“You’ve got forty-five seconds more, Doctor,” said Brennan.
“I will give you a miniature portrait of a traitor, based on my studies. Like all other men, he is possessed of three basic needs: the first, to be secure, dependent on someone who can keep him safe; the second, to advance, to achieve mastery, to satisfy his aggressions; the third, to perform normally and cooperatively with other human beings, to fulfill his urge to give and receive love. But the potential traitor is unlike most men in that his basic needs, impulses, urges are unfulfilled, inhibited, and eventually warped. Most often he will have suffered disapproval or rejection or lack of love from a parent or parents. As a child, he will have yearned for safety, protection, and been deprived. Usually, he will grow to adulthood longing for someone to depend upon, hating a parent who has failed him yet filled with anxieties over his repressed hostilities. His normal aggressions toward his parent, controlled by his need for love, would ideally be redirected in adulthood into healthy defenses against new dangers that arise. But because of his abnormal upbringing, he cannot sublimate his aggressions. He finally turns them against the authority of a parent or parents. Yet, he still has a need for dependence on a protective authority, as well as a need for approval. In such an unhappy situation, some men will seek the authority of the church, and subordinate themselves to a power all-encompassing and too lofty to be resented, and others in their helpless anxiety might seek to find comfort in the authority of their fatherland. But suppose their fatherland is a flaccid democracy of individuals, as are America and Great Britain, unable to give these men a dependable image to cling to, offering them no channel through which to alleviate their hate or satisfy their need for love? Supposing also the fatherland’s values are cynical and materialistic in their eyes? Such men may become desolate, unsuccessful, despairing neurotic clods. But our man, the one determined man, finds a way out. He will be attracted, in America, or in Russia, or in China, by a political sect, let us say the Communist party, with rigid rules and complex dialectics. Here is the parent with authority, granting approval he has never before known. Here is a totalitarian symbol upon which he can depend, through which he can find an outlet for hostility and aggressions, from which he will receive the reward of love. And here, too, as has been remarked, is ‘a vision of the Kingdom of God on earth.’ And so, our man resolves his neurotic conflicts. He turns to a new and higher authority than his remiss parent or disinterested fatherland. He offers his allegiance to Communism, but since he wishes adoption, he must prove himself, and so he betrays his present authority to his future one, stealing secrets from his fatherland—his father, who had rejected him—and passing them on as gifts to the new authority that has adopted him. Oversimplification or not, this is the portrait of a conscious or unconscious traitor. And this, Mr. Brennan, I offer you with my compliments, as also a picture of you yourself.”
Brennan had listened closely. He considered Dr. Fisher’s analysis in silence. No longer was he in a mood for sarcasm or argument.
Lisa had stepped forward angrily. “I’ve never heard more inane drivel,” she said to Dr. Fisher. “How can you analyze a person you don’t know personally? It’s impossible.”
Dr. Fisher gave Lisa his condescending smile. “It was possible for Freud. He analyzed da Vinci. It was possible for Marie Bonaparte. She analyzed Edgar Allan Poe. It was possible for a hundred other modern-day psychiatrists of the present who have analyzed figures of the past whom they had never met.”
“How do you know they were right?” flared Lisa. “Da Vinci and Poe aren’t here to prove that their analysts were clever but wrong.”
Dr. Fisher’s smile remained fixed. “You are correct, young lady. The patients are not here. They are dead. But you would be surprised how much information can be obtained from dissecting a cadaver.”
“But Matt’s alive, and you can’t—”
“In terms of normal usefulness, I would suggest he is dead, too, more dead than alive,” said Dr. Fisher.
Legrande was hoisting and spilling his glass of champagne. “Olé—to the Doctor of the Dead!”
Dr. Fisher, his superiority restored, had turned back to Brennan. “I hope you understand I was only trying to be helpful. If you have any further comment—”
“Only two comments, two judgments from the analysand to the analyst,” said Brennan. “You are, consciously or unconsciously, arrogant and exhibitionistic. I deduce this from two bits of evidence.” He paused, and then he said, “You have bad breath, Dr. Fisher, and your fly is open.”
Before the roar of laughter had subsided, Brennan had taken Lisa by the arm and led her out of the Petit Chateau de Legrande.
After that, driving back to Paris from Vaucresson, he and Lisa had only one conversational exchange.
Staring glumly out of the limousine window into the darkness, Brennan said, more to himself than to Lisa, “He was a sadistic bastard, but I behaved badly, too. I behaved like an immature and petulant child. I don’t understand, because I usually don’t let myself be baited into name-calling bouts.”
She took his hand. “My God, Matt, don’t castigate yourself. What were you supposed to do, let him run all over you? You had to say something. He’s got the fancy lingo. You said what you could.” She squeezed his arm. “Darling, it was a wonderful evening. Don’t let a ridiculous incident like that spoil it.”
“I won’t,” said Brennan.
But both of them knew that it had.
Not until almost an hour later, after they had returned to their suite in the Hotel California, did they speak to one another again.
He had been sitting for some time, tieless, shoeless, slumped deep in the pillows of the drawing room sofa, reflecting in solitude upon every word that he could remember of Dr. Fisher’s analysis of a traitor.
He was still deeply lost in thought, but filled with growing wonderment, when Lisa emerged from the bedroom in her nightgown and stood over him.
Brennan came to his feet, and Lisa ran her arm around him and kissed him. “I’m sorry we went,” she said. “I’ve just been thinking. I hate all those noisy fake parties, loaded with sadists and smart-aleck games. Matt, I hope you’re not still angry. Dr. Fisher isn’t worth it.”
“I’m not angry anymore,” he said. “But you know, I’ve been thinking, too.”
“About what, darling?”
“About Dr. Fisher’s analysis of the psyche of a traitor, a real traitor or a potential one.”
“Oh, come on now, you’re not taking any of that quack’s junk seriously.”
“I am,” said Brennan, “because I’m afraid he was not a quack and every word of his analysis was valid.”
Lisa stepped back and studied Brennan with astonishment. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I mean he was accurate… only not about me. None of it fits me or my background or personality. He was way off there, but then, of course, I’m not a traitor, potential or actual. No, I mean he was right about Nikolai Rostov. It’s uncanny how absolutely his analysis fits Rostov. I’ve been examining it all this while, remembering things Rostov told me or revealed of himself in Zurich, and other things I’ve heard since. All the bits and pieces, his parents, his upbringing—they’re a perfect fit for Dr. Fisher’s portrait of a traitor.”
“Rostov as a traitor?” said Lisa incredulously. “When? How? Why?”
“I wish I had the answers, Lisa. I don’t have them yet. I only know the whole thing goes together.” His arm encircled her waist, and he began to walk her slowly toward the bedroom. “As a matter of fact, so does something else, Lisa. I’ve got a hunch—no, more than a hunch—it’s a definite feeling based on certain facts—a feeling that I’m getting close—much closer now.”
“To what?” she asked with bewilderment. “To Rostov?” He looked at her blankly. “Rostov?… No, not Rostov.”
“Closer to what?” she insisted on knowing. “To the plot,” he said. And with that he led her into the bedroom.
VIII
MA
TT?”
“Yes?”
“Jay Doyle. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Hi, Jay. No, of course not. I’ve been up for hours.”
“I’m in the Palais Rose, phoning from the press room, so I’ll have to make it quick.”
“Sounds like something’s going on.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You’re still interested in chasing down Rostov, aren’t you?”
“You bet I am. More than ever, Jay.”
“Good. Well, I’ve just got a hot tip. Some of the top Russian delegates are going out to Maisons-Laffitte today. The racetrack. You know where that is?”
“Maisons-Laffitte? Sure. I was there a couple of years ago with Herb Neely. That’s out near the Forest of St. Germain, isn’t it? About ten or fifteen miles from here?”
“Right. As far as I can learn, the third or fourth race, the Prix du Sommet, is being staged to honor the Summit. The Russians have a horse in it named Prince Yuri, and at least a dozen of the Soviet big shots are going to be on hand to cheer the nag in. I know that the Premier and Marshal Zabbin are going to be there. I don’t know what other Russians, but I’m guessing that if Talansky and Zabbin are there, then our friend Rostov can’t be far away. I thought of you immediately. I think it’s worth a try, unless you’re tied up this afternoon.”
“You’re darn right I’ll be there. You know I have no other business besides Rostov—wait, hold it a minute. Dammit, I almost forgot—Medora. Earnshaw called earlier. He pulled off his part of the plan. Then Sydney Ormsby called. I made an appointment to see him here at the hotel for cocktails at four o’clock. Well, in case I’m late coming back, I can always have the concierge tell him to wait. When’s the race?”
“I don’t know exactly. I’d guess early enough. But you’d better leave by one o’clock. It’s Saturday. It could be crowded all the way.”
“I remember.”
“Matt, I’ll be meeting you there.”
“That’s great.”
“I was at that gourmet dinner last night. I picked up something that might be useful to you, to both of us. And minutes ago, in the Palais Rose—well, I can’t talk now—but the way it’s going—well, let’s see how it develops. I’ll explain when I see you. Do you know any special place we can be sure to find each other?”
“Let me think… I know. There’s a big snack bar right under the grandstand. Where the W.C. is, also. We won’t miss each other there.”
“Okay, Matt. That’s it, then. Maisons-Laffitte at—let’s say no later than one-thirty.”
“I’ll be waiting… Oh, by the way, Jay, before hanging up, if you have the time, there’s another little favor you can do for me in the Palais Rose.”
“You name it.”
Brennan told him and hung up, and all of that conversation had taken place three and a half hours ago.
Now, having parked the smart compact Peugeot he had managed to rent for the entire weekend, having walked past row upon row of automobiles in the dusty lot, reviewing the phone call from Doyle and the promise it held, Brennan hastened toward one of the ticket windows.
Waiting impatiently in line—the bumper-to-bumper traffic and the crush of people outside the racecourse had been intolerable and had made him late—he was surprised at how fresh and invigorated he felt.
Last night, after the insane party at Legrande’s chateau, both he and Lisa had been too exhausted to make love. In bed they had talked drowsily from their pillows a little while until both had fallen soundly asleep. Yet, despite his weariness and the short rest, he had awakened strangely exhilarated.
Over breakfast his mind had been recharged by the odd and appealing possibility that while the Swiss psychoanalyst’s description of a potential traitor or a real one had not fitted him, it did seem tailored to fit Nikolai Rostov. Brennan had not been sure whether this might be a Fact or merely a Wish, but the possibility had opened new avenues of exciting speculation in his mind. After breakfast, only Earnshaw’s depressing call had dampened Brennan’s spirits. But that low point had been of brief duration. For the phone had rung again with Doyle, fat and faithful friend, offering him new hope.
Cheerfully now he purchased his ticket at the booth, hurried through the turnstile, and entered Maisons-Laffitte to find Jay Thomas Doyle and, after him, perhaps at last, Nikolai Rostov.
Viewed from the side, the gigantic grandstand seemed planted with an acre of animated heads, and between the stand and the track railing a thousand more bettors milled about in the sun, touting long shots or dark horses to one another. After adjusting himself to the scene, Brennan took out his sunglasses, put them on, and started toward the rear of the stand.
Jay Doyle, belly hanging over his loosened belt, was waiting inside the snack bar, beneath the stadium, as agreed. He was at the counter, munching a sandwich and guzzling a stein of beer, when Brennan came upon him.
“Sorry to be late, Jay,” Brennan apologized.
“Doesn’t matter. They’re not here yet.” He pushed a plate holding a sandwich roll wrapped in wax paper toward Brennan. “But you’ve come in the nick of time to save me. I’ve had five of these jambon sandwiches already. Do a good deed. Save me from the sixth and Hazel’s disdain. Danish ham. Delicious. Try it, please.”
Brennan wasn’t hungry, but he had skipped lunch and he did want to do a friend a favor. He called out for a Coca-Cola and uncovered the last sandwich. “Call me Pythias, good Damon,” he said, and took a bite. “I really appreciated your call, Jay. It came just at the right time, pulled me back from the brink of the dumps. This morning, Earnshaw telephoned just before you did. Bad news. For ivy-covered Brennan U.—poison-ivy-covered, I guess—he gave it the old college try last night. The reception at the Hotel de Lauzun. Our President was there. Earnshaw got him off alone. It must have been tough for him, but he did it. He made a big spiel for me, and asked the President to help me see Rostov. The President refused. Earnshaw was still upset this morning, and he kept promising to try to do something else. But there’s nothing he can do. Then you phoned, and hope sprang eternal.”
Doyle finished wiping his mouth with a paper napkin.
“As long as you haven’t forgotten your rabbit’s foot.”
“Jay, I’ve turned myself into a rabbit’s foot. Did I hear you say the Russians haven’t arrived?”
“Not yet,” said Doyle. “I went up to what we call the press box trying to find one of the French correspondents who might fill me in. I ran into that kid Fowler, of ANA. He said the foreign press was not notified of this little Soviet outing until an hour ago. I happened to know about it as early as I did because—between us, Matt—I happened to take a peek at the schedules on the spindle of the Pravda desk, Igor Novik’s desk, in the Palais.” He stared hungrily at Brennan’s disappearing ham sandwich, sighed, and went on. “According to Fowler, an entourage of a dozen Russian leaders and their bodyguards is heading this way. They’re scheduled to arrive before the third race. I’ll show you the one.”
Doyle pulled a single sheet of paper from his pocket, and unfolded it for Brennan. It read: PROGRAMME OFFICIEL, SOCIETÉ SPORTIVE D’ENCOURAGEMENT, COURSES À MAISONS-LAFITTE. His finger went down the page and pointed at the line: 3E COURSE, À 15 HEURES, PRIX DU SOMMET.
“That’s the one they’re coming to see,” said Doyle. “Three o’clock sharp. Right now we’re between the first and second races, so there’s still plenty of time. The Russians—there’s a reserved section for them near the entrance of the first mezzanine upstairs.” He patted his other pocket. “Brought my trusty Osaka mini-binoculars. From the field you’ll be able to make out whether Rostov is with the others. If he is”—Doyle shrugged—“you’ll have to figure out how to get to him.”
“Oh, I’ll get to him.”
“It won’t be easy in public, Matt. They’ll be ringed round by KGB security guards.”
“If he’s there, I’ll reach him,” insisted Brennan. “Come hell or high water, I’m not missing this time… Well, we’ve got a w
ait. What should we do? Place some bets? Get some sun? Whatever you say.”
“I want to talk. I’ve got to talk to you, Matt.”
Brennan detected an air of urgency in Doyle’s speech and manner. “I’d like nothing better.”
“I’m full up and bursting with material for you. And, well, there’s something personal I want to discuss.”
“Let’s go, then. Let me see. Not here. What about the lower part of the grandstand? At least we can get off our feet. There’s always plenty of room between races.”
They stepped outside into the rear area of Maisons-Laffitte. Hundreds of French spectators were congregated between the trees. Off to the left, a wide circle of bettors had gathered to watch the thoroughbreds entered in the second race being walked and shown before being mounted by their elfin jockeys. To the immediate right, blocking one open-air passageway to the track, a thickening cluster of additional bettors peered upward at the broad slate tote board where, since the old-fashioned flat track still resisted automation, the odds next to each listed horse were being written in with white chalk. All about them were small structures, like so many islands, with grilled windows for wagers to be placed. The lines in front of the two-franc and ten-franc windows were no longer than those strung out before the 100-franc windows.
Pushing hard, Brennan cleared a path for Doyle and himself. At last, they broke out of the horde of gamblers, and left the shade for the less crowded and unshaded dirt area between the front of the grandstand and the white metal railing protecting the length of the grassy homestretch.
“I told you there’d be plenty of seats,” said Brennan. He preceded Doyle to the half-filled bottom row of the grandstand, and they found places together on the cement tier.
The Plot Page 95