Leon Uris (35 page)

“I have no comment on this matter until I am further acquainted with the facts,” Brune answered.

“How long have you known of this Topaz business, Devereaux?”

“It has been revealed just recently.”

“Why weren’t we informed at once?”

“I used my prerogative in that I believed it in the best interest not to sound a premature alarm.”

“What is the source?”

“A Soviet defector named Boris Kuznetov. A very high-ranking officer in KGB in charge of the Anti-NATO Division.”

“There is no Anti-NATO Division,” Brune blurted.

“There is,” André said. “The interrogation of this man has gone on for weeks. But only in the last several days did he tell us something of value.”

“You’ve seen him, you talked to him?”

“Yes.”

“What is your opinion?”

“I’ll stake my professional reputation that Kuznetov is authentic and accurate, and that the Soviet Union has made the greatest intelligence coup of all time.”

“You’re always seeing Communists, Devereaux,” the President said. “If this is true ... if this is true ... Brune, you will dispatch a team of investigators to Washington immediately. And I want the report personally,” he emphasized by knocking his fist on the table.

“Yes, Monsieur le President.”

“I suggest,” André said quickly, “that someone from the Sûreté go also.”

“It’s a matter for the SDECE alone,” Colonel Brune answered quickly.

“I can vouch for the fact that much of the revelation concerns internal security,” André retorted.

Brune shot a quick angry glance at André who had tricked him by having a member of the detested rival service present in order to cover himself.

“Devereaux’s suggestion is in order,” said La Croix. “Contact the Department for Internal Protection. Have Léon Roux send one of his people.”

“Yes, Monsieur le President,” Brune said harshly.

An SDECE team flew out that night for Washington. Among their number was a stranger, Inspector Marcel Steinberger of Internal Protection of the Sûreté.

A
NDRÉ AND
M
ICHELE WALKED
along the Boulevard St.-Germain toward the Café de Flore.

“I do hope you like François,” Michele said.

“I’m certain to dislike him. It’s a father’s prerogative.”

“I’ve never known a man like him.”

“In all your twenty years.”

“He’s handsome and high-minded ...”

“Oh, Lord, Michele, spare me.”

The terrace of the Café de Flore held its usual complement of leftist journalists and students and crackpots tucked around marble-topped tables vociferously denouncing the world in general, America in particular.

André was waylaid greeting a half-dozen old friends as Michele sought out her young man. Then he spotted Ferdinand Fauchet, the feared deputy of FFF. He was beefy and wore a bright scar over one eye, planted there by the knife of a pimp. Fauchet made for Devereaux.

“I heard you’ve been in Paris on the missile business,” he said, raspy-voiced.

“Hello, Fauchet. Since when have you quit working in the sewers?”

Fauchet sucked in a breath and laughed and picked between his teeth with the nail of his little finger. “I have no affection for you, as you know, Devereaux. You have none for me. But as a colleague with many years in the service I’d like to give you some advice.”

“Well?”

“Warn your daughter about the company she keeps. He’s getting very noisy with his dirty journalism.”

Fauchet passed on. André was stung by the words. He had read Picard in
Moniteur
with admiration. It was the kind of battle from which he never knew how to back away, but as for Michele ...

She waved to him. André walked toward them, and after an introduction they took a booth inside and ordered Pernod. The drink offended André’s Americanized taste, but the pleasures of bourbon had not yet reached the Left Bank of Paris.

Michele pressed François’s hand. Both of them had a sad desperation about them. Lord, André thought, why do young lovers dote on misery? How nice to be an aging lover and when you walk into the room meet someone who is happy and loves in an uncomplicated way. Young people demand tragedy. He had had that with Nicole. Love for the young is a waste and a mess.

As Michele had promised, the boy was extremely intelligent, quite good-looking and enormously idealistic.

“I am a news editor and analyst on the First Channel.”

“Yes, Michele told me.”

“Monsieur Devereaux, I want to say candidly that I love your daughter very much.”

“Yes, she informed me of that, too. Well, what do you intend to do about it?”

Michele and François looked at one another like pained puppies. “We will marry as soon as we can.”

“Well, Picard, Michele has no doubt told you she and I are very close.”

“She has.”

“Then may I speak candidly?”

“Certainly.”

“The bloom goes off the rose once you are stuffed together in one of Paris’s magnificent one-room, fourth-floor, walk-up flats.”

“Papa ...”

“Michele is spoiled and lazy. She has no idea of how to manage money. So you ask her to wash your socks and underwear, prepare meals, keep house, be your lover, and also continue her studies.”

“Papa, please ...”

“And you, young man. What happens when your bachelor quarters are suddenly invaded by a permanent female hanging stockings, brassieres, and panties over the shower rail? A man changes with the burden of a wife. And then in a short time you will both see pimples on each other’s backsides that you simply refuse to see now.”

François shrugged. “Well, darling, you did tell me he was this way. Are you telling me, Monsieur Devereaux, not to marry?”

“Of course not. Michele is happy studying at the Sorbonne. She has a lovely home and a good allowance. I suggest the two of you take an apartment together, not yours or hers but a neutral one belonging to both of you. Try it for six months, and if you still feel as you do now, then marry. Otherwise, part friends and no one is hurt.”

“I knew you would suggest something like this,” Michele said.

“Well, you’re sleeping together now, aren’t you?”

Their abashed silence was enough.

“And for Gods sake, don’t get pregnant,” André said.

R
OBERT
P
ROUST’S APARTMENT ON
the Rue Poussin showed that it was the home of a moderately well-to-do bureaucrat. Proust had not fared so well personally. He was balding, dull, and tired.

André peered out of the window of Robert’s study to the Bois de Boulogne, then let the drapes fall together and turned back to the room.

“I’ve been followed ever since I’ve returned to Paris. Is this the work of your office, Robert?”

Robert sighed. “Well, you know I haven’t had a chance to see you once since you have been back. Otherwise, I would have told you.”

“Who told you to put a tail on me?”

Robert balked. “The orders came from Colonel Brune personally.”

“I saw Ferdinand Fauchet tonight.”

“What the hell, André! Do you think I luxuriate running this dirty division? My life has become ridden with people like Fauchet. Do you think I like it?”

“What’s it all about? What did Colonel Brune say?”

“They say, all over the service, that you’re in too thick with the Americans. That maybe ...”

“Maybe I’m working for them?”

“Yes,” Robert whispered. “Look, André, everything is crazy. Jacques gave me orders he claimed came from La Croix himself to put a tail on Colonel Brune. This Topaz business has the President in an absolute rage. If it turns out that one of the heads of the French Secret Service is a Soviet agent, we have the worst scandal on our hands since the war. Is it all true?”

“It’s true.”

“I know what’s going to happen. Orders will come for liquidations. Ferdinand Fauchet will be a busy man. Christ, I hate this job,” he whimpered, “but what can I do with all these years in the service? What kind of pension will I get? And if I leave on bad terms with La Croix, he will see to it that any decent job in France is closed to me.”

There was no use in browbeating Robert Proust. He had had to be carried from the beginning. Now he wallowed in self-pity, terrified of the issues flaming around him.

“What about this boy Michele is going around with, this François Picard?”

Robert slipped into his deep chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. “I’d rather not ...”

“Michele intends to marry him.”

“There’s a group of journalists, television writers, reporters, who are violently anti-La Croix. They are getting too bold. We have orders from someone in the government to break them up.”

“Break them up? My God, Robert, I know Pierre La Croix has established a personal regime in France, but destroying political opposition by the use of the Secret Service? Robert, we are still a democracy.”

Robert Proust lifted his face and shook his head slowly. “No, André. Democracy in France is dead.”

“D
EMOCRACY IN
F
RANCE IS DEAD,
” François Picard said heatedly. He paced before André, his black hair tumbling down his forehead, his speech rilled with animation.

Michele was tucked up on the sofa watching with obvious admiration.

“In the past several months, Monsieur Devereaux, a half-dozen of my colleagues have been badly beaten. Two have totally disappeared. We know it’s the work of Ferdinand Fauchet and your dear friend, Robert Proust.”

“Well, what do you intend to do, François?”

“Keep on fighting. Michele has told me about you, how you crawled to Spain in order to fight for France. I love France the same way.”

“I’m not telling you not to fight, but use your mind as well as your heart. There is a time and a place to make your move properly. You’re far too headstrong. You’re literally begging for a reprisal, and you’ll get it, believe me.”

“I’ve tried the soft way. It doesn’t work. A year ago I was appointed to write the political reports on Channel One. But everything I wrote was censored and rewritten. The whole French Press Agency is under orders to slant all news against the Americans. If the Americans put an astronaut in orbit, we are either to pass it by in a line or two or to make jokes about the difficulties. On the other hand, every achievement of the Soviet Union is to be inflated. Monsieur Devereaux, the Press Agency is crawling with Communists. They’ve got themselves in key spots. A few newspapers and magazines oppose La Croix, but Frenchmen do not read, they watch television. And the ambitious men around him are using his power to control the only television network. That’s not all; they are infiltrating the police, which since the war have been totally under the Ministry of the Interior. So what are we to do? Wait for him to die?”

“And I suppose you’re ready to die for your words,” André said.

“Yes.”

“You, Michele. Is that what you want? A dead husband?”

“I don’t question François. He has to do his job as he sees it. I will never be like Mother....”

André stared at her strangely.

“What is it, Papa?”

“All of a sudden, you are trying to be a woman.”

T
HE AUTOMOBILE ROLLED OUT
of SDECE headquarters down Avenue Gambetta and skidded slightly as it turned the rain slick street onto the Avenue de la République in a night race for the Élysée Palace. Charles Rochefort, a chief of the Secret Services, drove. Colonel Gabriel Brune at his side turned on the defroster to clear the windshield of their breath.

Once through the gates and in the Palace they doffed their rainwear and were taken to the personal apartment of President Pierre La Croix.

The President worked over his desk, framed in light from the fireplace.

Charles Rochefort was a run-of-the-mill political appointee, a figurehead under the domination of Colonel Brune. He spoke first to intone the necessary formalities. “We appreciate the appointment at this hour, Monsieur le Président, and regret the inconvenience to you, but this information on the Cuban missile situation should be brought to your immediate attention.”

La Croix waved them to be seated opposite him, with the desk in between. Gabriel Brune opened his attaché case and withdrew a report marked “
SECRET
.”

“Monsieur le Président,” Brune said with a note of urgency in his voice, “we have uncovered a fantastic plot. It is our opinion that the entire missile crisis was a gigantic hoax dreamed up between the United States and the Soviet Union.”

La Croix accepted the news with a deadpan expression as Colonel Brune’s long fingers shuffled through the report to find a particular page. “After a thorough scrutiny, our scientific research committee is of the firm belief that from a technical aspect it was impossible to transport missiles of this nature.” His finger ran down the page, then stopped. “For example, the electronic systems are so delicate they could not possibly have absorbed the shocks and vibrations of a long sea voyage. Further, here ... hmmm ... yes, the humidity and heat of Cuba would render the mechanism inoperable. There is much more, all conclusive scientific evidence to support this.”

The slitted eyes of La Croix refused to give indication of the quick mind working behind them. “What about the actual identification?” he asked.

“Photographs taken by U-2 airplanes are from extremely high altitudes. Our experts conclude these photographs are highly questionable. They may have been pictures of American sites, or clever fakes, or the old surface-to-air towers.”

“But the missiles were also identified by personal observers.”

“No one has actually one of these missiles, Monsieur le Président. What was seen were tire tracks, towers, trailers, tail fins. In every event the actual tube was covered by canvas. Even when the American planes photographed them they only showed canvas-covered tubes lashed to the decks of the ships. No one ever boarded to inspect. In our opinion, they could have been papier-mâché or some other material. The reason they were able to make such deep tire tracks, in our opinion, is that the undercarriages of the trailers were weighted.”