The TWA bags were switched at La Guardia Airport. Maurice caught the eight o’clock shuttle to Washington. As soon as the seat-belt sign was turned off, Maurice went to the men’s room and placed the film in a small plastic bag and shoved it down the used towel disposal unit.
Twenty minutes outside Washington an agent named Michôt entered the men’s room and retrieved the bag of film.
A banana flambée sent up a pillar of fire. As the plates were delicately served, the performance was interrupted by Jeannine, the hostess, who led André into the owner’s office and shut the door after him.
“Devereaux,” André said into the phone.
“This is Madame Camus. The letter you were waiting for has arrived safely.”
9
THE FINCA SAN JOSÉ lay midway between Havana and San Julián and not far from Pinar del Río. It had been a massive estate which belonged to a single family and was broken up by the Cuban Revolution and turned over to the hundreds of small farmers who had toiled there in feudalism for generations.
With the old masters out of the place, the Revolution turned the land back to the people with great, great fanfare. Dignitaries from Havana, Castro district leaders, new agricultural commissioners, and dream-makers all descended on the Finca San José.
Impressive documents filled with seals, government stamps, and flourishing signatures were handed over to the peasants to certify that the land was now theirs, forever.
Speeches and a week-long celebration praised the Revolution.
And the speechmakers departed. In their place, the Finca was swarmed over by the new breed of bureaucrats.
A model house was built. It was the forerunner of an entire new village that would come ... someday.
A school was built. The first in the history of the Finca. Others would follow ... someday.
A communal was established where a man could air his complaints. Heaven had been promised on earth.
But when the full heat of the summer struck, the peasants came to realize that the new bureaucrats had merely replaced the foremen of the old days. In the beginning, for a time, the hoax worked, for the illusion of the small landholders was so great and so desperate that they were unwilling to believe that things could really be worse than before the Revolution. They were worse. The always increasing quotas imposed a toil beyond capacity.
They spoke among themselves at great length about the documents of ownership and even went to someone outside the Finca who could read and write.
The documents said that no farmer could sell or rent his land. How could he own it if he could not sell it?
The documents said the land had to be worked diligently and the quotas had to be met or the owner could face imprisonment.
The documents said that the land had to be farmed by the oldest son after the death of the father. This eternal bondage was the Revolution’s definition of “ownership.”
It was clear they were deeper in serfdom than ever. Finca San José and hundreds of other “liberated” villages about Cuba dried up listlessly and reverted to ramshackle pestholes.
One day a large convoy of Czech-made trucks showed up at the Finca gate. Most of the trucks were empty. Others were filled with soldiers of the Revolution.
The village alarm bell was rung and the men ran in from the canebrakes with machetes in hand, the women from the hovels and the sugar mill, and the children from the new school which taught little but Revolution. They were herded to the village square, now called Liberation Plaza, and addressed by a Castro official from the back of one of the trucks. He read from a document equally as impressive as their own “ownership” documents.
His document said that for the betterment of the Revolution the Finca San José was to be evacuated. He did not explain how this would be better.
The families were given an hour to gather together their belongings of not more than two suitcases or packs and to load aboard the trucks for resettlement. They were dispersed with the Revolution’s slogan, “Fatherland or Death,” ringing in their ears.
It was not much of a place, this Finca San José, but it was the only home that any of them had ever known.
No time for weeping or sentimentality! Onto the trucks and away! Long live the Revolution!
Among the Rico Parra papers was an involved document spelling out the terms of a Cuban-Soviet pact which had been negotiated earlier in Moscow. Rico Parra was to turn over certain details to the Soviets in New York during the United Nations meeting.
André Devereaux found most enticing the sudden evacuation of Finca San José and its reassignment to the Soviet armed forces.
Another portion of the pact pertained to the port of Viriel, which lay fifty miles due east of Havana. It was an old port and all but rotted with disuse. Now Viriel was to be reactivated and become the recipient of a sudden large influx of Soviet shipping. Elaborate security measures were to be taken to cloak the port in secrecy. With Havana more than adequate, it appeared obvious to André that the Russians were hauling in secret cargo.
Other articles of the pact detailed the arrival of heavy construction equipment and materials specifically for storage tanks and the building of barracks and highway and rail spurs in the Pinar del Río and Remedios regions.
With this windfall in his hands, André Devereaux was now compelled to reach a crucial decision. If it were a correct decision, he would have to reach it alone and it did not necessarily mean a popular decision.
According to the bylaws of Inter-NATO Intelligence Network, if the security of a sister country was threatened, a person in Devereaux’s position could report directly to the threatened country without prior clearance from Paris.
André knew the Americans had Cuba under surveillance by U-2 flights.
He also knew that the American espionage ring in Cuba was broken and that in large measure America depended upon her allies, who still had relations with Cuba.
Further, the Americans had become disillusioned with the data they got from refugees and generally considered it unreliable.
While André had the authority to turn over a copy of the Rico Parra papers to the Americans without the permission of Paris, it was not so simple. Relations between France and America had deteriorated to such an extent that the exchange of intelligence had all but dried up. Any action by him which favored the Americans would be gravely frowned upon by Paris.
But suppose he sent the film to Paris and did not advise the Americans? There was an equal chance he would receive orders not to divulge the Rico Parra papers. The Americans might well be kept in the dark about events that threatened the entire hemisphere.
For André it was a familiar position. He was once again squarely on the griddle.
After two sleepless nights he came to his desk haggard and close to exhaustion. Two copies of the film were made to be kept in Washington. The original negatives were to be dispatched by courier to SDECE in Paris.
When his decision had been made, André scribbled a cable to headquarters:
I HAVE OBTAINED FILMS OF DOCUMENTS CARRIED BY RICO PARRA. ORIGINAL NEGATIVES EN ROUTE BY COURIER. BECAUSE OF URGENT NATURE OF INFORMATION, I AM USING MY PREROGATIVE AND SUPPLYING AMERICAN ININ CHIEF WITH A SET OF FILM OF ALL DOCUMENTS.
DEVEREAUX
10
AMERICAN ININ HEADQUARTERS STOOD in an unmarked old red brick building in the Foggy-Bottom section of Washington.
Marshall McKittrick received an urgent call from ININ while en route to a concert at the White House.
Nordstrom, Hooper, and the ININ chiefs, without the luxury of procrastination, had pored over the Rico Parra papers. Sanderson Hooper briefed McKittrick and ventured the opinion that the papers were authentic.
The green phone to the White House was rung.
And aide tapped the President’s shoulder as he listened attentively to a world-renowned cellist in the East Room. At the end of the number, the President excused himself.
“McKittrick, Mr. President. I’m afraid I’ll have
to see you tonight.”
The President glanced at his watch. “We’re midway in the concert. I can shake loose in forty minutes.”
“I’ll be waiting in your office. It might be a good idea to have the Joint Chiefs stand by.”
“Right, Marsh, we’ll have them rounded up.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
André Devereaux received his own summons very late that night after a return from a formal dinner at the British Embassy. He arrived at Foggy Bottom in slacks, sport shirt, and loafers and was led directly to Nordstrom’s main conference room. The carnage of the day’s battle was in evidence: dishes of hastily eaten hamburgers and half emptied coffee cups and uncountable cigarette butts and stacks of notes and photographs still not assembled.
The three men remaining in the room were weary. Even the impeccably groomed Marshall McKittrick looked seedy.
“First, we want to thank you, André,” Michael Nordstrom said. “No need in repeating how important this is.”
Hooper sucked halfheartedly at an almost empty pipe. “We believe that the Rico Parra papers are authentic.”
“I felt they were authentic,” André agreed. “I couldn’t find a plant anywhere.”
“It is our conviction,” Hooper continued, “that the Soviet Union is up to something, very possibly the introduction of offensive missiles into Cuba.”
“That’s a very good bet,” André said.
“I met with the President a few hours ago,” McKittrick said. “He’s ordered a sharp increase in U-2 flights.”
“Of course, you are aware,” Hooper interjected, “of our routine U-2 activity over Cuba for the better part of a year. This Finca San José has been spotted in general terms. The Rico Parra papers mesh perfectly. Take a look here.”
Hooper’s aged hands spread a number of aerial reconnaissance photographs before André, who lifted a magnifying glass and studied them.
“We’re concerned with all the construction going on,” Hooper said.
“I know the area. It would make a good missile site,” André ventured.
“That’s our guess.”
“The President does not feel we can have a confrontation with the Soviet Union at this moment,” McKittrick said. “On the basis of this evidence alone the Russians can claim it proves nothing.”
André looked from one to the other. The Americans were grim. He was way ahead of them now.
“You are suggesting that you must have positive knowledge from inside Cuba,” André said.
“Yes,” Nordstrom answered.
“And your own intelligence resources are not sufficient on the island.”
“You know that.”
“I take it you are soliciting the help of France?”
“The help of Devereaux,” Nordstrom answered.
“I’m not to tell Paris about Kuznetov and I am to apologize to Paris for a dozen requests for information that sit on your desk unanswered. I think I have had my fill of this one-way street.”
“André ...”
“No, damnit!” He came to his feet, bent over the table and eyed them angrily. “I warned you about the Russian surface-to-air missiles in Cuba. Not only the SAMs but the Russian jet bombers.”
“We have only the power to gather information, André.”
“I warned you from the first day Castro came out of the mountains. I warned you, McKittrick, and you, Mike, I warned you Che is a Communist and Rico Parra is a Communist. But you played with them! Well, after this mess you made at the Bay of Pigs it may be too late to keep the Russian missiles out.”
“André,” Mike said calmly, “you know how we value you.”
“To do your dirty work.”
Nordstrom spoke slowly. “I haven’t supplied you with intelligence information, because we’re all afraid of SDECE leaks. I’m not asking you to agree, but I know you can’t disagree. As for the intelligence on Cuba, two Presidents have been briefed on everything you’ve said or suspected. Besides,” Nordstrom added, “what about you and President La Croix? How much have you convinced him?”
André walked to the door and knocked for the outer guard to open. “I’m quite tired. I’ve worked forty-eight hours on end over the Parra papers. I’ll let you know about going to Cuba.”
“By the way,” Nordstrom said, “I saw Kuznetov yesterday. He sends his regards. He’s making an excellent recovery.”
“I’m not certain whether he’s lucky or not,” André said.
The three Americans were unable to look at each other for some time after André departed.
“Jesús Christ!” Nordstrom finally sputtered. “I hope to God we can make it right for him someday.”
11
UNLIKE HIS DELICATE PERFORMANCE at the Legion of Honor dinner, Ambassador René d’Arcy bit off the end of his cigar, spit it into an ashtray and lit it with quick, violent puffs. SDECE had contacted him regarding André’s pending mission to Cuba, and the French President’s office was pressuring him to influence Devereaux to change his tack.
“I must say, Monsieur Devereaux, I personally frown on your going to Cuba.”
“Are you frowning officially or unofficially?”
“Well, the gist is that this is solely an affair between the Cubans and the Americans.”
“Perhaps ... perhaps not. I have a different interpretation, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur. There is an apparent threat to a NATO ally. France is still in NATO, you know. Unless you are ready to issue me orders on the matter, I intend to go forward with my plans.”
D’Arcy rolled his cigar in pudgy fingers and bolted out frustrated puffs of smoke across his desk to where André sat unmoved.
Despite Devereaux’s unfortunate leanings, one would have to think more than twice about removing him from office. The skilled organization he had built in the hemisphere could collapse in lesser hands. Certainly Devereaux was one of the most competent intelligence officers in the SDECE. Furthermore, the Americans would turn completely cold to a new man. The pendulum had swung, sweeping away key personnel, and the pendulum had returned with La Croix people. André Devereaux had withstood the purges without politicking or kowtowing to the personal regime of a French President who was still under the influence of his personal sensitivities from twenty-five years earlier and his extraordinarily parochial advisers.
D’Arcy folded, unfolded his hands, tapped his fingers, balked. A large portrait of Pierre La Croix hovered behind him, glowering down on his back. “This whole undertaking is solely in the interest of the United States. I am going to be candid, Devereaux.”
“That should be novel.”
“There are unpleasant rumblings in both SDECE and the President’s office about your overt pro-American attitude. The entire orientation of your office calls for a drastic change of thinking.”
“Just what kind of change do you have in mind, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur?”
“To certain basic facts. France will not have her life and death dictated to by the Americans. France is the mistress of her own destiny.”
“Or, better spoken, the master of her own destruction.” André held up a hand to halt D’Arcy’s rebuttal. “No nation on this earth with a population of fifty million has the slightest chance of defending itself without an alliance with one of the two major powers. Without NATO and America we have nothing to deter a Soviet move on us.”
“You call our force de frappe nothing?”
“France has an atomic popgun,” he answered with disdain, flicking an imaginary fly from his wrist. “It cannot be taken seriously, despite the ill-spent billions.”
“And you call the Western European Alliance nothing!”
“An archaic dream of two old men. A daydream of forming a third power in Europe that calls for us to sleep with the Germans. Are you ready to sleep with Germany after what they have done to France in this century? Ah, Monsieur D’Arcy, but even if we are ready to deceive ourselves into believing that we could control a Franco-German union, the Germans are not so
ready to abandon America.”
As André spoke words detested under this roof, his mind suddenly reflected upon Boris Kuznetov. Kuznetov, a Russian who loved his country as he himself loved France. Kuznetov had paid the price for daring to be honest. How long could he, André, continue to hold these unpopular views?
“The return to glory,” André said, “is an illusion. The attempt to break NATO and the medieval mentality of our foreign policy to play one great power against the other with little power pools is establishing exactly the same conditions that led to the destruction of France twice in our lifetime. Oh, yes, President La Croix and company play their cards like masters. I predict they will go as far as to attempt to make France the broker between a union of Russia and Western Europe. And this will keynote tragedy for they don’t understand ... no one plays poker with the Russians. What keeps Soviet ambitions in check is not Pierre La Croix’s international table-hopping but the power of the United States.”
“That’s quite enough, Devereaux,” D’Arcy said, springing to his feet.
“Don’t count on me as a party to the destruction of NATO. As a Frenchman, I say there is no way, no way at all, that Western Europe can survive without the presence of the United States.” André arose and smiled. “You see, in fact, America is our leader.”
D’Arcy’s fist thumped on the desktop and his knuckles hurt. His round face turned apple crimson. “Such treasonous opinions have no place in French life today.”
“You mean, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur, that no opinion other than La Croix’s has a place. I beg to differ. That is not my France.”
12
IT WAS GOOD TO capture a moment of romance. Nicole looked radiant tonight in a lacy dressing gown on the other side of a candlelit table.
As the maid cleared the dishes, André leaned over and kissed his wife’s cheek and thanked her, then luxuriated with a Jamaican cigar and a snifter of cognac.
“Darling, is this trip really necessary?” Nicole asked.