The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  “I don’t mean him per se. I just mean, well, the way he must have been embarrassed during the Paddy Jameson affair, and just wasn’t shook up a bit—I mean, you listen to him, look at him, and it’s like it literally never happened. Of course, the one I’m really interested in is his kid brother—you know, Sydney Ormsby—that was my only disappointment last night, that Sydney wasn’t there. I could have lived off that for months back home.”

  “I’m just as happy Sydney wasn’t there. He’s stupid and quite irresponsible. He’d have ruined the evening.”

  “Not for me, Uncle Emmett,” Carol insisted. “I’ve been reading about the Paddy Jameson affair since I was sixteen.” Then she added teasingly, “After all, anyone who could get involved with a beautiful girl like Medora Hart, and upset the Government, and get away with it, can’t be all bad.”

  Earnshaw squinted at his niece through his first puff of blue cigar smoke. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about—”

  “Sir Austin’s younger brother and Medora Hart.”

  “Medora who?”

  Carol was blinking at him. “You mean you don’t remember?”

  “Carol, please—remember what?”

  “The Paddy Jameson affair three years ago. Paddy Jameson was a tennis bum and a procurer—”

  Earnshaw frowned. “Now, where did you pick that word up?”

  “Uncle Emmett, my God, I’m not still in gym bloomers. Anyway, this Jameson had a half-dozen gorgeous girls, I mean young girls, nice ones, and he was a go-between to help these girls meet high-class men who wanted to meet beautiful young women—important men who wanted women—and Medora Hart, you should see pictures of her, she was one of these party girls—and one of her men was Sydney Ormsby—and then it blew sky-high, a fantastic scandal—oh, you must remember—it was ten times more exciting than the old Profumo affair.”

  Earnshaw was utterly bewildered. “Profumo affair? Now, what in the devil was that?”

  Carol slapped her forehead with her palm and pretended to collapse. “Oh, Uncle Emmett, my God, if someone could hear you! Really, you should read something besides the political stories and editorials in the papers. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

  “If you’re giving me a sample of what I’m missing,” said Earnshaw dryly, “I’ll pass, thank you.”

  “But, I mean, you’ve been seeing Sir Austin Ormsby all this time and you don’t know about what really goes on. Now you sit down and let me—”

  The doorbell sounded once, twice, and Earnshaw put his finger to his lips, and Carol choked down her words, nodding. The valet came hurriedly through the sitting room.

  Carol made a mock grimace of distress. “Okay, Uncle Emmett, I get television, and you get the real thing.” She pecked a kiss at him again. “Remind me to tell you the whole story on the way to Oslo. Don’t stay up too late. See you at breakfast. I’ll be packed.”

  She ran off to her bedroom. As her door closed, Earnshaw spun around to find Thatcher ushering Sir Austin Ormsby into the sitting room.

  As the valet took Sir Austin’s hat, topcoat, and umbrella back to the foyer, Earnshaw shook his friend’s hand. “It was a wonderful evening, Austin. I owe it all to you.”

  Sir Austin nervously patted his hair and small mustache, and then the lace ruffles of his dress shirt, and said without smiling, “My dear friend, it was less than you deserve.”

  Heartened, Earnshaw said, “I’m having a brandy. What’ll it be for you, Austin?”

  Sir Austin glanced at the valet. “Short gin-and-tonic.”

  Earnshaw led the way across the room to the two silken green armchairs flanking the black marble fireplace. He waited for Sir Austin to settle into one chair, then himself sat on the edge of the other, one slippered foot propped on the velvet footstool, as if to show that he had no concern about this meeting. Behind Sir Austin the valet had unlocked the dummy bookshelves, fronted with the glued-on leather spines of classics like Lord Chesterfield’s Letters and Fielding’s Tom Jones, and disclosed a liquor cabinet. Waiting for the valet to prepare the drinks, Earnshaw sought to fill the time before they were alone.

  “That was quite an evening last night,” he said. “My niece hasn’t stopped talking about the dinner at the Mirabelle, and the nightclub we went to later—”

  “The Colony. I’m glad she was pleased. Not my sort of thing, really, but Fleur thought it just right for a young lady on her first evening in London.”

  “I’m sorry your bride couldn’t make it tonight.”

  “Well, Fleur isn’t much for politics, you know, but in this case she was stricken that she could not attend. She’s really terribly impressed by you, Emmett. But she had that damn charity exhibit at the Tate. She was one of the sponsoring committee—”

  “Golly Moses, I don’t mind. I merely meant I’d like to have become better acquainted with her.” His thoughts went to the conversation with Carol before Sir Austin’s arrival, and he said, “My niece was quite awed by your wife. She asked about your brother, also—missed him, since he’s made such a hit in publishing, and she’s a journalism major in college.”

  Sir Austin wrinkled his patrician nose. “As between us, tell her no loss. Sydney has his points, but one of them is not discussing literature with journalism majors. Matter of fact, though, I’ve got him a bit more serious about his responsibilities in publishing. He’s in Vienna now on a book matter, and after that he’s to join me in Paris. I must say, Paris seems to be attracting everyone for different reasons right now. I have the sticky Summit business, of course. And Fleur thinks the fashion openings have been moved up early just for her. And Sydney—well—a great number of the publishers on the Continent will be there, hounding delegates for books, and I’ve ordered Sydney to be among them.”

  He paused to accept his gin-and-tonic from the valet. Earnshaw took the brandy snifter and nodded. “Thank you, Thatcher. This’ll do it. Good night.”

  He puffed on his cigar, laid it in a tray, and took a sip of brandy, listening for the kitchen door to close. When he heard it and knew that Sir Austin and he had privacy at last, he peered at his English friend inquiringly.

  Sir Austin had set down his drink and pushed himself forward from the soft ease of the armchair. “I don’t want to hold you up any longer, Emmett, and I do believe you’ll want some time to think after you’ve heard what I have to report. You don’t mind if I plunge right into it?”

  Earnshaw’s curiosity by now consumed him. “Plunge ahead,” he said.

  Sir Austin stared at the carpet a moment, then murmured, “Not quite certain where to begin.” He raised his head. “Let me begin with a question, and after that, I’ll go on. How well do you know Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz?”

  It was the name that Earnshaw had least expected to hear in the hushed privacy of his ninth-floor Dorchester suite, and his long face did not hide his surprise. “Goerlitz?” he repeated. “How well do I know him?” He was really asking this of himself, and he considered the question. As a prominent corporation attorney, before his political career had begun, Earnshaw had met and dealt with Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz on numerous occasions, in Washington, D.C., as well as in the vast offices of the Goerlitz Industriebau in Frankfurt-am-Main. Several times, in those days, he had even been received at dinner in the eighty-room stone ancestral castle, Villa Morgen, a dozen kilometers outside Frankfurt, a castle built by the Goerlitz family before the Franco-Prussian War. Since Earnshaw’s clients, industrial giants themselves, shared many international patents and licenses with Goerlitz, his meetings with the gruff German had been necessities. The meetings had always made Earnshaw uncomfortable because Goerlitz was humorless and his conversation devoid of small talk. He would discuss coal, steel, mining machinery, electrical plants, nuclear generators, cargo ships, jet airplanes, all of which he manufactured, with intense passion, or speak of his rivals in West Germany, like Alfried Krupp von Bohlen of Essen, with harsh anger. Yet, Earnshaw had always got on with him because Goerl
itz was a tycoon of quick and firm decisions and a man of his word.

  After Earnshaw had gone into politics, he had seen less of Goerlitz. And after the Spelvin Steel case investigation, which had been aired on national television (when Earnshaw’s gentle homespun style, contrasted to the snide legalistics of the Attorney General’s staff, had catapulted him into public favor and won him the Presidential nomination, and eventually, the occupancy of the White House), he had not seen Goerlitz at all. Occasionally, the German’s name had come up during Cabinet meetings, and several times, Simon Madlock had mentioned him in passing, but there had been no more personal contact between the industrialist and himself.

  Now Earnshaw realized that Sir Austin had asked him a question and was waiting for his answer. “Forgive me,” said Earnshaw. “I was trying to remember. I find that more and more, as I grow older, when someone inquires about something or someone in my past, and I have to go back to remember, I become lost in the past. All right. You wanted to know how well I know, or knew, Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz. I don’t think anyone was ever really close to him, if you want my guess. Maybe his children—a son, and two or three married daughters—but I doubt if even they knew him well. Uh—I’d say he and I had a fairly friendly business relationship. Of course, that was some time before I became President.”

  “But after you became President, Emmett? How was it then?”

  Earnshaw hesitated. “Well, of course, for a while there, it would have been improper to—to maintain any relationship. As I recollect, he was not tried at Nuremberg as a war criminal for lack of substantial evidence. Later, perhaps a dozen years later, before the West German statute of limitations ran out, your people turned up evidence, and Goerlitz and some lesser German Nazis were tried by another International Military Tribunal reconvened in Munich, and Goerlitz was found guilty of—what was it?—using slave labor, I think, and plundering occupied nations in the Second World War—although there was some question about that. Then he was tossed into prison—I forget how long—”

  “The sentence was twenty years,” said Sir Austin. “I believe he had served less than one quarter of the sentence when the Russians pressed for a pardon, and it was granted, and his factories and holdings were returned to him.”

  “Yes, I do remember. He made an astonishing comeback. I read somewhere recently that he has exceeded Krupp in production and sales.”

  “The Minister for Overseas Development was telling me only the other day that Goerlitz is matching Krupp in building contracts in the underdeveloped countries, especially India, and he’s taken the lead in dealings and sales with the Communist bloc on the Continent, and especially in Red China. You did say you haven’t seen him recently?”

  Earnshaw shook his head. “No, I’ve been out of things, Austin. I was still in the White House when Goerlitz was released, but there was no reason to renew our old relationship. Of course, some of our people were in touch with him, as they were with all international industrialists. I think my aide, Simon Madlock, did see him in Frankfurt on one trip.”

  “When was that?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure. Nothing of consequence. I think—well, it might have been four or five years ago.” Earnshaw paused, and regarded his English friend with curiosity. “Austin, I don’t think I understand this discussion of Goerlitz. It seems irrelevant. You said that you wanted to speak to me about a highly personal and urgent matter. You indicated that it might have to do with my—my good name. I can’t see what that old German has to do with my life. He’s been out of it for years.”

  Sir Austin stared at the footstool between them, and, without looking up, he said, “Emmett, I’m afraid Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz is back in your life. Very much so. In a rather nasty way, too.”

  Earnshaw sat stiffly on the edge of his armchair, puzzled and worried. There was a constriction in his chest, a terror of the unknown which he felt but could not fathom. “What do you mean, Austin? What are you trying to say?”

  Sir Austin came forward in his armchair, so that his bony knees almost touched the footstool. He licked at his mustache before he spoke. “Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz is an old man now, and I’m told he’s physically on the decline. He must be in his seventies. He’s had everything money and power can buy. What is there left for an old man who has no interests outside his business empire? One thing only. To set his past in order, set the record straight, prepare an apologia for the future. Remember, he had one bitter period in his life. He was imprisoned as a war criminal, and he’s always claimed it was unjust. Very well. One thing left. Settle old scores. That’s the final indulgence for an angry old man with wealth and power.” Sir Austin hesitated, but at last addressed Earnshaw directly. “Goerlitz has written his memoirs in German, Emmett. He’s put every bloody thing into them, from his memory, from journals, from correspondence, from business files. I’m told they are shockingly frank, brutally so, and every word, every disclosure, every sensational revelation is fully supported by photostats of documents that he intends to publish with his narrative. Emmett, I’m afraid you are in those memoirs, an entire chapter’s worth.”

  “Me?” Earnshaw’s disbelief was instantaneous and sincere. “What on earth could Goerlitz possibly write about me?”

  Sir Austin rubbed his right knee nervously and contemplated the footstool. “I detest going on with this, Emmett—”

  “You go right on and tell me what he wrote.”

  “I’m afraid, for your sake, I must. In his memoirs, Goerlitz writes that you were the most indecisive President in American history, and therefore, the most irresponsible and the weakest. He writes that you refused to come to grips with any crisis, that you were unable to make up your mind at any time, that you had no interest in your office and its duties, and that therefore, you delegated all decisions and authority to your subordinates, especially to Simon Madlock. And because of your disinterest, and Madlock’s Messianic unrealism, you played into Red China’s hands—you gave China the neutron bomb through Professor Varney’s defection at Zurich and you gave China other critical materials that enabled her to build up her rocketry arsenal—and as a result, you, primarily, and Madlock, secondarily, are responsible for Red China’s full emergence as a nuclear world power. Then he writes—”

  Earnshaw’s cheeks were crimson with anger. “It’s a damned lie!” he blurted, voice shaking. “It’s a ridiculous, malicious, Nazi-madman lie, and if old Goerlitz actually wrote that and dares publish it, I’ll have him in court immediately for libel and defamation. I’ve had my share of criticism and insult, the usual prattling political nonsense, but this kind of vengeful and extreme character assassination exceeds any license of free speech. How dare he make such accusations without a bit of evidence? As a former attorney, let alone former President of the United States, I’m telling you—”

  With a pained expression, Sir Austin had lifted a hand to interrupt. “Emmett—Emmett—of course, I don’t blame you for being outraged—you have every right—but, Emmett, he has photographs of documents and letters, two of them signed by you, the rest by Madlock in your name, ordering certain nuclear materials from Goerlitz Industriebau, to be paid for out of secret government defense funds, and ordering these materials consigned through Goerlitz to Red China on a long-term credit basis.”

  Still flushed, trembling, Earnshaw snapped, “That’s insane! Even if it were true, by what logic would we have given Communist China such materials through a German intermediary?”

  “According to Goerlitz, your adviser, Madlock, believed fervently, almost mystically, that Red China could be brought to our side, to peace, by gestures of goodwill, by help and guidance, by employing a sort of Marshall Plan policy. Fearing it might be unpopular, Madlock took certain initial steps on his own. He arranged for Goerlitz to send off to China the machinery for synthetic textile factories and cotton mills, he ordered shipments of tools, trucks, tractors, and he instigated the sending of various materials for nuclear reactors intended for medical and agricultural use, ev
en though the reactors could be converted to the production of fissionable fuel for ultimate employment in aggression. I repeat, Madlock appeared to take these steps on his own initiative, apparently with your wholehearted support and with—”

  “My support?” Earnshaw exploded. “Does Goerlitz think I was a stupid fool? Does he think I’d work behind my own country’s back? Or that an intelligent, trustworthy public servant like Madlock would? I tell you, Goerlitz has become a senile lunatic.”

  “Well—” Sir Austin began doubtfully.

  Disturbed by the other’s dubiousness, Earnshaw suddenly demanded, “Where are those documents with my signature that Goerlitz has? You give me his book and the so-called evidence, and I’ll expose his falsehoods and forgeries at once, right here, this minute.”

  He saw that Sir Austin was trying to soothe him, but Earnshaw would not be calmed down. Yet, when Sir Austin spoke, he tried to listen.

  “I don’t have a full manuscript copy of the Goerlitz memoirs yet,” Sir Austin said. “No one has. But those of us in publishing have our literary spies. The competition for major books is so great that Sydney and I maintain representatives in most Western capitals, and these representatives are well paid to learn, by whatever means, what important books are being prepared or completed, and to acquire an advance look at these works. I don’t mind saying that some bribery is involved. In any event, our man in Munich went down to Frankfurt to help in preparations for the annual Frankfurt Book Fair. There he ran into Goerlitz’s German publisher and learned that the publisher had in his possession—only temporarily—since it was to be turned over to a French literary agent—the final-draft manuscript of the memoirs. For a not inconsiderable sum, our man was able to borrow these memoirs for a single evening. He found them electrifying, and was up an entire night writing a sketchy synopsis of them and making Minox copies of some of the documentation. His express package, announcing his coup and urging that Sydney and I purchase this tremendous work for publication, arrived earlier this evening. I had only to glance at what he had sent to know that the book will have international repercussions—and, along the way, will unfairly damage your own reputation beyond repair. In fact, in his attack upon you, Goerlitz even had the gall to disparage me, as a friend of yours. Dreadful stuff. I knew that we would have no part of the scurrilous book—but others, less ethical than ourselves, will snatch it up and publish it in every nation in the world. My real duty was clear. You were my friend. You were maligned. You must be told of this, and thus forewarned, you would be forearmed.”