Topaz - Leon Uris [102]
As they raced down toward the harbor, André drew a series of deep, deep breaths. “Oh, God, this is so great!”
“Don’t dream too much. It’s full of Vichy here, and we don’t get along with the Americans. The only real support we have is from the Jews.”
Jacques Granville cut a magnificent figure in his uniform. They greeted each other affectionately, and all three headed to the Oasis Restaurant, a large open-terraced establishment on the second floor of the Aletti Hotel. For a while all three of them jabbered at once, then Jacques prevailed. “Now, ready for some news?” he said. “Hold your breath, André. You have an interview tomorrow with the General.”
“La Croix?”
“Yes!”
“But ... but ...”
“But nothing. I told him you were the brightest fellow in all of the Loire, that you were the heart of the underground ring. It’s a great opportunity for you. We are very short of people and the sky is the limit.”
“Tell me I’m not dreaming!”
“It calls for champagne,” Robert said.
“There’s another surprise.”
“I can’t stand another one.”
“This one you’ll stand.”
The champagne came as André was recounting his life as a member of the Spahis. They lifted their glasses. He looked over the terrace and came to his feet. “Nicole,” he whispered. “Nicole!”
“André!”
8
ANDRÉ WAS SO FILLED with the weary glow of love-making he was oblivious to the chatter of Jacques and Robert as they ascended the hill to the Villa Capucines, residence and office of General Pierre La Croix. The nearby Fromentin Heights held the girls’ college, now the seat of the Free French Government.
When they entered the modest villa, one could sense the almost consecrated air of people moving about with silent urgency.
Jacques and Robert paced the outer office, alternately coming back to André to whisper suggestions as the nervous parade continued in and out of the General’s sanctum. Then booming through the thin walls came the voice of Pierre La Croix!
“The dirty sons of bitches! Inform those bastards they’ll do what is expected of them or I’ll have their balls.”
And thus, without formal introduction, André was to meet Pierre La Croix.
The voice within continued in the same lusty barracksroom vernacular, so bawdy that even Jacques Granville blushed.
“He expresses himself rather colorfully,” Robert understated.
The recipients of La Croix’s outburst fled the Office. One was pale, the other crimson.
André’s palms felt damp and his mouth dried as they were summoned in.
Pierre La Croix, the maverick of the French military, sat ramrod-straight in an ornate mahogany chair before a paper-littered baroque desk. The Cross of Lorraine on a tricolor hung on the wall behind him. He neither stood nor smiled nor gave greeting as the three advanced to his desk and came to attention.
La Croix squinted at André through nearsighted eyes.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” he said in the manner of a king granting audience. A secretary quickly set André’s dossier before him. He scanned it for a brief moment and looked up.
“What do you have to say, Devereaux?”
“I am devoted to the cause of Fighting France. I have come a long way and I intend to prove myself.”
“France expects nothing less than this devotion,” he said. “I am assigning you to my intelligence staff. Proust here will acquaint you with your work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“France welcomes you. That is all, gentlemen.”
Outside the villa they caught their bearings as Robert pumped André’s hand long and hard.
“Well? What do you think of him?” Jacques asked.
“I’ve never seen a man like that.”
“He is France,” Jacques answered simply.
André shared an office with Robert Proust in a villa on Rue Edouard Cat, plunging into his mission and living up to the demands of the General. He proved himself so at home in intelligence matters that he was advanced rapidly to the special title of “Charge of Mission” and became one of the General’s personal advisers.
Still in his early twenties, André Devereaux was immersed in the struggle of Free France, never ceasing to