Leon Uris (26 page)

“Did you know he was an official of high enough rank to warrant a staff car and chauffeur?” Jasmin asked.

“Yes, I’ve sent for staff cars on a number of occasions. He just told me he liked the commuter train once in a while, and I believed him.”

Justine de Vore was given the secret mission of observing Jarré. The suspect supply room was wired so that use of the Repco machine would automatically light a signal in the office of Colonel Jasmin.

An adjoining closet was fixed with a two-way mirror. Its peephole was impossible to detect from the supply room. At any time Justine de Vore left the building, she first advised Jasmin and the observation closet was immediately manned by security personnel.

The surveillance was carried on with extreme vigor on Thursdays, commuter-train day.

The second Thursday after surveillance began, Henri Jarré copied four secret documents during the absence of his secretary. Marcel Steinberger personally rode the commuter train to Paris in the next seat behind Jarré. He observed a quick switching of attaché cases with a contact. But, under stern orders from his chief, Léon Roux, Steinberger made no arrest.

“Good work, Inspector,” Léon Roux said to Steinberger.

“When will you let me pick the bastard up?” Steinberger demanded.

“Aha!” Roux answered with a twinkle coming to his eye.

“What game are you playing?”

Roux’s prune face contorted into what might have been a smile. “Colonel Jasmin and I are seeing to it that Henri Jarré doesn’t look at anything but fake documents for the next several weeks. So he will be feeding his comrades in Moscow enough false information to confuse their military planning and counterintelligence for a year. At least, let Jarré undo some of the harm. When we feel the Russians have had their bellies full of confusion and are getting onto us, we’ll plant the real articles on Jarré and close the trap ... eh?”

Marcel Steinberger erupted in rare laughter.

“Eh, Steinberger, eh? We’ll show those idiots at SDECE who is better, they or the Sûreté.”

“Incidentally,” Steinberger said, “we will have to pick the woman up. I am afraid Mademoiselle de Vore’s bank accounts and spending and her salary do not jibe. Obviously, she has been in on it with Jarré from the beginning. Shame.”

“Well, she’s given us a hand,” Roux said, “and she’s betrayed Jarré nobly in order to save her own neck. So we’ll see that she gets a light sentence.”

C
OMMANDER
F
ARROW, THE NAVY
cardiologist in charge of Boris Kuznetov, left the Russian’s hospital room in concern. He was followed out by Sid Jaffe. They crossed to the doctor’s office, where Dr. Billings, Devereaux, Kramer, and W. Smith waited in a knot. The doctor closed the door behind him.

“He’s bushed, strained. He’s gone through sixty-odd interrogations and needs a complete rest.”

“Is it serious?”

“It will be. If we push him any further, we’re playing, if you’ll pardon the expression, Russian roulette.”

“But, Dr. Farrow,” Jaffe said, “Kuznetov insists he be allowed to speak to us once more.”

The Commander fiddled with his stethoscope. “Once more, in his bedroom, and keep it short. I mean that.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Could we have your office for a moment?” When the doctor stepped out, Jaffe turned to the others. “Kuznetov demanded that Nordstrom, Sanderson Hooper, and the President’s Intelligence Adviser be present today.”

They nodded in agreement quickly. Jaffe put in a call to ININ at Foggy Bottom. “Mike ... Sid Jaffe. Our friend is feeling under the weather. The doctor has given us an okay to visit with him, but he insists you be here with Sandy and Marsh.”

“Right,” Nordstrom answered.

The room was packed with the presence of the seven Americans, Devereaux, and two nurses. One nurse plumped the pillows up behind Boris Kuznetov to enable him to sit and the other repeated the doctor’s restriction and issued a “no smoking” order.

Kuznetov was weary from his ordeal. He had been skidding for a week.

“I wanted to speak to you now for I must reveal to you a secret department in KGB responsible for the most ingenious and successful intelligence operation ever performed by the Soviet Union. I refer to the Department of Disinformation.”

They were studied but taut as he searched their faces for a response. Disinformation was unknown to them, just as his own anti-NATO Division had been.

“The Department of Disinformation is under the direction of a KGB officer named Sergei Mikeloff. The purpose of Disinformation is to invent and distort data and feed it into an enemy government through his own intelligence system. I repeat, through his own intelligence system. Topaz does our work inside SDECE. Let me impress upon you gentlemen, this is far more sophisticated and sinister than routine camouflage counterespionage operations.

“False data are invented in Moscow, passed to the Resident in Paris, and given to Topaz agents in the SDECE. From there the information is filtered into the ministries, the Cabinet, or wherever we want it. These lies, stamped with the seal of authenticity by SDECE, are briefed to President La Croix by the man known as Columbine.”

“How many times have you worked this?”

“Dozens. Tens of dozens. Nowhere as successfully as in France, the weak link. During the Algerian crisis we were able to implant reports inside the French Cabinet to the effect that the CIA owned the Pepsi-Cola franchise in Algeria as well as several newspapers and used these as fronts to feed money to the Algerian rebels. As you know, gentlemen, many Frenchmen believe America is responsible for Algeria. This is largely the work of Disinformation.

“Last year,” Kuznetov continued, “during the Generals’ Revolt in Algeria, Soviet Disinformation was able to establish enormous confusion about the threat of the Algerian French generals to land in Paris with paratroops and take over metropolitan France. The reaction of the American President was to offer aid. Thanks to Soviet Disinformation, this offer was interpreted by La Croix as an American attempt to meddle in a French internal affair, even as a springboard to introduce large numbers of American forces into metropolitan France.

“And so it goes. When President La Croix travels from France, often Soviet Disinformation is fed to him to the effect that the Americans are undermining his visits and plotting anti-French demonstrations. He is positive it is the work of the CIA.

“As you know, La Croix has very bad eyes and cannot read long documents. Therefore he depends greatly on verbal briefings. This makes him particularly vulnerable. We see to it he gets our share through Columbine.”

“Who is he?” André demanded.

“Who knows?” Kuznetov said. “He may be in SDECE, the Cabinet, the military. I only know if we want Disinformation to reach La Croix, he gets it.”

“My God,” Michael Nordstrom blurted inadvertently.

“Kuznetov,” Marshall McKittrick said tersely, “did you use Disinformation against us at Suez?”

Boris Kuznetov smiled. “You are getting the picture. It was one of our greatest triumphs.”

“Of course!” André cried. “Of course! It was the only way, Marsh. We were tricked.”

In the hallway, Marshall McKittrick pulled Nordstrom aside. “Get this transcript to me at the White House immediately,” he said with obvious alarm.

T
HE
P
RESIDENT OF THE
U
NITED
S
TATES
reread his letter to the President of France.

The White House

October 20, 1962

DEAR PRESIDENT LA CROIX,

Sources we consider completely reliable have made us aware of a situation of such gravity I am taking the unusual step of writing this single-copy letter, which will be delivered by my Special Assistant Marshall McKittrick.

We have been informed of the existence of a vast espionage network of French citizens employed as agents of the Soviet Union. This network operates under the code name of Topaz. It appears they have been successful in deeply infiltrating all branches of government, particularly your Secret Service.

Employing a unique method termed “Disinformation,” under the direction of Sergei Mikeloff of Soviet KGB and Soviet Paris Resident Gorin, they have been able to direct false information and confusing intelligence into your highest councils.

It is further revealed to us by our same source that a member, or members, of Topaz are among your personal entourage.

I urge you to send a team of experts to the United States to study all the information we have gathered and to interrogate our prime source of discovery.

We understand that the Topaz network is capable of supplying Soviet KGB with secret NATO documents and trust you will employ all deliberate action in joining with us to ferret out and destroy this operation.

With kindest personal regards,

The President affixed his signature to the letter and handed it to Marshall McKittrick, who folded it and placed it in his breast pocket.

“I’ll seal it after Devereaux has read it,” McKittrick said.

The President nodded. “I’ll be calling the French Ambassador in later today,” he said. “You’ll be on the way to Paris tomorrow.”

“Right,” McKittrick answered.

“Lord,” the President said, “I hope La Croix doesn’t take this for another trick.”

A
S THE NIP OF
autumn fell on Washington, an outward calm and normalcy blanketed the explosive inner struggle.

Doves and Hawks swept in and out of the West Wing of the White House in the uninterrupted flow of the hourless days. With the evidence of Soviet missiles in Cuba proved beyond doubt, the crisis heightened.

The Hawks and Doves debated their points of view; the consultants and appraisers and evaluators and advisers and gatherers of information consulted, appraised, evaluated, advised, and briefed.

And then the moment of awesome decision fell upon a single man, the President.

On a wet day late in October, Ambassador of France René d’Arcy received a request to come to the White House. He was passed through the bulwark of security men and receptionists and was led directly to the President’s office.

The President greeted d’Arcy with warmth, coming from behind his desk and taking him to the comfortable arrangement of chairs and sofas near the fireplace. During the moment of small talk, Marshall McKittrick joined them.

“For the last several months,” the President said to the Ambassador, “we have suspected and now have gathered irrefutable evidence of the introduction of Soviet intermediate-range missiles into Cuba. You are no doubt aware of this situation through the work of André Devereaux and French Intelligence.”

“Yes, I am aware,” d’Arcy said, hoping the President would not detect his cigar as Havana.

McKittrick gave a detailed briefing of the sites, range, and estimations of Soviet strength now footed in the hemisphere. When he finished his dissertation, the President continued. “We have examined the situation from every possible angle. A decision has been reached. I have notified the British Ambassador, and within thirty-six hours we will have advised all our NATO Allies and then I will inform the American public.”

D’Arcy felt fright, for the man before him could well be announcing a war.

“The most favorable course of action in my opinion will be a naval quarantine of Cuba for the present.”

“Do you mean a blockade, Mr. President?”

“A quarantine ... not a blockade of peaceful cargo, but to stop, search, and prevent further introduction of offensive weapons.”

Perhaps it was the most temperate method, but nonetheless the fuse would be lit, and unless men became reasonable quickly, a hostile confrontation at sea or an air strike at a Cuban missile site could lead to the shaking of fists, an invasion of Cuba, and a prelude to a world holocaust.

D’Arcy knew that General La Croix would fume in anger at the unilateral action of the Americans, for they were dictating life-and-death policy without consulting their allies.

“What do you expect of France?” he asked.

“To look on our situation with sympathy, respect the quarantine, and share our point of view that we are in danger.”

And drag France into a war against her will, d’Arcy thought without putting it into words.

“I am sending Mr. McKittrick as my personal representative to inform President La Croix, and the British Prime Minister. We ask you keep the matter secret until he reaches Paris.”

D’Arcy said he would comply.

“One more thing,” McKittrick said. “Because of André Devereaux’s intimate involvement in the missile business, I would like to have him present in Paris. There is also an additional matter regarding Intelligence affairs that requires his presence.”

“Yes, you may have Devereaux.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ambassador. I’ll be leaving by Air Force jet from Andrews in about two hours,” McKittrick said.

As Marshall McKittrick and André Devereaux boarded the plane, great armed forces lumbered into position, poising along the eastern coast of the United States, and the fleet swung out into the Atlantic to cut off the sea lanes to Cuba. In the air, the bombers of the Strategic Air Command circled in readiness to unleash their atomic warheads, and in their earthen silos the awesome arsenal of missiles was alerted, with preselected targets in the Soviet Union, all prepared to unleash the most terrible catastrophe ever known to man.

T
HE
A
IR
F
ORCE COURIER
jet streaked past land’s end. Marshall McKittrick showed André the letter he was to deliver to Pierre La Croix. André read it and passed it back without comment.

Drinks and snacks were served, then a card table was set up. With a crewman as his partner, André gave McKittrick and the steward a sound thrashing in a rubber of bridge.

“Where the hell did you learn to play like that?” McKittrick asked.

“Once I used to play for a living, or at least to survive. On a good night we usually took in enough to buy bread and wine for a dozen comrades. Sometimes we could afford an extra pair of shoes,” André answered.