The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  Brennan had gone swiftly to the Garage Berri and sent an attendant scurrying to an upper level for his rented Peugeot. He had driven out of Paris cautiously, fearful of being stopped for speeding and having his identity discovered. But after recalling that the Presidential Security Superintendent in his room had agreed to wait an hour for him before sending out a general police alarm, he had felt reassured that the law had not yet been alerted to find him.

  Speed was of the essence, since he had wanted to reach Versailles before Hazel and Doyle arrived there. So from the second he had left Paris by Porte St.-Cloud, he had disregarded Lisa’s final admonishment, and he had driven at a breakneck clip along Autoroute de l’Ouest. The traffic had been light at this late hour, and he had covered the thirteen miles from Paris to the city of Versailles in fourteen and a half minutes.

  And here he was—early, on time, late, he did not know—rescue mission or fool’s errand, he did not know—obstacles, impossibilities, hazards of the next minutes, he did not know—but for better or worse, here he was in Versailles.

  The high black-and-gold gates and railings, the star-shaped entrance court, the shimmering massive three-hundred-million-dollar edifice loomed larger and larger. Brennan turned his steering wheel and swung right, guiding his compact vehicle across the crunching gravel of the Place d’Armes, where row upon row of gleaming cars stood parked in the night.

  Locating a slot, he squeezed the car into it, turned off the ignition, and flipped on the inside light Finding both the tourist pamphlet on Versailles that he had removed from Peet’s suitcase and the schedule of the French President’s dinner and entertainment that he had obtained from Doyle, he unfolded them on his lap.

  He studied the timing of the long list of events taking place in the palace this evening, to be certain that he had memorized them correctly. Next, he opened the Versailles pamphlet to the map inside, and reviewed the markings that he had made on it when he duplicated the original in Peet’s room, and once more he fixed them in his mind.

  Satisfied, he folded the pamphlet and schedule, stuffed them into his jacket pocket, wrenched the car door open, and stepped out onto the gravel lot.

  Going hurriedly between the parked motorcars, he left the area and started trotting on a diagonal line toward the towering grilled gates that were the main entrance to the front palace grounds. Dozens of French security agents in uniform and plainclothes, as well as numerous saber-carrying members of the Garde Républicaine, flanked the open gates. Great swarms of French officials, some carrying guest lists, others carrying press lists, crowded around the portals. And nearby, a throng of hundreds of onlookers, from the city of Versailles itself, from neighboring villages, from Paris, pressed against police lines to observe every new arrival, especially those who came not on foot but by limousine.

  Reaching the entrance, Brennan sought the official with the list of correspondents who had been invited. Worriedly, he inquired if Miss Hazel Smith of ANA had arrived yet.

  The bumptious French official sniffed. “Why is it your concern, monsieur?”

  “I’m working with Miss Smith. I was supposed to meet her here, but I’m a little late. I hope I haven’t missed her.”

  The Frenchman cleared his sinuses and looked down at the names on the sheet clipped to his board. “Smith—Smith—Smith.” He looked up and said brusquely, “Not yet. Not here yet.”

  Annoyed by the press officer’s insolence, Brennan had intended to put him in his place. But now he was too relieved by the Frenchman’s news to bother with him. “Merci, monsieur” he said.

  Brennan moved away from the cluster of officials and police, scanning the thickets of spectators for Hazel and Doyle, and then looking at the nearby automobile entrance to the inner court of the palace. There was no sign of either of them. For a moment, Brennan wondered whether the French press officer could have been mistaken. Peering toward the parking lot, he saw a Volkswagen skid into it and he thought that he recognized Hazel at the wheel.

  Starting for the Place d’Armes, Brennan saw Hazel rushing out of the lot with Doyle puffing after her. Brennan accelerated his pace, waving at them, and midway between the main gate and the parking lot he intercepted them.

  Hazel showed surprise at Brennan’s presence, but Doyle, coming abreast of them, revealed only hope and anxiety.

  “Matt, what are you doing here?” Doyle wanted to know. “Is something happening?”

  “Plenty,” said Brennan. “I’ve got absolute proof the Russians are up to something here tonight.”

  Immediately, he blurted out what had transpired after he had left Hazel and Doyle at her apartment. He repeated everything that he had overheard of Quarolli’s telephone call from his hotel room.

  Doyle’s response was immediate and unrestrainedly enthusiastic. “Matt, you’ve discovered gold at last. This is the mother lode. This is it.”

  Brennan’s gaze shifted to Hazel, trying to detect any skepticism on her part. Her brows were knit. She was considering what she had just heard, but there was no skepticism in her sharp features. “You say the Superintendent’s name was Quarolli? I was remembering. I met him on an interview a week ago. He’s literal. No nonsense. Not the type who plays games. If he said what you’ve just told us, well—” She hesitated. “Yes, Matt, I’d say the Russians had reason to want you out of the way tonight.”

  Doyle shook Brennan by the shoulder. “What are you standing here for? Aren’t you going to do something?” - “There’s not too much I can do,” said Brennan. “I went over every possibility while I was driving. Only one makes sense. Emmett Earnshaw is the single person inside the palace who knows what is going on and is on our side. Even after Rostov left me, and Earnshaw was convinced I had no case, he did admit that if Rostov had given me any shred of evidence corroborating my theory, like trying to block me from going further, we’d have proof enough to act. All right. Rostov has tried to block me from coming here. There’ll be a general police alarm on me in less than a half hour. The Russians want me picked up and out of the way, and chances are I will be. That’s the proof Earnshaw wanted, that’s something he can act upon. He’d have no trouble getting everyone’s ear up there, getting security doubled and tripled, getting the routes changed, getting it out in the open before the top Russians, so that any potential victim and his aides would be alerted and any plotters would cancel what they’re planning or even stand exposed. Earnshaw’s the only one who could do it.”

  “You’ve got to get to him right away!” exclaimed Doyle.

  Hazel turned on Doyle. “Don’t be silly, Jay. How can Matt possibly get to The Ex? The entire palace is sealed tight. They wouldn’t allow Matt or any of us inside.” She looked at Brennan. “Do you know anyone who might get word to him?”

  “I thought of that, too. There’s only Herb Neely, but I’m not sure even he’d dare—”

  Hazel frowned. “If he won’t help, well, I can’t think of anyone else.”

  “I can,” said Brennan. “As a last resort, there’s me. No matter what you’ve said, it would be worth a try.”

  Hazel looked doubtful. “Not a chance, Matt, unless you know something about palace-breaking that we don’t.”

  “Maybe I do,” said Brennan.

  “Then go ahead,” Doyle begged him.

  Brennan studied Doyle for a moment. “I can’t, Jay, without your help.”

  “Anything!” Doyle pledged.

  “You’ll have to play Sydney Carton to my Darnay. I wasn’t invited. You were. I’d need your special press invitation. Is your photograph on it?”

  “No.” Doyle hesitated. “But if there’s a big story and I’m not there, what’ll I have? After all, Matt, you did promise me—well, Hazel and me—an exclusive on the beat. And if there’s no story at all, I’ve still got to have something for my Earnshaw column.”

  “Jay, you ass, quit wasting time and give him your invitation,” Hazel said impatiently. “I’ll cover for both of us, no matter what gives out.”

  D
oyle pulled the embossed invitation from his pocket. “And, Matt, you—you won’t forget? If anything happens—”

  “It’s all yours,” said Brennan. He took Hazel’s arm. “Let’s hurry.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Doyle called out. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “There’s a restaurant right across the street from the parking lot,” said Brennan. “Le Londres in the Rue Colbert. Wait for us there. Try their filet mignon Henry IV, and their escargots from Burgundy. That’ll keep you busy.”

  Brennan and Hazel hastened toward the main gate. In a matter of seconds, Hazel was passed through. Brennan tried to appear at ease while his invitation—Doyle’s, rather—was checked. Two gate officials exchanged words in French, and Brennan stood by tautly. Finally, one official smiled at Brennan. It turned but that he was an admirer of former President Earnshaw, and honored to meet Earnshaw’s writing collaborator. He bowed Brennan toward the gate, and with an effort Brennan kept himself from running.

  Catching up with Hazel, Brennan made a face. Together, the two of them strode across the cobblestoned esplanade known as the Avant-cour. They headed toward one of the two enormous jutting wings of the Versailles Palace, which were joined together by a setback central section.

  There were photographers and correspondents at the entrance of the press tent erected beneath the columns of the left wing, and French workmen surrounded the caterer’s delivery trucks alongside the right wing, as uniformed police officers patrolled the Cour de Marbre below the central building. Apparently, everyone who was anyone, and everyone who was to guard or serve anyone personally, was inside the palace.

  Nearing the press tent, Brennan caught Hazel’s arm. “I’d rather not go in there, Hazel. I don’t want to risk being recognized. But I would like to see Herb Neely, without too much company. I’d like to find out if I can get his help. That would solve everything. Do you think you can arrange it?”

  Hazel nodded. “Still eighteen minutes before his briefing begins. He should have enough time.”

  “I wish I had as much. It’s also eighteen minutes before they all get up from dinner in the Hall of Mirrors.”

  “I’d better tell Neely you’re here.”

  “Wait, Hazel. Important. Tell Herb I’d like to say hello. Don’t tell him any more. Not a word about the Russian demand that I be arrested or Quarolli and the French Security. Not a word. If he’s free to come outside, you come along with him, understand? I’ll handle the Earnshaw part. But I’d rather you asked some questions I’d like to ask. They’ll be less suspect coming from you.”

  “Like what?”

  “Play it casual. You want some added color to beef up your feature. Are all the big shots in attendance upstairs?

  What’s the seating arrangement in the Hall of Mirrors? What are the royal apartments like, the ones right behind the Hall, and what’s going on inside them tonight? Who’s in those rooms? How’s the dinner being served? Above all, is the printed timetable still in effect? Where do the Chiefs go after dinner? Coffee, I know, but their route? And after that to the Opera? The route? And after that?” He searched her face. “Have you got it?”

  Her pointed nose wrinkled. “Brennan, you’re really CIA, aren’t you?”

  “I’m Benedict Arnold who was cleared by your friend Rostov today.”

  “No kidding? Well, congratulations.”

  “Or condolences again, because I’ll be back to Benedict Arnold if I foul up Russian-American relations tonight.”

  “Let me find Herb Neely.”

  Brennan watched her disappear into the press tent; then he turned and walked over the uneven cobblestones to the base of the weathered stone equestrian statue of King Louis XIV that stood in the middle of the Cour Royale. Rummaging through his pockets, he located a scrap of paper and his pencil. Placing the paper against the wide base of the statue, he began writing a note to Emmett Earnshaw. He had barely finished and signed it when he heard Neely bawl his name.

  Hastily folding the note and shoving it into a trouser pocket, he turned in time to clasp Neely’s hand. “Hi, Herb.”

  Neely, in his rimless glasses and dark suit, resembled the professorial curator of a small obscure museum. And Hazel, beside him, looked as pleased as if she had delivered the Sun King himself to Brennan.

  “I couldn’t believe it when Miss Smith told me you were outside,” said Neely with delight. “What are you doing here, Matt? How’d you get in?”

  “Jay Doyle came down with the flu and couldn’t make it. He begged me to take his place. He’s got to do Earnshaw’s column. I don’t know if I’ll be much good at this.”

  Neely beamed. “I’m pleased, Matt. Of course, I’m afraid there’s not much to see, probably less than you could see on the regular Sunday tour of the palace. It’s a miracle they allowed the press in this far. The French consider an affair like this a private party. If the Élysée or the Quai d’Orsay invited you, you’re in. Everyone else is out.”

  “No exceptions, Herb?”

  “None. Strictly Presidents and Premiers and Chairmen, Secretaries of State, Ministers, Ambassadors, their wives, a couple of former Presidents—oh, like Earnshaw—and some French table dressing, a Duke of Broglie here, a Bourbon pretender to some throne or other there, a baron maybe, and that’s it.”

  “What if someone had to get a message to one of those people?”

  “You mean, like a coded government message that was urgent? I suppose we could get it delivered through Pierre Urbain, the French protocol head. He’s available.”

  “No, Herb. I mean a personal message, strictly personal but also urgent.” He paused. “Like—well, say I wanted to see Emmett Earnshaw.”

  “No chance.”

  “Herb, I have to see him.”

  Neely’s eyes blinked behind his lenses. “Is that why you’re here, Matt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Surely, whatever it is can wait until later?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Neely was plainly distressed. “Matt, you know I’d give my life for you, do anything, but this is one thing I simply can’t pull off. I’m an outsider tonight, a lower species. This affair is strictly French all the way, top-level, and it’s all according to their protocol manual, probably prepared by Louis XIV. The palace is for royalty tonight. We’re commoners.”

  Brennan nodded. He said, “Let me try it another way, Herb. I have a note in my pocket. One I wrote to Earnshaw. Can you get someone to slip it to him before he leaves the dinner table?”

  “Impossible, Matt. I wouldn’t even try it. I’m sorry, really sorry.”

  For an instant, Brennan was tempted to reveal what he had uncovered, to convince Neely of the life-and-death importance of his message. But then he thought better of it. To involve a close friend in an international intrigue that he himself supposed existed, but which might not exist at all, would be to endanger his friend’s entire career in government To gamble with his own future was one thing. To ask another to gamble for him, at these stakes, was unfair. If use of friendship could be entered against his account—and he thought of Hazel, Medora, Doyle, Earnshaw—then he was already overdrawn.

  From this point on, Brennan knew that he would have to go it alone.

  He forced himself to smile, and laid an arm around Neely’s shoulders. “Don’t look so upset, old boy.” He dropped his arm to his side and assumed a relaxed stance. “You know how I tend to get overexcited about what turn out to be inconsequential matters. This was something that—well, seemed critical to me, but I’m settling down, and I think you’re right. I can discuss it with Earnshaw later, after these formalities are over.”

  Neely exhaled relief. “I’m glad, Matt. Because this is a real locked-up place for the next few hours.”

  Hazel stepped forward. “Don’t leave yet, Mr. Neely. I still need a few minutes of your time. I’ll be at your press briefing, but besides the wire story I have to do a long mailer on the whole affair. So I need a little extra.” She’d brought
pen and pad out of her purse. “Mind?”

  Neely had removed a silver watch from his vest pocket. Now he returned it. “You can have five minutes extra.”

  “Did all the Names show up?” asked Hazel, her pen poised to write.

  “Everyone. Not a single cancellation.”

  “And they’re still eating?” asked Hazel.

  ‘They’re still at it, and will be for ten minutes.” He pointed to the top of the bright central building. “They’re up there, two hundred of them.”

  “In the Hall of Mirrors? I’ve never seen it. What’s it like?”

  “Well, the upstairs floor runs the width of the palace, and it is split in half. On this side, the front, looking down at us, are what used to be the King’s three major apartments. These rooms are backed smack up against the Hall of Mirrors. What can I tell you about the Hall? Nothing like it on earth. A sort of gallery that’s 242 feet long. It has 306 big mirrors on one wall, and on the opposite side it has seventeen arched windows, and these give a view of 250 acres of gardens and 1,400 fountains. It took seven years and 35,000 laborers to lay out those gardens. And that’s what those Chiefs of State are looking out on tonight.”

  “How are they seated?” asked Hazel.

  “Well, there’s one tremendous banquet table, with lots and lots of smaller ones on either side. The banquet table is decorated with candelabra and flower vases, and the Big Five are all seated in a row on one side with nobody seated opposite them. They sit on gilded Louis XVI chairs upholstered in a claret-colored brocade. There is the President of France in the center, with the Chinese Chairman and British Prime Minister on one side of him, and our President and the Russian Premier on the other side. Incidentally, Earnshaw’s only about four or five seats away.”

  “And the food—where does the food come from, Mr. Neely?”

  “Sa-ay, that’s a good question. I ought to use it in the background briefing.”