Topaz - Leon Uris [14]
“Because anything that Paris knows, Moscow will know in twenty-four hours. For the good of your own country, don’t send a report.”
“That’s quite an accusation, Kuznetov.”
“Your service is very leaky. Just ... keep quiet.”
“I’ll think it over for a few days.”
“Will you visit again?”
“As you wish,” André said.
They shook hands tentatively. Boris opened the screen door.
“Kuznetov.”
“Yes?”
“Now let me give you a little advice. You say the Americans are not civilized, but you also knew when you defected they don’t play your game of assassination and torture, nor do they use your family as hostages. But don’t mistake this as a weakness, because it’s strength. You’d better make up your mind to tell them what you know.”
“I am not a traitor!” Kuznetov cried. “I fled only for the lives of my family! I love Russia! I love my country!”
“Yes, that’s the sad part of our business. I’ll have the champagne sent over.”
10
FROM THE BEGINNING, NORDSTROM had ordered the Kuznetov family photographed secretly, as well as complete tapings made of their conversations. The three of them had been recorded profusely by hidden cameras and listening devices.
Dr. Bennett Block, a renowned plastic surgeon from Johns Hopkins, was brought to Camp Patrick under the guise of being a guard in order to study the features of the family firsthand.
On a night several days after Devereaux’s fourth unsuccessful visit to Camp Patrick, Nordstrom entered the Kuznetov cottage with six mysterious boxes, which he placed on a bench. He also carried a half-dozen photo albums.
Olga and Tamara, as always, retreated to another part of the cottage.
Boris understood at once something vital was about to take place.
Nordstrom handed him three of the albums. Each contained several dozen pictures of Boris, Tamara, and Olga from every conceivable angle. The Russian thumbed through them without comment.
Michael opened three of the boxes and took out full-scale head models, which were astonishing likenesses of the Kuznetov family. Coloring, eyes, hair, profiles, shape of noses, ears, were in perfect shade and proportion. “I think you’ll agree,” Michael said, “these are reasonable facsimiles of what you look like now.”
Boris nodded. Michael handed him another album, filled with artists’ conceptions of how their appearances might be changed. Then Nordstrom opened the second set of three boxes, containing head models of what the Kuznetov family would look like afterward.
“You’ve been under the observation of one of the best plastic surgeons in America.”
“I suspect it was the short fellow with the thinning hair, gray eyes, smoked Lucky Strikes and wore a Genève wristwatch.”
“That’s him. His name is Bennett Block and he’s out of Johns Hopkins.”
“One could see he has the hands of a surgeon, and he didn’t speak the language of an intelligence man.”
Michael smiled at Kuznetov’s astute observation, took his pen, and used it as a pointer on the head model. “In plain language, they can do something with surgery on your nose and chin. Dental work here and hair dye, mustache and glasses. Scar will be added to your forehead. Change of height through special built-up shoes. Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”
The “before” and “after” models presented dramatic evidence.
“It will be easier with Tamara and Olga. Just westernizing them will make a major difference, with a minimum of surgery. Olga can lose between twenty-five and forty pounds. Women’s wigs and hairpieces have been so perfected that not even an expert can detect one properly worn. New wardrobe, use of make-up and Western grooming habits would bring about a total change.”
Kuznetov studied everything before him, then walked to the mirror and stared into it. He poured himself a rare drink. “Ingenious.”
Michael continued in that brisk manner that marked him as an American. “For your wife, a crash course in English. For you and Tamara, a private tutor for as many hours a day as you can absorb. All of you will get elocution lessons to change the pitch and rhythm of your voices. You’ll be schooled on being