The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  “Well, I guessed as much,” said Brennan. “It’s my hope that what I have to say will make Goerlitz listen to you.”

  Earnshaw smiled wanly. “I doubt if anything will make him listen to reason. Forgive me. I know my man.” He contemplated his cigar, and finally looked up. “Well, now, enough of that. Let’s find out. Jay says you’ve stumbled upon something—just exactly what wasn’t clear to me—but something that you felt would be helpful in giving me some bargaining power with Goerlitz. Naturally, I was immediately curious. Although, for the life of me, Mr. Brennan, I can’t imagine what you have in mind.”

  “I’ll tell you.” The moment had come, and Brennan locked his hands tensely and leaned forward. “But understand, I can’t reveal the source of my information. You’ll have to take my word for it that my source is trustworthy. It was told to me by someone very close to me, told to me quite innocently by someone who had overheard it and had not the faintest idea of its implications.” Both Earnshaw and Doyle were eager and receptive. With confidence revived, Brennan posed a question. “Besides peddling his memoirs, do you know why Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz is in Paris?”

  “Yes,” said Earnshaw, “some big business deal—I remember—he’s here to sign contracts with representatives of the People’s Republic of China about—he’s building a nuclear plant and one of those prefab communities to go with it. Isn’t that it?”

  Jay Doyle, silent until now, interjected, “A Chinese Nuclear Peace City. The Germans are supposed to construct it, maintain it, manage it.”

  “Right,” said Brennan. He looked at Earnshaw. “But what if I were to tell you a piece of information that Goerlitz himself does not know? Simply this—that the Chinese Reds intend to sign the contract but not honor it, intend to use Goerlitz to build the multi-million-dollar plant and adjacent city but later nationalize it, confiscate it, and throw Goerlitz’s German crews out. What would you think of that?”

  Momentarily perplexed, Earnshaw tried to absorb and digest the information. At last, he succeeded, for his blue eyes widened with astonishment. “I’d say that would be a remarkably useful piece of information, if true. I’d also say it’s incredible that you could know this, Mr. Brennan, when Dr. von Goerlitz himself does not know it.”

  “But it is possible?” persisted Brennan.

  “Oh, certainly, anything’s possible. Complicity exists. Bad faith exists. Yet—”

  “And if this were true,” said Brennan, “and you knew it, but Goerlitz did not, don’t you think this rather shocking information would enable you to see Goerlitz again and make him indebted to you?”

  Earnshaw nodded vigorously. “If it were true, he’d want to see me. He’d want to listen to me. But is it true?”

  “Here’s the story. Decide for yourself. The wives of two Chinese delegates, unaware that they were being overheard, revealed the following—” began Brennan.

  Consulting the notes taken from his questioning of Lisa, and without embroidering upon them, Brennan repeated the essence of what he had learned. For five minutes, Brennan spoke without interruption, conscious of Earnshaw hanging on his every word. At last, he was done, concluding, “There is all that I know. The Chinese in charge of the Nuclear Peace City intend to take it over entirely, get rid of the Germans, replace them with Russian scientists and technicians, and together with the Russians continue to operate the plant or plants. It could cost Goerlitz millions and millions of marks. It might ruin him, because he’d have no recourse in any court of law.”

  He watched Earnshaw, and it was almost as if he could observe, through a transparent plastic skull, the slow workings of The Ex’s brain. When Earnshaw lifted his head, it was obvious that he was excited but instinctively cautious. “And you don’t think Goerlitz knows or even suspects this?”

  “If he knew, would he still be in Paris treating with the Chinese? He is here. He is giving a celebration dinner for his Chinese customers at the Ritz this weekend. I don’t think he can have any idea of this, Mr. Earnshaw.”

  Earnshaw had come full circle, to unqualified acceptance of the story. His eyes shone. He slapped his knee enthusiastically. “Yes, it must be true!” he exclaimed. “Golly Moses, isn’t this a piece of news? It’s tremendous, Mr. Brennan, absolutely tremendous.”

  “The minute I heard it, I saw what it could mean to you,” said Brennan. “If you could go to Goerlitz with this, you could forewarn him. You could save him. He’d have to consider you with new eyes. He’d be indebted to you, deeply indebted. I shouldn’t think you’d even have to ask, to get that disagreeable chapter on you dropped from his memoirs.”

  “You’re right, you’re right,” said Earnshaw. As he came to his feet, he appeared to shed twenty years. “Heavens to Betsy, this can be it, the miracle I’ve been praying for.” He paced the sitting room, talking to himself in a low tone, as if preparing the future dialogue between Goerlitz and himself.

  From the sofa, Doyle, as cheerful as Santa Claus. caught Brennan’s eye and winked broadly. Brennan acknowledged this with his half-smile, then twisted in his chair to address Earnshaw once more. “Of course, there’s more to all this than its value to Goerlitz and yourself. Perhaps you’ve overlooked it, but the implications are far greater.”

  Earnshaw ceased his pacing. “What do you mean?”

  “Ever since I’ve arrived in Paris, I’ve been picking up little hints, disturbing little hints, about the Chinese and Russians,” said Brennan. “When Khrushchev had his falling out with Mao Tse-tung in 1960, Soviet Russia and Red China became antagonists, and in the years since they have drifted farther and farther apart. Today, China considers itself the keeper of Marx’s flame, the heartland of international Communism, the capital for the new Cominform, and continues to chide Russia for having become corrupted by the imperialistic and capitalistic Western powers. Today, China and Russia are enemies, and at the Palais Rose the Premier of Russia sits with the Prime Minister of Great Britain and the President of the United States, and the President of France sits in the middle, and the Chairman of China sits alone. But, I repeat, China and Russia are, publicly, enemies. Correct?”

  Earnshaw nodded in agreement, and Doyle said, “Correct, Matt.”

  “Very well,” said Brennan. “Enemies. Yet, in the last few days, I keep picking up stray hints suggesting that China and Russia may be more friendly than we realize. Yesterday I was having a conversation with a French nuclear scientist. He had been in Peking fairly recently. To his surprise, he ran into a party of Russian scientists there. Last night, I received this new piece of information I’ve passed on to you. Not only is China going to double-cross Goerlitz, but China is going to replace his German experts with Russian experts. I repeat, Russian experts. I think that’s significant and disturbing. It suggests that the Chinese may be treating their Summit partners as they’ll treat Goerlitz. Publicly, they’ll agree to disarm, and then privately, they’ll double-cross their Summit partners also. They’ll pretend that without Russia as an ally, they must submit to arms control, yet leave the Palais Rose to intrigue secretly with the Russians, to torpedo any pact made here. And one day soon, together with the Soviets, they will resume international Communist expansion. In short, sir, there seem to be fragments of evidence to indicate that even as China and Russia publicly berate one another, publicly pretend to be in opposition, they are secret allies. This implies that any peace attained at the Summit will be a paper peace, nothing more, and that while we are being lulled onstage, contradictory activities are going on backstage.” He paused. “I tell you, frankly, I’m worried.”

  Earnshaw had drawn nearer to Brennan, and now he smiled down upon him benevolently. “You’ve got quite a brief there, Mr. Brennan, and, I must confess, for a moment or two you had me shaken. But you know, if you can be objective, it is unlikely that this secret alliance—uh—this alliance between China and Russia, of which you speak, has any real existence. After all, whatever their political differences, China would have every right to invite scientists from M
oscow to Peking, and to hire individual Russians to replace individual Germans in that Honan Province plant. That’s not necessarily a political coalition.”

  “I think it may be, sir,” insisted Brennan. “I can see Goerlitz’s German scientists and technicians in Honan Province. They are individuals. Private enterprise. But Russia has no private enterprise, no individual scientific specialists for hire. Their experts could only be sent with Government approval, from Government research facilities.”

  “I don’t know about that, Mr. Brennan. Things have slackened up a good deal in Russia. Oh, you’ve made an interesting case, but I must say this—when I was in the White House, I read all sorts of cases being concocted in the world press, based on my activities or speeches or off-the-cuff remarks. I mean, outsiders would take this little clue, and that one, and paste together some nefarious new foreign policy or activity which they’d suggest was what my Cabinet and I were really up to behind the scenes. And you know what? The speculators and second-guessers were always wrong. I’ve seen it happen too often. That’s why I say, Mr. Brennan, your suspicions have a certain logic, based on this and that, but if you had the true facts, I think you’d find that your ideas are farfetched and the situation is not as alarming as you think.”

  Brennan’s faith in his theory, while not destroyed, was undermined. He would have to give it more thought. “Perhaps you’re right, sir,” he said uncertainly. Then, seeing Doyle bring himself erect, Brennan came out of the chair. He stood facing Earnshaw. “Anyway, I’m sure you won’t find the information I’ve given you for Goerlitz farfetched.”

  He hesitated, wondering how he should say what had to be said next. He had not come here out of love for the former President. He had come here as one would come to a marketplace, to barter. He had provided Earnshaw with valuable goods to use when he bartered with Goerlitz, and Brennan expected something of equal value in exchange.

  Before he could speak, he saw that Earnshaw was wearing a smile at once contrite and friendly. He felt Earnshaw’s hand on his arm, and, to his surprise, he heard Earnshaw address him as Matt for the first time.

  “Matt,” Earnshaw was saying, “I’m ashamed of my behavior toward you yesterday, but, you see, I had been misled. I had no idea of the kind of man you were, and, more than that, I was selfishly self-absorbed, I was—uh—concerned with my own problems, no one else’s. But even before you came here this morning, I had reasons, from some things Goerlitz told me, and from reading the marked transcript of the Congressional hearing you’d left for me, to—uh—to revise some of my evaluations of you. Now—well, Matt—I apologize, sincerely, and I trust you will be charitable enough to accept my apology.”

  Moved almost to a feeling of affection for Earnshaw, Brennan said, “That’s not necessary, really—”

  “You’ve graciously volunteered assistance that may save me.” Earnshaw went on. “Now, though you haven’t requested it, I’d like to help you in turn—give you the help today that I was reluctant to offer you yesterday. Today, you have my promise that I’ll do everything possible, within my power—my curtailed power—to help clear you, Matt. I don’t know if I can get anyone to speak to Nikolai Rostov on your behalf or help you get together with Rostov. I don’t know if I can manage that. But I pledge you this: I’ll try.” He smiled broadly. “You can count on this much. You have my word that I’ll speak to the President of the United States about you this week. There it is. Now we both have something to look forward to.”

  “Thank you,” said Brennan.

  “Thank you, Matt,” said Emmett A. Earnshaw.

  AFTER THEY HAD LEFT Earnshaw, Brennan was too elated to return to his hotel room. Buoyed by hope, he wanted human companionship, and automatically, he accompanied Jay Doyle to the Champs-Élysées.

  But once they had crossed the broad thoroughfare, he saw Doyle peering off toward the awning and cane chairs of Fouquet’s fashionable outdoor café. Brennan remembered that Doyle had an appointment with Hazel Smith.

  He halted. “I’ll leave you here, Jay. I’m going to take a walk.”

  “What do you mean—leave me here? I’m treating you to a drink. With The Ex on your side, we’ve got something to celebrate.”

  “But I thought you were meeting Hazel Smith.”

  “I am. Only you’re going to join us.”

  Brennan shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’m sure she expects this to be a private meeting.”

  “Nonsense. Nothing’s private between us.” He faltered. “Except, of course, if she wants to speak to me alone about my book. If that’s it, she’ll let us know right away. And if that happens, you can take off. But now, she seemed to indicate it was something else, and she mentioned Medora Hart. Come along.”

  Brennan hung back. “Look, Jay, I’m not her favorite American. She—”

  “That’s why I want you along,” said Doyle. “I want to do some lobbying for you, and this is the time to start. Matt, I’ve known this woman most of my adult life. Her first judgments of people are always filtered through old headlines cluttering her mind. When she met you at the Palais Rose, she saw you through those old treason banner-heads. That was all she had to go by. I know if she could meet you socially, come to know you as I do, her attitude would change. I guarantee it. Hazel’s not at all as fierce as she seems. That crustiness outside is self-protective, her survival tortoiseshell. Inside, she’s a frightened, lonely dame, all putty, wanting to love and be loved.”

  “I don’t know,” said Brennan, unconvinced.

  “I do,” replied Doyle, grabbing his arm. He began to propel Brennan toward Fouquet’s. “Besides”—he lowered his voice meaningfully—“she’s a useful friend to have, considering her contacts, if you know what I mean. She’s giving me a hand with Rostov. Eventually, she might give you a hand, too.”

  “Okay,” said Brennan. “You’ve sold me.”

  As they approached the café, Doyle quickly whispered, “One caution. No mention of Rostov. She has no idea that I’ve seen them together, and she has no idea I’ve figured out Rostov’s her—her boyfriend.”

  “My lips are zipped.”

  “Good. Let me cue you in when I see an opening.”

  They stood in the sun before the rows of yellow and red chairs. A third of the places were occupied, and, as ever, Brennan enjoyed the diversity of the occupants. A pretty French girl, beaux yeux, in a blue silk blouse and pleated white skirt, had set a long bread loaf on her table and opened her copy of L’Express. Behind her, two tall Africans in tight gray suits were arguing over their sandwiches. Near them, a pudgy Frenchman, wearing pince-nez and goatee, directed the shoeshine man kneeling over his pointed Oxford shoe planted on the small portable box. A few seats away, a comely Indian woman, her hair braided and her sari purple, was purchasing a copy of the London Evening Standard from a vendor. In the aisle, a blue-coated policeman, absently swinging his white club, chatted with an elderly waiter in black bow tie and white jacket. And Brennan knew for a certainty that these two were discussing either the races at Chantilly or the lottery, and he knew this was Paris and this was Fouquet’s and life could be worthwhile.

  “There she is,” he heard Doyle say.

  Following the direction of Doyle’s finger to the shaded table in the rear, before the café-restaurant wall, Brennan made out the mass of hennaed hair. Hazel Smith was busily powdering her jutting chin. Doyle had started up the nearest aisle, and with misgivings Brennan fell in behind him.

  Hazel looked up from her compact and smiled. “I’m so glad you could make it, Jay.”

  “Sorry to be late,” Doyle said. He stepped aside to reveal Brennan, and as Hazel recognized him, her smile vanished. “We were working together with Earnshaw,” Doyle went on hastily, “and I insisted that Matt accompany me so you two could become better acquainted. You should, you know. You have a lot in common—including me.” He laughed nervously.

  Hazel did not reply. She returned her compact to her purse.

  Brennan was in no mood to
chill his own warm happiness by trying to embrace a glacier. “Sorry to barge in on you like this, Miss Smith,” he said. “Blame Jay’s overenthusiasm. He’s still working for One World.” Hazel looked up sharply, eyes bringing Brennan into focus. Brennan smiled, and said, “Anyway, three’s a crowd when you have personal matters to discuss. Nice to have seen you again, Miss Smith.”

  He had started to turn away when Hazel said, “Don’t be silly, Brennan. I simply have no patience with politeness. This isn’t the Ivy League. Sit down, will you?”

  Doyle beamed, and shoved a chair behind Brennan, who lowered himself into it as Doyle squeezed into a place beside Hazel. “Great, Hazel—” he started to say.

  Hazel’s attention was still on Brennan. “I didn’t ask Jay to come here on personal business. In fact, what I have to tell him is anything but private. The truth is, I’d like the whole world to know about it. Since you and Jay are buddy-buddy, I don’t mind your sitting in.” She turned to Doyle. “Have you seen today’s headlines?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Help yourself.” She gestured toward the three afternoon newspapers piled on the table between her purse and the silver-metal soda siphon.

  Doyle took a newspaper. Brennan lit a cigarette, as he watched Doyle unfold the paper, read the headline, and scan the story below it with a frown. Finished, Doyle handed the newspaper to Brennan and turned toward Hazel.

  Listening while he, too, read the story of the art robbery, Brennan heard Doyle ask, “You mean one of those five paintings stolen from the Nouvelle Galerie d’Art was Medora’s Nardeau?”

  “Medora’s Fleur Ormsby,” Hazel corrected him. “You’re damn right hers was one of the five. The one called Nude in the Garden. Does that tell you anything, Jay?”