Topaz - Leon Uris [72]
“You might say that.”
“The concept of a next life beyond this one is a delightful hoax, but if there is one, I’m certain we’ll both choose a different line of work.”
“Mind if I smoke?”
“Please.”
“You’ve read the interrogation to date?”
“Yes.”
The lighthearted manner that Kuznetov had developed during the weeks of questioning suddenly faded, and he was again the same fear-filled man as in the days following the defection.
“I wanted to talk to you alone,” he said, with a sudden lurch of desperation. “I’ll come right out and ask you. Will the Americans keep their bargain with me?”
“Do you have any reason to suspect they won’t?”
“No, nothing concrete. But, on the other hand, I haven’t told them much of value yet.”
“I personally have never known Michael Nordstrom to go back on his word.”
“I’m convinced of Nordstrom’s good intentions,” Kuznetov answered, “but he doesn’t have the final word. Suppose there is a policy change, or suppose a superior backs off. Whom do I turn to if Nordstrom suddenly can’t deliver? What if they decide to get rid of me?”
“You know damn well they don’t play that way. Look, Kuznetov ... Boris ... your apprehension is natural, but you made a deal and you’ll just have to go through with it and trust them.”
“All right, suppose I do? Now let me ask you about yourself. With the information you are about to learn, you may be put in a very difficult position with your own government.”
“That won’t be anything new.”
“But you also may need American help. Are you so certain they won’t turn their backs on you after you’ve been used for all they can get out of you?”
André gave it a long thought. Kuznetov was warning him they were in the same boat, and now he showed the same kind of hesitation the Russian showed.
“Whatever,” André whispered, “we’re both committed.”
“If I were of religious conviction,” Kuznetov said, “I’d suggest we pray for each other.”
The interrogation room was as familiar to Boris as a second home. He knew every grain in the big table, the way the curtains hung, the sway of the leaves of the maple tree just outside the window. He knew every nuance and gesture of the men he nodded good morning to. In addition to Kramer, Jaffe, W. Smith, and Billings, Michael Nordstrom and Sanderson Hooper were in attendance. Never before had there been such tension.
He was wheeled to the head of the table. The nurse took her station as the four interrogators scanned their pads and the thick book of his testimony to date. Dr. Billings turned on the tape. There was a moment of confusion until they decided to continue in English because of the newcomers.
“In 1952,” W. Smith began, “you were the Soviet Resident in Berlin and you were recalled to Moscow. For what purpose?”
Kuznetov hedged, looked rather pathetically toward André. He poured his Pepsi-Cola slowly. They waited expectantly. “I would like a large blackboard,” he said.
It was sent for and placed next to Boris so that everyone in the room could view it. Boris pushed himself out of his wheelchair over several objections. He assured them he had the doctor’s permission to stand and walk for short intervals. Chalk in hand, he drew a number of squares which were obviously to show the chain of command in some kind of organization.
“Do you know what this is, Devereaux?”
“Perhaps.”
Across the top of the board he chalked in the letters “SDECE,” the initials of the French Secret Service. Slowly and meticulously, Kuznetov began filling in the squares, starting at the top with the Director’s office. Then he turned to the squares on the left side of the board.
“ R —1 is your intelligence service.” Under this he filled in the following boxes:
R—2 EASTERN EUROPE
R—3 WESTERN EUROPE
R—4 AFRICA
R—5 MIDDLE EAST
R—6 FAR EAST
R—7 AMERICA—WESTERN HEMISPHERE
Under each of these he proceeded to enter the names of the directors, the deputy directors, and their code names. Then he moved to the center of the blackboard and again filled in a new set of squares.
“French Counterintelligence