by Topaz
“Any other reasons?” André felt compelled to ask.
“She needed your comfort tonight.”
“Are you going to get around to telling me why?”
“She and Tucker had a fight.”
“I didn’t know Tucker fought. And I still don’t see why she went back to New York.”
“Because she had a fight with Tucker.”
“Her logic and your logic are absolutely similar. And if Michele had a fight with Tucker, that is no reason for her to go back to New York or for you to start one with me.”
“She needed your comfort.”
“Then why the hell didn’t she stay?”
“What’s the difference? You’re never here when anyone needs you. There have been a few times, my dear, when I’ve needed your comfort, too.”
“I admit I am a bad husband and a bad father.”
“No one said you were.”
“Where in the hell do you think I went tonight?”
Robespierre left the room.
“Isn’t it strange that Mollie Spearman left a few minutes after you? Isn’t it convenient that I had to remain till every last person was gone.”
“Oh, my God, woman. Will you please shut up?”
“Did you meet her for lunch last week or didn’t you?”
“Yes, in a secret rendezvous at the center table of the largest dining room in Washington. I needed a favor.”
“Yes, yes, yes. I understand Mollie is quite liberal with her favors.”
“All right, my dear. You’ve got me cold. I’m desperately in love with Mollie Spearman and I want a divorce so I can marry her right away.”
Nicole spun off the bed, lifted an ashtray and smashed it against the wall. Then she buried her face in her hands and cried.
“Go to bed,” he said.
“I had a long talk tonight with Dr. Kaplan. He said you’re on dangerous ground and you can’t push yourself any further.”
“So is that a reason to make a scene? Besides, the good doctor and all the good doctors are alarmists. That is their stock in trade, to alarm, to give advice no one can follow.”
“How in the name of God can you ask me to stand by silently and watch you die? André, let’s try something else. They don’t even appreciate what you’re doing here. The Embassy is filled with strangers.”
“And how do you intend to live outside of this rarified air?”
“Why don’t you stop blaming me for something you can’t give up?”
“You’re right, of course, Nicole. I am afraid I am committed to a battle from which I cannot withdraw.”
“There are men who have left the service who live like decent human beings. We have many friends ... and opportunities. In Paris, in Washington if you wish, New York, anywhere. Maybe even on an island in the Caribbean.”
“An island in the Caribbean,” he said.
André stretched on the bed and he patted his knee for her to come beside him and they snuggled together. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we were as compatible out of bed as we are in? The trouble with us is that the night always ends and there’s that day-to-day living.”
“As long as we have this,” she said.
His mind had strayed to that hospital room in Bethesda and the shadowy word “Topaz.” He would never leave, for his commitment was total.
Part II
The Rico Parra Papers
1
Summer, 1962
IN NEW YORK CITY, Rico Parra, high in the Castro regime and leader of the Cuban delegation at the United Nations, strode into a room set up for a press conference. He sat behind a name plate bearing his rank and stared angrily into the television cameras and at the assemblage of reporters. His black eyes bore hatred and his black beard glistened under the lights.
“Negro members of the Cuban delegation have been mistreated and insulted by the staff of the Wharton Hotel. It is typical of the disgusting behavior of the imperialists. This outrage is protested by the Government of Cuba.”
Pencils quickened as the Spanish translator intervened.
Rico Parra smashed his fist on the table again and again, spitting venom and denouncing the Yankees with every catchphrase in the Red book.
After twenty minutes he had overrun his translator and become hoarse from the tirade. “The delegation of Cuba is, therefore, moving to the West Side, where we will be welcome and among our own people. We are leaving directly for the San Martín Hotel.”
The bearded revolutionaries and their female staff, some sixty in number, marched on foot across Manhattan to an area largely inhabited by Puerto Ricans and other Spanish-speaking Americans, where they took possession of the fifth, sixth, and seventh floors of the venerable old hotel.
During the 1920’s, before the accepted integration of New York’s big hotels, the San Martín had won a measure of renown as the hostelry for left-wing political refugees of high rank from the revolution-torn countries of the Caribbean and South America. Legendary were the meetings in smoke-filled rooms following abortive attempts to overthrow various Latin American dictators, meetings attended by Spanish-speaking reporters hard up for news and all sorts of camp followers. Yes, they had all come to the old San Martín Hotel and flooded its shabbily decorated suites.
In addition, it attracted a number of Latin American entertainers and boxers. Among the minor notables had been one Benny García, known and somewhat remembered as the Sugar Cane Kid. Benny García followed the usual format of Cuban fighters of that era in that he was a colorful welterweight with a vicious but wild right uppercut and not enough ability to carry him beyond the No. 4 rating in his division.
Benny García’s star also dimmed, as such luminaries always did, a few years after he fought a few too many fights, and his brief hour of glory gave way to younger, stronger, hungrier men.
The Sugar Cane Kid remained on the far West Side, to become part and parcel of the San Martín Hotel, first as a glorified bouncer, then as a member of the hotel security staff. He and the hotel faded into drabness together.
But Benny García proved far more wily as a hotel dick than he had been in the ring. For a hustler, there was always a buck to be made. Trade was brisk in girls, a room to hide in, a place to play a crap game. Benny passed packages, held bets, passed tips, and asked no questions.
When Rico Parra and the Cuban delegation arrived suddenly and dramatically, the San Martín found itself in an instant of revived glory.
As a fellow Cuban, the Sugar Cane Kid, whom many of them remembered, was in a position to offer a variety of services.
Rico Parra himself was somewhat a purist. He had that dedication and holier-than-thou infection that are the trademark of the revolutionary breed, and did his playing in secret.
This was still in the early days of the Revolution, and the traditional hot Cuban nature of the other delegates had not yet been bludgeoned by such idealism. There were many, many, many favors the Sugar Cane Kid could perform.
High in rank among the delegates was one Luis Uribe, a thin, nervous, chain-smoking translator and a personal secretary to Rico Parra.
The Sugar Cane Kid’s appearance on the fifth, sixth, and seventh floors became commonplace in the loosely guarded, undisciplined atmosphere of the Cuban delegation. Uribe made it a special point to befriend the ex-fighter.
Benny García was quick to pick up a signal that Luis Uribe had something to unload. Maybe Uribe, knowing he was coming to the States, had slipped a few gems out of Cuba. A lot of them did. Maybe Uribe was looking for a moment to defect. There could be a good payday in helping to pull it off. Whatever Uribe had in mind, Benny García let him know cautiously that he had found an ally ... of sorts.
A week after the Cubans arrived, Benny was on his usual rounds, picking up odd jobs, running errands, arranging for girls. Luis Uribe tailed him to the elevator.
“I must speak to you.”
“Come down to my room in ten minutes.”
Benny locked the door behind him and the
tattered window shades were drawn, darkening the dank little apartment. Luis Uribe wore the mask of a man deep in confrontation, on the verge of a terrible decision.
“I must get my family out of Cuba,” he sputtered at last. “The country is destroyed. For myself, I do not care. I’ll stay and take prison. But I have three sons and they must have a chance for life.”
Benny thought it was paternal as hell, but his battle-scarred face showed no further sympathy.
“I’ve scraped together everything I have. I can arrange a boat, but I need another two thousand dollars.”
“Man, that’s a lot of bread,” Benny said, “a lot of bread.”
Luis Uribe shook visibly. His mouth dried, and he asked for water and drew a glass from the leaky faucet. “I’ve got something worth that much.”
“Maybe I can find you a buyer. What you got?”
Uribe could not bring the words out.
“Well, man?”
“As you know, I am personal secretary to Rico Parra and I have access to his suite.”
“Yeah ...”
“What I have to sell are the documents in Rico Parra’s attaché case.”
2
LOTS OF TIMES BENNY García did odd jobs if the contacts and the price were right. Maybe a jealous husband wanted the boyfriend worked over. Maybe a guy wanted his business partner roughed up. Odd jobs like that.
He was good pals with Detective Leeman, who was in charge of the territory that included the San Martín Hotel. Sometimes a hood came into Leeman’s territory and they didn’t have anything exactly legal to move him out of town. So Leeman would clue Benny and he would arrange that the guy cut out, quick.
A year earlier, Detective Leeman had talked to Benny about some strange business. A hit was needed on someone, but not a hood. Someone on the expensive East Side. A foreigner with a lot of respectability. Detective Leeman was his pal so he didn’t ask questions, just took the job and did his work.
The job had something to do with “detaining” an Algerian United Nations delegate while some other guys rifled his apartment.
The final instruction had been given by a Frenchman. Benny knew that the Algerians and French didn’t like each other so he put two and two together. Orders for the job must have come from some high-placed Frenchman. They paid good, too.
Benny mulled over Luis Uribe’s proposition. He figured that the French already knew of his good work; maybe they’d deal with him. Chances were they’d be interested in those papers in Rico Parra’s briefcase.
He dropped around to the station to see Detective Leeman.
“Leeman, how do I see someone in French Intelligence?”
“What you up to, Benny?”
“Got a tip that may interest them. Swear, it’s got nothing to do with your action. You got my promise on that.”
“French Intelligence officer is called Special Labor Representative. Go to their labor office on Madison Avenue. Guy’s name is Prévost, Gustave Prévost. Now you sure you’re not making a mess for me?”
“You got my word, Leeman, my absolute word.”
“I’ll call Prévost for you and set up an appointment.”
Gustave Prévost rocked back and forth in his chair, tapped his fingertips together, and otherwise appeared to be sniffing constantly in short, darted breaths.
Benny García related the story of Luis Uribe and his offer.
“You say he has complete access to Parra’s papers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How about getting other people in and out of the Cuban’s rooms?”
“Well, they’ve been disarmed and them people is always creating such a rumpus ... hell, I just come and go like I please.”
“What is Mr. Uribe asking for the papers?”
“Twenty-five hundred,” he answered, tacking his own commission of five C-notes onto the price-Hell, wasn’t much for that kind of work.
“Where can you be reached?”
“San Martín Hotel. I got an apartment there. I’m always around.”
“I’ll pass the information along to someone who may be interested. You’ll be contacted.”
3
WITHIN A FEW HOURS of his meeting with Benny García, Gustave Prévost was aboard the Eastern shuttle flight to Washington and went directly to his boss, André Devereaux at the French Chancellery on Belmont Road.
André Devereaux detested this man. He was of that breed of locusts which had swarmed into and infested the French Secret Service, who took the job for its money, for an easy life, for the parties and ceremonies that went with it, and with none of the deep conviction and love of country of the dedicated intelligence agent.
Gustave Prévost had none of these qualities, nor did the school of sharks he swam with. His talents lay in the sly games necessary to safeguard his mediocrity. André would have fired him long before, but all the Gustave Prévosts secured their flanks by a series of alliances in their mutual survival society. André was faced with the fact of an SDECE riddled with them.
Gustave lit a cigar with his solid-gold lighter, revealing a pair of solid-gold cuff links. Ostentatious for a man of his position. “It smells bad,” he said sniffing at the air with blatant cynicism. “A setup. The Cubans are out to feed us a mouthful of false information.”
“No matter if the contents of Rico Parra’s attaché case are real or fake. They are being offered. We must take them. We will make a determination of their value later,” André said.
This, of course, was what Prévost wanted to hear, for now the decision was Devereaux’s, not his. He had no further responsibility in the matter. If it all succeeded, he could take credit. If it failed, he could tell Paris later that he had warned Devereaux of a trick.
For a bastard who wants my job, André thought, what is poor Gustave going to do when he can’t pass the buck and must make his own decisions?
“This will be a costly business, Monsieur Devereaux. Can our budget stand it?”
“Good intelligence cannot be run at cut-rate prices. So don’t spend so much on foolishness for the next couple of months, Prévost. Perhaps one less present for one less lady.”
“Sir, do you accuse ...”
“Certainly I do. Your accounts at various jewelry stores are getting a bit outrageous.”
Gustave Prévost flushed and sputtered.
“Get back up to New York,” André said contemptuously. “I’ll arrange the entire operation from here. And, Prévost, damn you, don’t bungle things at your end.”
4
BRIGITTE CAMUS KNOCKED AND entered André’s office in a single motion, and she knew the instant she saw him. André’s forehead was beady with sweat. He was having another of his attacks.
He fired a warning glance that she was to say nothing.
Brigitte Camus, his secretary of a decade, understood but deplored the situation. She advanced slowly toward his desk, ready to defy him and call the doctor.
“Well?” André said between labored breaths.
She set rolls of quarters, dimes, and nickels on the desk top. “Pepe’s ticket is at the National counter,” she said.
André forced his left hand out, grabbed the desk pen and scrawled that unreadable chicken track that represented his signature, and affixed it to a dozen letters, cables, and coded messages. She lifted the papers dutifully and made for the door, then turned. “Monsieur Devereaux!”
“That’s all, Madame Camus.”
“Perhaps you’d care for a glass of sherry,” she blurted, fishing for a reason to remain.
“Make it a bourbon. A stiff one.”
The first sip warmed him and the attack waned. His eyes followed her as she moved papers about to consume time in the office. Dear Brigitte. Still a very attractive and desirable woman in her late forties. A widow with a son in college, yet she still had her admirers. Like the good Frenchwoman, she made the most of what she had. It was comforting to watch her come and go and be around him these days. She was concerned and devoted.
> “Call Madame Devereaux and tell her I’ll be late.”
“I already have.”
“What’s on the damn calendar tonight?”
“Early cocktails, Ghana Embassy. Late cocktails, Sierra Leone Embassy. Tomorrow a dinner for the outgoing Nigerian Ambassador.”
“African week,” André grunted. The French were bad enough with protocol and wasted far too much valuable time on it, but the Africans were something else. The Africans imposed their new-found acceptance with an overpowering vigor. Their game of diplomatic musical chairs never ended. André held second rank in the Embassy under René d’Arcy and was in heavy demand to attend the functions, and the functions had increased fivefold in a decade, thanks to the Africans, who were easily offended by an absence.
“Perhaps you could get someone to attend for you,” Brigitte said.
“The honor of France requires my presence,” André mocked. “You may go, Madame Camus.”
She hedged.
“It’s quite all right. I’m fine now.”
She started for the code room. “Monsieur Devereaux, when will you take a rest?”
“In heaven. I’m looking forward to my first good night’s sleep there in twenty-five years.”
She was about to sob.
“Don’t, please don’t,” he said.
André departed immediately from the Chancellery and drove down Massachusetts Avenue lined with the embassies, legations, and consulates that made it a political artery of the world.
He parked in the lot near Union Station, entered its cavernous confines, and made for a random phone booth, closed the door behind him, unwrapped the rolls of coins, stacked them like poker chips, and opened shop by depositing a dime and dialing the operator.
“Operator. May I help you?”
“Thank you. I want Miami. Area 305. Person to person with Mr. Pepe Vimont at number 374-1299.”
He repeated his instructions indulgently to her questions. She thanked him. A rain of quarters clanged into the coin box with the sound of a muted church bell.