The Plot

by Irving Wallace

After that incident, Brennan had wondered briefly whether Neely’s information had been wrong or if Rostov had moved to another hotel. At the same time, Brennan’s knowledge of Russian diplomats, their instinctive adherence to seclusion, convinced him that not only Rostov, but the other Soviet delegates as well, had been ordered to keep their places of residence and their movements concealed. The hotel had probably been instructed not to acknowledge the presence of any Russian delegates, except to a restricted list of callers. Brennan had not been sure of this, but had realized that there was only one thing left to do—to verify it for himself.

  He had gone hastily into the Rue de Berri and caught a taxi to the Left Bank. The traffic, extraordinary for this hour, had delayed him, and it was not until twenty minutes after eight that Brennan arrived in front of the iron awning and yellow entrance doors of the Hotel Palais d’Orsay on the Quai Anatole-France.

  Entering the lobby cautiously, hoping to be as inconspicuous as possible, Brennan had been surprised by the lack of activity inside. Except for a bellboy on the run, the lobby had appeared empty. To his left, Brennan had become aware of a rheumy-eyed, bloated old man behind the concierge’s desk, slowly sorting the mail.

  Brennan had confronted the old man and had quietly inquired for Nikolai Rostov. The old man had examined the guest file and shaken his head. “No Rostov here.” Brennan had winked understanding and shoved a crisp 100-franc note across the counter. The bribe had inspired nothing but fright in the old man. In a furry undertone he had explained that the head concierge was ill, that he himself was merely a humble portier filling in until the concierge’s replacement, a new concierge just arrived from Biarritz, came on duty at nine o’clock. But even the new concierge might be of little help, the portier had explained, for he was not part of the hotel’s regular staff, only a substitute for these few busy weeks, after which he would go back to Biarritz.

  “But he comes on at nine o’clock?” Brennan had asked. -You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes, yes—”

  “I’ll wait,” Brennan had said, pocketing the 100-franc note.

  To consume time, and work off his nervous energy, he had gone outside, ambled past the long-abandoned railroad station, purchased a London newspaper at a kiosk, visited the modern bar of a café called Le Rapide, and finally, he had returned to Rostov’s hotel.

  The lobby had come to life and was teeming with guests and bellboys. The bloated old portier had still been alone behind the concierge’s desk. Brennan had made his way to the far end of the lobby, settled in an imitation-leather chair beside a stone column, and pretended to read his newspaper. Once, he had noticed that two bulky men in brown suits, the first with a chalky face, the other with a pitted face, had ceased their circling of the lobby to cast sidelong glances at him, and then, conversing in undertones, they had climbed the central staircase. Worriedly Brennan had watched them, pondered upon their identity—hotel detectives, or French DST, or Russian KGB? He had speculated on the possibility that the old portier had informed them of a stranger’s interest in Rostov, of his attempted bribe, and that they had looked him over for this reason and were now reporting his presence to someone upstairs.

  Nine o’clock had come and gone, and the portier continued to work alone behind the desk. Nine-fifteen, and still there had been no change. By nine twenty-five Brennan had become extremely uneasy and apprehensive. Suddenly, he had realized that there were two behind the desk. The second one, to whom the portier was whispering, was a shriveled Frenchman with wisps of mouse-colored hair and abnormally thick-lensed spectacles, busily fastening the brass buttons of his long concierge’s jacket.

  At once, Brennan had crossed the lobby to face the new concierge.

  “Good morning, monsieur,” the concierge had said gently, showing his gold teeth. “I am advised that you have been waiting for me. You think I can be of assistance to you?”

  “I hope you can,” said Brennan.

  “You have made inquiries with the regular hotel personnel at the reception?”

  “No.”

  “Ummm. Well, you see, I am not part of their permanent staff, so I am not burdened by the same obligations—you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  The concierge’s gold teeth had flashed. “Good. This—this guest you have inquired about—I am not certain if one with such a name is here—it does not come easily to the mind.”

  “Perhaps you will remember it in due time,” Brennan had said. His hand had gone across the counter. “In any event, I wish to thank you.” They had shaken hands, and now the 100-franc note was no longer in Brennan’s palm.

  The concierge’s hand had dropped to his pocket, and after a moment returned to massage his brow. His gray eyes, distorted by the convex lenses of his glasses, had considered Brennan with an affection that heretofore they had not possessed. “Now that I have thought about it longer, I do remember. How remarkable. Yes, we do have a Nikolai Rostov registered in this hotel. But because of security, we must be discreet about visitors. Otherwise, anyone might go to”—his voice dropped—“to Rooms 214 and 215.”

  Brennan had restrained a smile. ‘Thank you. I wonder if he is in right now?”

  “Excuse me. I must use the telephone in the bar.”

  He had left his desk, and Brennan had made a pretense of reading his newspaper once more. By the time that he had turned to page eight and the cricket scores, the concierge had returned. After casting a glance at the reception desk, he had taken up a pencil and a directory of Paris entertainment, and leaned over the counter confidentially. “I have had a ten-franc conversation with the floor valet. Mrs. Rostov is still in the suite, dressing. Mr. Rostov has departed. He was seen to leave the hotel before eight o’clock, and heard to remark to his wife that he was on his way to the Soviet Embassy, but that he expected to be at the Palais Rose by ten.” The enlarged pupils behind the thick lenses had appeared to expand. “Perhaps what I relay is useful. I can say no more. Good morning, monsieur, and the best of luck.”

  Leaving the Hotel Palais d’Orsay, Brennan had realized that although he had missed Rostov, a disappointment, the early visit had not been a complete loss. At least he had learned where Rostov would be at ten o’clock. Brennan’s next step had been clear to him.

  He had hastened to the Rue de Lille, gone into the Café Le Rapide, and put through a call to Herb Neely at the United States Embassy. To Brennan’s intense relief, Neely had still been in his office. Quickly, Brennan had summarized his morning, his plan, and his problem.

  “No problem,” Neely had assured him. “We have a number of extra press passes prepared for correspondents from nonexistent newspapers or syndicates. We give them to the CIA, FBI, and several Embassy people we like to have in the Palais Rose. Ingenious, eh, old man? Okay, here’s what I’ll have one of these phony press passes dropped off at your hotel. Your name will be on it, also your fictional affiliation, and it’ll be signed by me and countersigned by the Ambassador. All you have to do is paste one of your passport pictures in it. Then, just flash it at the gate and march inside like you belong. If you want to intercept Rostov in the courtyard, well, hang around with the photographers. If you can’t grab him there, go up to the press section, have something at the snack bar, and read my releases. When the Russians announce their press briefing, after the first session breaks, why, you attend it I reckon you’re most likely to run into Rostov there. And, Matt, listen, if you run into anyone who recognizes you, like that Hazel Smith bitch, except she’s not covering the Palais Rose itself, well, play it cool. You have your credentials. You’re accredited. You’re a writer. Sue me. Savvy? Okay now—sic ‘em.”

  Those had been the earlier events of the frustrating morning, Brennan now recalled, as French bodies bumped his body and French elbows jammed his ribs, and he allowed himself to be carried along with the pushing crowd down the Avenue Malakoff. Still, he was not disheartened. The ornate press pass, bearing his likeness, was secure in his inner coat pocket.

&nb
sp; Unexpectedly, like a giant breaker smashing against a granite wall and being rolled back, the surging crowd had been stopped by a solid revêtement of French police, and then fallen back. As Brennan struggled to keep his balance, he saw police officers opening a path through the mass of sightseers, shoving some against the black iron fence and others across the thoroughfare.

  Momentarily freed, Brennan yanked the press pass from inside his coat and stepped up to a policeman, waving it The policeman glanced at it and gestured down the open path. Brennan went swiftly, holding his pass before him like a white flag of truce, until he reached the iron gates of the Palais Rose. A French commissaire snatched up the pass, examined it carefully, and pointed him into the courtyard filled with photographers, security agents, government officials, and chauffeurs standing beside their variety of limousines.

  Hearing the sounds of motorcycles growing louder, and scattered cheers from the spectators lined up outside the gates, Brennan joined the group of photographers racing for positions on the stone steps before the Palais Rose entrance doors. The motorcycles were deafening, and all at once an escort of helmeted French mobile police burst through the opened gates, some leading and some following a custom-built Red Flag sedan, with curtains drawn across the rear windows, and the banner of the People’s Republic of China fluttering from a front fender. Until now, Brennan had not seen China’s first luxury automobile, except for photographs of it in periodicals, where he had read it was manufactured near Peking, at a cost of 30,000 yuan or $12,000, and was equipped with three forward speeds and a speedometer that recorded 100 miles per hour.

  The motorcycles idled noisily. The doors of the Red Flag opened like wings, and a half-dozen Chinese stepped out into the courtyard. All of them wore immaculate gray uniforms, and all were of indeterminate years except one, the eldest, whom Brennan recognized immediately as Chairman Kuo Shu-tung.

  The head of the Chinese Communist Party and Politburo resembled a patriarchal Tao philosopher more than the leader of a progressive, rapidly industrializing nuclear-armed nation. Kuo Shu-tung traversed the yards of carpeting with surprising energy for one of his years and consumptive appearance. He alone of the delegation appeared to be enjoying himself. As he marched into the semicircle of raised cameras, their shutters clicking steadily, Kuo Shu-tung’s lively, darting eyes, which seemed fastened to a face possessing the texture of brown rice paper, were alert and amused. Once, perhaps for the cameras, he dropped a gnarled hand from his goatee and patted the three medals on his otherwise unadorned uniform, then apparently made a joke over his shoulder, for his taller, younger aides reacted promptly with a restrained tittering in unison.

  As the Chinese Chairman mounted the stairs, he was engulfed by French protocol officers and French and Chinese security agents, and the whole band disappeared inside the building. An American photographer near Brennan came out of his crouch to shout to a colleague, ‘That’s the last of them, isn’t it, Al?” Across the way, another photographer, pure Brooklyn, bellowed back, “Yeah! They’re all inside now play in’ catch with the N-bomb!”

  The news that they were all inside dismayed Brennan. He had guessed that he was once more too late to intercept Rostov, but yet, he had hoped. Now not only Rostov, but everyone who was anyone at the Summit, was inaccessible within the Palais Rose. In minutes, the leaders would be convening in the grand salon. For Brennan, there was nothing more to do except follow Neely’s advice. Turning toward the entrance doors, his press pass in hand, he trailed several security agents into the mammoth inner hall.

  Ten minutes later, after being halted three times to have his credentials examined, after ascending one of the marble staircases, Brennan followed the signs—on which all directions were given in four languages—to the palace’s upstairs dining room and smoking room, which had been converted into the Summit’s press quarters.

  Incredibly, there were angels over the doors, but even these did not prepare Brennan for the bewildering incongruity of the press room’s interior. The domed ceiling painted with pink clouds, the milky window, the Louis XIV consoles, and the green-and-gold Ionic columns were the only reminders of the pre-Summit Palais Rose. Everything else was jarring to the eye, for the vast room was furnished with rows of wooden tables holding typewriters and telephones, and nearby were teletype machines. Along the far wall two portable bars had been placed, one for dispensing drinks, the other for sandwiches and light snacks. Beside the bars there were two more doors, a decorative fake one and a real one topped by an arched niche from which the statuary had been removed.

  Standing inside the entrance, Brennan guessed that there were at least three dozen correspondents posted in the reconverted dining room. Several were at their typewriters, several were at the bars, and the rest were scattered throughout the room in conversational groups. Most of these seemed American, English, or French, although Brennan moved aside for one party of journalists that was mostly French but included some Chinese and possibly a few Russians, who continued on through the room and out of the door under the niche that led into the reconverted smoking room.

  Uncomfortable as he was in this strange environment, densely occupied by members of an estate so hostile to him, Brennan determined to look as if he belonged here. Busily, he made his way to a felt-draped counter heaped with mimeographed press releases and schedules, each of which was available in English, French, Russian, and Chinese. Gathering up a variety of releases written in English, pretending to be absorbed in their contents, he wove his way across the room to the liquor bar.

  Ordering a Scotch-and-water, he wondered how long the first plenary session of the leaders would take, and whether the Russians would hold their press briefing afterward (as Neely had predicted), and whether Nikolai Rostov would be present. Lost in thought, he gradually became aware of a familiar American voice ordering three ham-and-cheese sandwiches.

  Brennan looked up. At the adjacent snack bar an elephantine correspondent, his face not entirely visible, was leaning against the counter and pointing across it. “No, garçon, not three plates,” he was saying. “Put all the sandwiches on one plate. They’re just for me. Got to keep my figure, you know.”

  The full face was visible at last, and even though the cheeks were puffier, the chins more numerous, Brennan still recognized it. Instantly computing whether this had been friend or foe, he knew this had been friend. Taking his drink, he moved toward him. “Hello, Jay Doyle,” he said.

  Doyle separated the half-consumed sandwich from his mouth and, still chewing, came around warily. His features widened into recognition and surprise. “Matt! Of all people! What in the devil are you doing here? This is great! You don’t look a day older. You look terrific.”

  “So do you, Jay.”

  “Sure, sure, I’m two for the price of one these days. My God, when was the last time? I know. Don’t tell me. Zurich. The Zurich Parley. That was—what?—three, four, five years.”

  “Four years, Jay.”

  Doyle put down the remnant of his sandwich. “Shouldn’t be eating anyway,” he said. He nodded at Brennan. “Four years, yes. I—I guess you have good reason to remember, Matt. I—I was damn sorry about the whole mess. It was unfair.”

  “Forget it,” said Brennan. “What have you been up to since? Same old stand?”

  “Well, no—not—not exactly. I’ll tell you—”

  With a curious compulsiveness and candor, Doyle began to relate everything, his fall from favor in recent years, his obsession with the theory that an international conspiracy had been responsible for President Kennedy’s death, his earlier relationship with Hazel Smith (which astonished Brennan completely), his unsuccessful efforts to obtain her help, and the reason for his presence in Paris.

  Then, as if he were in the confessional admitting a sin, desiring forgiveness, Doyle suddenly said, “Matt, I wouldn’t be bending your ear like this, except I’m trying to get to something that involves you, to get it off my chest.”

  “Something that involves me? I can�
��t imagine—”

  “Just hear me out another minute. By the time I got to Zurich, I was near hitting bottom. I’d lost my column. I’d latched on to some small syndicate that didn’t count for much or pay much. I went to Zurich supposedly to cover the Parley. Actually, my outlets couldn’t support and didn’t rate that kind of coverage. But I went, I was really there, because I expected to run into Hazel. I was sure she’d be covering the Russians. But she wasn’t there. Then I figured, well, maybe some of our delegation could fill in my leads or clues on the Dallas assassination, but I couldn’t get anywhere with anyone. Back in Washington, President Earnshaw and Madlock had always been good to me—leads, leaks of information—when I was on top, and Earnshaw was still friendly, but Madlock knew I wasn’t top-level anymore and didn’t rate top-level tips. In Zurich, the guys from the State Department, some of the others, knew I wasn’t important to them any more. So they avoided me. And the ones I got to, when they heard what I was after—they treated me like a crackpot and a nuisance. You were the only one, Matt, who took me seriously and bothered to help. You introduced me to Herb Neely, a few others, and because of you they were nice to me. They treated me seriously, even though they had nothing to offer on my conspiracy angle. I simply wanted you to—to know how much I’ve always appreciated it.”

  Listening, Brennan sipped his drink and tried to remember. Professor Varney and Nikolai Rostov had absorbed so much of his time in Zurich, and still dominated his memory of that time so completely, that he found it difficult to recollect his relationship with Doyle there. “Jay, I’m sure you’re greatly overvaluing anything I was able to do for you.”

  “I’m not,” said Doyle, shaking his ponderous head. “I know what I’m saying. I—” He faltered. “I owe you an apology for how I acted afterward.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Doyle sucked in his breath, and his chins quivered. “After Varney defected, and the vigilantes pulled the rug out from under you, I was furious. You needed friends, and I was a friend, believe me, but”—he shrugged, and finished lamely—“I couldn’t help you.” He stared down at his belly. “Matt, when Senator Dexter and the Joint Committee on Internal Security were crucifying you without an iota of evidence, all innuendo, I should’ve been in the press box covering it, exposing them, defending you, but I wasn’t.” He raised his head slowly. “I was down pretty low, and like I was saying, my last important pipelines for news, left over from the old days, were President Earnshaw and the ghost of Madlock. I sensed that any defense of you would have been construed as an attack on them. I needed them, so though I owed you so much, I chickened out. What I did was solve my dilemma by going somewhere else—Chicago, I think—covering something else when the heat was on you. I didn’t cover the Congressional hearings. I suppose you might say I ran out on you in Washington—the way I ran out on Hazel before that—and, well, no week has passed since that it hasn’t come into my mind and that I haven’t felt guilty or ashamed.” He paused. “It’s too bad, because I felt I was a sort of friend and that we could have continued to be good friends. So—”