Topaz - Leon Uris [66]
When the briefing was done, the three of them scanned the files. Léon Roux tore two pieces of paper from a scratch pad and passed them over his desk to Jaffe and Steinberger.
“Write the name of the man we want and I’ll do the same.”
Jaffe made a crib of his hand over his paper and scratched two words, as did Inspector Steinberger. Roux cradled a pen between his forefinger and third finger and scrawled with a flourish. The papers were passed back to him, face down. He tore off his own sheet, then turned the other two over.
All three of them carried the same words: HENRI JARRÉ.
2
ANDRÉ BACKED THROUGH THE DOOR and set his suitcases down. There was an instant feeling of emptiness without the usual greeting of Picasso and Robespierre. The living room was dark except for a small lamp between the pair of Louis XV chairs.
Brigitte Camus sat sullen in her trench coat and tam.
“Hello, Monsieur Devereaux,” she said.
He knew but feared to ask.
“Madame Devereaux is gone,” Brigitte said.
“When?”
“Right after you left for Cuba. There’s a note on the desk from her, and several letters from Michele at the office.”
He went to the desk, clicked on the lamp, and opened the envelope.
My Dearest André,
What was once love between us has turned to something else. We are saturated. It seems the days go by with a never-ending digging of barbs. There is always an air of hostility very close to the surface, waiting for the word to erupt.
I detest the slavery of your position. I’ve wanted to understand and hold up my end of things, but I cannot watch you die before my eyes.
Oh, how I long for time we cannot buy back. How I wish we were not so far down the path and committed to our unalterable ways. If we had known then what we know now, we might have been able to bring out the best in each other instead of the worst. I cannot condone what you have done with other women. I’ve lived with it, but I’ve never liked it. There is my part in this, too, I suppose, in not bringing you fulfillment.
I know I must have time to think and space away from you to think, for when I see you or hear you, I tremble with weakness.
Michele and I have been living in the apartment in Paris, and I have been visiting your father on weekends in Montrichard. He has been quite decent, considering his general opinion of all women and, thus far, has spared me being told that I am but further proof.
Michele is totally finished with Tucker. She has enrolled in the Sorbonne here in Paris and has met a young man, a François Picard, who is a journalist and also works for national television. He is quite intense and dedicated, and in many ways reminds me of you when we met. He and Michele see each other constantly.
André, my darling, if I have hurt you by this separation, I believe I would have hurt you more by remaining in Washington in our failing state.
Love,
NICOLE
The letter lingered in his hand.
“Are you hungry, Monsieur?” Brigitte asked.
“No.”
“A drink?”
“No, no thank you, Madame Camus.”
She took the letter from his hand and read it. “She is not fair.”
“I am afraid Nicole is quite correct,” André answered.
“No, she’s not right. Her life should be you. Your life is the whole world. She has to be here, to stand alongside you no matter what discomfort it causes her. But Nicole is in love with her own misery. She rejects her duty as a wife by failing to smile to you when you are weary, to give you her strength and share your fears, to give silent compassion when you are done in with tension. What she deserves is a Tucker Brown.”
“That’s enough....”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve seen you come out of the battlefield in your office into the battlefield in your home for too many years.”
“Yes, how inconsiderate of Nicole to leave me at the very time I am trying desperately to get my mistress out of Cuba. Pity of Nicole not to be broad-minded enough to understand.”
“If the situation were reversed, would Juanita de Córdoba understand?”
“Yes ... how well she would understand.