Topaz - Leon Uris [10]
“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