Topaz - Leon Uris [117]
5
“DEMOCRACY IN FRANCE IS DEAD,” François Picard said heatedly. He paced before André, his black hair tumbling down his forehead, his speech rilled with animation.
Michele was tucked up on the sofa watching with obvious admiration.
“In the past several months, Monsieur Devereaux, a half-dozen of my colleagues have been badly beaten. Two have totally disappeared. We know it’s the work of Ferdinand Fauchet and your dear friend, Robert Proust.”
“Well, what do you intend to do, François?”
“Keep on fighting. Michele has told me about you, how you crawled to Spain in order to fight for France. I love France the same way.”
“I’m not telling you not to fight, but use your mind as well as your heart. There is a time and a place to make your move properly. You’re far too headstrong. You’re literally begging for a reprisal, and you’ll get it, believe me.”
“I’ve tried the soft way. It doesn’t work. A year ago I was appointed to write the political reports on Channel One. But everything I wrote was censored and rewritten. The whole French Press Agency is under orders to slant all news against the Americans. If the Americans put an astronaut in orbit, we are either to pass it by in a line or two or to make jokes about the difficulties. On the other hand, every achievement of the Soviet Union is to be inflated. Monsieur Devereaux, the Press Agency is crawling with Communists. They’ve got themselves in key spots. A few newspapers and magazines oppose La Croix, but Frenchmen do not read, they watch television. And the ambitious men around him are using his power to control the only television network. That’s not all; they are infiltrating the police, which since the war have been totally under the Ministry of the Interior. So what are we to do? Wait for him to die?”
“And I suppose you’re ready to die for your words,” André said.
“Yes.”
“You, Michele. Is that what you want? A dead husband?”
“I don’t question François. He has to do his job as he sees it. I will never be like Mother....”
André stared at her strangely.
“What is it, Papa?”
“All of a sudden, you are trying to be a woman.”
6
THE AUTOMOBILE ROLLED OUT of SDECE headquarters down Avenue Gambetta and skidded slightly as it turned the rain slick street onto the Avenue de la République in a night race for the Élysée Palace. Charles Rochefort, a chief of the Secret Services, drove. Colonel Gabriel Brune at his side turned on the defroster to clear the windshield of their breath.
Once through the gates and in the Palace they doffed their rainwear and were taken to the personal apartment of President Pierre La Croix.
The President worked over his desk, framed in light from the fireplace.
Charles Rochefort was a run-of-the-mill political appointee, a figurehead under the domination of Colonel Brune. He spoke first to intone the necessary formalities. “We appreciate the appointment at this hour, Monsieur le Président, and regret the inconvenience to you, but this information on the Cuban missile situation should be brought to your immediate attention.”
La Croix waved them to be seated opposite him, with the desk in between. Gabriel Brune opened his attaché case and withdrew a report marked “SECRET.”
“Monsieur le Président,” Brune said with a note of urgency in his voice, “we have uncovered a fantastic plot. It is our opinion that the entire missile crisis was a gigantic hoax dreamed up between the United States and the Soviet Union.”
La Croix accepted the news with a deadpan expression as Colonel Brune’s long fingers shuffled through the report to find a particular page. “After a thorough scrutiny, our scientific research committee is of the firm belief that from a technical aspect it was impossible to transport missiles of this nature.” His finger ran down the page, then stopped. “For example, the electronic systems are so delicate they could not possibly have absorbed the shocks and vibrations of a long sea voyage. Further, here ... hmmm ... yes, the humidity and heat of Cuba would render the mechanism inoperable. There is much more, all conclusive