“But anarchy, monumental anarchy, is on the planning boards in Moscow. With France out of NATO and the French Communists imbedded, when Pierre La Croix dies, a rage of confusion will sweep over France. It will be followed, gentlemen, by a Communist takeover.”
11
DEAREST PAPA,
A great sadness has overcome Mamma. A kind of lethargy owns her. She’s left Paris and stays in Montrichard all the time. I think something has happened to make her frightened to really search into herself because the truth may be too painful.
I’ve worried over Mamma so much. Mamma is a beautiful bird, but one meant to stay down in her own little part of the sky. If she tries to fly too high, her wings will break. She wants to soar to the heavens and fly through the high winds, but she cannot. She sees you reach up despite the risk and pain, but she cannot follow and she hates you for it and herself for her own inability. Is it wrong for me to think this?
I’m happy studying at the Sorbonne. When Tucker followed me to France to make his inept plea, I could see how shallow a life he was about to lead me into. Lord spare me from being the well-groomed, mechanical, basic functionary.
With François I want to dare to climb, to fly, to find the courage as you have. Papa, I want to be counted in this world and I want to count.
What a dismal day it is here in Normandy. François and I got back to the cottage ahead of a driving rain. There is a fire now and a background of Brahms. François is across the room framed in the window, terribly handsome, terribly intense. He leans over the typewriter, makes a correction, and grumbles as he writes his column for Moniteur. Papa, I am hopelessly in love.
Your
MICHELE
She folded the letter, sealed and addressed it. Then, after mending the fading fire, she walked up behind François’s chair, folded her arms about him, laid her cheek on the top of his head, and felt beneath his shirt.
François stopped his pondering, took her hand and kissed it. She read the words in the typewriter.
FRANÇOIS PICARD’S COLUMN
What now, President La Croix! The new French demand for American gold on the balance of payments strikes another low blow to our jaded diplomacy.
But once again our President has struck out with a reckless tactic. One does not use a battalion of horse cavalry against a division of tanks in a frontal assault. This ill-advised attack on the American dollar, a move born of pure vengeance, is bound to backfire, for the stability of the world depends on the dollar.
If the American dollar is weakened, France can fall into a state of chaos overnight. And who will cry louder than a greed-riddled French public made fat by the good will of the ally we are trying to destroy?
How long will Frenchmen tolerate Pierre La Croix doing the Kremlin’s work as though on orders ...
Michele detached herself from him, looked at the wind-driven rain pelting the window, and sighed.
“What is it, Michele? You do not like it?”
“It’s very good.”
“What then?”
“It’s also very dangerous. I become frightened for you.”
“I cannot quit, Michele. I cannot quit.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that. I’ll never ask it. Only don’t ask me not to be frightened.”
He shoved away from the typewriter and paced before the fire.
“François, never give a thought about how I stand. I’m with you in whatever you are trying to do. Darling ...”
“Yes?”
“What have you been trying to tell me all weekend?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Dreadfully. I don’t think you could ever lie to me. You are like a little boy.”
François pouted a moment, adoring this young girl who seemed to speak with a wisdom far beyond the innocent face, the nymph smile, the wide-eyed admiration.
“Michele, this is our last weekend for a time.”
“Oh?”
“The first smells of pressure from our government-controlled television. The news department is sending me out under the guise of doing special coverage for a lot of minor nonsense in the south and then to Munich for the Oktoberfest. I have a feeling they’ll keep me away until I quit or indicate I’m ready to fall in line.”
She came into his arms and was held by him. “May I cry a little?” she said.
“Michele,” he whispered, “Michele ... Michele ... Michele ...”
12
JUSTINE DE VORE WAS OFFERED a seat opposite Colonel Jasmin. Inspector Marcel Steinberger studied her from the sunken leather couch across the room. She had slim ankles and shapely legs, one of them adorned with a tiny gold chain. In her early thirties, Justine de Vore cut the picture of a chic Frenchwoman. She crossed her legs enticingly to see if she had the attention of Colonel Jasmin and Inspector Steinberger. She had.
“Mademoiselle de Vore, please meet Inspector Steinberger, Department of Internal Protection, Sûreté.”
The two nodded to one another.
“We have some questions concerning security matters in your department and solicit your open cooperation,” Jasmin said. “I mean, of course, if you have no objections to answering our questions ...”
“Certainly not,” she answered in the sure voice of a professional woman showing no shred of hesitation.
Marcel Steinberger bounced from his seat, scratched his head and paced. “Mademoiselle de Vore,” he said, “you have worked as the personal secretary of Henri Jarré for how long?”
“Over three years,” she answered.
He took the file on her from Jasmin’s desk, scanned it, and, prompted by the record, began questioning her. Justine de Vore was established as a woman with special qualifications to serve under a top executive. She was from an excellent family of upper-middle-class civil servants in Paris, and had had good schooling, including the Sorbonne. She was independent, well salaried, and her record revealed nothing of an unusual nature.
Inspector Steinberger stopped his pacing suddenly. “Do you like Henri Jarré?” he asked abruptly.
Her unbroken string of answers halted. “What kind of a question is that?”
“Do you like him,” Steinberger repeated, “as a person, as a human being, as someone to work for? Do you find him pleasant, friendly or difficult? Do you like his personal habits?”
She hedged, resorting to professional loyalty. “Monsieur Jarré is my superior. My position is such that I would prefer not to answer such a question.”
“Hmmm,” Steinberger grunted, “hmmm.”
Colonel Jasmin lit his usual fat cigar ever so slowly, sending a billow of smoke over the desk that drifted to the tall ceiling of the château room. “Mademoiselle de Vore,” he said deliberately, “at the beginning I stated it would be desirable if you volunteered the information we seek. If at any point in this questioning you are inclined not to answer, or if for any reason you toy with the idea of giving us an incorrect answer, then I had better advise you of your legal rights and we’ll do all of this another way. Am I clear?”
“You are quite clear,” she whispered.
“Well, what do you intend to do, mademoiselle?”
“I will cooperate, of course,” she said. “I only hoped that it would not be unpleasant or put me in an uncomfortable position, but I’ll cooperate.”
“Do you like Henri Jarré?” Steinberger repeated.
“I despise him,” she said.
“Would you explain?”
“He is a man filled with hatred and bitterness. He knows no pleasantries. His wife ...”
“Yes?”
“He has a very unhappy marriage, he is a very sour individual.”
Marcel Steinberger brought a chair up opposite her, sat on it backward, leaning his chin on the back. “You went away with Jarré on a number of occasions.”
“On NATO business.”
“Always?”
She looked for sympathy to Colonel Jasmin, who offered her none. “No,” she confessed,
“not always.”
“On how many occasions did you go off with him when it was not NATO business?”
“A half-dozen, more or less. I’m not certain.”
“To Cannes?”
“Yes.”
“Normandy?”
“Yes.”
“London?”
“That was for a NATO meeting.”
“And all this time you despised him.”
“Yes, I despise him.”
“Why did you go away with him?”
“I live my life as I see it. Monsieur Jarré made it quite clear from the beginning that this might be a part of my qualifications. I am thirty-two. I was married once and do not wish to remarry. I care for my independence too strongly. I have even resumed my maiden name. As Colonel Jasmin will certify, I have an excellent position. So, if Monsieur Jarré makes this a condition ... so what?”
“We appreciate your candor,” Inspector Steinberger said. “Now, we would like to be equally candid. We would like you to cooperate with the Sûreté.”
“In what way?”
“To keep Henri Jarré under surveillance. You see, Mademoiselle de Vore, he is suspected of passing NATO documents to the Soviet Union.”
For a moment she was stunned, trying to comprehend. Then a throaty little giggle emerged. “I’ll be damned,” she said and the giggle swelled into hard laughter.
“Well? Will you help us?”
“It will be a pleasure, Inspector Steinberger.”
“Good,” Jasmin said, “excellent.”
“Now, Mademoiselle de Vore, we need to establish certain patterns, habits of work, routines, et cetera, et cetera. I’d like to ask you a few questions about the duplicating machine in your supply room, the one adjoining your office. It’s a Repco, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“You use it to complete office files, make needed extra copies to advise other persons, or send copies with regular correspondence when required. In other words, the machine is used in normal daily office work?”
“Yes, that would be correct.”
“Who operates the particular machine in your office?”
“I do. For the entire building. As you can see from the way the supply room adjoins my office, I was annoyed in the beginning by people running in and out, so I set up an incoming basket for requests for duplicates. Generally speaking, at around three in the afternoon I run off copies and place them in an outgoing basket so they can be picked up in time for the late mail.”
“Now, Mademoiselle de Vore. Does Monsieur Jarré use this machine? Does he know how? Have you ever seen him use it?”
“Yes, I remember quite clearly. We had an old Thermo-Fax up to eighteen months ago. It was exchanged for the Repco. A few days after the new machine arrived I returned from lunch to find Monsieur Jarré in the supply room cursing and trying to operate the machine. He had made a mess of the fluid bag and was quite confused over the positive and negative papers. He asked me to show him how to operate the machine.”
“Did you think it odd?”
“Well, no. Some days I could be ill or for some reason not available when he needed copies of something. I didn’t think it strange.”
“Mademoiselle de Vore. Do you ever leave your office for long periods during the day?”
“Exactly what do you mean?”
“A half-hour, forty minutes, an hour?”
“Other than lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, I am out of the office frequently.”
“Does Jarré send you out of the office?”
“Sometimes.”
“Would you explain that?”
“The Press Building is a ten-minute walk. I often carry dispatches there for personal delivery. Or I may be called to another office to record the proceedings of a meeting. Then, for one reason or another, I may be sent to nearly any building on the compound. I even come here, Colonel Jasmin. I deliver security files at least once a month, anyhow.”
“It would be safe to say, then, that you are out of your office at least once a week for a half-hour or longer?”
“Yes.”
“Long enough for Jarré to come to the supply room adjoining your office and make, say, ten or fifteen copies, clean up the used positive and negative papers, and return to his own office?”
“That would be sufficient time.”
“Do you recall ever seeing him in the supply room?”
“Once. I started out of the building, then returned to my office for my cigarettes. He was quite startled, but he covered it quickly. You know, I’ve always wondered why my Repco supplies ran out so fast.”
Inspector Steinberger and Colonel Jasmin alternated questioning to further establish Jarré’s working habits.
“He’s at his desk promptly at nine-thirty,” Justine de Vore said, “except Thursdays.”
“Why not Thursdays?”
“He takes the commuter train from Paris on Thursdays.”
“Every Thursday?”
“Yes. Sometimes he is late.”
“Does he always take the train home on those days?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever tell you why?”
“He said he gives the car to Madame Jarré on Thursdays for her special shopping.”
“Did you know he was an official of high enough rank to warrant a staff car and chauffeur?” Jasmin asked.
“Yes, I’ve sent for staff cars on a number of occasions. He just told me he liked the commuter train once in a while, and I believed him.”
Justine de Vore was given the secret mission of observing Jarré. The suspect supply room was wired so that use of the Repco machine would automatically light a signal in the office of Colonel Jasmin.
An adjoining closet was fixed with a two-way mirror. Its peephole was impossible to detect from the supply room. At any time Justine de Vore left the building, she first advised Jasmin and the observation closet was immediately manned by security personnel.
The surveillance was carried on with extreme vigor on Thursdays, commuter-train day.
The second Thursday after surveillance began, Henri Jarré copied four secret documents during the absence of his secretary. Marcel Steinberger personally rode the commuter train to Paris in the next seat behind Jarré. He observed a quick switching of attaché cases with a contact. But, under stern orders from his chief, Léon Roux, Steinberger made no arrest.
“Good work, Inspector,” Léon Roux said to Steinberger.
“When will you let me pick the bastard up?” Steinberger demanded.
“Aha!” Roux answered with a twinkle coming to his eye.
“What game are you playing?”
Roux’s prune face contorted into what might have been a smile. “Colonel Jasmin and I are seeing to it that Henri Jarré doesn’t look at anything but fake documents for the next several weeks. So he will be feeding his comrades in Moscow enough false information to confuse their military planning and counterintelligence for a year. At least, let Jarré undo some of the harm. When we feel the Russians have had their bellies full of confusion and are getting onto us, we’ll plant the real articles on Jarré and close the trap ... eh?”
Marcel Steinberger erupted in rare laughter.
“Eh, Steinberger, eh? We’ll show those idiots at SDECE who is better, they or the Sûreté.”
“Incidentally,” Steinberger said, “we will have to pick the woman up. I am afraid Mademoiselle de Vore’s bank accounts and spending and her salary do not jibe. Obviously, she has been in on it with Jarré from the beginning. Shame.”
“Well, she’s given us a hand,” Roux said, “and she’s betrayed Jarré nobly in order to save her own neck. So we’ll see that she gets a light sentence.”
13
COMMANDER FARROW, THE NAVY cardiologist in charge of Boris Kuznetov, left the Russian’s hospital room in concern. He was followed out by Sid Jaffe. They crossed to the doctor’s office, where Dr. Billings, Devereaux, Kramer, and W. Smith waite
d in a knot. The doctor closed the door behind him.
“He’s bushed, strained. He’s gone through sixty-odd interrogations and needs a complete rest.”
“Is it serious?”
“It will be. If we push him any further, we’re playing, if you’ll pardon the expression, Russian roulette.”
“But, Dr. Farrow,” Jaffe said, “Kuznetov insists he be allowed to speak to us once more.”
The Commander fiddled with his stethoscope. “Once more, in his bedroom, and keep it short. I mean that.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Could we have your office for a moment?” When the doctor stepped out, Jaffe turned to the others. “Kuznetov demanded that Nordstrom, Sanderson Hooper, and the President’s Intelligence Adviser be present today.”
They nodded in agreement quickly. Jaffe put in a call to ININ at Foggy Bottom. “Mike ... Sid Jaffe. Our friend is feeling under the weather. The doctor has given us an okay to visit with him, but he insists you be here with Sandy and Marsh.”
“Right,” Nordstrom answered.
The room was packed with the presence of the seven Americans, Devereaux, and two nurses. One nurse plumped the pillows up behind Boris Kuznetov to enable him to sit and the other repeated the doctor’s restriction and issued a “no smoking” order.
Kuznetov was weary from his ordeal. He had been skidding for a week.
“I wanted to speak to you now for I must reveal to you a secret department in KGB responsible for the most ingenious and successful intelligence operation ever performed by the Soviet Union. I refer to the Department of Disinformation.”
They were studied but taut as he searched their faces for a response. Disinformation was unknown to them, just as his own anti-NATO Division had been.
“The Department of Disinformation is under the direction of a KGB officer named Sergei Mikeloff. The purpose of Disinformation is to invent and distort data and feed it into an enemy government through his own intelligence system. I repeat, through his own intelligence system. Topaz does our work inside SDECE. Let me impress upon you gentlemen, this is far more sophisticated and sinister than routine camouflage counterespionage operations.