Topaz - Leon Uris [78]
Steinberger’s trained eye moved from floor to walls, looking for something in particular.
“Let’s start with his desk,” Jasmin said.
“No. He won’t oblige us by conveniently leaving a camera here.”
“Do you think he could have been carrying in a Minox or Tessina?”
“That’s not the way he does it. Film can be tricky and dangerous. I’ve looked into his personal photography. It’s of very poor quality. His camera store shows no unusual purchases of film for the past several years.” Steinberger pointed questioningly to a door.
“Secretary’s office.”
Steinberger tried the knob. The door was unlocked and revealed a small office, neat in contrast to Jarré’s. Steinberger pointed again, this time to a curtained-off alcove.
“More than likely a supply room of some sort. It’s standard in these barracks buildings.”
“It’s in there,” Steinberger said, smiling.
“What’s in there?”
The Inspector pulled the curtain back and pointed to a duplicating machine. It was a simple wet-process copier, of a type used by millions of offices in the world to make a duplicate from an original.
“Ingenious,” Jasmin muttered, “ingenious. We must have a hundred of these machines on this compound.”
“Now we will have to discover if his secretary is in league with him. If she’s clean, she’ll help. Otherwise, she’ll help in order to save her own neck.”
9
THE PRESIDENT WAS AN extremely vigorous campaigner who received great exhilaration from the thunder of ovation, the stretching hands and the jostle of the crowd, and his ability to inspire his countrymen. He constantly broke standard security in his appearances, to the everlasting worry of his Secret Service guards.
On this day in October the President had made three speeches in three state capitals on behalf of candidates of his party, then returned to the White House by helicopter. But along with the cheers he could sense an undertone, a growing ground swell demanding action on the Cuban arms buildup. One poster which read MORE COURAGE— LESS PROFILE caught his eye and stung him.
Now, past midnight, the thrill and trial of the day faded, he sat in pajamas and dressing gown cross-legged on his bed glancing through the late newspapers strewn around him.
His two closest confidants, Lowenstein and McKittrick, sat bleary-eyed before the coffee table holding the latest batch of U-2 photographs.
The President got off the bed, put his feet into his slippers, and his mood turned grim.
“Do you believe Devereaux’s report is hard enough to make a confrontation with Khrushchev?”
“I do,” McKittrick answered. “And today’s photographs show a tent city springing up in the Finca San José. These slashes in the earth represent further clearing. In the past they’ve been a positive identification for Soviet missile sites.”
“The information is hard enough for me too,” Lowenstein agreed.
“Policy will be framed in the next several days,” the President said. “Tonight, I want your opinion straight from the shoulder.”
McKittrick came to his feet and jammed his hands into his pockets and hesitated.
“Lay it on the line,” the President insisted, “and don’t spare me.”
“All right. I pleaded with the last administration to do something about Budapest. I know there was no way to get into Hungary. The Soviets held the cards. On the other hand, there were places in the world they were vulnerable and we should have retaliated.”
“Go on.”
“I asked you to retaliate when they built the Berlin Wall. As long as we let them bully without fear of retaliation we’re always going to be faced with things like this missile business.”
The President brushed back his rumple of hair. He recalled his meeting with the Soviet Premier in Finland. Khrushchev bullied, berated, and threatened him over the Bay of Pigs fiasco.
“Khrushchev knows,” Lowenstein said, “that we have them outgunned. But he also believes we won’t dirty our hands.”
A classical and historical error about the determination and temper of the American people was about to be compounded once again, this