Topaz - Leon Uris [130]
“We believe,” Brune said, “the Americans got wind of Section P through other sources. In order to prove Kuznetov’s authenticity they instructed him to reveal it to you.”
“You see,” Granville said, “you have the confidence of the Americans. If we were to send a new man in your place, he would come under complete suspicion and any and all chance for intelligence cooperation would disappear. But ... if you return to America and they know you know of Section P, then you will be able to convince them in time that we’ve abandoned the idea.”
André came out of his chair slowly and thoughtfully. “Just what is it you want to know?”
“Through French exchange scientists working in America we should be able to get a complete wrap-up on American military installations, location of Minutemen, and other ICBM rocket sites, location of missile fabrication plants, location of atomic stockpiles, organization of coastal defenses.”
“And you have no fear of this information getting back to Moscow?”
“Of course not,” Rochefort said indignantly. “The plan to discredit us has failed. The SDECE has a clean bill of health.”
“But it’s immoral to commit this kind of espionage on an ally,” André said.
“We’re not monks in a monastery,” Brune said, “and intelligence work is not a morality play.”
“In the end, André,” his friend Jacques said, speaking in most familiar terms, “you are a Frenchman, and you must act in the national interest even though you personally disagree.”
André looked from one to the other. His old friend Robert with downcast eyes, and Jacques, a debonair politician. Rochefort, born with the silver spoon, but was he quite so innocent of it all? Colonel Gabriel Brune, who had rotted the service. And the trigger man, Ferdinand Fauchet. How far did Fauchet’s personal little empire reach?
And suddenly it all became quite clear. The riddle of Topaz was solved. Columbine, the master spy, sat before him. He knew the answer and in that instant he had made his decision.
16
THE MAGNIFICENT MULTIBALCONIED library of the Peabody Institute in Baltimore made a perfect setting for small concerts.
This night, the seats were filled with students, parents, and teachers for an introduction recital of a number of the new scholarship winners.
Midway through the affair, Dr. Schoeberlein, Dean of Students, came on to the stage. “I wish to announce a change in the program,” he said. “Unfortunately, Mr. Richard Holtz, who was to play next, has come down with the virus. Substituting in his absence I should like to introduce a brand new student of extreme promise, Miss Anita Dahlander.”
A slim, poised and extremely lovely young lady once known as Tamara Kuznetov came to center stage, rested her hand on the piano, and spoke in a sure voice with only the faintest trace of accent.
“For my first number,” she said, “I should like to play a short composition of my own which I call, ‘An American Dream.’ ”
As the library become hushed save for the melody of Tamara’s piano, Boris Kuznetov took his wife’s hand .... “We did the right thing,” he said. “I’m so glad they let me come from the hospital tonight ... we did the right thing.”
When the concert was over, Anita Dahlander and her parents accepted congratulations at a tea.
“You can be mighty proud of that girl,” Dr. Schoeberlein said.
“Yes, we are,” Boris answered.
“Where do you folk call home?”
“California. I’m recuperating from an illness but we will be heading west soon.”
“Great country. I’ll bet you’re anxious to get back.”
“Yes. It is always wonderful to go home.”
“Oh, by the way,” Dr. Schoeberlein said, “did you hear the late news?”
“No, what?”
“The United States has stopped and boarded a Russian ship.”
17
ANDRÉ WALKED ENDLESSLY AND aimlessly about Paris by night, a stooped and semitragic figure.
At three in the morning he found himself standing before the door of Michael Nordstrom’s apartment on Rue de la Fontaine. Mike locked the door behind them and stretched to wakefulness. André looked out of the window to the street where a pair of men shifted about in