by Topaz
Topaz
By
Leon Uris
This book is dedicated
to my friend
Herbert B. Schlosberg
Contents
Part I
ININ
Prologue Summer, 1962
1 Late Summer, 1961
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
Part II
The Rico Parra Papers
1 Summer, 1962
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
Part III
Topaz
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Part IV
Le Grand Pierre
1 The Summer of 1940
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10 Albert Hall, London February, 1944
11
12
13
Part V
Columbine
Prologue
1 October, 1962
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
A Biography of Leon Uris
Part I
ININ
Prologue
Summer, 1962
MARSH MCKITTRICK’S BUICK WAS passed through the gates of the vast Government complex outside Langley. He eased onto the turnpike, then sped toward Washington, touching his briefcase nervously and looking into the rearview mirror. Two cars filled with heavily armed guards followed closely. Sanderson Hooper beside him and Michael Nordstrom in the rear seat remained speechless.
Marsh McKittrick felt small victory in the vindication that was about to be his. Responsible directly to the President on intelligence matters, he had argued vociferously about the Soviet behavior in Cuba since the terrible happening at the Bay of Pigs.
The Soviet Prime Minister had interlarded peace pledges with bold threats for the months of 1962 and acted with growing daring, cunning, and menace.
Sanderson Hooper, one of the most competent intelligence evaluators, had been reluctant to go along until now. The contents of the briefcase finally convinced him.
In a matter of moments the young American President would be faced with a terrible decision. And was not this decision too great a judgment for a single mortal? Was it not God’s decision if the human race should survive or perish?
For an instant McKittrick disliked his own fleeting thought that the President might back down under the sheer weight of the consequences. Who really knew or had any way of knowing the President’s steel? Well ... we’ll all soon find out, McKittrick thought.
His hands became clammy on the wheel of the car. He sighed a half-dozen times to relieve the tension that welled in his chest and he looked again to make sure the guard cars were close at hand.
He opened the side vent to spill in fresh air for relief from the heavy pall of pipe smoke glumly puffed by Sanderson Hooper.
All the clues were there. The sudden increase of shipping from Soviet-bloc nations into a revitalized Cuban port, the influx of thousands of Soviet “technicians.” Numerous unidentified trips to Moscow by key Cuban officials. What did the Cuban buildup mean? There was no real proof, only a myriad of speculations. But it was enough to create a growing uneasiness in the American Congress and rumbles for action.
With instant access to the President, McKittrick, Nordstrom, and Hooper were led immediately to the office in the West Wing.
Marshall McKittrick unsnapped his worn briefcase, withdrew a folder of reconnaissance photographs which had been taken by a U-2 aircraft from high altitude. He spread the pictures on the President’s desk and handed him a high-powered magnifying glass.
“Woods near San Cristóbal, Mr. President. This site has been recently cleared. Blowups and the photo analysts will be here within the hour.”
“Spell it out, Mac,” the President said tersely.
McKittrick looked to Hooper, then Nordstrom. “It is still speculative but we are all in accord....”
“Spell it out,” the President repeated.
“In our opinion, the Soviet Union is introducing missiles into Cuba armed with atomic warheads and aimed at the East Coast and Midwest United States.”
The President set the magnifying glass down slowly, resigned that he would have to hear the words he had so long dreaded.
“We are in a state of grave national crisis,” Sanderson Hooper blurted as if speaking to himself.
“I’ll say we are,” the President answered with a tinge of irony in his voice. “Once we walk out of this room ... people can start getting killed.”
1
Late Summer, 1961
THE DAY WAS BALMY. The certain magic of Copenhagen and the Tivoli Gardens had Michael Nordstrom all but tranquilized. From his table on the terrace of the Wivex Restaurant he could see the onion dome of the Nimb, saturated with a million light bulbs, and just across the path came a drift of laughter from the outdoor pantomime theater. The walks of the Tivoli were bordered with meticulous set-in flowers which gave out a riot of color.
Michael luxuriated in detailed observation of the strong, shapely legs of the Copenhagen girls, made so by the major source of transportation, in that flat city, bicycle riding.
He fiddled with the little American flag on the table as the waiters cleared away a few survivors of three dozen open-faced Danish sandwiches.
Per Nosdahl, who sat behind a Norwegian flag, passed out cigars and held a light under Nordstrom’s. Michael puffed contentedly. “The boss would frown on us smoking Castro stogies. I miss Havana,” he said to his deputy in Denmark, Sid Hendricks.
Per imposed a half-dozen cigars on Michael, who gave in then patted his filled breast pocket.
“So, we’ll all meet again two weeks from today in Oslo,” said H. P. Sorensen, speaking from behind a Danish flag.
The other three nodded. Michael took a last lovely swig of beer from his glass. “I keep telling Liz I’ll bring her to Copenhagen some summer. You know, strictly on a vacation ... whatever the hell that is.”
The headwaiter approached. “Is one of you gentlemen Mr. Nordstrom?”
“Yes.”
“Telephone, sir.”
“Excuse me,” he said, folding his napkin and following the headwaiter from the terrace into the enormity and plushness of the W
ivex. The orchestra played the “Colonel Bogie” march from The Bridge on the River Kwai, and the Danes kept jovial time by clapping in rhythm.
The waiter pointed to a phone booth in the lobby.
“Thank you.” Michael closed the door behind him. “Nordstrom,” he said.
“My name means nothing to you,” a heavily accented Russian voice spoke, “but I know who you are.”
“You’ve got the wrong party.”
“You are Michael Nordstrom, the American Chief of ININ, Inter-NATO Intelligence Network. You sign your cables with the code name ‘Oscar,’ followed by the numerals, six, one, two.”
“I said you’ve got the wrong party.”
“I have some papers of extreme interest,” the voice on the other end persisted. “NATO papers in the four-hundred series. Your contingency plans for a counterattack if the Soviet Union invades through Scandinavia. I have many other papers.”
Nordstrom squelched a deep sigh by placing his hand quickly over the mouth piece. He caught his bearings immediately. “Where are you?”
“I am calling from a phone booth over the Raadhuspladsen.”
Nordstrom glanced at his watch. One o’clock. It would take several hours to formulate a plan. “We can set up a meeting for this evening....”
“No,” the voice answered sharply. “No. I will be missed. It must be done immediately.”
“All right. Glyptoteket Museum in a half-hour. On the third floor there’s an exhibit of Degas wire statuettes,” Nordstrom instructed.
“I am familiar with it.”
“How can you be identified?”
“Under my arm I carry two books, Laederhalsene in Danish and The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich in English.”
“A man named Phil will contact you.” Nordstrom hung up.
The first obvious thought that crossed his mind was a rendezvous trap in which the Russians could photograph him contacting a Soviet agent for future blackmail use. He would send his deputy in Denmark, Sid Hendricks, to make the contact, then lead the man to a place which he could cover against being followed or photographed. The pressing time factor annoyed him, but bait or not the Russian’s opening gambit was taken.
Michael placed a coin in the phone box and dialed.
“American Embassy.”
“Nordstrom. Get the ININ office.”
“Mr. Hendricks’ office, Miss Cooke speaking.”
“Cookie, this is Mike Nordstrom. You’re buddies with the manager of the Palace Hotel ... what’s his name?”
“Jens Hansen.”
“Get him on the horn and tell him we need a favor. Large suite at the end of a hallway. Something we can block off and cover from all directions.”
“How soon?”
“Now. Send four or five of the boys down, tape machine and cameras. I’ll meet them there in twenty minutes.”
“Got it.”
Michael Nordstrom was a bit heftier than he would have liked but he still moved with deftness and grace. He wove his way back to the terrace quickly. A scream shrilled out from the roller coaster. “Sorry, fellows, office wants Sid and me back right away.”
The Danish and Norwegian ININ chiefs stood and they all shook hands.
“Have a good trip back to the States,” H. P. Sorensen said.
“See you in Oslo, Mike,” Per Nosdahl said.
Sid Hendricks reminded Sorensen they had a meeting next day and the two Americans departed.
They got into Sid’s car on H. C. Boulevard. “What’s up, Mike?”
“Russian. Maybe a defector. Go right away to the Glyptoteket’s Degas exhibition on the third floor. He’ll be carrying two books, Laederhalsene—and, uh, Rise and Fall, the Shirer book, in English. Identify yourself as Phil, then have him follow you. Waltz him around the Tivoli a few times to make sure he isn’t being tailed by his own people. End up at the Palace Hotel. One of the boys from your office will be waiting and tell you where to take him. If you don’t show in an hour, we’ll know it was a setup. Check him out carefully as you can.”
Sid nodded and got out of the car. Nordstrom watched him cross the avenue. The curtain, a mass of bicycles, closed behind him. Nordstrom emerged from the other side of the car for the short walk to the Palace, then grumbled beneath his breath. This sudden turn of events would force him to cancel a date with a lovely Danish miss.
2
FIFTEEN MINUTES HAD ELAPSED when Sid Hendricks entered the block-long red brick building housing a conglomeration of art treasures, sponsored by a Danish brewery.
He paid a krone admission, bought a catalogue, then made directly up a long flight of stairs on the right side of the main lobby.
The room was empty. Hendricks studied it for unwanted guests but could spot none. He thumbed through the catalogue, then moved around the dozens of Degas wire studies of horses and ballet dancers, each an experiment to capture phases of motion. He stopped before a glass case and looked long at a particularly magnificent piece, a rearing horse.
“Unfortunately, we do not see much Degas in the Soviet Union.”
Hendricks squinted to try to catch in the glass the reflection of the man who had slipped up behind him, but all he could make out was a transparent disfiguration.
“A few pieces in the Pushkin Museum in Moscow,” the Russian accent labored, “and somewhat better in the Hermitage, but I do not get to Leningrad often.”
Hendricks turned the page in the catalogue. “Never been there,” he answered, keeping his eyes straight ahead.
“I have. I’d like to leave.”
“I don’t think we’ve met.”
“Not formally. You are Sidney Hendricks, in charge of the American ININ Division in Denmark.”
“Anyone can get that information out of the Embassy Directory.”
“Then, how about this information? Your boss, Michael Nordstrom, is in Copenhagen to meet the Danish and Norwegian ININ counterparts, Nosdahl and Sorensen, to discuss expansion of an espionage ring of Scandinavian students studying in the Soviet Union.”
With that, Sid Hendricks turned and faced his adversary.
The two stipulated books nestled tightly under the arm of a man of shorter than average height. Russians look like Russians, Hendricks thought. High forehead, suffering brown eyes of a tortured intellectual, uneven haircut, prominent cheekbones, knobby fingers. His suit showed Western styling but was sloppily worn.
“Follow me and keep a hundred-foot interval.”
Hendricks passed from the room through a group of incoming art students and their instructor.
On the street he waited on the corner of Tietgensgade until the Russian emerged from the museum, then crossed to the Tivoli Gardens and paid an admission into the Dansetten.
Cha-cha-cha music favored the midafternoon dancers. Sid sighted in on a pair of unescorted girls sitting hopefully in a corner, and invited one to dance. His cha-cha-cha left much to be desired but it did give him a total vantage. The Russian entered, watched, did not appear to have followers.
Hendricks abruptly left the astonished girl and plunged into the maze of zigzag paths, hawkers, strollers, the labyrinth of glass buildings, the blaze of flowers, the multitude of restaurants, exhibits, fun and amusement booths, the fairyland that made up the wonderment of Tivoli.
Sid Hendricks led the Russian in circles. Along the artificial boat lake he doubled back so that he walked past his pursuer, then made up the steps of the multitiered Chinese pagoda. From here he could look down and study all the activity below. Only the single Russian clung to his trail.
He was now satisfied that the Russian was not being followed, and he passed from the Tivoli, crossing the teeming Raadhuspladsen filled with the usual complement of pigeons that inhabit city-hall squares throughout the world.
His deputy, Dick Stebner, waited in the lobby of the Palace Hotel. Without further word, the three walked the stairs to the third floor. The long corridor was covered by Hendricks’ men. Stebner made down the carpeted hall to an end suite,
opened the door and the three of them entered.
Harry Bartlett, another deputy, waited by the false fireplace. The Russian stood in the center of room. The lock clicked behind him.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Bartlett asked.
“I want to see Nordstrom,” the Russian retorted. “You are not Nordstrom. You are one of the ININ men in Hendricks’ office.”
The bedroom door opened slowly. Michael Nordstrom entered. His bulk made the Russian seem even smaller. “Yes,” the latter whispered, “you are the one I wish to see.”
“Shoot.”
“Shoot?”
“Who are you? What do you want?”
The Russian studied Stebner and Hendricks at the door and the other one, Bartlett. “My compliments to you, Nordstrom. You are very good. You did this quickly and your Hendricks is clever. Do you have a cigarette?”
Michael cupped his hands to hold the flame and his eyes met the Russian’s. The man was frightened despite his professional poise. He sucked deeply on the cigarette as though calling on a friend and he licked his lips in a gesture of fear.
“I am Boris Kuznetov,” he said, “chief of a division of KGB. I wish to defect.”
“Why?”
“I have reason to suspect I am going to be liquidated.”
“What reasons?”
“Two close comrades in KGB who shared my views have been purged recently. I travel in the West often. This time surveillance on me is unusually heavy. And then,” he sighed, “a close dear friend told me before I came to Copenhagen that if I have a chance to clear out, I had better make the break.”
Kuznetov pulled hard again on the cigarette. He knew the men arrayed before him would naturally suspect he was a plant.
“This friend of yours,” Hendricks said, “wasn’t it dangerous for him to warn you?”
“It makes no difference if you are a Russian or an American, Mr. Hendricks. Our profession is cruel, yet ... they cannot take from us all that is human. Humans, in the end, are compassionate. Someday you may need a friend. Someday a friend will need you. Do you understand?”
“If you are under such tight watch,” Nordstrom challenged, “how did you cut yourself loose just now?”
“I am in Copenhagen with my wife and daughter. I left them at the restaurant. As long as they have guards on my family they know I will return, so it is normal for me to be away for a few hours, perhaps to make an intelligence contact, perhaps to shop, perhaps even to visit a woman. But I am a devoted family man and I always come back.”
