Leon Uris

by Topaz

19

  AT TEN O’CLOCK SHARP AT night, André left the Café des Deux Magots as had been prearranged by the telephone conversation.

  He drove across the Seine by the Pont d’Austerlitz with an eye on the rear mirror. His tails were still behind him as he continued up Rue de Rivoli, so he circled the great Place de la Concorde and doubled back into the Place Vendôme and at last lost them.

  He drove on to the greenery of the Bois de Boulogne and slowed and drifted back and forth near the Pavilion d’Armenonville. During his third pass, headlights of another car, which had pulled off in the bushes, blinked off and on. André turned off the road and parked near the second car.

  Robert Proust waited nervously, perspiring even in the cold. They watched the area silently for several moments to assure that all was clear.

  “Well, Robert, we’ve come a long way to have to make a secret rendezvous.”

  “It’s not very advantageous to be your friend these days,” Robert answered. “Well, I came anyhow. André, you know how closely you’re being watched. Every move, every call. Even if you return to your post in Washington, one of the new people will have orders to watch you.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “I’m trying to talk you out of your damn madness. The service knows I would never personally carry out an order against you, but in your case there are standing orders that Fauchet has received from Colonel Brune personally.”

  “Yes, good old Ferdinand. He’d like nothing better than to pull the trigger on me himself. Or does he use a strangling wire these days?”

  “You have one advantage now ... your years in the service and many friends. They won’t play with you now because it would wreck the morale of the SDECE. But when the time comes, Fauchet will do a clean job. He knows his work.”

  André laughed, ignoring the warning. “Do you have the same private postbox at the Rue des Capucines Station?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’ve found what I was looking for. In a day or two there will be a letter. It will have my resignation and reveal an interesting name. Through your own ingenious resources you must see to it that it gets directly into the hands of President La Croix. There will be an extra copy in a separate envelope for your own information.”

  “André, for God’s sake, don’t go through with this.”

  “It’s not for God’s sake, it’s for France’s sake. Will you get my letter into the hands of the President?”

  “Yes, I promise.”

  “Now, what about Michele? Did you see her in Montrichard?”

  “Yes. She’s headed to the Spanish frontier. More than likely she’s made it over to Spain by now. She’ll be waiting at the town you said. From there, you’ve got your fifty-fifty chance to make the break for Mexico or South America. You know those places better than anyone.”

  “Good. Well, at least Michele didn’t have to walk over the mountains as we did, eh, Robert?”

  “You mean as I was carried. It’s hard for a squalid lump like me to understand, but I guess I always knew you wouldn’t back down.”

  “Don’t berate yourself, Robert. You’ve been a loyal friend.”

  “André ...”

  “Yes?”

  “Nicole went to Spain also. When I saw her she said, ‘I beg André not to turn me away.’ ”

  “Nicole? Well, we started in Spain. But can two people so scarred by each other’s wounds really start over?”

  “Somehow, it might work.”

  “Does she know about Juanita?”

  “Yes. She said you’ll need her more than ever now.”

  “Robert. I won’t delude myself into believing a miracle is about to take place. She may think she found answers in the quiet of her room. It is something else to come out into the world and put those answers to work. When the pressure comes, all of us revert to what we are. People rarely change, except to go downhill.”

  “Then, you are going to turn her away?”

  “Nicole and I still have a power to reach each other, to hurt each other and to thrill each other. In the end the things we have may have to be enough. I won’t know until I see her again ... or if I ever will.”

  André shook Robert’s hand and gave him a “chin up” smack on the shoulder, got into his car, backed out and drove away. Robert Proust watched him disappear knowing he would never see him again.

  20

  JACQUES GRANVILLE’S COUNTRY ESTATE in Normandy consisted of thirty-six rooms showing exquisite taste and set in a private forest and hunting grounds. Paulette received a raised eyebrow from her husband to indicate he wished to chat alone with André. She retreated from the paneled study.

  Jacques made to a portable bar near his desk and produced a bottle of bourbon. “How’s that?”

  “You remember my weakness,” André said.

  They saluted with raised glasses. “When do you return to Washington?” Jacques asked.

  “I expect to be traveling very soon.”

  “I’m glad we were able to have this weekend together. You know I moved heaven and earth to open up the New Zealand Embassy post for you. I was simply overruled. Everyone thinks you’re too valuable in Washington. Christ, André, I can still get the post if you’ll consider it and back me.”

  “You’ve had my answer on that. I’m not going to New Zealand.”

  “I’m only trying to help you,” Jacques said. “I know what an ordeal these past weeks have been and how hurt you are. But you’ve got to look at the broad concept, the big canvas. Pierre La Croix is right. At least for France he’s right. We’re not the kind of people to be dominated or even led by outsiders. I have no vendetta against the Americans and I can’t share all this violent anti-American opinion but we have the right to make our own mistakes. Now with this new section on scientific intelligence, try to send back some good information.”

  “I’ll try my best, as always.”

  “And ease up. You’ll have an expanded staff. Give them more of the work load. With Cuba off limits for you, you are in a position to take life easier.”

  “I suppose I am tired.”

  “Queer breed, you intelligence people. I often wondered why you and Robert stayed in this business after the war.”

  “For Robert, it was a way to make a living. Most of the people in most of the secret services are simply decent civil servants.”

  “But you, André, you puzzle me. You could have had the whole world.”

  “But I have had the world I really wanted. I’ve worked with the kind of men and women more beautiful as humans, more courageous, more idealistic, than any others on earth. Only someone with a deep and mystic love for country can serve that way, in silence.”

  “Yes,” Jacques said, “but what about the others? The scoundrels, the cutthroats, the double-dealers.”

  “I’ve lived with the scum of the earth, too. Traitors always fascinate me. I’ve never stopped wondering how a man is able to turn against his country.”

  André set his drink down, clasped his hands behind him and stared past the brocaded drapes to a stand of birch trees in winter bareness. “Some men like Boris Kuznetov cross over out of fear or horrible disenchantment. A Henri Jarré is so consumed with hatred it was no crime in his eyes to spy on NATO because he honestly felt it was in the interest of his country, or rather what he thought France’s interest should be. There are dedicated Communists about us who spy because they believe in Communism, just as we have those who spy for democracy. There are others who feel that Russia is going to win out over the West in the end and they want to get on the right side. There are the little fish caught in the wrong bed or with their hands in the cash till and laid open to blackmail.”

  “Well ... no matter. André, the main reason I wanted to see you is to urge you to put this Topaz affair to rest. Frankly, I don’t know if Topaz is real or not at this point, but I do know there’s no way you can win. You’ve hit a blank wall. Let me and the rest of us who are alerted take care of Colonel B
rune in our own good time.”

  “Brune? I made a mistake about him,” André said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I made him much bigger than he is. All he really is is a bureaucrat fighting for his life and afraid of his own mediocrity. He’s played the anti-American, anti-Devereaux game with slanted and distorted reports because he thought it would please La Croix and because he was otherwise advised to do so. But the worst that Brune can be charged with is being a rotten administrator, of playing politics to hang on to his office and of allowing the service to deteriorate. But a Soviet agent? No. Brune is not guilty. When faced with the Topaz scandal he was absolutely forced to discredit me or be drummed out of office in disgrace.”

  André turned from the window past Jacques’ magnificent collection of Dumas, Voltaire, Hugo.

  “A man like Colonel Brune is easy to manipulate. Like a puppet he has been manipulated by a clever, vicious devil.”

  André leaned against the thick Renaissance table. “Too bad you haven’t gotten a good look at America, Jacques.”

  “You know how it is. My visits are short and official.”

  “Shame. America is a country of unbelievable varieties of physical beauty. I never cease to marvel. Four time zones in one country. Imagine. God-made vistas, man-made miracles. Total splendor. I think I like Colorado best ... yes, I like it best. Great wild mountains. Not with manicured villages like below the Alps but wild and rugged terrain and weathered old ruins of mining towns. Rushing streams filled with trout. In the early summer the high country around Aspen, the valleys and fields, are a veritable carpet of wild flowers.”

  “Good Lord, André. What brought on all this nostalgia?”

  “The wild flowers.”

  Jacques showed a hint of a smile. He set his drink down and sat behind his desk. “Tell me about the wild flowers.”

  “Certainly you should know the state flower of Colorado. You have the same name ... Columbine.”

  As perspiration popped out on Granville’s lip, he inched the top drawer of his desk open. “You are being highly entertaining,” he said.

  “We were talking about traitors,” André continued. “Worse than the whores, the pimps, the paid stranglers. The infinite scum, the most vile being is the man who betrays his country for money.”

  Granville’s fingers felt around the drawer and stopped on the cold metal of his pistol. His hand wrapped around it slowly.

  “Jacques, you look dumbstruck. Let’s see how it all went. During the war you made a number of liaison missions to Moscow for the Free French. The Russians sized you up as a charming young reprobate who would remain close to La Croix and they knew that someday he would rule France. So you were approached and eighteen years ago your grooming started. Once in, one does not get out. That’s a long time for any man to lead a double life. But, even considering the normal graft of your office, the wealth of two of your ex-wives, and your own inheritance, it was not enough to keep up your style of living ... and you do have style, Jacques.

  “What an astonishing rapport you have with the Swiss banks in Geneva,” André continued. “Blank numbered accounts XXF 12908 and BFI 2202 at the Bank de Groff alone hold over forty thousand American dollars. And the money flows in almost on demand to one C. S. Bouchard. Well, Monsieur Bouchard, alias Columbine, alias Jacques Granville, it’s not small business with you, but then why should it be when the Soviet Union has one of its agents briefing Disinformation to our half-blind President?

  “I’ve seen them some and go, but by God, Jacques, you are the shrewdest son of a bitch of them all. You used everyone. You used the President of France to peddle your filth. You stole the fortunes of two women. You used Colonel Brune and twisted things around so that he carried on the dirty work of Disinformation on the pretense you were being his friend and saving his job. You used me. And you even used my wife to get information on Kuznetov’s whereabouts. Too bad, Jacques, his escape is a clean job.”

  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.

  21

  ROBERT PROUST 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

  22

  PIERRE LA CROIX 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.”