Topaz - Leon Uris [1]
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 Wivex. 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