The Tristan Betrayal - By Robert Ludlum Page 0,1

in the National Security Council seems to be that to intervene might be to risk nuclear war."

"An apt fear. These men are desperate to overthrow the Gorbachev regime. They will resort to anything. You've seen the tanks on the streets of Moscow-now all that remains is for the conspirators to order their forces to strike. To attack civilians. It will be a blood bath. Thousands will be killed! But the orders to strike will not be issued unless the Oirizhor gives his approval. Everything hangs on him-he is the linchpin."

"But he's not one of the plotters?"

"No. As you know, he's the ultimate insider, a man who controls the levers of power in absolute secrecy. He will never appear at a news conference; he acts in stealth. But he is in sympathy with the coup plotters. Without his support, the coup must fail. With his support, the coup will surely succeed. And Russia will once again become a Stalinist dictatorship-and the world will be at the brink of nuclear war."

"Why did you call me here?" asked Metcalfe. "Why me?"

The general turned to face Metcalfe, and in his eyes Metcalfe could see fear. "Because you're the only one I trust. And you're the only one who has a chance of reaching him. The Dirizhor."

"And why will the Oirizhor listen to me?"

"I think you know," said the Russian quietly. "You can change history, my friend. After all, we both know you did it before."
Chapter One
PART ONE

Chapter One

Paris, November 1940

The City of Light had gone dark.

Ever since the Nazis had invaded, then seized control of France six months earlier, the world's greatest city had become forlorn and desolate. The qua is along the Seine were deserted. The Arc de Triomphe, the place de l'Etoile those magnificent gleaming landmarks that once lit up the night sky were now gloomy, abandoned. Above the Eiffel Tower, where once the French tricolor rippled, a Nazi swastika flag waved.

Paris was quiet. There were hardly any cars on the street anymore, or taxis. Most of the grand hotels had been taken over by the Nazis. Gone was the revelry, the laughter of evening strollers, carousers. Gone, too, were the birds, victims of the smoke from the burning gasoline during the first days of the German incursion.

Most people stayed in at night, intimidated by their occupiers, the curfews, the new laws that had been imposed on them, the green-uniformed Wehrmacht soldiers who patrolled the streets with their swinging bayonets, their revolvers. A once-proud city had sunk into despair, famine, fear.

Even the aristocratic avenue Foch, the widest, grandest thoroughfare in Paris, lined with handsome white stone facades, seemed windswept and bleak.

With a single exception.

One hotel particulier, a private mansion, glittered with light. Faint music could be heard from within: a swing orchestra. The tinkle of china and crystal, excited voices, carefree laughter. This was an island of glittering privilege, all the more radiant for its gloomy background.

The Hotel de Chatelet was the magnificent residence of the Comte Maurice Leon Philippe du Chatelet and his wife, the legendary and gracious hostess Marie-Helene. The Comte du Chatelet was an industrialist of enormous wealth as well as a minister in the collaborationist Vichy government. Most of all, though, he was known for his parties, which helped sustain tout Paris through the dark days of the occupation.

An invitation to a party at the Hotel de Chatelet was an object of social envy sought after, anticipated for weeks. Especially these days, with all the rationing and food shortages, when it was just about impossible to get real coffee or butter or cheese, when only the very well connected could get meat or fresh vegetables. An invitation to cocktails at the du Chatelets' meant an opportunity to eat one's fill. Here, inside this gracious home, there was not a hint that one lived in a city of brutal deprivation.

The party was already in full swing by the time one of the guests, a very late arrival, was admitted by a manservant.

The guest was a remarkably handsome young man, in his late twenties, with a full head of black hair, large brown eyes that seemed to twinkle with mischief, an aquiline nose. He was tall and broad, with a trim athletic build. As he handed his topcoat to the maitre d'hotel, the butler, he nodded, smiled, and said, "Bonsoir, merci beaucoup."

He was called Daniel Eigen. He had been living in Paris off and on for the last year or so, and he was a regular on the party circuit,

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