Topaz - Leon Uris [8]
Yet Nordstrom sensed a softening. The interrogators, who had accomplished little, were called off at the turn of the year, much to Boris’s delight.
Michael Nordstrom’s patience paid off.
On a particular night in early spring he stayed over for the running of the weekly film for the family in their living room. A new breed of spy literature was being born. This film had the usual suave British hero lipping sly double entendres, being pursued by a bevy of half-naked girls, and using technical gadgetry to challenge the imagination. The dark Russians were depicted as men with dirty fingernails, ill-fitting clothes, sinister, brutal, mysterious, dedicated to false gods. Except for one Russian, a female agent of KGB, portrayed by a large-busted Italian actress whose Russian accent was unbelievable.
There was a bedroom showdown. As the scene flickered on the screen, Boris Kuznetov put his head back and roared with laughter and he laughed till he nearly gagged.
Michael had never heard him laugh before.
After the film, Kuznetov treated himself to a rare drink of liquor. On his walks, he often commented, as an aside, that the Western agents drank too much. He, himself, was virtually a total abstainer. But on this night he felt good.
“The days are long,” he said, placing a log on the fire and weighing his words with meticulous care. “I would like some company. Someone from my own part of the world. A fellow European.”
Nordstrom raised his eyebrows. “Do you have anyone particular in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Who?”
Boris stirred his drink, took a short sip, looked into the budding fire. “Devereaux. André Devereaux.”
“Who?”
“SDECE, the French Secret Service. Your ININ Counterpart in Washington. You know him quite well.”
Boris looked at Michael’s poker face.
“Why Devereaux?”
“Frenchmen are jolly.”
“What else?”
“I need some jolly company.”
Nordstrom did not reply. The request was coldly calculated and Kuznetov wanted to speak no more about it.
“I’ll think it over,” Nordstrom said.
Marshall McKittrick, the President’s Intelligence Adviser, appeared to be exactly what he was, a well-groomed, silver-haired, meticulously dressed, dollar-a-year executive, who had served three Presidents without portfolio and was known as a member of the White House inner circle and the President’s personal watchdog on intelligence matters. He grimaced as Sanderson Hooper spilled tobacco over his highly polished desk.
“How did Kuznetov know about Devereaux?” McKittrick asked.
Hooper swept up the tobacco like bread crumbs and placed them in the large crystal ashtray, a gift of the President.
“Possibly through one of the British defectors in the last several years. Or he could have been briefed by a Soviet resident back from Paris or Washington.”
“I’ve worked with André Devereaux for twelve years,” Nordstrom said. “We set up ININ together, Marsh, and he’s the one man in Washington I’d stake my life on.”
“Devereaux is not the question, Mike. He’s French. He’s obligated to report to his own people in Paris. You know as well as I how leaky the SDECE is and how careful we have to be in turning over information to them. Question, is, do we share this secret with the French?”
“On the other hand,” Sanderson Hooper intoned, as if debating it out with himself, “Kuznetov made a well-calculated, deliberate request. He wants to see Devereaux for a particular reason. Perhaps the reason is that he’s ready to open up.”
“What do you think, Mike?” McKittrick asked.
“I’ve had the feeling he’s ready to talk. We have to take the risk of sharing Kuznetov with the French.”
“Whatever,” Hooper added, “the Russian holds the cards and he’s playing the hand.”
“All right,” McKittrick said decisively, “take Devereaux to see him.”
6
“KILL HIM! HE IS A thief and a robber!”
“André! Will you stop making a spectacle of yourself.”
“But my God, woman. Did you see that play? He was safe by a mile!”
Nicole Devereaux tugged at her husband’s jacket, and he sat down as the argument raged around the umpire