Leon Uris

by Topaz

  She slid over as André walked around to the driver’s side.

  “Your car won’t be ready until tomorrow,” she said as he drove off.

  André looked at his attaché case and sighed. “I have an idea,” he said impulsively. “Why don’t we drive to Baltimore now and catch an early film? There’s a western I want to see, and afterward we could have a nice seafood dinner at Miller Brothers.”

  “It sounds wonderful.”

  Nicole found herself sitting close to him, which she rarely did anymore, and she rubbed the back of his neck. He looked at her and smiled, and as they stopped for a red light he put his arm about her and kissed her.

  And, for the moment, everything was fine.

  9

  A FEW MOMENTS PAST Washington brought Nordstrom and Devereaux into the Maryland countryside, now showing off its full springtime glory.

  “It’s beautiful,” André said, “just beautiful. It reminds me of my own little province in France.”

  Michael smiled to himself. Frenchmen always made modest reference to their home as “little,” be it a fifty-room manor.

  They turned off the highway onto a secondary road. A lush pastureland broke on both sides of them. “Nicole and I should drive out here. We haven’t been to the country for such a long time. It would do us good.”

  “Promises, promises. Why make them? We can never keep them. And our wives only make us feel guilty when we’re called away.”

  Past Laurel they were among the dirt farms. In a while they drove on a remote, unpaved road that ran parallel to the Patuxent River and led them into the private confines of the ININ camp.

  Nordstrom halted briefly before a camp gate marked with a freshly painted sign, long enough for the guard to recognize him and wave them through.

  Nordstrom pulled up to the main building and pointed to the largest of the cottages. “I’ll wait for you in the office.”

  As André crossed the assembly ground he was lured by the sound of piano music coming from the cottage. It was Chopin, and the player played it superbly.

  As his foot touched the bottom step, making it creak, the music stopped abruptly and he could hear footsteps inside, beating a retreat.

  “My daughter, Tamara,” a thickly accented voice said. “She is very shy.”

  André turned and sighted down to the far end of the porch where a smallish man was framed in sunlight reflected from the river. He approached, squinting. Boris Kuznetov sat before a palette, dabbing a touch of paint on the canvas. André came up behind him. It was quite a good painting, he thought, of post-Impressionist influence, of the huge willow tree which wept into the river on the opposite bank.

  Boris set his brush down, wiped his hand and extended it. “You are Devereaux,” he said in passable French. “I recognize you from the descriptions.”

  “Isn’t this kind of art frowned upon?”

  “I’ve traveled too much in the West, I’m afraid. Our social realism makes for quite poor art. Come, let’s take a walk.”

  As they left the porch, André caught a glimpse of the two Kuznetov women staring at him from the shadows of the curtains.

  “I’ve been curious to meet you, Devereaux. You’ve been a difficult opponent. A number of times we attempted to put you in embarrassing positions so we could force you to deal with us. But no luck. Anyhow, I’m tired of Americans and they’re tired of me, so I asked to see you.”

  “I’ll have to accept that until you want to tell me the real reason.”

  Kuznetov smiled.

  “I hope you like Laurent Perrier Grand Siècle 1959,” André said.

  “Yes, an excellent champagne.”

  “I brought you a case.”

  “Wonderful. The French have good taste. The Americans are harsh, particularly in their intellectual outlook. With them, everything is mechanical and everything is business.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Bourbon is a marvelous drink when you get the hang of it.”

  They reached a creaky pier, lined with rowboats and small outboards. Kuznetov commented on the beauty of the place. He picked up a flat stone and tried to skim it, but was unsuccessful. They continued on, along a narrow path beside the bank.

  “Why were they going to liquidate you?” André asked abruptly.

  A pained expression came over Boris Kuznetov’s face. He stopped at a large, familiar rock, sat on it and stared moodily out to the river, watching a swift current swirl around an exposed sandbar.

  “All my life,” he said slowly, “I have been devoted to the Party. But even in these enlightened days of Comrade Khrushchev there are no retirement plans for a KGB chief who falls from favor.”

  “Why did you fall from favor?”

  “Many reasons. No reasons. Mainly because I am too honest. I refuse to distort my reports and my views in order to play politics and please certain ears. I always gave my evaluations precisely as I saw them. In the end, the powers that be could not accept what I had to say. As you know, Devereaux, it is the disease of our profession. Every intelligence service in the world suffers from the same thing. We go to abnormal lengths, expense and danger to obtain information. But then the real battle is to get your own people to believe you. You, Devereaux ... you have all kinds of trouble with Paris, and the American President doesn’t believe half of what CIA and ININ tell him.”

  “On this we agree,” André said.

  “But let something go wrong and see who gets the blame.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That the West is too strong. With NATO, the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact countries are badly outgunned. Moreover, we won’t catch up. Because I sat in the inner circles as an adviser, I argued for a sincere rapprochement with the West and peace for the Russian people. They have ugly labels for such thinking. It is not what the military wants to hear. But I will not he, because I don’t want the Soviet Union destroyed.”

  Kuznetov stopped abruptly as though surprised at his own dissertation. André understood it as a need for the Russian to confess to a “neutral” party, to try to purge himself and justify and smother the guilt of his defection.

  “I just wanted to meet you and see what kind of man you were,” Kuznetov said.

  They returned to the cottage in silence. All the way back André watched him thrash out a decision, hesitate, then say, “I warn you, Devereaux. It would be foolish to cable French SDECE of this meeting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because anything that Paris knows, Moscow will know in twenty-four hours. For the good of your own country, don’t send a report.”

  “That’s quite an accusation, Kuznetov.”

  “Your service is very leaky. Just ... keep quiet.”

  “I’ll think it over for a few days.”

  “Will you visit again?”

  “As you wish,” André said.

  They shook hands tentatively. Boris opened the screen door.

  “Kuznetov.”

  “Yes?”

  “Now let me give you a little advice. You say the Americans are not civilized, but you also knew when you defected they don’t play your game of assassination and torture, nor do they use your family as hostages. But don’t mistake this as a weakness, because it’s strength. You’d better make up your mind to tell them what you know.”

  “I am not a traitor!” Kuznetov cried. “I fled only for the lives of my family! I love Russia! I love my country!”

  “Yes, that’s the sad part of our business. I’ll have the champagne sent over.”

  10

  FROM THE BEGINNING, NORDSTROM had ordered the Kuznetov family photographed secretly, as well as complete tapings made of their conversations. The three of them had been recorded profusely by hidden cameras and listening devices.

  Dr. Bennett Block, a renowned plastic surgeon from Johns Hopkins, was brought to Camp Patrick under the guise of being a guard in order to study the features of the family firsthand.

  On a night several days after Devereaux’s fo
urth unsuccessful visit to Camp Patrick, Nordstrom entered the Kuznetov cottage with six mysterious boxes, which he placed on a bench. He also carried a half-dozen photo albums.

  Olga and Tamara, as always, retreated to another part of the cottage.

  Boris understood at once something vital was about to take place.

  Nordstrom handed him three of the albums. Each contained several dozen pictures of Boris, Tamara, and Olga from every conceivable angle. The Russian thumbed through them without comment.

  Michael opened three of the boxes and took out full-scale head models, which were astonishing likenesses of the Kuznetov family. Coloring, eyes, hair, profiles, shape of noses, ears, were in perfect shade and proportion. “I think you’ll agree,” Michael said, “these are reasonable facsimiles of what you look like now.”

  Boris nodded. Michael handed him another album, filled with artists’ conceptions of how their appearances might be changed. Then Nordstrom opened the second set of three boxes, containing head models of what the Kuznetov family would look like afterward.

  “You’ve been under the observation of one of the best plastic surgeons in America.”

  “I suspect it was the short fellow with the thinning hair, gray eyes, smoked Lucky Strikes and wore a Genève wristwatch.”

  “That’s him. His name is Bennett Block and he’s out of Johns Hopkins.”

  “One could see he has the hands of a surgeon, and he didn’t speak the language of an intelligence man.”

  Michael smiled at Kuznetov’s astute observation, took his pen, and used it as a pointer on the head model. “In plain language, they can do something with surgery on your nose and chin. Dental work here and hair dye, mustache and glasses. Scar will be added to your forehead. Change of height through special built-up shoes. Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”

  The “before” and “after” models presented dramatic evidence.

  “It will be easier with Tamara and Olga. Just westernizing them will make a major difference, with a minimum of surgery. Olga can lose between twenty-five and forty pounds. Women’s wigs and hairpieces have been so perfected that not even an expert can detect one properly worn. New wardrobe, use of make-up and Western grooming habits would bring about a total change.”

  Kuznetov studied everything before him, then walked to the mirror and stared into it. He poured himself a rare drink. “Ingenious.”

  Michael continued in that brisk manner that marked him as an American. “For your wife, a crash course in English. For you and Tamara, a private tutor for as many hours a day as you can absorb. All of you will get elocution lessons to change the pitch and rhythm of your voices. You’ll be schooled on being an American. We’ll teach you American history from our side, jazz, sports, inside jokes, everything. You’ll be taken on a full familiarization tour of the country. We figure that by the end of a year it would be pretty difficult to tell that you hadn’t lived here most of your lives.”

  “You are being very entertaining tonight,” Kuznetov answered sharply, as though annoyed.

  Michael went on, all business. “We’ll prepare a full set of all necessary papers. Birth certificates, college degree, honorable discharge from an American military service. You’ll be provided with records to show you’ve been a member of certain social and benevolent societies and have carried insurance for three decades.”

  Nordstrom lit up, held the flame for the Russian’s cigarette. It was like the first time at the Palace Hotel in Copenhagen. The man’s nerves belied his outward calm. Kuznetov was very shaky.

  Nordstrom let it all sink in.

  “I saved the best for last.” He opened a folio containing photographs and specifications of a modern motel. “This is a real-estate listing for a forty-two-room motel in Bakersfield, California. It has a good bar and restaurant business and exchange privileges with a nearby golf course and riding stable. Year-round swimming pool, centrally air-conditioned. A separate and very nice apartment for the owner. The present owner nets over twenty thousand dollars a year in addition to his quarters and board. That’s clear after taxes. We will install you in here with sufficient equity to guarantee your income for life. There’s a good small college in Bakersfield, and after you’re settled, maybe you’d like to teach here. Los Angeles is within spitting distance. Excellent concerts, good museums, beaches, libraries.”

  “You’re very thorough.”

  “As for Tamara ...” The mention of his daughter brought on an obvious reaction. “As for Tamara, four years of music at Rochester, at Curtis, Peabody, or Juilliard. She’ll graduate with a degree.”

  Kuznetov shook his head, pinched his brows with his fingers. “I have no answers for you tonight.”

  “Have one by tomorrow,” Nordstrom said tersely.

  Boris looked into stern eyes. Yes, Nordstrom was all business now. “I understand that to be an ultimatum.”

  “You’ve got the picture,” Michael answered. “You’ve been calling the tune for over six months. From a professional standpoint I’d play for another six months, even a year.”

  “And from a personal standpoint?”

  “I’m sick of you. You’ve taken deliberate advantage of the fact that we won’t terrorize people.”

  “My alternative?”

  “Papers and taxi fare to the nearest airport. Tickets to the city of your choice and one month’s allowance. From then on, brother, you’re on your own. Go live in the shadows and spend every breath in fear waiting for the KGB to liquidate you. You’ve got no one to blame but yourself. You asked for Devereaux. Then you conveniently forget why you wanted him. He may be able to keep the information from Paris for a week or even a month, but sooner or later French SDECE has to be advised. The minute this leaks to Moscow, your value to us drops close to zero.”

  “I understand,” Kuznetov said harshly.

  “You’ve planned enough liquidations to know what a filthy bunch of gangsters you slept with in KGB. You don’t owe those butchers a goddamned thing.”

  The screen door slammed behind Nordstrom.

  Kuznetov had run out the string. But even so, how much longer would the Americans have played? And how much longer could he bear the unhappiness of Olga and Tamara?

  He stood before the models, then suddenly swept them off the bench with a backhand, sending them crashing to the floor.

  He saw Olga edge into the room, marble-faced. “We heard everything,” she said. “Tamara translated to me what Nordstrom offered.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it tonight.”

  She followed him across the room until the wall stopped him and continued to speak at his back. “You swore to us if we were able to make an escape we would have a decent life. We’ve never had a decent life, Boris, except those few moments we could steal at a concert or a museum or a restaurant in the West. Look at your daughter! She is a young woman and she wants to live! What kind of life will you give her after tomorrow? Hiding in terror! Can’t you see the difference between these people and ours? They were going to kill you!”

  “Stop it, Olga!”

  “Boris,” she said in the first outright defiance of him in her life, “you are going to tell the Americans everything.”

  “No ... never ... never!”

  Tamara was in the doorway, her eyes filled with tears. “Papa. I was raised as a good Communist and I loved Russia, too. I loved Russia until I was ordered to spy and report on you. I love you and Mamma more. Since I found out they meant to kill you, I’ve grown to hate them. Oh, Papa, do you know what it is like outside in this country? I’ve almost died from wanting it.” She knelt beside the fallen model of the woman they could create of her. “I want so much to be her.”

  Tears streamed down Boris’ cheeks.

  “Boris,” his wife said, “you must talk to the Americans. Tamara and I will not spend our lives running.”

  He was boxed in. The choices were clear. The great secret within him was being squeezed out. The secret of Topaz.

  11<
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  “MICHELE, LITTLE DARLING!”

  André embraced his daughter; they exchanged kisses on both cheeks. Robespierre, a scented, rhinestone-collared, silver-gray miniature poodle, bounced and yapped. Picasso, a mournful beagle, planted all four feet firmly and wagged so violently his whole body went into motion.

  André held Michele off at arm’s length to inspect her and smiled. They moved through the house, upstairs, arms about waists trading the usual amenities. Everything at college was just fine. The New York theater was barely decent, but the Comédie Française would be playing a limited engagement.

  “Will you come up for a few shows, Papa?”

  “I’d love to, but I hate to promise. The work load ...”

  “Promise. And I promise I won’t be disappointed if you can’t make it.”

  “In that case, I promise to try.”

  She branched off to her own room, to apply the last icing to perfect herself for the Franco-American Legion of Honor dinner at the French Embassy. Being many years the senior of her daughter, Nicole had started her routine two hours earlier. Nicole’s tension was apparent, particularly to Robespierre, who reflected her nervousness in his nonstop prancing. Nicole labored meticulously, plucking each brow, penciling the lines with a Da Vinci-like skill and creaming away the creases.

  André grunted a hello and retreated to his sanctuary, donned his smoking jacket, fixed a bourbon, settled in his leather chair, and snapped open his briefcase.

  Now came the microscopic search. The un-romantic stomach-turning labor necessary to an intelligence man in a day that never really ended, using amounts of stamina that could not be measured.

  In the twilight hours, long after offices closed and other breeds of men took pause to reflect, he turned to just another phase of the day’s work. Now to pore through the cross section of clippings from some fifty magazines and newspapers of ten countries. There were stacks of memorandums, communiqués, and letters that came in the late transmission to study for possible action.