Topaz

by Leon Uris

There was a bedroom showdown. As the scene flickered on the screen, Boris Kuznetov put his head back and roared with laughter and he laughed till he nearly gagged.

  Michael had never heard him laugh before.

  After the film, Kuznetov treated himself to a rare drink of liquor. On his walks, he often commented, as an aside, that the Western agents drank too much. He, himself, was virtually a total abstainer. But on this night he felt good.

  “The days are long,” he said, placing a log on the fire and weighing his words with meticulous care. “I would like some company. Someone from my own part of the world. A fellow European.”

  Nordstrom raised his eyebrows. “Do you have anyone particular in mind?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “Who?”

  Boris stirred his drink, took a short sip, looked into the budding fire. “Devereaux. André Devereaux.”

  “Who?”

  “SDECE, the French Secret Service. Your ININ Counterpart in Washington. You know him quite well.”

  Boris looked at Michael’s poker face.

  “Why Devereaux?”

  “Frenchmen are jolly.”

  “What else?”

  “I need some jolly company.”

  Nordstrom did not reply. The request was coldly calculated and Kuznetov wanted to speak no more about it.

  “I’ll think it over,” Nordstrom said.

  Marshall McKittrick, the President’s Intelligence Adviser, appeared to be exactly what he was, a well-groomed, silver-haired, meticulously dressed, dollar-a-year executive, who had served three Presidents without portfolio and was known as a member of the White House inner circle and the President’s personal watchdog on intelligence matters. He grimaced as Sanderson Hooper spilled tobacco over his highly polished desk.

  “How did Kuznetov know about Devereaux?” McKittrick asked.

  Hooper swept up the tobacco like bread crumbs and placed them in the large crystal ashtray, a gift of the President.

  “Possibly through one of the British defectors in the last several years. Or he could have been briefed by a Soviet resident back from Paris or Washington.”

  “I’ve worked with André Devereaux for twelve years,” Nordstrom said. “We set up ININ together, Marsh, and he’s the one man in Washington I’d stake my life on.”

  “Devereaux is not the question, Mike. He’s French. He’s obligated to report to his own people in Paris. You know as well as I how leaky the SDECE is and how careful we have to be in turning over information to them. Question, is, do we share this secret with the French?”

  “On the other hand,” Sanderson Hooper intoned, as if debating it out with himself, “Kuznetov made a well-calculated, deliberate request. He wants to see Devereaux for a particular reason. Perhaps the reason is that he’s ready to open up.”

  “What do you think, Mike?” McKittrick asked.

  “I’ve had the feeling he’s ready to talk. We have to take the risk of sharing Kuznetov with the French.”

  “Whatever,” Hooper added, “the Russian holds the cards and he’s playing the hand.”

  “All right,” McKittrick said decisively, “take Devereaux to see him.”

  6

  “KILL HIM! HE IS A thief and a robber!”

  “André! Will you stop making a spectacle of yourself.”

  “But my God, woman. Did you see that play? He was safe by a mile!”

  Nicole Devereaux tugged at her husband’s jacket, and he sat down as the argument raged around the umpire at home plate. “Safe! Safe! He was safe!” yelled Devereaux. And, being French, he made a brandishing gesture at his throat to the umpire and sulked to regain control of his temper. He chomped through the hot-dog bun, then fished around beneath his seat for the paper cup of beer.

  He was what one would define as a charming-looking man in his mid-forties, complete with graying temples. Most women thought him sexy. He had a way with his eyes, with his gestures.

  As play resumed, Nicole returned to her deliberate mask of boredom.

  Mickey Mantle strode to the plate.

  André caught her fixed icy glare from the corner of his eye. Oh, well, he thought, she will only have to suffer two more innings.

  The drive home was in silence. André took the long way, past the Capitol and along the Mall. The cherry blossoms were ready to burst and the city was bathed in the full breath of early spring. He looked at the Lincoln Memorial, never tiring of it. It was his city, this Washington, in many ways, even more than Paris.

  The Georgetown suburb had been the beneficiary of a large restoration program. They had one of the high-ceilinged period houses near Dumbarton Oaks, which, over time of a decade, Nicole had furnished with taste and distinction.

  They entered. The truce was over.

  Nicole slammed the door and whirled on him. “A hell of a Frenchman you are! You baseball watcher! You ... you bourbon drinker!”

  “Madame Devereaux,” he said, oozing cynicism, “I do not consider these pleasures an affront to the honor of France!”

  “But you like everything American, my dear. Particularly their women.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, darling, but I do hear Virginia McHenry is quite a piece.”

  “So that’s it. Nicole, when are you going to stop listening to gossip and eating yourself up on rumors?”

  “I did not mean to insult you about American women. You’ll jump into bed with anyone.”

  “You’re the one who sounds like an American wife! Complaining, jealous, shrewish. No wonder they’ve got a country of rich widows. And you act just like one of them.”

  The dogs, Robespierre and Picasso, entered to greet them, but retreated quickly.

  “I happen to like baseball,” he said, calming, “and the Yankees are in town.”

  “And it also happens that this is your first night off in three weeks.”

  “So you want to drag me to New York to sit in a theater ... a drafty theater ... and watch a rotten play and drag me back to Washington in the middle of the night, and you’ll complain about the damned play all the way home. Don’t you know you complain about everything, woman? This house, my position, your social duties, the maids, the car, your clothing.”

  They made it to their separate but equal bedrooms.

  André Devereaux had explained to his American friends that separate bedrooms was one of the most civilized contributions of the French bourgeoisie.

  Tonight, for example, it served as a safe sanctuary.

  And, after all, Nicole was only next door, and no matter how serious the argument, the door was never locked.

  He flung off his sport shirt and threw it into the chair untidily, knowing this would gall Nicole. She threw the door open.

  “My gratitude for the lovely evening, and particularly the hot dogs ... with the works.”

  A deliberate thump of his shoe was followed by a long silent stare from one to the other.

  “What is the matter with us?” she said, puzzled. “After twenty years some sort of terrible chasm has opened. We can’t even talk to each other anymore. We only seem to want to hurt each other.”

  “When one is very young,” André said, “one is able to give and take a fearful beating. But, even with the strongest, time wears them thin. Scar tissues develop over the continued wounds. You see, we don’t have to hit each other very hard anymore. Just a well-directed jab to the scar and the wound breaks open and the blood pours out.”

  André was able to twist and punish her with his words and suffocate her into silence. Nicole knew that the way of things allowed him to wear his “gallantry” on his sleeve, a walking martyr, and as he grew more weary from the pressures of his work his “martyrdom” became more apparent to her, if to no one else. But what of her? She had to take it all in silence and perhaps suffered even more deeply because of the silence.

  “André, can we talk?”

  “Honestly or dishonestly? We’ll only seek justifications.
Neither of us really wants to know the truth about ourselves. One of the great human capacities is to avoid introspection at any price.”

  “You know you tie me up with your words. It’s not fair.”

  “Please, Nicole, I’m very tired.”

  She returned to her bedroom without closing the door. André sat on the edge of his bed, looking unseeingly at the patterns on the rug. The telephone rang. He lifted the receiver wearily.

  “Devereaux.”

  “Mike Nordstrom.”

  After twelve years in Washington, André still could not get used to the idea of speaking to a colleague by his first name. Funny bunch, the Americans. “Oh, hello, Mike,” he answered, glancing at his watch. It was past midnight.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all evening.”

  “I was at the ball game.”

  “How did it go?”

  “Yankees won. Ford was superb, but it was a good game. Maybe we’ll catch one together next week.”

  “Sure. Listen, I know it’s a hell of an hour to call, but we’ve got to visit tomorrow.”

  André understood the intimation. It was obviously something important. “I’ll clear my desk early.”

  “Good. How about lunch? Market Inn at one.”

  “Fine.”

  “And, André. Try to keep the weekend clear. We may have to go out of town.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  André replaced the receiver as though it had suddenly become very weighted. He bent over to unlace the second shoe and his left arm went without feeling. He tried to stand, reeled to his leather chair. His breath quickened and lightheadedness engulfed him. His eyes rolled back and he brinked on darkness.

  What had Dr. Kaplan said about these attacks? There was an exotic name, narcolepsy. Drowsiness, loss of memory, loss of the use of an arm or leg.

  Sometimes it lasted only a minute ... or it could last a day. Thank God, he was out of his attacks in minutes.

  He staggered to the bathroom and gulped down an ephedrine pill, then fell back in the chair waiting for the attack to pass.

  Take it easy, Dr. Kaplan had warned. How? Avoid tension. How? Take a rest. How? Perhaps the doctor thinks intelligence men should form a union and strike for better conditions? No country could afford to pay their intelligence people on an hourly basis. They’d run out of money.

  In addition to running the SDECE establishment in the Western Hemisphere, he was the French ININ Chief. The situation between Washington and Paris continued to deteriorate, and he had placed himself squarely in the middle....

  Nicole stood in the doorway in her nightgown. “You look as white as a sheet. Are you ill?”

  “No ... no ... I am all right.”

  “The phone call. Was it bad news?”

  “Only Nordstrom.”

  “Would you care for some tea or a brandy?”

  “No .... Nicole, I know I promised to go up to New York with you this weekend to see Michele, but ... I may have to go out of town on business.”

  For a time she only stood. “Good night, André.”

  “Nicole.”

  “It’s all right, dear.”

  “Say it. Another disappointment. Stop making me feel guilty.”

  “You’re making yourself feel guilty. Or is there something you have to be guilty about?”

  “No.”

  “Then you don’t have to explain.”

  7

  HOUND-DOG RUFFIN WAS in a spiritual mood. The great blues warbler sat before a rinky-dink piano and sang about cotton fields in the sky.

  Hound-Dog animated as his pudgy fingers lit in and out of the ivory and his foot thumped out in rhythm.

  Just a closer walk with thee,

  Credit Jesus is my plea ....

  André Devereaux entered the Market Inn, squinting to adjust to the sudden loss of daylight. Hound-Dog tipped his dark glass in a gesture of recognition.

  Michael Nordstrom waved from the bar and slid off the stool. They made for their usual booth in the rear of the room. The Market Inn was a deliberately ramshackle structure set in an unlikely location under a freeway. It was camp in the land of camp. The two intelligence men studied the faces of the diners as they made for the rear. The room was filled with the usual complement of lunching Congressmen.

  André gave passing notice to the nudes that adorned the walls, as Michael ordered steam beer and crab cakes.

  “How’s Liz?”

  “Nagging. She’s commenced with the opening shots of a campaign for a new car we can’t afford. Just a little hint, now and then. Subtle, that girl. Nicole?”

  “We speak less these days but much louder. Nicole wants me to quit the service on the pretext we should grow old gracefully and enjoy each other. Does she ask too much, Mike?”

  “Is that really what she’s asking for?”

  “No, not really. Nicole always looks upon the past as a treasured memory, forgetting how she hated it when she lived it. Like our trips to the Caribbean. She remembers the exotic sunsets and the lovemaking, but she’s conveniently forgotten the poverty, the mosquitoes, the hurricanes. But what the hell, Mike. Maybe she’s right about this. What do I have to show for twenty years in this profession?”

  “Internal hemorrhages,” Michael answered, washing down a couple of pills to coat his ulcer. “It would be hell for us if you left Washington, André. With one of President La Croix’s men in your office, relations could break down entirely. You know what I mean.

  “May I suggest my ass is getting burned from the griddle you set me on.”

  The Senate bell rang three times to indicate a vote would take place in the upper chamber in fifteen minutes. The dozen Senators present signed their checks quickly and, outside, the car-parkers had their motors running and doors open to prevent any delay in the return to the Capitol.

  The crab cakes arrived. Michael grimaced as André smothered his in a French sauce.

  “Nicole is going up to New York to see Michele and do some shopping for the embassy affair next week. I had promised to go up with her before you called. What’s so important?”

  “Does the name Boris Kuznetov mean anything to you?”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “He claims he’s a division chief in KGB.”

  “Claims?”

  “Defector. We’ve had him since last fall. He’s at Camp Patrick. He asked to see you by name.”

  “Well, isn’t that interesting.”

  “I’m going to ask a favor of you, André. I know this is a little out of line, but don’t cable Paris about this man. At least until after you’ve spoken to him.”

  André pondered for a short moment. “Fair enough,” he said.

  8

  HENRIETTA TODD, WIFE OF the Senator from Kansas, sat before her committee with her Ben Franklin-style half-glasses attached to a silver chain that encircled her heavy neck and multitude of chins.

  The Chairwoman of the Annual Garden Party and Concert for Korean Orphans checked studiously down a roster listing possible candidates to sponsor the forthcoming event.

  “Nicole darling,” she said, “do you really think we should retain Mollie Spearman as a sponsor this year?”

  “Of course we should,” Nicole answered coldly. “The affair wouldn’t be complete without Mollie’s name.”

  “It’s just about impossible to have a function in Washington these days without Mollie Spearman. Perhaps we should be original.”

  “Or obvious by the omission,” Nicole countered.

  Henrietta Todd feigned a sigh of disappointment and put an okay after Mollie Spearman’s name. “Very well,” she said.

  The inference was again clear. This was the third subtle mention of Mollie Spearman’s name during the afternoon. The good ladies, led by Henrietta Todd, prodded their velvet barbs to convey the latest gossip that André was having an affair with the famous Washington hostess.

  Liz Nordstrom watched the scene from the opposite end of the table, wincing inwardly as the bitch
es clawed. She waited until the moment the meeting had dissolved into tea and gossip and went to Nicole. On closer look Liz saw that Nicole was shaken despite her outward composure.

  “I hate to pull you out of here, Nicole,” Liz said, “but I have to stand Little League duty. Shall I drop you off?”

  Nicole nodded weakly that she’d like to leave and they both intoned good-byes.

  “Good-bye, darlings,” Henrietta Todd said, smirking over her Ben Franklins.

  Liz backed the car out of the driveway and ground it into low gear angrily. “I hate women, particularly Henrietta Todd. If she hadn’t grown so grotesque and disgusting, her own husband might still sleep with her ... if he’s ever sober enough. She just can’t stand to have younger, beautiful women near her.”

  “Please Liz, don’t say anything.”

  “I won’t, except I don’t believe there is a thing between André and Mollie Spearman.”

  Nicole closed her front door behind her and leaned against it holding her throat until the sound of Liz’s motor faded. She walked upstairs listlessly and slumped on the edge of her chaise longue, then reclined slowly ... and wondered. André and Mollie Spearman? It hardly seemed likely. Why did it strike her so hard?

  Her French liberalism notwithstanding, when she was young and vain and proud, she boasted that idle boast of young, vain, proud wives that she would not tolerate affairs by her husband.

  But pride is a fool’s fortress.

  The first time a woman learns what every wife must learn, that pride is forfeited with astonishing ease.

  And, once the illusion is shattered, the further acceptances are in silence. But after that first terrible time, no matter how many one learns of or suspects, it never comes without deep hurt.

  Once tolerated, there is a choice of looking into yourself and attempting to understand the failing that led to the husband’s straying. Or there is the ability to understand it for what it is and pass it off as meaningless. But few women are able to make these choices.

  Instead, the path to destruction is followed: To build a store of bitterness and to inflict pain on your partner for his pain to you. To avenge ....

  Nicole pulled to a halt before the chancellery just as André emerged with his usual bundle of late work in the attaché case she had come to detest. Tonight there were no receptions or social engagements so she knew he would work straight through after dinner until past midnight.