way. All other discussions will be held in this office. First priority is to cover that port,” André said.