Topaz - Leon Uris [49]
The mission was moving along well enough, but a break was needed. Nothing of a conclusive or proof nature yet had been found.
It was a strange game. The cat and the mouse remained friendly to each other in public. As a ranking French diplomat, André was greeted by warm handshakes of the Cubans and even the Russians. He attended long lunches and conferences on diplomatic and trade affairs and carried out the detail of routine government business with his adversaries.
Even though G-2 and the Soviet Resident, Gorgoni, suspected Deveraux was operating an espionage ring under their noses, they were simply unable to pin him down. But as the operation probed deeper, the chances for error and detection became greater and the pressure intensified.
André was able to establish that no phone taps or listening devices had been planted in Juanita’s villa. He reckoned that G-2 was putting on a front to lull them into complacency. More likely, G-2 realized that André would soon discover the taps and use them to feed back confusing information. With the villa free of eavesdropping, it gave André and Juanita a welcome measure of freedom to speak to each other.
On the day of the French Embassy reception for the new Chinese First Secretary, three messages arrived sewn in a chicken from Morelos, the poultry merchant.
They were in a simple code and written on a special type of cigarette paper which Juanita had passed out months before. As he dressed for the reception, André placed tobacco on the papers and rolled them into cigarettes and put them into a half-empty Camel cigarette package.
Juanita studied him as they dressed. He was out of it again. His mind was on the frightful treadmill, thinking, thinking, thinking. She was disturbed by the obvious strain. The haggard expression ... the sudden loss of strength that she alone saw in the bedroom.
She helped him with his cuff links, her graceful fingers threading his shirt together, and he thought and spoke out loud. “We’ve got to move someone in close to the Finca San José. No damned way to get a camera there.”
“Hold still, dear.”
“Rico Parra has been invited to the reception tonight. It’s our first face-to-face meeting since La Torre. He may want to talk. If he makes any overtures, give him rope. Try to be friendly. Sometimes he acts compulsively. Remember every word he says.”
“Yes, dear.”
André swept the excess tobacco off the dressing table into his hand and shook it off into the waste-basket. He put the message-bearing cigarette pack in his shirt pocket. Juanita smoothed his tie down, patted his cheek and told him he looked handsome.
As predicted and noted by the Cuban press, the new Chinese First Secretary was clever and filled with Oriental charm. The steady hum of Spanish, French, and English warmed the large living room of the Embassy. With Havana so drab these days it was an event when the French threw a party. Blanche Adam entertained with style. The Chinese were delighted.
Shortly after his entry with Juanita, André was cornered by Alain Adam and during their conversation Alain asked for a cigarette. André took the pack of Camels from his shirt pocket. Alain noted Camels were difficult to come by these days and André insisted he keep the pack. A few moments later, the Ambassador was called to the telephone. He excused himself, went to his office, locked the door behind him and quickly put the cigarette pack into the safe. The dials were twisted to secure the safe, followed by an enormous heaving sigh of relief.
Alain Adam had great affection for Devereaux but sometimes deplored his visits to Cuba. The intelligence game made him nervous. The Ambassador reentered the living room mopping his brow and nodding to André, who was deep in discussion with the head of the Soviet Cultural mission.
This night, Rico Parra seemed subdued by the elegant atmosphere. He admirably contained his desire to speak