“And you never saw him again until tonight?”
“If we had, we would not have recognized him,” replied Villier père. “I barely did when I identified his body. The years notwithstanding, he was, as the English say, a ‘rackabones’ of the man I remembered, less than half the weight and height of his former self, his face mummified, a stretched, wrinkled version of what it once was.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t he, is that possible, my father?”
“No, it was Jodelle. His eyes were wide in death, and still so blue, so resoundingly blue, like a cloudless sky in the Mediterranean.… Like yours, Jean-Pierre.”
“Jean-Pierre …?” said the actor softly. “You gave me his name?”
“In truth, it was your brother’s also,” corrected the actress gently. “That poor child had no use for it, and we felt you should have it for Jodelle’s sake.”
“That was caring of you—”
“We knew we could never replace your true parents,” continued the actress quickly, half pleadingly, “but we tried our best, my darling. In our wills we make clear everything that happened, but until tonight we hadn’t the courage within ourselves to tell you. We love you so.”
“For God’s sake, stop, Mother, or I’ll burst out crying. Who in this world could ask for better parents than you two? I will never know what I cannot know, but forever you are my father and mother, and you know that.”
The telephone rang, startling them all. “The press doesn’t have this number, does it?” asked Julian.
“Not that I’m aware of,” replied Jean-Pierre, turning to the phone on the dressing table. “Only you, Giselle, and my agent have it; not even my attorney or, God forbid, the owners of the theater.… Yes?” he said gutturally.
“Jean-Pierre?” asked his wife, Giselle, over the telephone.
“Of course, my dear.”
“I wasn’t sure—”
“I wasn’t either, that’s why I altered my voice. Mother and Father are here, and I’ll be home as soon as the newspapers give up for the night.”
“I think you should find a way to come home now.”
“What?”
“A man has come to see you—”
“At this hour? Who is he?”
“An American, and he says he has to talk to you. It’s about tonight.”
“Tonight … here at the theater?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have let him in, Giselle.”
“I’m afraid I didn’t have a choice. Henri Bressard is with him.”
“Henri? What does tonight have to do with the Quai d’Orsay?”
“As we speak, our dear friend Henri is all smiles and diplomatic charm and will tell me nothing until you arrive.… Am I right, Henri?”
“Too true, my dearest Giselle” was the faint reply heard by Villier. “I know little or nothing myself.”
“Did you hear him, my darling?”
“Clearly enough. What about the American? Is he a boor? Just answer yes or no.”
“Quite the contrary. Although, as you actors might say, his eyes have a hot flame in them.”
“What about Mother and Father? Should they come with me?”
Giselle Villier addressed the two men in the room, repeating the question. “Later,” said the man from the Quai d’Orsay, loud enough to be heard over the telephone. “We’ll speak to them later, Jean-Pierre,” he added even louder. “Not tonight.”
The actor and his parents left the theater by the front entrance, the night watchman having told the press that Villier would appear shortly at the stage door. “Let us know what’s happening,” said Julian as he and his wife embraced their son and walked to the first of the two taxis called from the dressing-room phone. Jean-Pierre climbed into the second, giving the driver his address in the Parc Monceau.
The introductions were both brief and alarming. Henri Bressard, First Secretary of Foreign Affairs for the Republic of France and a close friend of the younger Villiers for a decade, spoke calmly, gesturing at his American companion, a tall man in his mid-thirties with dark brown hair and sharp features, albeit with clear gray eyes that were disturbingly alive, perhaps in contrast to his gentle smile. “This is Drew Latham, Jean-Pierre. He is a special officer for a branch of U.S. Intelligence known only as Consular Operations, a unit our own sources have determined to be under the combined authority of the American State Department and the Central Intelligence Agency.… My God, how the two can get together is beyond this diplomat!”
“It’s not always easy, Mr. Secretary,” said Latham pleasantly, if haltingly, in broken French, “but we manage.”
“Perhaps we should speak English,” offered Giselle Villier. “We are all fluent.”
“Thank you very much,” the American responded in English. “I don’t want to be misunderstood.”
“You won’t be,” said Villier, “but please be aware that we—I—must understand why you are here tonight, this terrible night. I have heard things this evening that I have never heard before—are you to add to them, monsieur?”
“Jean-Pierre,” broke in Giselle, “what are you talking about?”
“Let him answer,” said Villier, his large blue eyes riveted on the American.
“Maybe, maybe not,” replied the intelligence officer. “I know you’ve talked to your parents, but I can’t know what you talked about.”
“Naturally. But it’s possible you might assume a certain direction in our conversation, no?”
“Frankly, yes, although I don’t know how much you’d been told before. The events of tonight suggest that you knew nothing about Jean-Pierre Jodelle.”
“Quite true,” said the actor.
“The Sûreté, who also know nothing, questioned you at length and were convinced you were telling the truth.”
“Why not, Monsieur Latham? I was telling the truth.”
“Is there another truth now, Mr. Villier?”
“Yes, there is.”
“Will you both stop talking in circles!” cried the actor’s wife. “What is this truth?”
“Be calm, Giselle. We are on the same wavelength, as the Americans say.”
“Shall we stop here?” asked the Consular Operations officer. “Would you rather we speak privately?”
“No, of course not. My wife is entitled to know everything, and Henri here is one of our closest friends, as well as a man trained to keep his own counsel.”
“May we sit down,” said Giselle firmly. “This is too confusing to absorb standing up.” When they had taken their seats, hers next to her husband’s, she added, “Please continue, Monsieur Latham, and I beg you to be clearer.”
“I should like to know,” broke in Bressard, every inch the government official, “who is this Jodelle person, and why should Jean-Pierre know anything at all about him?”
“Forgive me, Henri,” interrupted the actor. “Not that I mind, but I’d like to know why Monsieur Latham saw fit to use you as a means to reach me.”
“I knew you were friends.” The American answered for himself. “In fact, several weeks ago, when I mentioned to Henri that I was unable to get tickets to your play, you were kind enough to leave a pair at the box office for me.”
“Ah, yes, I remember.… Your name seemed somehow familiar, but with everything that’s happened, I didn’t make the connection. ‘Two in the name of Latham …’ I do recall.”
“You were wonderful, sir—”
“You’re very kind,” interrupted Jean-Pierre, dismissing the compliment and studying the U.S. intelligence officer, then looking at Bressard. “Therefore,” he continued, “I may assume that you and Henri are acquainted.”
“More officially than socially,” said Bressard. “I believe we’ve dined only once together; actually it was an extension of a conference that was largely unresolved.”
“Between your two governments,” Giselle observed aloud.
“Yes,” agreed Bressard.
“And what do you
and Monsieur Latham confer about, Henri?” pressed the wife. “If I may ask.”
“Of course you may, my dear,” replied Bressard. “Generally speaking, sensitive situations, events that are taking place or have taken place in the past that might harm or embarrass our respective governments.”
“Tonight falls into that category?”
“Drew must answer that, Giselle, I cannot, and I’m as eager as you are to learn. He roused me out of bed over an hour ago insisting that for both our sakes I bring him to you immediately. When I asked him why, he made it clear that only Jean-Pierre could permit me to have the information—information that pertained to the events of tonight.”
“Which is why you suggested we speak privately, is that correct, Monsieur Latham?” asked Villier.
“It is, sir.”
“Then your arrival here tonight, this terrible night, falls under the blanket of official business, n’est-ce pas?”
“I’m afraid it does,” said the American.
“Even considering the lateness of the hour and the tragedy we alluded to?”
“Again, yes,” said Latham. “Every hour is vital to us. Especially to me, if you want to be specific.”
“I do care to be specific, monsieur.”
“All right, I’ll speak plainly. My brother’s a case officer with the Central Intelligence Agency. He was sent out under cover into the Hausruck mountains in Austria. It was a survey operation involving a spreading neo-Nazi organization, and he hasn’t been heard from in six weeks.”
“I can understand your concern, Drew,” interrupted Henri Bressard, “but what has it to do with this evening—this terrible night, as Jean-Pierre called it?”
The American looked at Villier in silence; the actor spoke. “The deranged old man who killed himself in the theater was my father,” he said quietly, “my natural father. Years ago, in the war, he was a Résistance fighter. The Nazis found him and broke him, drove him mad.”
Giselle gasped; her hand shot to her left, gripping her husband’s arm.
“They’re back,” said Latham, “growing in numbers and influence beyond anything anyone wants to believe or talk about.”
“Say there’s even a granule of truth in what you say,” pressed Bressard. “What has it to do with the Quai d’Orsay? You said ‘for both our sakes.’ How, my friend?”
“You’ll get a full briefing tomorrow at our embassy. I insisted on that two hours ago, and Washington agreed. Until then I can tell you only—and it’s all I really know—that the money trail through Switzerland to Austria and the growing Nazi movement is secretly funneled from people here in France. Who, we don’t know, but it’s immense, millions upon millions of dollars. To fanatics who are rebuilding the party—Hitler’s party in exile—but still in Germany, hidden in Germany.”
“Which, if you’re correct, means there’s another organization here, is that what you’re saying?” asked Bressard.
“Jodelle’s traitor,” whispered an astonished Jean-Pierre Villier, leaning forward in the chair. “The French general!”
“Or what he created,” said Latham.
“For God’s sake, what are you two talking about?” exclaimed the actor’s wife. “A newly discovered father, the Résistance, Nazis, millions of dollars to fanatics in the mountains! It all sounds crazy—fou!”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning, Drew Latham,” said the actor softly. “Perhaps I might fill in with things I knew nothing about before tonight.”
2
“According to the records in our possession,” began Latham, “in June of 1946 a repatriated member of the French Résistance, alternately using the names of Jean Froisant and Pierre Jodelle, appeared repeatedly at our embassy in various simple disguises and always at night. He claimed he was being silenced by the Paris courts regarding his knowledge of the treasonous activities of a leader of the Resistance. The traitor supposedly was a French general under privileged house arrest accorded by the German High Command to your general officers who remained in France. The judgment of the OSI investigators was negative, the determination being that Froisant/Jodelle was mentally unbalanced, as were hundreds, if not thousands, who had been psychologically crippled in the concentration camps.”
“The OSI is the Office of Special Investigations,” explained Bressard, seeing the bewildered expressions on the faces of both Villiers. “It’s the American department created to pursue war criminals.”
“I’m sorry, I thought you knew,” said Latham. “It operated extensively here in France in conjunction with your authorities.”
“Of course,” acknowledged Giselle. “It was the formal name; I’m told we had others. Collaborationist hunters, pig seekers, so many names.”
“Please continue,” said Jean-Pierre, frowning, disturbed. “Jodelle was dismissed as a madman—just like that?”
“It wasn’t arbitrary, if that’s what you mean. He was interrogated at length, including three separate depositions taken independently of one another to check for inconsistencies. It’s standard procedure—”
“Then you have the information,” interrupted the actor. “Who was this general?”
“We don’t know—”
“You don’t know?” cried Bressard. “Mon Dieu, you didn’t lose the material, did you?”
“No, we didn’t lose it, Henri, it was stolen.”
“But you said ‘according to the records’!” Giselle broke in.
“I said ‘according to the records in our possession,’ ” corrected Latham. “You can index a name in a particular time frame, and the index will summarize without specifics the substantiated case histories where procedures were followed and final determinations were made. Materials such as interrogations and depositions are in separate classified files to protect the privacy of the individuals from hostile inquiries.… Those were the files that were removed. Why, we don’t know—or perhaps now we do.”
“But you knew about me,” interrupted Jean-Pierre. “How?”
“As new information comes in, the index summaries are updated by the OSI. About three years ago, a drunken Jodelle accosted the American ambassador outside the Lyceum Theater, where you were appearing in a play—”
“Je m’appelle Aquilon!” Bressard broke in enthusiastically. “You were magnifique!”
“Oh, be quiet, Henri.… Go on, Drew Latham.”
“Jodelle kept shouting what a great actor you were, and that you were his son, and why wouldn’t the Americans listen to him. Naturally, the theater’s attendants pulled him away as the doorman escorted the ambassador to his limousine. He explained that the old drunken tramp was unbalanced, an obsessed fan who hung around the theaters where you were playing.”
“I never saw him. Why is that?”
“Also explained by the doorman. Whenever you appeared at the stage door, he ran away.”
“That doesn’t make sense!” said Giselle firmly.
“I’m afraid it does, my dear,” countered Jean-Pierre, looking sadly at his wife. “At least according to what I learned tonight.… So, monsieur,” continued the actor, “because of that odd yet not unusual event, my name was included in the—how do you say it?—your nonclassified intelligence files?”
“Only as part of a behavior pattern, not taken seriously.”
“But you took it seriously, n’est-ce pas?”
“Please understand me, sir,” said Latham, leaning forward in the chair. “Five weeks and four days ago my brother was to make contact with his Munich runner. It was a specific arrangement, not an estimate, every logistic was narrowed down to a time frame of twelve hours. Three years of a high-risk, deep-cover operation were finished, the end in sight, his secure transportation to the States arranged. When a week passed and there was no word from him, I flew back to Washington and pored over everything we had, everything there was, on Harry’s operation—that’s my brother, Harry Latham.… For one reason or another, probably because it was an odd reference, the Lyceum Theater episode struck me
, stayed with me. As you implied, why was it even there? Famous actors and actresses are frequently bothered by fans who are obsessed with them. We read about that sort of thing all the time.”
“I believe I said as much,” interrupted Villier. “It’s an occupational sickness and, for the most part, quite harmless.”
“That’s what I thought, sir. Why was it there?”
“Did you find an answer?”
“Not really, but enough to convince me to try and find Jodelle. Since I came back to Paris two weeks ago, I’ve looked everywhere, in all the back alleys of Montparnasse, in all the run-down sections of the city.”
“Why?” asked Giselle. “What partial answer did you find? Why was my husband’s name forwarded to Washington in the first place?”
“I asked myself the same question, Mrs. Villier. So while I was in Washington I looked up the former ambassador—from the last administration—and asked him. You see, the information could not have been forwarded to the intelligence community unless he authorized it.”
“What did my old friend the ambassador say?” Bressard broke in, his tone unmistakably critical.
“It was his wife—”
“Ah,” said the Quai d’Orsay official, “then one should listen. She should have been the ambassadeur. So much more intelligent, so much more knowledgeable. She’s a physician, you know.”
“Yes, I spoke with her. She’s also an avid theatergoer. She always insists on sitting in the first three rows.”
“Hardly the best seats,” said the actor softly. “One loses the perspective for the immediate. Forgive me, go on. What did she say?”
“It was your eyes, Mr. Villier. And those of Jodelle when he stopped them on the pavement and shouted hysterically. ‘Both their eyes were so intensely blue,’ she said, ‘yet the color was extraordinarily light, extremely unusual for blue-eyed people.’ So she thought, delusions or not, that there might be substance to the old man’s ravings because the similarity of such unusual eyes could only be genetically transmitted. She admitted it was a speculative call, but one she couldn’t overlook. And, as Henri mentioned, she is a doctor.”