Topaz - Leon Uris [77]
Émile and Sophie were talkative, but Marcel had detached himself and toyed listlessly with his food. He was immersed in the puzzle of his mission.
Marcel had spent six years directly after the war hounding down wanted war criminals. He was relentless and dedicated, and he now assailed his present assignment with the same sense of vengeance.
So far, Colonel Galande and Guillon showed no reason to be suspect. Further reports from ININ had come to the Sûreté to the effect that nothing could be found out of order on the three non-French.
Everything pointed again to Henri Jarré, the embittered, vitriolic American-baiter, as the man passing the NATO documents.
“Marcel, eat your borscht, it’s getting cold.”
He complied noisily.
But how? Inspector Steinberger was reputed to the best second-story man in the Sûreté. He had waited for a weekend when Jarré and his wife would be out of Paris and personally entered and tooth-combed the Jarré flat.
No library book, pipe fitting, closet, coat lining, light fixture, cabinet, bed, desk, or radiator went unsearched. He placed ingenious bugs in every room and attached phone taps.
But nothing turned up. Henri Jarré was tailed day and night and led them nowhere.
Yet Marcel was convinced that Jarré must be the traitor.
Marcel was dunking his bread in the bowl and stopped abruptly. That strange look came to his eyes. “Of course,” he whispered to himself. “I’ve been a fool!”
He shoved the chair back from the table and without adieu kissed his wife and son and mumbled that he would return later. It was a situation they had come to live with.
Steinberger made a hasty call to a person with whom he had worked on many occasions, Colonel Jasmin, the Head of Security of NATO headquarters in RambouiUet, and in a few minutes was speeding out of Paris to that town, fifteen miles south of the capital.
Jasmin was in lounging attire on the patio of his cottage on the edge of the NATO complex and greeted Steinberger gruffly, speaking from behind a fat cigar. “Well, who is Sûreté after?”
“Jarré,” he answered tersely.
“What for? Giving bad speeches?”
“We suspect him of passing NATO documents to the Soviets.”
Jasmin grunted a laugh. “Well, anything you suspect of Jarré is reasonable. I’ve never understood how such a violent anti-American could remain as one of the Chief Economists for NATO.”
“Another of President La Croix’s forceful appointments.”
“Yes, La Croix is good at that. Well, what’s this all about, Steinberger?”
“Jarré comes into contact with innumerable documents in many classifications of secrecy.”
“Yes.”
“He is a known, highly placed official, so his movements in and out of the grounds are accepted without suspicion or inspection.”
Jasmin nodded.
“In theory, then,” Steinberger said, “Jarré could drive his car through the gates with an attaché case filled with secret papers.”
“Only in theory,” Jasmin corrected. “Any classified document has to be signed for by him and returned to the security vaults before the end of the day. Or he must return documents to the vault if he leaves the grounds that day.”
“But, my good Colonel. Suppose Henri Jarré reproduced copies of these documents in his own office, returned the originals to the security vaults, and carried the copies out.”
Colonel Jasmin’s face turned to stone. He lifted the phone and ordered the keys to Jarré’s office building to be sent to him immediately.
In a few moments the two men arrived at the temporary barrackslike structure that housed Jarré’s offices. They unlocked and entered, and closed the door behind them, switching on the hall lights. Jarré’s office was a large one at the far end of the corridor.
Jasmin found the key. The desk was cluttered