Topaz

  “She’s not really that way at all. Maybe a little spoiled, but ...”

  Jacques dunked his face in the water basin, scrubbed and toweled vigorously, then admired himself in the steel mirror nailed on the wall.

  “She’s bad news, André. I know this kind of girl. All women are possessive, but this one is the devouring kind.”

  “You sound like my father. What’s the difference? She’s engaged to be married.”

  “You’re lucky. Love comes in many packages, my friend. Some things which are called love are not love at all. What a girl like Nicole Thibaud thinks is love is total ownership. It’s destructive.”

  André was beyond listening to his older, wiser friend. He unlaced his boots and let them fall to the floor with a thud. “We’d better let them win tomorrow. I think we’re getting greedy.”

  That particular tomorrow never came for Jacques Granville. His freedom was purchased, and with a rousing farewell from his comrades he made off to join the Free French forces of General Pierre La Croix.

  André alone was left of the three comrades, and he fell into a deep depression.

  André answered a knock on the door. Nicole Thibaud stood before him.

  “Hello, André.”

  “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you. Won’t you ask me in?”

  “It’s not the Balneario .... Well, come in.”

  She scanned the cell-like room with its few pieces of cheap furniture. The walls had long needed paint, the windows were uncurtained, and a kerosene lamp on the table provided the only light.

  “You haven’t been around,” she said.

  “I’ve been quite upset since Jacques went away.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know he’d left. Papa wanted you for bridge tonight. There is no telephone here so ...”

  “I was thinking of coming back. We’re running out of money.”

  “Do you dislike me, André?”

  “On the contrary.”

  “But you dislike things about me.”

  “I’m not in a position to like or dislike. I’m penniless and homeless. Besides, you’re engaged to be married.”

  “Oh, that. I was going to call it off anyhow.”

  “Your fiancé might not like that.”

  “Too bad. Spanish men are too domineering anyhow. It was all arranged as a convenience for Papa’s business. I planned to rebel shortly.”

  She pushed close to him so that he could feel and smell her for an instant, then she spun away. “Do come back to the hotel. I’ve missed you,” she said, opening the door a crack.

  “Miss me, or are you bored?”

  “Mmmm, a little of both.”

  André reached over her shoulder and slammed the door shut. “You’re a bitch and a tease,” he said, grabbing her hands and pinning them behind her back. She struggled and tried to kick and bite. He avoided her movements deftly.

  “I’ll scream!”

  With his free hand he slapped her face, then released her. “Someone should have done that to you a long time ago.”

  Nicole fell back against the wall, panting in a rage. She looked about, found some tin cups and plates to throw and missed him by half the room. Tears of anger brimmed in her eyes.

  “Get out,” André ordered softly.

  Then suddenly her anger stopped and she stumbled to a chair and sat and hung her head and shook it and began to cry softly. “I don’t want to go, André. Lock the door....”

  She was in his arms and they loved fiercely.

  “I’ve never had a man. Please be careful ... please ... please.”

  “I love you, Nicole.”

  “I love you....”

  “Well, good to have you back, Devereaux. I haven’t won a rubber since you deserted me. We’ll give the Valencias a lesson later, eh? Here, have a drink.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Thibaud.”

  “Montrichard, eh? Magnificent country. What exactly did you do before the war?”

  “I was an apprentice lawyer in my father’s office.”

  “Old family? Active?”

  “My father, my grandfather, and my great grandfather were all mayors of Montrichard. A family responsibility I suppose I’ll inherit.”

  “Really, how interesting. Then your family has substantial interests in Montrichard?”

  “We do.”

  “Land. Assets.”

  “Yes.”

  “And your schooling?”

  “I am drawing a conclusion about this questioning, Monsieur Thibaud. Perhaps you will tell me if I am correct.”

  “Man to man?”

  “Yes.”

  “Devereaux, my daughter has taken quite a liking to you. She has a disturbing temper ... disturbing! Very willful. Young man, are you interested in Nicole?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “Then I’ll be candid. Nicole returns your feeling, fully. I am in a position to get you out of here and fix you up with a set of papers. My business in Madrid could use a young chap like you with legal background and your knowledge of several languages. You see, we engage in international trade and ...”

  “Why, Monsieur Thibaud. I do believe you are proposing to me.”

  “Well, you want to get out of this mess, don’t you? Do you intend to rot in this place?”

  “I intend to fight for France. Good day, sir.”

  “Devereaux!”

  “Yes?”

  “You are not to call on Nicole again.”

  “That is her choice, sir. She knows where I live.”

  Nicole stood on the fringe of the outdoor patio of El Torito Café, where the men drank cheap wine and discussed news and rumors with a zest that could only sparkle from Frenchmen.

  “By the end of the year all of North Africa will be in La Croix’s hands!”

  “Mark my words. La Croix will move his headquarters to Algeria, and then we’ll see about Admiral de St. Amertin.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you do know the bastard scuttled part of the fleet rather than deliver it to the Allies.”

  Nicole spotted André, twenty-one, filled with exuberance and handsome in his way. She caught his eye. He excused himself and they walked silently to the end of the street, which led to a country road and a meadow.

  “I came to say good-bye,” she said. “Papa is taking us back to Madrid tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She broke into tears. “I thought you said you loved me!”

  “I do, Nicole.”

  “And after what we did together, you refused my papa’s offer!”

  “Making love is a natural expression of a man and a woman who desire each other. As for your father’s offer, I’m not to be selected like a bottle of wine.”

  “After I have given myself to you, you’d leave me?”

  “Only till I get my job done.”

  “What job? You have no job.”

  “Nicole. In Africa there are Frenchmen wearing the French uniform, fighting for France. Jacques and Robert are among them. This war is passing me by. Did you see the men in El Torito? We all exist for but one thing ... to redeem the honor of France.”

  “I don’t understand this rubbish of honor and this fanaticism for blood.”

  “You’ve lived in Spain most of your life. You don’t even speak French to your parents most of the time.”

  “But I love you, André.”

  “The way to love is by giving, not taking. If you really love me, then get me my freedom and let me do my duty.”

  “Oh, God! I don’t want you to go.”

  “That’s what I’m going to do, Nicole.”

  “There’s no choice then, is there?”

  “None for me.”

  “Will you ever come back for me?”

  “Yes, I want to.”

  “I’ll ... I’ll see that Papa buys your freedom.”

  “Nicole, try to understand.”

  “No, I don’t. But take me to your
room ... now!”

  André arrived in Málaga, where a number of liberated prisoners from Miranda de Ebro slept in the bullring awaiting transport.

  He boarded the ship with a mixture of elation and sadness, for his heart was filled with love for Nicole.

  Operation Torch, the British-American landings in North Africa, had swept the coast and the tug of war was on between the two divided French forces.

  The arrival at Casablanca set off a grand welcome. Bands and troops were there in the uniform of the Spahi Cavalry and the Foreign Legion.

  Tears of joy streamed down the cheeks of men as they once again saw their beloved tricolor and once again heard the national anthem.

  André Devereaux had arrived in the stronghold of Admiral de St. Amertin.

  6

  CASABLANCA, A CREATION OF French imperialism since the turn of the century, was suddenly thrust into world attention as a focal point of invasion by Operation Torch in November of 1942 and later as a meeting ground at the summit for the Allied leaders.

  The upper-class European merchants lived in luxury along wide and endless boulevards that surrounded the now all-important port. Impoverished Muslims and Jews continued life in their miserable medinas and mellahs.

  Casablanca teemed with fresh, untested American troops forming an admixture with the French Marines, the colonial infantry, and the Spahi Cavalry.

  Within the walled city of Bous Bir, five thousand skilled prostitutes and superb belly dancers vied for the flood of soldiers’ money in the most ancient way.

  But all through the French North African colonies and in the Near East an inner conflict raged. The garrisons of a hundred thousand-odd French and colonials belonged mostly to the Vichy Government, the collaborationists of Nazi Germany.

  Pierre La Croix and his Free French had fought a series of popgun invasions and expeditions under General Leclerc to reclaim French possessions from Vichy.

  Starting with a landing in Cameroons in 1940, La Croix had rallied territory after territory to the cause of Fighting France: Gabon, French Equatorial Africa, Chad, Ubangi. Then in the Pacific and Far East, Tahiti and New Caledonia declared for La Croix, followed by Pondicherry and the French possessions in India.

  Fearing an invasion of the Japanese, the British landed in Madagascar, and it, too, joined the swelling ranks of Free France.

  Now Senegal, French Guinea, Ivory Coast, Dahomey, Niger, French Occidental Africa, and, in the West Indies, Guadeloupe and Martinique all declared for Fighting France.

  Free France entered the field with the British in the Ethiopian campaign and tasted bitter blood at Bir Hacheim in Libya, writing a chapter of glory against Rommel’s assaults.

  In one of the great paradoxes of the war, Vichy France continued to be recognized by the United States despite its collaboration with Germany, and the Vichy garrisons sat tight in Morocco, Tunisia, and Algeria.

  When Operation Torch opened the invasion of North Africa, the Germans were forced to retaliate by occupying all of metropolitan France and reducing the Vichy Government to the rankest of puppets. Vichy was virtually powerless.

  Now it was a question of the Vichy garrisons. The American paradox became even more baffling when Vichy Admiral de St. Amertin was installed by the Americans as their handpicked commander of the former Vichy garrisons.

  Pierre La Croix and Fighting France countered this by establishing headquarters and a quasi government in Algeria in late spring of 1943. From here, he continued to press his demands for recognition, the right of France to fight, the joining of his forces with the garrison forces and the formation of a joint national committee.

  Free France was extremely unpopular, for the majority of Arab sympathy was for Germany and the Axis. The French colonists and settlers wanted to keep a status quo and continue the spirit of Vichy and not be dragged into the war by alignment with Free France. The major exception was the French Jewish population, who backed Free France in their personal desire to fight against the Germans.

  Camp Boulhot stood midway between Casablanca and Rabat, thirty miles inland from the sea, and was filled with a collection of French and Moroccan soldiers of traditional colonial units.

  André Devereaux, who had been a horseman since childhood, requested duty in a Spahi Cavalry regiment. The Spahis were a colorful lot, with their flaming red capes and high polished boots and light blue kepi hats bearing the crescent and star of Morocco.

  But they were the forces of Admiral de St. Amertin, formerly of Vichy, and were to be kept by the Americans as parade-ground soldiers far from the cannons’ roar.

  In the weeks that followed, André received letters from Jacques Granville and Robert Proust, who were with La Croix in Algiers. With the picture terribly clear, André sought out La Croix men who had infiltrated de St. Amertin’s ranks to recruit for Fighting France.

  “L’Auberge de la Forêt” stood beyond the camp gates in a setting of jasmine trees and the raging color of the French colonial uniforms.

  Captain Dupont found a quiet table with André and ordered thick, sweet coffee. The La Croix recruiter asked a number of questions of André.

  “This place stinks of Vichy, Captain,” André said. “All during the time we were struggling to reach here, I never thought it would be like this. They’re Frenchmen. They’ve got to fight for France.”

  The Captain shook his head slowly. “It doesn’t work that way.”

  “I don’t understand,” André continued, “why the Americans installed a Vichy officer over the garrisons or why they are so determined to keep us off the front or why they withhold recognition from Free France.”

  “They do not want us fighting,” Dupont said, “or the colonies reunified so that we will have no word at the peace tables.”

  “Why in the name of God do the Americans hate us?”

  “Roosevelt has never forgiven France for bungling the phony war, sitting it out when Poland was attacked and then letting Germany crush us. He feels that France is incapable of leadership in Europe and intends to reduce us to a second-rate power. Only Pierre La Croix and a handful of Free French stand between the United States and its ambitions.”

  “I must join Free France,” André cried. “I must get to Algeria. Will you help me?”

  “Wait until you get a leave, then bolt. I’ll get the information on you back to Algiers.”

  The tough, hard-nosed old colonials detested the proud young men in their ranks who longed to fight for Free France. André Devereaux was singled out for special punishment and humiliation. His nose was rubbed in every dirty detail and no means was spared to break his spirit. He was in a state of constant fatigue imposed by brutality. Somehow he continued to endure.

  Finally, on a flimsy pretext, his commanding officer inflicted on him the most inhuman of punishments—the tombeau. André was compelled to dig a shallow trench under the flame of the desert sun, then lie in it. The trench was covered by a canvas. No food or water would be given him, nor would he leave until he pleaded for mercy.

  André baked in the tombeau for thirteen daylight hours, and through the night he half-froze to death. The test of fortitude continued a second searing day. Through his agony his lips remained sealed. No plea came from him until a merciful unconsciousness consumed him on the third day.

  When the canvas was lifted, he was carried off to the hospital. All the years back, of flight, prison, and semistarvation, had taken their toll. He was a sick young man, needing long hospitalization.

  At the end of his stay he was granted a short leave. With furlough documents in his hand, André Devereaux boarded a train and fled to Algeria.

  At last he arrived in the headquarters of Fighting France!

  7

  ALGIERS ROSE FROM THE sea, hugging the line of the bay for miles, while it climbed the steep hills in dazzling white terraces. From the Casbah with its fabled evil and twisted alleyways down to the broad boulevards that hovered over the quay lined with government buildings, public squares, and hotels
, it swept up again to the university, which was now the seat of Fighting France in exile.

  André turned himself in at once at the Arabian Bruce Palace that housed the Central Intelligence Bureau.

  “We have been expecting you,” he was greeted.

  The bureau, run by a smattering of former military intelligence personnel, interrogated him thoroughly before issuing him temporary papers to the effect he was now a member of the Free French.

  André left the Bruce Palace still in a state of disbelief.

  “André! André!”

  “Robert!”

  The comrades embraced and slapped each other’s backs sore.

  “I phoned Jacques. He’ll be waiting for us at the Aletti Hotel.”

  André patted the jeep bearing the Free French colors and Cross of Lorraine, and Robert pointed it downhill, babbling the while, trying to catch up in a single moment.

  He had been appointed Chief of Western Hemisphere Intelligence in an organization being built from the ground up. As for Jacques Granville, he had fared even better. Jacques had been named one of Pierre La Croix’s chief liaison officers.

  As they raced down toward the harbor, André drew a series of deep, deep breaths. “Oh, God, this is so great!”

  “Don’t dream too much. It’s full of Vichy here, and we don’t get along with the Americans. The only real support we have is from the Jews.”

  Jacques Granville cut a magnificent figure in his uniform. They greeted each other affectionately, and all three headed to the Oasis Restaurant, a large open-terraced establishment on the second floor of the Aletti Hotel. For a while all three of them jabbered at once, then Jacques prevailed. “Now, ready for some news?” he said. “Hold your breath, André. You have an interview tomorrow with the General.”

  “La Croix?”

  “Yes!”

  “But ... but ...”

  “But nothing. I told him you were the brightest fellow in all of the Loire, that you were the heart of the underground ring. It’s a great opportunity for you. We are very short of people and the sky is the limit.”

  “Tell me I’m not dreaming!”

  “It calls for champagne,” Robert said.

  “There’s another surprise.”