Leon Uris (33 page)

She returned with Michele to France to join André in Montrichard as he plunged into the business of preserving the family fortunes.

The backlash of war had created a listless French people who had lost much of their pride and ambition. They were lethargic and exhausted by wars and defeats. The land was neglected and the machinery obsolete.

A small but elite Devereaux winery and some scattered resources proved solid, but many of the other Devereaux holdings had become liabilities. André and his father consolidated and reorganized as best they could and were able to retain the magnificent family home and enough income to support it.

But after his adventures during the war, Montrichard seemed a dull affair. Nonetheless André, as the heir and dutiful son, was determined to adjust and carry on.

Nicole was particularly unsuited for country life and after a time became vocal about her discontent, which increased as she became pregnant again. Petty squabbles came with the morning sickness, and soon there were full-dress arguments.

As if by prearranged fortune, Jacques Granville made a hearty and welcome appearance over a weekend with his new, second wife, heiress of a banking fortune. Jacques’ first marriage, which he claimed really didn’t count, had been in Algeria during the war. It was barely decently consummated between Jacques’ liaison missions for General La Croix, and was dissolved along with other peace treaties of the times.

“André, damn it, you’re rotting here,” Jacques said when the two comrades were alone.

“Of course, you’re right,” André answered. “Strange, all during the war I dreamed of nothing but returning to Montrichard and the quiet life. But what’s the use of lying to myself? Everything here has grown small. And what is more, Nicole hates it.”

“Yes, we all enlarge our memory of home. Then when we return, it is so small.”

“Anyhow,” André said, “things are stabilized here. If this American Marshall Plan works, perhaps France will snap out of its funk. I want to start building again.”

“For what?”

“Generations of Devereaux have always built in Montrichard ... for the coming generations of Devereaux, I suppose.”

“I know we worship tradition,” Jacques said, “but hasn’t the day really come that a Devereaux leaves home?”

“It’s just not done,” André answered.

“André, opportunity is calling ... begging. Pierre La Croix has placed himself above partisan politics. He waits in the wings for the people to summon and, believe me, the way France continues to flounder, he will receive his summons. La Croix will lead an awakening. Those of us smart enough to be on the inside now and stay with him will be calling the shots later.”

“You know, Jacques, I’ve always had misgivings about the General’s personal ambitions.”

“Reality, André, reality. No one but La Croix can pull France together.”

André grunted. “Unfortunately, you are right.”

“Then deal yourself in now. You’re an intelligence man. The Secret Service is in a shambles and will have to be rebuilt from the ground up. For the right kind of loyalty now, you can be one of the top people in France when the General takes over. What is more important is Nicole’s happiness. You have a family now, and in this case she’s right. She belongs in Paris and so do you.”

“Jacques, if I ever go, it will be because I want to return to the service. I will not declare for La Croix.”

“Then come now and make your mind up about the other later.”

The elder Devereaux accepted the departure of his son with good grace.

André entered the Secret Service earmarked as one of its bright young leaders. Working in the reorganization, he helped section after section return to professional respectability in a few short months.

But then, true to the tradition of the French civil services, the ranks became cluttered with mediocrities, bureaucrats, and opportunists.

André detested the constant tug and pull of internal service politics which weakened the efficiency of the entire organization. He remained aloof from the cliques. Even Jacques was unable to get him to declare for that most powerful group, the military men inside SDECE loyal to Pierre La Croix.

Instead, André continued to fight as a purist, speaking up no matter who was offended. He became a bone in many throats. Far too skilled and valuable to dismiss, he was punished by banishment to the Far East in an attempt to do something about France’s failing fortunes in Vietnam.

And so another farewell to Nicole, who returned to Montrichard in her seventh month of pregnancy to await the birth of their child.

From his base in Saigon, André was on a constant merry-go-round between Calcutta, Hanoi, Singapore, and other centers of Oriental activity.

It was soon apparent that Nicole would never be able to join him in Saigon. That part of the world was a cesspool of privation after the war, and his mission such that she would have had to be alone most of the time.

The handwriting was on the wall. A situation disastrous to France was shaping up in Vietnam, and his work was a total frustration. There was just so long that André could go it by himself.

The woman’s name was Yvette Chang. She was a Eurasian of French and Chinese parentage, the third daughter of a wealthy Saigon merchant. Her beauty was exceptional. Yvette Chang was the one to break André’s loneliness and ease the baffling disappointments of his mission.

Yvette Chang was also to become an innocent instrument in causing André an overflow of guilt. Just after he had come to know her as his woman, he received the cable from his father:

I AM SORRY TO INFORM YOU OF NICOLE’S MISCARRIAGE, YOUR SON WAS BORN DEAD. NICOLE RECOVERING.

And then, as suddenly as he had been banished, he was recalled to Paris.

“A
NDRÉ,”
N
ICOLE CRIED, “YOU
did not kill your son. You’ve got to stop grieving.”

“He might have lived if I had been here. Now we will never be able to have another one.” He had taken the same sense of guilt his father took at the death of his mother.

“We have Michele and we have each other. And, for the first time, there is a chance to settle down. Jacques told me this new post of yours in America has every chance to be permanent. André, please, I’m all right now.”

“I’ll make it up to you, Nicole. I swear I’ll make it up to you.”

“Shhhh ... there’s nothing to make up. Only to begin anew, to really begin for the first time.”

“Nicole. I know you know about her. That girl in Saigon. You have to believe that she meant nothing to me. I was sick and lonely. It was hell out there. I was ... just very lonely.”

“You are never to mention it again, André ... never.”

André’s new mission was to establish himself in Washington in the French Embassy and help form an intelligence arm of the new NATO organization. Before he left France, Jacques called him to say that Pierre La Croix requested his presence at his country home.

The General still awaited the summons of his countrymen. Even now, as he wrote his memoirs of the war, his eyesight was failing. André was greeted with unusual hospitality, and he and La Croix settled before the fire of birch logs in the library.

“I asked you here today, Devereaux, because you have been chosen for a key mission. By the time you have established your office in Washington, France will no doubt have called upon me for leadership. You have never been among my close associates, yet I respect you as a Frenchman. It is well that you know the philosophical direction France must take in her return to greatness.”

The General offered André a cognac and a cigar. He then squinted into the fireplace and spoke as though to himself. “Our foreign policy will be kept flexible. If we tie ourselves up with a Western bloc, we will be swamped and dominated by the Americans. We must always mask our preparations with a thick veil of deception. We must deliberately mislead the very men we intend to use, as we do now by joining NATO. Then ... many treaties must be made to play one side against the other. You see, Devereaux, a man may have friendships, but a nation never.”

He stopped and stared at André a long instant. “I see by that well-recognized expression of pain that you disagree with La Croix.”

“Yes, sir, I have thoughts.”

“They are?”

“General, I know what the Americans did to us. I know your feelings. For the most part they are justified. But America is a very young country, new on the international chessboard and, in our case, has made a bad mistake. Nonetheless, America has also inherited a world in ashes and despair. The only stabilizing force in the world today, the only thing that prevents collapse and chaos, is the power and the good will of the United States. Has America not rectified her wrongs to France through an unprecedented generosity that has allowed us to get up off our backs? General, I do not believe a smaller country such as ours can ever go it alone again. That is the one lesson I learned in Vietnam. We need the collective security of NATO.”

Pierre La Croix was particularly indulgent that day. He even managed a small smile for André as he came from his seat and leaned on the marble mantle. “Well spoken, but you are naïve, Devereaux. For the fact is that one day there has to be great war between the Soviet Union and America. My mission is to see that France is not caught in the middle and destroyed. We will not go down in flames because of an alliance we cannot control. France shall disengage from NATO at a time of our choosing, when we have rebuilt our economy and military strength and covered ourselves with a cloak of treaties.”

“General,” André continued, “if you will look honestly and deeply, perhaps you will admit your feeling about America is one of extreme jealousy and hatred. It can be used by men who understand this. I beg of you, sir, don’t let those around you distort and twist your feelings into a conspiracy against the democracies.”

André had struck a nerve. Pierre La Croix’s face grew taut with anger. “La Croix is not used!” the General said. “La Croix uses!”

There was no handshake as André rose. The General remained rigid, indicating a terse dismissal. André nodded and made for the door, then turned at the last instant.

“France needs order,” André said. “Only you can give us that. Return us to stability and honor ... and then ...”

“And then what?” the General demanded.

“And then, sir, heed the words of General De Gaulle when he spoke of Marshal Pétain: ‘Old age is a shipwreck.’ ”

A military revolt of the late fifties returned Pierre La Croix to power. Jacques Granville was one of the masterminds behind the plot. As his reward the multimarried, charming spendthrift was appointed a deputy to the Vice Administrator. This powerful position in the executive put him in charge of much of La Croix’s political empire within the government.

Of the three comrades, Robert Proust fared the worst. He had neither the ability nor ambition to remain at the top. Also enlisting in the rebuilding of SDECE, he settled as Chief of FFF, which dealt in the distasteful business of kidnappings and special underhanded operations. His slimy deputy, Ferdinand Fauchet, wielded enormous power as a colleague of the underworld. Robert Proust detested his job, but was a helpless plodder.

From the very beginning Devereaux won the respect of the Americans. At first he was aloof, but as he worked intimately with them in the building of ININ they gained his friendship. In the end, he became a devoted servant of NATO, even in the face of Pierre La Croix’s unfolding policies.

As the courier jet approached the European continent, a bleary-eyed Marshall McKittrick yawned a good morning to André and stumbled to the men’s room to tidy up.

Within a matter of hours, André would be facing President La Croix with news of the Soviet missiles in Cuba, but, even more importantly, with the letter from the American President on the Topaz network.

Topaz, the terrible price for the early alliances with the French Communists and the Soviet Union. Topaz, born of La Croix’s blind spot, his extreme abhorrence of the Americans. Perhaps now there would be an end to the evil of Colonel Gabriel Brune, when and if he was bared as the master traitor, Columbine.

The
“FASTEN SEAT BELT—NO SMOKING”
sign flashed on as the plane made its approach to Orly Field. The landing gear clumped down and locked into place. The plane slowed and lowered itself. André Devereaux felt as though he were strangling.

T
HE
P
RESIDENT OPENED HIS
official day posing for photographers in the garden with the regional winners of the National Spelling Bee. He was in a jovial mood, signing an Aid to Education Bill before the youngsters and passing out the pens as a souvenir.

Lowenstein came up from his basement office and went over the first draft of the pending speech to the nation on Cuba. They discussed revisions and made numerous marginal notes.

“Look up Wilson and Roosevelt’s declaration-of-war speeches to the Congress and work up a draft ... in case we need it,” the President said.

There was a meeting with the space-program people. The President was concerned that defense of the gargantuan budget could be a campaign issue in the off-presidential-year elections the next month. The NASA head advised him that a twenty-odd orbit attempt would be made the following May.

Before noon the President’s Executive Council came to order for its first of two daily meetings. For the most part the President listened to the reports and views, jotted notes and asked a few questions, but mainly stayed out of the discussions.

Stu Taylor, Chief of the Latin-American desk, was next on the agenda. He advised the President that the delegates of the Organization of American States would be meeting simultaneously with the announcement of the quarantine ultimatum to the nation. Taylor felt certain the President would get near unanimous support from the OAS.

Throughout the previous night two American units, one armored and one infantry, broke camp in their Southwest and Far West bases. Flatcars at the sidings were loaded with tanks, artillery, and mobile equipment. The trains moved east. Long convoys of trucks filled with combat soldiers moved into military airfields to be airlifted to the East Coast.