The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  “What do you mean—‘make an effort’ to follow them?” asked Hazel Smith.

  Superintendent Quarolli offered the smallest shrug. “We try to attend our distinguished guests, for their own safety. Many do not wish to be followed. Many do not wish us to know their destinations. Perhaps they are off to a secret diplomatic meeting. Perhaps they have a private rendezvous. As a consequence, dangerous as it is, they escape our many eyes, and are gone. But only briefly, I promise you.” He sat back, and a glimmer of self-satisfaction shone in his eyes. “Not much escapes our security, Madame Smith, this you must believe. We know of every foreigner in Paris at this time. We know about all of them. We know what they look like. We know where they stay. We know where they go. We know whom they see. We are in the business of knowing, knowing and watching every visitor, night and day, to guarantee security for those who may possibly guarantee us peace on earth. We are not infallible, by any means. But we try to be infallible, you see, and we are close to it, very close… Any more questions, Madame Smith?”

  His self-complacency, his claims to near perfection for his section, had nettled Hazel. Since the interview was almost ended, she decided that she could risk challenging him.

  “Monsieur Quarolli. When you say you know about every—you emphasized every—foreigner in Paris right now, or almost every one, I assume that you mean visitors other than the heads of state and their families, and the many delegates?”

  “Yes, Madame, that is precisely what I mean.”

  “Well, now, I don’t want to be skeptical or anything like that—I have great admiration for French police efficiency and ingenuity—but I don’t see how what you claim is really possible.”

  He sat forward, superciliously amused. “No?”

  “I’m convinced, absolutely convinced, that your famous intelligence and police services know everything necessary to know about the delegates from the Five Powers, and that you are really doing a remarkable job in providing security for those directly involved in the Summit. But when you speak of knowing at least something about every foreign visitor—well, I’ll be perfectly honest with you, monsieur—I am a doubter and unbeliever. How can you possibly know about every visitor? You don’t have the necessary personnel, the number of agents—”

  Quarolli stared at Hazel with less amusement. “We have thousands of security agents right here in Paris.”

  “But there are many more thousands of visitors, from ordinary American and European tourists to journalists to entertainers to business people to fashion editors. My God, how could you conceivably—?”

  “Madame Smith,” Quarolli said with asperity, “I have spoken of our official agents. But there are many others, the unofficial ones. I cannot go into details now, for obvious reasons. Let me simply say that every apartment concierge, hotel clerk or waiter or chambermaid, garage attendant, bartender, Place Pigalle streetwalker, shopgirl, taxi driver, could be a valuable source of information. Do you understand? Now, perhaps you are less skeptical?”

  Hazel, like a tigress out to protect her offspring, in this case her story, waved her pad airily. “I understand more, yes I do, but I’m afraid I still have my doubts. At the risk of annoying you, I can’t see how your informers can supply you with facts about everyone, about every inconsequential person, nondelegates, nonentities, pouring in. When I just think of the people, the variety of visitors, who have no connection with the Summit, whom I run into in a single day, I can’t imagine that you even know of their existence. I mean, especially the unimportant ones.”

  She had got to him at last, she could see. Superintendent Maurice Quarolli’s features, beneath his tan, had taken on the hues of the tricolor. “Forgive me, but I see that you are quite the intractable and stubborn young lady, Madame Smith. Perhaps I can only convince you with a demonstration.”

  “Demonstration?”

  “We once had a great detective in France. I refer to Alphonse Bertillon, Director of the Sûreté’s Identity Department. There were many journalists who were skeptical of his methods of keeping records of criminals through photographs and measurements. When these critics could not be convinced by other means, Bertillon would convert them by demonstration. There was a journalist here in Paris named Sarcey, who frequently ridiculed Bertillon’s methods, insisting that no criminal could be photographed in a natural way if he did not wish to be. Bertillon invited this skeptic, Sarcey, to the Sûreté headquarters, and guided the heretic through the laboratories to show how painstaking and foolproof were his methods. At the end of the tour Sarcey remained unconvinced, until Bertillon handed him an envelope containing ten true and candid photographs of Sarcey, taken automatically minutes before, by hidden cameras that snapped pictures of the journalist whenever he passed through a doorway. These pictures converted Sarcey. They were worth a thousand words. Perhaps I would be wise to emulate my predecessor.”

  Hazel, who had been noting the anecdote with delight, looked up. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean to offer a similar demonstration to a doubter, madame. We have discussed security surrounding the Summit, yes? I have stated that we not only keep eyes on the official delegates, as best we can, but on every foreign visitor to Paris in this critical time, yes? You have severely questioned whether that is possible.”

  “I did more than question, monsieur. I was flatly dubious.”

  “Trés bien, madame, nous allons voir si nous sommes en mesure de dissiper vos doutes,” said Quarolli, flattening his palms on the desk top. “You spoke of the variety of people you meet in a single day. You said that you cannot imagine that we in the Direction de la Sécurité would know of their existence, of the existence of these casual tourists who have no connection with the Summit. Is that what you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well, madame. Who are the foreigners you have met in Paris today, this very day, the ones not connected with the Summit?”

  This was a surprise, and Hazel was momentarily flustered. “Well, I don’t know—do you mean everyone I met today?”

  “Anyone you can recollect meeting, or wish to mention, that you had a confrontation with today. Visitors. Foreigners who have nothing to do with the Summit.” He took up his pencil, and his challenging eyes fixed upon her, as he waited. “Well—” She tried to remember, going back to this morning, moving herself through the long day, then remembering. “You might possibly recognize one or two, but for the rest, it’s, they’re simply too—”

  “Proceed, madame,” said Superintendent Quarolli sternly.

  She rapidly screened the names, fearful of committing any indiscretion, but finally, she felt reassured that they would be, with one exception, maybe two, absolute strangers to this overbearing police director. “Okay,” she said. She had determined to play the game. She would give him the names, no rank, no serial number, nothing but the cold names. “Okay. You’re going to write them down?”

  “If you please.”

  She recited slowly, allowing time for Quarolli to jot down each name. “Emmett A. Earnshaw… Matthew Brennan… Medora Hart… Jay Thomas Doyle.” She paused. “Well, there are more, but—”

  “As many as you wish.”

  “No, that’s enough. Now, what are you going to do?”

  “Demonstrate,” he said. He reached behind the telephone and punched a buzzer.

  Almost immediately a side door opened and a pallid-faced young Frenchman in a plaid suit materialized and came quickly, silently, across the carpeted room to the desk. Quarolli handed him the sheet of paper. “Cherchez-moi les dossiers de ces gens-là, André. Et dépêchez vous.”

  The civil servant named Andre gave a short knowing nod and hastened out of the room. Quarolli offered Hazel his first full smile of the interview, then fished inside his coat, extracted a sterling cigarette case, and snapped it open.

  “Nous allons nous ditendre un moment. Have a Royale, French, filtered,” he said pleasantly. “And I shall, too.” She accepted the cigarette and the light, unaccountably nervous
, and he lit his own cigarette and said, “It will be no more than three minutes.”

  She pretended to review and amend her scrawled notes, and she smoked steadily. She waited with growing suspense, feeling that he had overreached and that she would embarrass him, yet not fully certain of it, not positive.

  They smoked in silence, and in less than three minutes, the side door swung open, and the civil servant named André strode briskly into the office carrying four manila folders. These he handed to Quarolli, who elaborately thanked and dismissed him.

  Grinding out his cigarette, Quarolli said with mock innocence, “Maintenant, madame, nous allons voir ce que nous avons ici—let us see what we have here.”

  Quarolli drew the top folder from the stack, placed it neatly before him, and opened it.

  “The first dossier. The first name you spoke of. Voilà, Mr. Emmett A. Earnshaw.” He held up a sheet of blue paper and scanned it. Then he read aloud, “Earnshaw, age 66. Arrived 11:01 morning 15 June Gare du Nord. Accompanied by niece Carol, age 19. Met by American Embassy officer Callahan (See dossier Callahan, R. L.). Suite number 712 Hotel Lancaster. Visited Palais Rose, held impromptu press conference. Brief meeting, exchange with Matthew Brennan, once disarmament specialist and negotiator in Earnshaw’s Administration. Lunched 2:30 Quai d’Orsay. Two-hour sightseeing tour. Returned Lancaster at hour 16:30. Received visitor Willi von Goerlitz, age 26, son of Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz, German industrialist, Frankfurt, suite at Hotel Ritz. Goerlitz with Earnshaw 37 minutes. Goerlitz and Carol Earnshaw left to shop on Champs-Élysées. 5:15 Earnshaw received Jay Thomas Doyle, former American journalist.”

  Quarolli looked up and returned the blue sheet to the folder. “There is more, of course, but it would be indiscreet to read it aloud.”

  Hazel nodded. “Very impressive, very. But, of course, Earnshaw is well-known.”

  Quarolli sniffed. “Everyone is well-known, madame, to someone. However, whom would you consider less well known?”

  “Right now? Well, take that journalist, Doyle.”

  “A pleasure.” Quarolli pulled out a second manila folder, opened it, lifted out another blue sheet, and read loud. “Jay Thomas Doyle, age 45. United States citizen. Arrived Paris, Orly, via Austrian Airlines 10:44 morning 15 June. Checked into Suite 323 Hotel George-V. Attended barber, manicurist in hotel. Visited editorial offices of Atlas News Association afternoon. Met E. A. Earnshaw in Rue de Berri, talked approximately ten minutes. Walked to Café Français. Met American correspondent from Moscow, Hazel Smith, and her companion, Medora Hart, English entertainer Club Lautrec (See Ormsby, Sir Austin, Ormsby, Sydney dossiers). Brief altercation. Shortly after, Doyle—”

  Hazel had felt the chill creep up her arms, as she listened, and she held up a hand to interrupt the superintendent He paused in his reading, and waited.

  “I surrender,” said Hazel weakly. “I’m convinced.”

  Quarolli grimaced. “Come now, surely you wish to hear of your other acquaintances, too?”

  “Don’t rub it in. I said I’m convinced. You are all-knowing, you are all-seeing, you are frightening, and the Summit is safe.”

  Quarolli smiled. “Merci, madame.”

  “Just one last thing. Tell me that and I’ll go. Why everyone? Why do you go to the trouble? Why bother about so many inconsequential, ineffectual people? Most of them are harmless, and many of them are simpletons and fools, weaklings and fools and nothing more.”

  Quarolli was nice now, and he was thoughtful. He considered what Hazel had said, and after thirty seconds, he stood up and roamed about the office. “Madame, I grew up in the small port of Paimpol in Brittany, and we lived as a closely knit Catholic family in my grandfather’s house. My grandfather was never without his Holy Bible, and every night he would read to us from it. Why do I bother about simpletons and fools? Because I remember one line he read us from his Bible. The line was ‘Every fool will be meddling.’” Quarolli smiled again. “The days ahead are too crucial for even minor distractions.”

  “May I quote you?”

  “You may quote me, madame.”

  Now hours later, in the kitchen of the apartment in the Rue de Téhéran, Hazel Smith had finished reliving the interview recorded in her note pad. Placing it beside her typewriter, she touched her fingers to the keys, then rapidly resumed writing down what she had learned in her interview with the officer of the Direction de la Sécurité. In a page and a half she summarized the workings and methods of the French security agents. She wrote of their thoroughness in investigating everyone—“adequately demonstrated to me by M. Quarolli”—but she did not write the details of the actual chilling demonstration.

  She used no direct quotations until her very last paragraph, and then she wrote:

  So the masters of the Summit sleep easier tonight, and Paris sleeps easier, and the world may, too, aware that little-known men like Maurice Quarolli guard them, and by guarding them, protect the world’s last hope for peace. If Quarolli has his way, no outsider will interfere with the progress to the Summit. For, to men like Quarolli, no visitor to Paris tonight is too small, too unimportant, in fact, too stupid, to be overlooked.

  As M. Quarolli said when bidding me farewell, “Why does our security even bother about simpletons and fools? Because of a line I remember my grandfather reading me from the Holy Bible. That line was ‘Every fool will be meddling.’ The days ahead are too crucial for even minor distractions.”

  She typed “-30-” at the bottom of her story, yanked the last page from her typewriter, and with a glance at the kitchen clock, she hastily began proofreading it.

  Suddenly, the nagging thing that had chilled her from the first struck her with forceful impact, and she sat back and closed her eyes tightly. For suddenly, it had occurred to her, the full realization of it occurred to her, that “they” must have a complete dossier on her, too, and if they did, she wondered if they knew the truth, and then she was horrified and finally, she was afraid.

  III

  “Arretez ici, monsieur,” Matt Brennan commanded the taxi driver, “Je veux descendre.”

  The driver, whose rattling old Citroën had been inching up the Avenue Malakoff in the heavy traffic, stamped hard on the brake. The taxi shuddered and stalled.

  Peering over the driver’s shoulder through the windshield, Brennan could see that it was no use going farther in the taxi. He had wanted to reach the Summit headquarters as early as possible, hoping to be at the entrance or in the courtyard by nine-thirty, when Nikolai Rostov passed through, coming or going. But the traffic had conspired against him. First, the Avenue Foch had been made inaccessible to public vehicles by wooden barricades and a cordon of police. Next, trying the Avenue Malakoff approach to the Palais Rose, his taxi had gone no more than a half block before it had been caught up in a tumultuous clog of cars. Now, ahead, there were more barricades, and policemen detouring traffic away from the Palais Rose into a side street. And the time was not nine-thirty but nine-fifty. He would, he decided, make better progress on foot.

  In defiance of the law, angry horns were honking in unison from the rear. Quickly, Brennan paid the driver and hurried to the sidewalk. Immediately, he found himself in a maelstrom of bustling pedestrians, jostling, pushing, as they tried to reach the Palais Rose for the last of the opening day ceremonies.

  Briefly, he made forward progress, but there was an interminable wait at the corner of the Avenue Alphand, into which the traffic was being diverted. Finally, risking his neck to dodge across the intersection, Brennan suddenly was brought to a standstill, trapped tightly in a heaving mass of bodies, as thick and squirming as hundreds of worms in a container. While some of the mob broke off to join the rows of spectators at the curb, who were craning for a sight of the motorcades that would bring the last of the world leaders to the Summit site, the rest of the spectators continued to alternate between maddening immobility and creeping movement toward the Palais Rose.

  At last, Brennan abandoned his efforts at accelerating his
progress. He submitted to control by the mob. When it moved, he moved. When it stopped, he stopped. An old and familiar fatalistic attitude, shaded by pessimism, suffused him and calmed his frustration.

  This was simply not his day, he decided.

  Hours earlier, he had hoped for more. A Monday morning always held promise. He had begun the morning early, full of purpose and confidence. Awakening at daybreak, he had slipped out of Lisa’s bed without disturbing her, since they had been up so late the night before discussing their dreams of the future and then making love. After fastening the lock on his door, to preserve their masquerade of virtue before the chambermaids, he had dressed hurriedly and gone down to the hotel breakfast room. A cup of acrid French coffee had dispelled his drowsiness, and at last, fully aroused, he had hurried into the telephone operator’s alcove behind the concierge’s desk.

  “Please get me the Hotel Palais d’Orsay,” he had told the operator.

  Inside the booth across from the switchboard, he had soon begun to feel like Kafka’s hero, K, in The Castle. Like K, with his elusive Count West-west, Brennan soon realized that he was confronted with the task of seeking an equally elusive Nikolai Rostov. The annoying operator at the Hotel Palais d’Orsay had flatly stated that there was no Rostov listed. When Brennan had insisted that she was mistaken, she had angrily transferred him to the reception desk.

  The reception clerk had listened, then said, “A Mr. Rostov here, you say?… May I inquire who is speaking, sir?” After an instant’s hesitation, Brennan had told him. The clerk had said, “A moment, please. Let me see our registration cards.” There had been a silence, and then the clerk’s voice alert and firm. “Sorry to keep you, Mr. Brennan. I have checked our guest list. We have no Nikolai Rostov registered on the premises. I am sorry.” Before Brennan had been able to retort, the receiver at the other end had banged in his ear.