Leon Uris (41 page)

Granville had worked around to the study door, locked it quickly and turned, leveling a small Beretta pistol on André. “We’d better talk,” Granville growled.

“It’s your turn, Jacques, and put that pistol away. You look silly.”

Jacques continued to keep it aimed. André walked to him. Granville trembled. His hand became slippery wet. André took it from him as though it was an unwanted toy, removed the bullet clip and flipped it on the desk.

“You never did have the strength to pull your own trigger. But before you turn your hatchet men loose, I didn’t walk in here as a target and I’m not walking out that way. Several journalist friends have been given sealed envelopes containing my letter of resignation and further information on your bank accounts. The envelopes which name you as Columbine will be opened in the event of my death or disappearance.”

“If that letter is printed you won’t live twenty-four hours.”

“No, no, no, Jacques. I’m not going to publish it now. I still desire to live, very much. As long as I keep the envelopes sealed, then you’ll see to it I get out of France. But for now, even Jacques Granville cannot survive my murder without signing his own death warrant. We are in a position to serve each other mutually. Do you follow me?”

“Within hours,” Jacques cried, “all trace of the bank accounts will disappear. In a year ... two ... three ... we will build a case against you that you were a drunk, a thief, a malcontent ... that you were a Soviet agent trying to save his own neck. Issues will be so confused your precious letter will have no value. And then ... you’ll be hunted down like an animal to your dying day.”

“Jacques, I know a writer. A novelist. American, no less. He has an extremely faithful international audience, despite some of the critics’ complaints over his syntax. I personally would have preferred someone with a bit more literary flair ... like Hemingway or Faulkner, but no matter. I sent for him when I realized how it would be necessary for me to destroy you. He’s working on the story now ... all of it. We have even given it a name ... Topaz, what else. So no matter what happens to me, and that’s not important, the world will be alerted when Pierre La Croix dies to stop you and your pack of jackals from devouring France.”

André brushed Jacques away from the door and turned the key.

Jacques was seized with desperation. “André! There’s another way! Come in with us! Stop your madness! Stop this insane martyrdom! Don’t condemn yourself to this kind of life! What you don’t realize, what you don’t really understand, is what money really means. There’s no end to it. Millions upon millions of francs. And power. Power beyond conception. The power of France. Name anything ... anything at all. The moment we are rid of La Croix you can have the SDECE. Even a ministry ...”

“Good Lord, Jacques, now what would I do with all that power and all that money?”

Jacques grabbed his arm. “You’re not even human! Be man enough to be outraged about me and your wife!”

“Outraged? A little. Hurt? A great deal. A man? I first became a man the day I learned about my wife and I knew I had the compassion to forgive her. I was going to make a dramatic exit by spitting in your face but it’s a waste of good spittle.”

André walked out.

R
OBERT
P
ROUST RETRIEVED THE
letters from his private post box at the Capucines Station and rushed back to the privacy of his apartment. Two letters—one to the President, the other a copy addressed to him. His fingers tore at the envelope of the copy clumsily, and he unfolded it with a shaking hand and read:

October 30, 1963

Le Président de la République

Élysée Palace

Paris, France

MY DEAR MONSIEUR LE PRÉSIDENT,

As of this date I resign my mission.

However, I resign in protest. I do not defect to any enemy or ally. I resign as a Frenchman. I remain a Frenchman with the right to return and to serve honorably as soon as I am able.

I accuse you of refusal to answer to the charges of infiltration of the French Government by a Soviet Union espionage ring known by the code name of Topaz.

I suggest that you, personally, have been the subject of Soviet Disinformation supplied to you by Topaz No. 1. His code name is Columbine and he is your Executive Aide, Jacques Granville.

I deplore the return to an archaic foreign policy that has led to the destruction of France twice in this century.

I condemn your scheme to abandon NATO and the combined security of the Western world.

I will not, in all conscience, serve France under your orders to commit espionage against the United States of America.

I warn you and the world of the monstrous plot to create anarchy and deliver France to a Communist conspiracy after your death.

I love France as you claim to love France, and I say you have betrayed France to further your personal ambitions.

Long live France!

André Devereaux

P
IERRE
L
A
C
ROIX ARRANGED
himself before his desk as his late and highly personal mail and messages were set in place for him to read before retiring. He sipped the coffee beside him and went into an exaggerated reading posture to get his eyes close to the paper.

The third envelope in the stack was unmarked except for his name. He turned it over, back and front, then put the silver letter opener into the fold and ripped the envelope open. He looked puzzled an instant at the handwritten letter, for his orders were to have all written material typed and in capitals for easier reading.

It was the resignation of André Devereaux.

When he was finished, his hand slowly pulled off the thick glasses. A terrible cold sweat swept over him as he grunted aloud, “Devereaux!” Almost the last of those who dared stand up to him. Damn Devereaux!

How long ago had the young man sat unflinching before him? His words ... now they taunted .... “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, don’t let those around you distort and twist your feelings into a conspiracy against the democracies.”

Pierre La Croix’s fist cracked the desk. “La Croix is not used! La Croix uses! Damned old fool,” he uttered harshly to himself.

But all that really mattered to him now was to protect his place in history. Damned if he would go out in disgrace, in scandal, a laughingstock. A pawn used, as he had played others for pawns all his life. No, he would not go out like that. Not after what he had done for France. No, not after he had returned France to greatness. No stupid little affair would dethrone him. France would never know.

The letter in the great ashtray blackened around the edges and curled and blazed. As he watched it disintegrate, the terrible words ran over and over.... Old age is a shipwreck ... old age is a shipwreck.... old age is a shipwreck....

I
T WAS A PLEASANT
spring day. That certain magic of Paris and the Champs Élysées had Michael Nordstrom all but tranquilized. From his table at a sidewalk cafe he could observe in depth the march of slender and shapely legs, poodles, spike heels, and wiggling backsides. He finished his glass of wine and turned to Per Nosdahl, his Norwegian ININ counterpart.

“I keep telling old Liz I’ll bring her to Paris some spring. You know, Per, strictly a vacation, no business ... whatever the hell a vacation happens to be.”

The restaurant’s captain approached. “Mr. Nordstrom?”

“Yes?”

“Telephone for you, sir.”

“Be right back,” he said, folding his napkin and following the captain into the building. Inside, the orchestra played “Paris in the Spring” for the lingering luncheon diners.

The captain pointed to a phone booth across the lobby.

“Thanks,” he said and closed the door behind him. “Nordstrom.”

“Do you know who this is?” the muffled voice of André Devereaux asked.

“Yes, I know.”

“I may need help.”

“I will if I can.... I don’t know.”

“I’ll be at the Louvre, looking at the statue of the Winged Victory. That may be our only victory ... en route to heaven.”

“I’ll be there.”

Mike hung up and moved his large frame quickly to the outdoor tables. “I’ve got to go,” he apologized to Per Nosdahl. “I’ve got to say goodbye to an old friend.”

“Is your old friend in trouble?” Per Nosdahl asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Are you going to be able to help him?”

“I swear ... I just don’t know.”

“Please give him my heartfelt wishes,” Per Nosdahl said.

“Yes, I’ll do that.”

Michael Nordstrom went to the curb and hailed a taxi.

The driver dropped the flag, fell into the stream of traffic, and glanced in his rearview mirror.

“You are an American?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Congratulations.”

“For what?”

“Just this minute I heard the news. The Russians have surrendered. They are going to take the missiles out of Cuba .... Eh, you are tough guys, like cowboys.”

“Sometimes.”

“Where to, Monsieur?”

“The Louvre.”

Leon Uris (1924–2003) was an author of fiction, nonfiction, and screenplays who wrote over a dozen books including numerous bestselling novels. His epic
Exodus
(1958) has been translated into over fifty languages. Uris’s work is notable for its focus on dramatic moments in contemporary history, including World War II and its aftermath, the birth of modern Israel, and the Cold War. Through the massive popularity of his novels and his skill as a storyteller, Uris has had enormous influence on popular understanding of twentieth-century history.

Leon Marcus Uris was born in Baltimore, Maryland. He was the son of Jewish parents of recent Polish-Russian origin. As a child, Uris lived a transient and hardscrabble life. He attended schools in Baltimore, Virginia, and Philadelphia while his father worked as an unsuccessful storekeeper. Even though he was a below-average student, Uris excelled in history and was fascinated by literature; he made up his mind to be a writer at a young age.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941, Uris dropped out of high school to enlist in the Marine Corps. From 1942 to 1945 he served as a radio operator in the South Pacific, and after the war he settled down in San Francisco with his first wife, Betty. He began working for local papers and wrote fiction on the side. His first novel,
Battle Cry
, was published in 1953 and drew on his experience as a marine. When the book’s film rights were picked up, Uris moved to Hollywood to help with the screenplay, and he stayed to work on other film scripts, including the highly successful
Gunfight at the O.K. Corral
in 1957.

Uris’s second novel,
The Angry Hills
(1955), is set in Greece but contains plot points that center on Jewish emigration to the territories that would eventually become Israel. The history that led to Israel’s earliest days is also the subject of Uris’s most commercially successful novel,
Exodus
. Not long after Israel first achieved statehood, Uris began researching the novel, traveling 12,000 miles within the country itself, interviewing over 1,200 residents, and reading hundreds of texts on Jewish history. The book would go on to sell more copies than
Gone with the Wind
.

Uris’s dedication to research became the foundation of many of his subsequent novels and nonfiction books.
Mila 18
(1961) chronicles Jewish resistance in the Nazi-occupied Warsaw ghettos, and
Armageddon
(1964) details the years of the Berlin airlift.
Topaz
(1967) explores French-American intrigue at the height of the Cold War during the Cuban Missile Crisis, while
The Haj
(1984) continues Uris’s look into Middle Eastern history. Much of Uris’s fiction also draws explicitly from his own travels and experiences:
QB VII
(1970) is a courtroom drama based on a libel case against Uris that stemmed from the publication of
Exodus
, and
Mitla Pass
follows a Uris-like author through Israel during the Suez crisis.
Ireland: A Terrible Beauty
and
Jerusalem: Song of Songs
are sensitive, nonfiction documentations of Uris’s travels and include photographs taken by his third wife, Jill.

Throughout his career Uris continued to write for Hollywood, adapting his own novels into movies, and working as a “script doctor” on films such as
Giant
and
Rebel Without a Cause
.
QB VII
was adapted for television, becoming the first ever miniseries. Uris passed away in 2003 at his home on Long Island. His papers are housed at the Ransom Center at the University of Texas in Austin.