Topaz - Leon Uris [131]
“My honor guard,” André said. “They walk a hundred paces behind me at all times. Do you have a drink?”
Nordstrom tugged at the ice cube tray in the kitchenette while André raided the liquor cabinet. He spun the tinkling cubes, staring into the glass. “La Croix is going to reject the Topaz letter.”
“It’s not possible!”
“Anything is possible at the Élysée Palace these days.” André took a healthy belt. “It’s the same kind of position they set up on the Cuban missile business.”
“I can’t comprehend that a man of La Croix’s mind would believe this.”
“Pierre La Croix believes what is convenient for him to believe. He’ll take whatever position is necessary to protect his personal power.”
“And there’s going to be no investigation of your service?”
“No. The whole thing is whitewashed. La Croix is not going to risk an open scandal that would discredit his Secret Service. Nor would he allow it to be proved that someone near him is a Soviet agent. It would make him look like a fool and weaken his grip on the throat of the country.”
In sudden anger, Michael Nordstrom’s large fist cracked the cabinet top. “What the hell’s the matter with France! The worst of it is you people allow these slime pots into office!”
André glared at Nordstrom with contempt. “You’re shouting,” he said.
“I’m sick of this whole goddamned French treachery!”
“Are you?”
“Yes, I am, André. Sick of the insults our citizens receive in your streets. Sick of the attempts to break us financially. Sick of French ingratitude. Sick of the fifteen billion dollars we poured down a sewer pulling this place together. And I’ll tell you what else makes me sick. I’m sick that eighty-five thousand American boys sleep in graves in France ... fighting for what ... so you can crap on us?”
“There are half a million Frenchmen buried in Verdun,” André said, “and in that battle we probably lost more than America has in all her wars combined. When you speak of debts, you owe us more than you can ever repay, for France has taken the blows and been destroyed, and because we have perished you have flourished. Well, in the next war, all the casualties and all the ruin may be on your sacred soil.”
“Well, we hope to God we don’t have to come to France for help.”
“The way you helped us? France, your oldest ally, lay bleeding and what did you do? You recognized the traitors of Vichy. We pleaded for arms and you turned your backs. You plotted to reduce us to obscurity. And you plotted to occupy us as though we were a defeated enemy. And after the war you sat and applauded in silence while Frenchmen died in Vietnam and Algeria. And now you try to dictate to France her life and death .... Yes, Pierre La Croix may be guilty of making peace with the Communists, but here is a fact you can carry to your grave: If America had backed Free France, we would have never dealt with the Communists. You are a sanctimonious hypocrite.”
André heaved a stifled gasp as his glass fell to the floor. He clutched his deadened left arm as he sunk to his knees and fished desperately for the pills.
Mike quickly stretched him on the floor, got a pill into him, loosened his tie and then phoned for the doctor. Tears streamed down Nordstrom’s cheeks as he looked down at his friend.
In a few moments the attack had waned and André’s eyes fluttered open. “I’m sorry, Mike. I’m so sorry we’ve all come to this.”
18
MIKE NORDSTROM STARED LISTLESSLY at the stack of paper work on his desk. He was not in the mood to tackle it. He walked to the window and leaned against the frame looking out to the always splendid view down the Avenue Foch. From his Paris office he could get a glimpse of the Place de l’Étoile and the Arc de Triomphe. He turned as his secretary entered.
“Mr. McKittrick is on his way up.”
“Send him right in.”
Michael returned to his desk and sorted out a number of documents that McKittrick was to take back to the States with him.
The President’s assistant entered, and they went through the papers together before locking them into his attaché case.