by Leon Uris
He walked, hands clasped behind him, head bowed, consumed in thought and oblivious to the game of kickball being played around him by surging, screaming youngsters.
The odors of the variety of foods being cooked seeped into the stairwell and hallway as he climbed the winding stairs to his flat.
Sophie greeted him at the door, took his hat, coat, scarf, umbrella. He bumbled off absent-mindedly to the kitchen, took the lid off the pot of steaming pungent cabbage borscht, their usual Thursday night meal, and passed his blessings on it as he always did.
His wife was of Polish origin. They had met as inmates of the Dachau concentration camp. Some fifty of her immediate family had perished in the extermination ovens, leaving her as sole survivor. After the liberation they were separated in that confusion of human movement. By some miracle they found each other again when Marcel read one of the hundreds of thousands of messages desperately and pathetically pinned on the walls of the refugee centers:
MARCEL STEINBERGER—I AM ALIVE, IN VIENNA AND AWAITING TRANSPORT TO PALESTINE—CONTACT ME THROUGH HIAS (HEBREW IMMIGRANT AID SOCIETY), VIENNA—SOPHIE PERLMUTTER.
Like most concentration-camp couples they felt that their son Émile had to live in the name of a hundred murdered relatives. He was considered by them a very special gift of God to enable the continuation of a family name that was once believed destroyed, and like most concentration-camp couples they tended to be overindulgent. But young Émile grasped the meaning of his own existence and took little advantage of it. Tonight the father and son worked together on math problems the boy had been saving, until they were called to the table.
Émile and Sophie were talkative, but Marcel had detached himself and toyed listlessly with his food. He was immersed in the puzzle of his mission.
Marcel had spent six years directly after the war hounding down wanted war criminals. He was relentless and dedicated, and he now assailed his present assignment with the same sense of vengeance.
So far, Colonel Galande and Guillon showed no reason to be suspect. Further reports from ININ had come to the Sûreté to the effect that nothing could be found out of order on the three non-French.
Everything pointed again to Henri Jarré, the embittered, vitriolic American-baiter, as the man passing the NATO documents.
“Marcel, eat your borscht, it’s getting cold.”
He complied noisily.
But how? Inspector Steinberger was reputed to the best second-story man in the Sûreté. He had waited for a weekend when Jarré and his wife would be out of Paris and personally entered and tooth-combed the Jarré flat.
No library book, pipe fitting, closet, coat lining, light fixture, cabinet, bed, desk, or radiator went unsearched. He placed ingenious bugs in every room and attached phone taps.
But nothing turned up. Henri Jarré was tailed day and night and led them nowhere.
Yet Marcel was convinced that Jarré must be the traitor.
Marcel was dunking his bread in the bowl and stopped abruptly. That strange look came to his eyes. “Of course,” he whispered to himself. “I’ve been a fool!”
He shoved the chair back from the table and without adieu kissed his wife and son and mumbled that he would return later. It was a situation they had come to live with.
Steinberger made a hasty call to a person with whom he had worked on many occasions, Colonel Jasmin, the Head of Security of NATO headquarters in RambouiUet, and in a few minutes was speeding out of Paris to that town, fifteen miles south of the capital.
Jasmin was in lounging attire on the patio of his cottage on the edge of the NATO complex and greeted Steinberger gruffly, speaking from behind a fat cigar. “Well, who is Sûreté after?”
“Jarré,” he answered tersely.
“What for? Giving bad speeches?”
“We suspect him of passing NATO documents to the Soviets.”
Jasmin grunted a laugh. “Well, anything you suspect of Jarré is reasonable. I’ve never understood how such a violent anti-American could remain as one of the Chief Economists for NATO.”
“Another of President La Croix’s forceful appointments.”
“Yes, La Croix is good at that. Well, what’s this all about, Steinberger?”
“Jarré comes into contact with innumerable documents in many classifications of secrecy.”
“Yes.”
“He is a known, highly placed official, so his movements in and out of the grounds are accepted without suspicion or inspection.”
Jasmin nodded.
“In theory, then,” Steinberger said, “Jarré could drive his car through the gates with an attaché case filled with secret papers.”
“Only in theory,” Jasmin corrected. “Any classified document has to be signed for by him and returned to the security vaults before the end of the day. Or he must return documents to the vault if he leaves the grounds that day.”
“But, my good Colonel. Suppose Henri Jarré reproduced copies of these documents in his own office, returned the originals to the security vaults, and carried the copies out.”
Colonel Jasmin’s face turned to stone. He lifted the phone and ordered the keys to Jarré’s office building to be sent to him immediately.
In a few moments the two men arrived at the temporary barrackslike structure that housed Jarré’s offices. They unlocked and entered, and closed the door behind them, switching on the hall lights. Jarré’s office was a large one at the far end of the corridor.
Jasmin found the key. The desk was cluttered and the room filled with books and haphazard furnishings in aging leather.
Steinberger’s trained eye moved from floor to walls, looking for something in particular.
“Let’s start with his desk,” Jasmin said.
“No. He won’t oblige us by conveniently leaving a camera here.”
“Do you think he could have been carrying in a Minox or Tessina?”
“That’s not the way he does it. Film can be tricky and dangerous. I’ve looked into his personal photography. It’s of very poor quality. His camera store shows no unusual purchases of film for the past several years.” Steinberger pointed questioningly to a door.
“Secretary’s office.”
Steinberger tried the knob. The door was unlocked and revealed a small office, neat in contrast to Jarré’s. Steinberger pointed again, this time to a curtained-off alcove.
“More than likely a supply room of some sort. It’s standard in these barracks buildings.”
“It’s in there,” Steinberger said, smiling.
“What’s in there?”
The Inspector pulled the curtain back and pointed to a duplicating machine. It was a simple wet-process copier, of a type used by millions of offices in the world to make a duplicate from an original.
“Ingenious,” Jasmin muttered, “ingenious. We must have a hundred of these machines on this compound.”
“Now we will have to discover if his secretary is in league with him. If she’s clean, she’ll help. Otherwise, she’ll help in order to save her own neck.”
9
THE PRESIDENT WAS AN extremely vigorous campaigner who received great exhilaration from the thunder of ovation, the stretching hands and the jostle of the crowd, and his ability to inspire his countrymen. He constantly broke standard security in his appearances, to the everlasting worry of his Secret Service guards.
On this day in October the President had made three speeches in three state capitals on behalf of candidates of his party, then returned to the White House by helicopter. But along with the cheers he could sense an undertone, a growing ground swell demanding action on the Cuban arms buildup. One poster which read MORE COURAGE— LESS PROFILE caught his eye and stung him.
Now, past midnight, the thrill and trial of the day faded, he sat in pajamas and dressing gown cross-legged on his bed glancing through the late newspapers strewn around him.
His two closest confidants, Lowenstein and McKittrick, sat bleary-eyed before the coffee table holding the
latest batch of U-2 photographs.
The President got off the bed, put his feet into his slippers, and his mood turned grim.
“Do you believe Devereaux’s report is hard enough to make a confrontation with Khrushchev?”
“I do,” McKittrick answered. “And today’s photographs show a tent city springing up in the Finca San José. These slashes in the earth represent further clearing. In the past they’ve been a positive identification for Soviet missile sites.”
“The information is hard enough for me too,” Lowenstein agreed.
“Policy will be framed in the next several days,” the President said. “Tonight, I want your opinion straight from the shoulder.”
McKittrick came to his feet and jammed his hands into his pockets and hesitated.
“Lay it on the line,” the President insisted, “and don’t spare me.”
“All right. I pleaded with the last administration to do something about Budapest. I know there was no way to get into Hungary. The Soviets held the cards. On the other hand, there were places in the world they were vulnerable and we should have retaliated.”
“Go on.”
“I asked you to retaliate when they built the Berlin Wall. As long as we let them bully without fear of retaliation we’re always going to be faced with things like this missile business.”
The President brushed back his rumple of hair. He recalled his meeting with the Soviet Premier in Finland. Khrushchev bullied, berated, and threatened him over the Bay of Pigs fiasco.
“Khrushchev knows,” Lowenstein said, “that we have them outgunned. But he also believes we won’t dirty our hands.”
A classical and historical error about the determination and temper of the American people was about to be compounded once again, this time by the Soviet Union.
Now that the hour of decision was coming, the young President was calm and determined. “Lowenstein,” he said in a tone that spelled decision, “keep all my appointments running. I want everything to appear as normal as possible. Mac, you keep me on a minute-to-minute briefing about any new intelligence. I go with you. The Devereaux report makes it hard. Now, we’ll see what kind of poker player Khrushchev is.”
Marshall McKittrick’s face broadened in a smile.
“This week,” the President said, “I’m going to earn my salary.”
10
MICHAEL NORDSTROM RANG THE bell of the Devereaux home in Georgetown. He was baggy-eyed and yawned.
André opened the door, punctual and ready to go, a habit reluctantly learned from the Americans. They shook hands, exchanged good mornings. André grabbed his briefcase and they continued down the steps to Mike’s car.
Mike pulled out into the traffic stream, yawned and apologized for it. “Had a beef with Liz,” he said. “She’s after me for a new car. Anyhow, I got P.O.-ed and slept on the couch. My back’s broken. I guess none of us got much sleep last night.”
“To say the least,” André agreed.
They were both silent a long while, still in a state of shock over Boris Kuznetov’s revelations.
“André,” Mike said at last, “I had a long session with my people yesterday. We all believe you were not aware of this Section P, or of the existence of Topaz. That goes for McKittrick, too.”
André grunted an indefinite answer.
“What I’m saying is that no matter what else is revealed by Kuznetov, we want you to stick to your office. Stay with it, no matter.”
“Are those my orders?” André said acidly.
“I said, we trust you.”
“I’m a Frenchman, that’s my first duty. Don’t forget that, Mike.”
The usual air of friendly exchanges was gone from the interrogation room. The atmosphere was cold, formal and stripped for business. When Boris was wheeled in, he glanced quickly at André and nodded, feeling the guilt a fighter sometimes experiences when he has beaten up an opponent badly. On this note of mutual discomfort the session began with the turning on of the tape.
“When I was recalled from my post in Berlin as Resident,” Boris began slowly, “and was told to form the anti-NATO division of KGB, the first thing I did was to order an intensive study of the NATO countries, their political habits, their leaders, their military, their intelligence. My section is small, but elite.”
“How many?”
“In Moscow, seventy to a hundred men.”
“In the NATO countries?”
Boris shook his head. “We used only the Soviet Residents in each NATO capital and their existing espionage systems.”
“You are saying, then, you don’t know who any of the anti-NATO agents outside Moscow were.”
“That is correct.”
“You know no one in Topaz?”
“No one.”
“You have no idea who this No. 1 Columbine, is?”
“No. It is standard intelligence for a division leader not to know his agents, is it not? In KGB we are even closer about it than the Western systems.”
“Go on.”
“By the early nine teen-fifties, the Soviet Union had lost two of its prime postwar objectives. First, we failed to prevent the reunification of western Germany. Second, we failed to remove the West from Berlin.”
He paused for his Pepsi and realized he would appreciate the day when he would be permitted a vodka.
“NATO is probably the most effective and ultimate military alliance ever devised. The breaking of the NATO shield has top priority in Soviet thinking, for as long as NATO stays intact the Soviet Union cannot encroach further on western Europe. In my study, I must find the weak link in NATO. It is France.”
Boris chanced a look into Devereaux’s burning eyes. “I regret it for your sake, Devereaux, but NATO will be broken by France, and here is where we have concentrated our efforts through Topaz.”
André continued to avoid looking at the Americans. He became sullen for he knew what was coming from the Russian, and he knew the man would be telling the truth.
“My study shows me that France is traditionally unstable politically, and that Frenchmen are loyal only to themselves. Their arrogance is bottomless.
“The French dream of superiority and a return to grandeur is to them like an hallucinatory drug.
“Enter Pierre La Croix. La Croix is a man eternally embittered by the humiliation of France’s defeat in the war. France’s mortification at the hands of the United States has made him vulnerable to those who would use his bitterness. La Croix’s weakness is a tool playing into Russian hands. Of course he is not a Communist, but he does Moscow’s job.”
The humiliation of France was a fact André Devereaux knew only too well, for he had been part of the early days of the Free French. In those days he had looked upon La Croix as a savior indeed. Yes, Boris Kuznetov had conducted his study well.
“France is defeated in Vietnam, Morocco, Tunisia, and, most devastating of all, Algeria. La Croix has inherited a paper tiger and a people weary of bloodshed and a hundred years of defeats on the battlefield.
“But La Croix knows his Frenchmen. Use the word ‘honor’ to a Frenchman and you have struck the core of his being. How beautiful the word.”
Kuznetov lifted himself from his wheelchair, stretched and paced along the table slowly.
“But his strength is questionable. Billions are poured into the French atomic force. As you know, gentlemen, no one takes the force de frappe seriously. La Croix must win his points by diplomatic blackmail. It is a game in which he is matchless. The core of French policy is to resist American domination. What more could Moscow ask for?”
The Russian returned to his chair and took up a volume from the table. The dust jacket read: The War Memoirs of Pierre La Croix. He opened the book to the first of many marked sections.
“I read you his words.” Boris adjusted his glasses, fingered down the page, looked quickly to the ININ people and back to the page. “ ‘In Russian eyes there could be no third power playing Vichy France against Fighting France. America
believed herself in the position to direct the French nation after centuries of French experience. Russia understood the position of Fighting France perfectly and honored it by recognizing the Free French Committee.’ ”
Further in the volume, Kuznetov explained, were La Croix’s hurt, angry complaints against the Anglo-Americans for failure to recognize his Fighting French, for failure to consult them in planning strategy, for failure to arm them, and for having concluded international agreements concerning France without the consent and presence of the Free French.
“ ‘There certainly exists a kindred spirit between the French and Russians,’ ” Kuznetov read again, “ ‘the Russians being, in many ways, more in tune with a European hegemony and a union of Europeans than the Anglo-Americans.’ ”
Kuznetov closed the book. “Pierre La Croix has a long association with Russia, and in many ways feels the French, as fellow Europeans, are closer to the Russians than the Anglo-Americans.”
Boris set his glasses down, played with his knobby fingers. “Once you accept the fact that France is under the thumb of La Croix and once you understand his basic hatred of the Anglo-Americans, it is not too difficult to see what is going to happen. He has experimented with the force de frappe, the nonsense of creating a third force in the world, made by an alliance among Europeans, which France intends to dominate. He has bullied his partners around in the Common Market, which France has succeeded in dominating.
“He will attempt to make France the broker of a Pan-European union to include both the Eastern and Western blocs. But no one plays poker with the Soviet Union. We intend to use these weaknesses to our benefit. As Germany used Pétain, we intend to use La Croix. I predict that within five years he will personally take France out of NATO, for what grates his innards is the American, who he believes robs France of her true destiny ... or a sad old man’s illusion of it.
“Topaz is rotting the understructure of France. It is child’s play for the Soviet Resident in Paris to obtain intelligence. In France he inherits three million French Communists whose loyalty is to Moscow. La Croix has dealt with the French Communists in order to remain in power in the mistaken belief he can avoid the ultimate settlement with them.
