sighed.
“I’m heading there now with Mike. Follow us in fifteen minutes.”
“Right.”
In a moment Marsh McKittrick disappeared with Mike Nordstrom. Liz Nordstrom stood emptily by the main door watching them go.
Now he would find Nicole and do the same. He asked Tucker Brown to see his wife home, gave his regrets to René d’Arcy, and followed the Americans to Bethesda.
13
A NDRÉ ENTERED THE HOSPITAL room and stood next to Marshall McKittrick and Nordstrom before the oxygen tent covering the body of Boris Kuznetov.
The cragginess of the Russian’s face was rendered even more pronounced by his waxen stillness. The sounds were heard of the suffering for breath, the hiss of the respirator, the soft rubber steps of the nurse, and the intermittent weeping of Olga Kuznetov.
Americans grit their teeth. The French wring their hands. Russians weep unabashedly. Olga Kuznetov’s flat face was wet with expended tears. She wrung her sopping handkerchief and rocked back and forth. Tamara stood above her mother, weeping too but quietly and glassy-eyed.
“How bad is it?” André asked.
“Bad,” Nordstrom answered.
André took a step forward, and as he became fixed upon Kuznetov, he was suddenly consumed by fright. He saw a vision of himself lying on the bed, fighting for his own life. He heard the crying of Nicole and Michele. Yes, it would be like this ... even with Marsh and Mike in the room.
It’s the end for all of us in this business, André thought. Who escapes? Would his end be in a prison in a strange land or in the gutter of an alley with a bullet ripping away the face? Or would it come from the black depression that forced so many of his colleagues to destroy themselves by their own hand? Or a sudden massive pain in the chest?
What did Dr. Kaplan call it? Narcolepsy ...
“See that Madame Kuznetov and her daughter are comfortable. Get them a room right here in the hospital. Tell her we’ll do everything in our power,” Nordstrom’s voice intoned. “I want six guards on him at all times, and inform me immediately if there are any changes in his condition.”
“Yes, sir.”
André did not feel Michael tap his shoulder. “We might as well go,” Michael said.
André came out of it. They paid respects to the wife and started to leave.
“Wait,” McKittrick said.
Boris Kuznetov’s eyes fluttered open. He stared at them, raised his hand feebly.
“He’s in no condition to speak,” the doctor said.
Kuznetov persisted.
“Only a second, please,” the doctor warned.
Through exhausting effort Boris made it clear it was André with whom he wanted to talk. André knelt beside the bed. The oxygen tent was lifted from him. He placed his ear close to the Russian’s lips.
“Devereaux ...”
“Yes?”
“You must not tell Paris.”
“Why?”
“There is grave danger ... for France.”
“What danger?”
“Topaz ... Topaz ...”
Kuznetov’s hand fell. He closed his eyes, exhausted by the effort.
They walked the long corridor. “What did he say?” Nordstrom asked.
“It made no sense,” André answered. “No sense at all.”
14
N ICOLE WAS PROPPED UP directly in the middle of André’s bed. The gauntlet was down. Robespierre had his chin cradled on his mistress’s stomach, and his eyes followed André with fear and suspicion as he undressed.
Nicole had had too much to drink, a habit she was picking up from the American women. American women drink too much, he sputtered under his breath. They have to in order to sweep aside the taboos imposed by Puritanism. Love is bad. Sex is evil. So drown it, in order to do the things a European woman comes to naturally and without all this sense of guilt.
Once when Nicole got high on wine she was passionate. These days she was a bitch. Upper lip narrowed. Upper teeth bared. André undressed with deliberate slowness, letting Nicole stew, giving his teeth an extra long brushing, running the water at full blast.
“Michele took a late plane
“I’m heading there now with Mike. Follow us in fifteen minutes.”
“Right.”
In a moment Marsh McKittrick disappeared with Mike Nordstrom. Liz Nordstrom stood emptily by the main door watching them go.
Now he would find Nicole and do the same. He asked Tucker Brown to see his wife home, gave his regrets to René d’Arcy, and followed the Americans to Bethesda.
13
A NDRÉ ENTERED THE HOSPITAL room and stood next to Marshall McKittrick and Nordstrom before the oxygen tent covering the body of Boris Kuznetov.
The cragginess of the Russian’s face was rendered even more pronounced by his waxen stillness. The sounds were heard of the suffering for breath, the hiss of the respirator, the soft rubber steps of the nurse, and the intermittent weeping of Olga Kuznetov.
Americans grit their teeth. The French wring their hands. Russians weep unabashedly. Olga Kuznetov’s flat face was wet with expended tears. She wrung her sopping handkerchief and rocked back and forth. Tamara stood above her mother, weeping too but quietly and glassy-eyed.
“How bad is it?” André asked.
“Bad,” Nordstrom answered.
André took a step forward, and as he became fixed upon Kuznetov, he was suddenly consumed by fright. He saw a vision of himself lying on the bed, fighting for his own life. He heard the crying of Nicole and Michele. Yes, it would be like this ... even with Marsh and Mike in the room.
It’s the end for all of us in this business, André thought. Who escapes? Would his end be in a prison in a strange land or in the gutter of an alley with a bullet ripping away the face? Or would it come from the black depression that forced so many of his colleagues to destroy themselves by their own hand? Or a sudden massive pain in the chest?
What did Dr. Kaplan call it? Narcolepsy ...
“See that Madame Kuznetov and her daughter are comfortable. Get them a room right here in the hospital. Tell her we’ll do everything in our power,” Nordstrom’s voice intoned. “I want six guards on him at all times, and inform me immediately if there are any changes in his condition.”
“Yes, sir.”
André did not feel Michael tap his shoulder. “We might as well go,” Michael said.
André came out of it. They paid respects to the wife and started to leave.
“Wait,” McKittrick said.
Boris Kuznetov’s eyes fluttered open. He stared at them, raised his hand feebly.
“He’s in no condition to speak,” the doctor said.
Kuznetov persisted.
“Only a second, please,” the doctor warned.
Through exhausting effort Boris made it clear it was André with whom he wanted to talk. André knelt beside the bed. The oxygen tent was lifted from him. He placed his ear close to the Russian’s lips.
“Devereaux ...”
“Yes?”
“You must not tell Paris.”
“Why?”
“There is grave danger ... for France.”
“What danger?”
“Topaz ... Topaz ...”
Kuznetov’s hand fell. He closed his eyes, exhausted by the effort.
They walked the long corridor. “What did he say?” Nordstrom asked.
“It made no sense,” André answered. “No sense at all.”
14
N ICOLE WAS PROPPED UP directly in the middle of André’s bed. The gauntlet was down. Robespierre had his chin cradled on his mistress’s stomach, and his eyes followed André with fear and suspicion as he undressed.
Nicole had had too much to drink, a habit she was picking up from the American women. American women drink too much, he sputtered under his breath. They have to in order to sweep aside the taboos imposed by Puritanism. Love is bad. Sex is evil. So drown it, in order to do the things a European woman comes to naturally and without all this sense of guilt.
Once when Nicole got high on wine she was passionate. These days she was a bitch. Upper lip narrowed. Upper teeth bared. André undressed with deliberate slowness, letting Nicole stew, giving his teeth an extra long brushing, running the water at full blast.
“Michele took a late plane
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