Leon Uris (34 page)

Before lunch, the President and his children took a dip in the White House pool.

After lunch the President received the Indian Ambassador and agreed to push a surplus wheat shipment.

General St. James reported that all key officers of the general staff had cancelled any trips and remained on standby for “special budget planning meetings” at the Pentagon.

At Hampton Roads, Virginia, a squadron of destroyers passed the lightship, then sped south. Sealed orders were opened. They moved into blockade position across the Caribbean sea lanes to Cuba. Their ammunition was made ready for instant use.

In the late afternoon, McKittrick, the Press Secretary, and General St. James expressed concern over press inquiries on the troop movements into Florida.

They agreed with the President they should stick to the story of special maneuvers.

More photographic evidence was shown the President. Unusually heavy tonnage was strung out on the Atlantic heading for Cuba from Soviet bloc ports.

At five-thirty, the President was briefed in advance of his meeting with Vasili Leonov, the Soviet Foreign Minister. Leonov was due at the White House at six for an hour of semiformal discussions.

Leonov was one of the few surviving old hands in Soviet politics and by far the most knowledgeable on American affairs, having served as both ambassador and leader of the United Nations delegation.

The President greeted the Russian, twenty years his senior, with warmth. When they were seated comfortably the two men were left alone and conversed in English.

A small number of matters were touched upon and then the talk got around to the Berlin situation. Vasili Leonov assured the President that no pressure would be applied to Berlin until after the American elections the following month.

Each of them expressed views on Berlin long known to the other. The Soviets continued to press for an open-city status and considered the presence of Allied troops as an advance NATO base.

The President repeated the American position that the number of troops was symbolic and he could never abandon Berlin to an East German take-over.

Leonov hoped that a permanent accommodation could be worked out “before the East German regime was recognized by the Soviet Union,” and suggested the possibility of a meeting with Khrushchev.

Since the harassment of Helsinki, the President thought that might be a good idea, and looked forward to a return bout.

The atmosphere was relaxed. They got around to talking about Cuba.

“You see, Mr. President,” Leonov said, “so long as you openly support these refugee commandos, Castro feels there is the threat of another invasion, ála Bay of Pigs ... but perhaps with greater American backing. Under the circumstances, we have to look favorably on Castro’s requests for defensive weapons.”

“But the number of Soviet military and technicians seems out of proportion to the situation.”

“Speaking with utter frankness, Mr. President, Castro fears an American invasion. These defensive weapons are mainly to quell his fears. After all, what can little Cuba do against the United States?”

“I have talked this matter over with Khrushchev in Helsinki and I have given my word there will be no American invasion of Cuba. If we are to meet next year, this matter must be brought up again.”

Leonov went on at great length to assure the President that the Russian intentions in Cuba were totally peaceful.

The meeting ended and Leonov returned to the Soviet Embassy for talks with his own people before a social evening with the American Secretary of State.

His prime mission was to find out what the Americans were going to do about Cuba. He spoke at great length with the Ambassador and the Resident. Washington seemed calm and normal. The American troop movements? A little saber rattling, no more. With his years of shrewdness and wisdom Leonov was unable to detect American alarm or desire to action. If they did know of the missiles one had to conclude they did not want a confrontation with the Soviet Union.

The Russian Foreign Minister was a bit surprised. He likened the Americans and their President to their tradition of tall silent cowboys who, in times of stress, spoke little and made few threats but shot for the heart. He had argued this with Khrushchev but Khrushchev insisted the President could be bullied. Perhaps the new generation of Americans were not of the old staunch stuff.

Before leaving for his reception he cabled the waiting Kremlin.

TALKS TO CONTINUE WITH AMERICAN PRESIDENT IN THREE DAYS BUT EVERYTHING SEEMS NORMAL. EITHER THE AMERICANS ARE UNAWARE OR INTEND TO TAKE PASSIVE POSITION. ADVISE YOU TO GO FULL SPEED WITH CUBAN OPERATION.

After the second meeting of the day with the Executive Council, the President went into a midnight conference with Lowenstein on his speech and to go over the political situation in the coming election and what could be pushed through in Congress on the legislative program.

His last caller of the day came to his bedroom at one-thirty in the morning. He gave approval of a press release to give reason to him to cancel a speech outside of Washington: “The President has a slight cold and one degree of temperature. In light of the blustery weather, the White House physician insists the President remain in Washington and cancel his Cleveland address.”

Vasili Leonov was somewhat surprised when he read in the late Sunday papers that the President and his family had attended Mass just hours after he cancelled a campaign speech. Well, after all, he concluded, the President is a religious man and Americans like to know he is in church. A show of courage. The poor young man had to show his courage somehow.

T
HE ENGINES OF THE JET
whined to a halt, and a pair of automobiles raced over the apron as the ramp was rolled to the door. One was the Cadillac of the American Ambassador, Wilbur Davis, the other car a French government Citroën.

As the door of the plane swung open. André smiled and waved to Jacques Granville at the bottom of the stairs. Jacques was still handsome and devilish-looking, taking every advantage of the new gray hairs at his temples.

Greetings were exchanged. They assembled and knotted at the bottom of the stairs as a special customs officer passed their luggage through and a control man fixed their passports.

“President La Croix will receive you in two hours,” Jacques said.

“Good. I need the time to brief the Ambassador.”

“Then we’ll meet at the Élyéee Palace at ten.”

The cars sped off toward Paris.

“What happy tidings do you bring?” Jacques asked.

“The Americans have full proof of Soviet offensive missiles in Cuba. They’re going to announce a blockade.”

“Oh, my Lord. Are they asking NATO involvement?”

“No, not yet.”

“La Croix has a phobia about being dragged into some mess that isn’t our business.”

“Well, the Americans might have the same to say about the last two world wars ... and being dragged in at Suez.”

“André, as my oldest and dearest friend, don’t go off on a tangent before La Croix. He’s worse than ever on the matter.”

“I never go off on pro-American tangents ... unless it’s in the interest of France.”

A new dazzling white Paris burst before them. André mentioned that Paris was getting to look like Algiers and Casablanca. President La Croix had a mania for cleaning the centuries of dirt and grime from the buildings of Paris. The Parisians did not share this desire for whiteness but nonetheless found themselves sand-blasting and steaming under the threat of heavy fines. As usual, the President had his way.

They crossed to the Left Bank, stopping at André’s apartment at 176 Rue de Rennes, where the ancient hydraulic elevator hoisted them with nauseating slowness.

The chauffeur set down André’s bags and was ordered to wait downstairs.

There was an envelope in clear view.

PAPA!

Jacques Granville told me you were coming! He says it will be impossible to have any time alone for the first several days. There’s a school holiday so I’m remaining in Montrichard with Mother. Call me the instant you have a free moment and I’ll come right up to Paris.

François is coming back early next week. I’m dying for you to meet him. Papa, I’m so glad you’re here. We have so much to talk over.

I love you, I love you.

MICHELE

“Have you met this young man?”

“François Picard? Yes, Michele dragged him over for old Uncle Jacques’ approval.”

“Did he get it?”

“Bright enough. Works for Télévision Nationale, and I believe he does some sort of column in one of the weeklies, but ... well, no family position to speak of, no money.”

“Well, anything is better than Tucker Brown.”

“Who?”

“Michele’s last idiot.”

André lifted his suitcase on the bed and un-snapped it. He was suddenly dead tired and filled with a feeling of void.

“What’s the matter, André?”

“I was hoping somehow ... nothing.”

“Nicole?”

“Yes.”

“She was in Paris awhile, then just disappeared to Montrichard, for some reason.”

T
HE CARS BEARING THE
Americans and Granville and Devereaux reached the Élysée Palace at almost the same instant. Imposing Republican guards in uniforms of the Napoleonic era opened the great iron-grille gates and they were passed in. They drove on to the stone courtyard of the edifice of splendor, a final extravagance of Louis XV, purchased as a home for his mistress, Madame de Pompadour.

The President’s ushers, wearing the chain of office, took them quickly past rooms filled with Louis XV objects, over the Aubusson rugs and Gobelin tapestries that rose clear to the thirty-foot ceilings.

The party was assembling in the outer office. André looked across the room to Colonel Gabriel Brune. A tall, thin man with gray eyes. André had always believed until now that the eyes veiled a dull bureaucrat. He walked to Brune and they shook hands coldly.

“How was the trip, Devereaux?”

“Fine.”

After a long wordless stare, André turned and shook hands with a number of his friends. President La Croix’s personal Chief of Staff came out and noted all were present, including a representative from the Sûreté whom André had sent for, then entered the inner office and returned in a moment. “The President is ready,” he said.

Pierre La Croix rose majestically behind his massive gold ornate table, greeting the Americans with the thinnest possible warmth. To André Devereaux, whom he had not seen in over a year, there was a slight nod of the head.

Military and intelligence aides, the Director of the Presidential Executive, and Granville arranged themselves before him.

“Your President,” La Croix said, “does me honor to send such a distinguished personage. I am certain the occasion is appropriate. But let’s be clear on one point. Are you here to consult or inform?”

“To inform,” Ambassador Davis answered.

“Then you are to be aware that La Croix and France favor making their own decisions.”

“We are aware.”

“You may proceed.”

“We have complete evidence of the introduction of Soviet intermediate-range missiles in Cuba, and the President is going to announce a quarantine against further Soviet weapons,” the Ambassador said.

“A blockade at sea?”

“A quarantine. Peaceful cargo will not be stopped.”

Marshall McKittrick, speaking Yankee-accented French, gave a full briefing, explaining the photographs which he produced, the meanings of the other intelligence reports and the cause for the decision. Playing up to the President’s vanity, McKittrick asked him to identify clusters of Russian fighter planes and missile towers, which he did, holding a magnifying glass over the photos.

“Of course,” La Croix said, “it was the French Secret Service that identified these for you.”

“The contribution of Monsieur Devereaux has been enormous,” McKittrick agreed.

La Croix set the magnifying glass down, folded his hands and thought. Outside, through the four tall windows overlooking the garden they could see the Republican guards in their white leggings cross in patrol.

“Why do you believe the Soviets did this?” he asked.

“On the gamble they could get away with it,” McKittrick answered. “They won’t,” he added.

Looking at the President, André remembered his earlier thoughts on a Russian-American confrontation. Had it come?

“Certainly a great power such as the United States would not act without sufficient evidence,” La Croix said. “Your President is using his national prerogative. You may tell him that France understands his position. Otherwise, until a request for commitment is made by you, none will be made by us.”

La Croix shoved the photographs and documents in the direction of Colonel Brune. “I want these studied and evaluated. Devereaux will remain in Paris to advise and assist. Granville, summon a Cabinet meeting for one hour from now. You gentlemen will attend, and until then no mention of this crisis will be made.” He turned to the Americans. “Advice will be forthcoming on this matter,” he said.

“The Ambassador will be at your service,” McKittrick said. “I have to leave for London immediately to inform the Prime Minister.”

“The British have not been informed?”

“Only the Ambassador in Washington.”

La Croix digested this information with obvious skepticism, for he always looked for and suspected an Anglo-American plot.

“There is another matter,” McKittrick said. “The President asked me to deliver this letter to you.”

La Croix zipped open the envelope and adjusted his thick glasses. He finished the letter and folded it. “Have a safe journey to London,” he said.

There was a shuffling of chairs as everyone came to his feet.

“Colonel Brune, you and Devereaux remain.”

When the room was cleared, La Croix handed the letter to Colonel Brune. André watched his dull gray eyes for a telltale sign. The paper rattled a trifle in Brune’s nervous hands. He looked up queerly from Devereaux to La Croix.

“Well?”