Free Leon Uris by Topaz

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
    W ITHIN 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
    B RIGITTE C AMUS 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.