The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  But then, as he stepped inside the elevator, another thought came to Brennan, surmounting his disillusionment. Perhaps each of us demands too much of our elders, he thought. Earnshaw had been a disappointment to him. Yet, he himself had been a disappointment to his son, Ted. Still, Brennan knew, he was more than his son believed him to be. And so, perhaps, Earnshaw was more than Brennan believed him to be.

  He wondered about this, and then he wondered why Earnshaw had suddenly seemed so old, so old and lost…

  FOR AN HOUR, Earnshaw had been sitting by himself in the unlit room, steadily reading. Now he closed the binder covers that held the transcript of Brennan’s testimony before the Congressional Joint Committee on Internal Security, lifted it from his lap, and returned it to the coffee table.

  What he had read in such detail was, for the most part, new to him. And in the light of what Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz had told him yesterday, it was deeply disturbing.

  Earnshaw sat back to reflect morbidly on these revelations and to consider his present lot. It was as if his orderly world, which had begun to disintegrate, but which he had thought could still be shored up and repaired, had finally overcome all of his efforts and tumbled down into a hopeless rubble heap around him.

  He had always, he supposed, lent credence to the innuendos, hints, rumors reported by those close to him, because for him it was a truism that whenever there was smoke there must be fire. When Senator Dexter had publicly implied—not charged, but implied—that Professor Varney’s defection had been due not merely to a public official who had been derelict in his duty, but had been due to a public official with highly suspect left-wing affiliations (who had deliberately encouraged Varney’s plan to strengthen China in a warped scheme to assure peace), Earnshaw as President had accepted the implication as fact. And when the traitor, Brennan, had tried to shift the responsibility for Varney’s defection onto poor, dead Simon Madlock, Earnshaw had considered Brennan’s evasion cowardly and despicable. And had he reviewed Brennan’s formal testimony any time before today, Earnshaw realized that he might have still felt the same way.

  But yesterday’s disclosures had shaken Earnshaw. In his meeting with Goerlitz he had seen actual evidence of Madlock’s activities, undercover activities unknown to Earnshaw. He had learned, with sorrow, that his once beloved aide, like a misguided missionary, had employed shameful means to attain a desirable end, an end to war. No matter what his motives, Simon Madlock had been perfidious, had been disloyal, had committed a kind of political forgery for which Earnshaw must now pay.

  Having this knowledge, he found it more than possible to believe that Brennan’s original testimony had been honest. Yes, it was possible that Brennan had gone to Madlock and warned him about Varney, and that Madlock, in his Messianic zeal, had ignored warnings in his determination to have America’s foremost scientist-pacifist in Zurich to disarm the Chinese. Yes, it was possible that Madlock, not Brennan, had been the well-intentioned traitor to his country. If this were so, then Brennan had suffered unfairly. Also, if this were so—and Goerlitz’s memoirs had made it clear that most of it was so—Earnshaw would be the ultimate victim of his aide’s monumental stupidity.

  Earnshaw felt ill. It was too late, too late for retribution. There was nothing to be done for Brennan, assuming Brennan had been truly guiltless. There was even less than nothing that Earnshaw might do for himself, for he was truly guilty, guilty of abdicating his responsibility for a public trust to a willful and deluded crony.

  He had mourned Madlock’s death. He had mourned Isabel. And now, in this shadowy hotel room, he once more mourned his own death, the worst of the three, because it was a living death.

  In his self-flagellation and self-pity, he had not been aware that he was no longer alone. He looked up, startled, to find Carol standing over him, studying him, her young face crossed with concern.

  “Carol,” he gasped. “When did you come in?”

  “Uncle Emmett, I’ve never seen you like this. You look positively ill. What is the matter?”

  He tried to sit up, and failed, and slumping back, he tried to smile, and failed. “Oh, I’ll be all right,” he said. “Don’t you worry your pretty head. Merely a passing mood. Everyone has a right to be depressed once in a while.”

  “Not you, Uncle Emmett. I know you too well. Something must have happened.”

  “Just one or two business setbacks. I came to Paris on a couple of personal matters and, well—well, I guess they didn’t work out as I had hoped. People—people can be difficult.”

  “Why do some people behave like ghouls?” she demanded angrily. “I don’t know how you can stand them, Uncle Emmett, the reporters back home, the rival politicians on the other side, and here, even here, that horrible Goerlitz with his spiteful, vicious, dirty book.”

  Instantly, Earnshaw was alert. He held her last word in the air between them. “Book,” he said.

  He could see that her expression had changed from one of concern over him to one of frightened self-concern. It was as if she wanted to snatch back her last spoken word and hastily bring it inside her.

  “Book,” Earnshaw repeated, pushing himself to his feet. “What do you know about it?”

  “About what?” she said, stalling desperately.

  He circled the coffee table to confront her directly. “What do you know about Goerlitz’s memoirs?”

  “Why, I—I heard you mention it—you mentioned it to Willi the time he was up here—when you were giving him the message.”

  “No good, Carol,” Earnshaw said. “I mentioned the book, I mentioned that I wanted to see Goerlitz to straighten out some information in the memoirs, but I never said a word, not a word, about its being a vicious—what did you say?—vicious, spiteful, dirty book directed against me. I made it a point never to discuss the contents of those memoirs with you or anyone else. Now, apparently, you know the contents. I think you’d better tell me how you found them out.”

  “I—I just assumed, I mean from your tone with Willi—and your being so anxious to see his father—and even changing our itinerary to come to Paris first—”

  “Carol,” he said, “don’t lie to me.”

  “I—Uncle Emmett, really, I—”

  “Carol, I demand the truth. You read that book.”

  “No, I didn’t! Willi did. He—”

  “Willi von Goerlitz read it. I see. Then he lied to me, too. He told me he hadn’t.”

  “He didn’t lie,” Carol protested. “He hadn’t read it. But after the last time he saw you, he became curious and he read it, and he told me about it last night. He was all mixed up. He just couldn’t match what was in his father’s memoirs to the way you seemed when he met you. So he told me what was in the memoirs, and I got real sore and told him most of it wasn’t true at all, and I told him what you were really like. I mean that’s what happened, literally. It came up, and I had a chance to tell your side of everything last night”

  Earnshaw had fastened on to something else. “Last night,” he said. “How could you see Willi last night? You spent the whole evening with the Ormsbys and me.”

  “Well, I mean, we weren’t out late, and after you went to sleep, I remembered that I’d promised to meet Miss Hart after her show, at the Lido Bar for a hot dog. When I got down in the lobby, the night concierge said there was a call for me. It was from Willi. He wanted to see me. I guess he’d just finished his father’s book, and sort of wanted to discuss it. So he met Medora and me, and the three of us went to Pub Renault, and we just sat around talking, and after Medora left, he and I kept on talking, and the book came up naturally.”

  “What time did he bring you back last night?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe two or three o’clock.”

  Earnshaw mocked her. “Maybe two or three o’clock.” His contained anger had turned to rage. “Who do you think you are, staying out all night against my express wishes? And rousting about with that Goerlitz kid when I’ve forbidden it? I ordered you not to see him aga
in. You pledged not to see him. But there you were, doing it behind my back, carrying on with someone whose father is out to kill me.” He gasped, and he blurted savagely, “How dare you!”

  Carol had gone white. “Uncle Emmett, what—what’s got into you? I told you last time that Willi has nothing to do with his father. I mean, Willi is one person and his father’s another. I know what his father is, but Willi’s another generation, and he’s better educated and smarter and nicer.”

  “You’re prattling like a child.”

  “I am not! You’re just angry because you’re having trouble with his father. But that has nothing to do with Willi and me—”

  “Willi and you, is it? That’s cozy. That’s darn cozy.”

  “Uncle Emmett,” she pleaded, and her voice broke. “What’s happening? I don’t understand. I—”

  “What’s happening is that you’ve lost your head. You’re behaving in a foolish and disreputable manner. If your father and mother were alive, they’d never permit such—such indecent behavior. And I won’t either. I have a responsibility to them and to you for your welfare. You can’t see it now, what you’ve been letting yourself in for, but you’ll thank me one day.”

  “Uncle Emmett, you’ve never, never been more wrong. You’re sore at old Goerlitz, so you’re trying to take it out on his son, and—”

  “You hold your tongue, young lady!”

  “You simply have no right to push me around. It’s not fair. If I want to see Willi, I’ll see him.”

  “Do that, and I’ll pull you out of here and drag you straight home!” he shouted. “I’ve been as lenient as possible with you always. But not this time, young lady, not this time. This is once my mind’s made up. And it’s an order. You’re not to see that Goerlitz boy again.”

  She looked fixedly at him, and began to tremble. “I—I’m glad your mind’s made up for once,” she said, teeth chattering. “I didn’t know you were capable of that. It’s the first time someone has seen you make a decision!”

  Earnshaw stood immobilized, stricken, as if hit by a bullet fired from a revolver in the hand of his child. He stared at her, deeply hurt, irreparably wounded, dumbly watching the tears of remorse welling in her eyes.

  The tears were rolling down now, and she was stumbling toward-him, throwing her arms around him, hugging him tightly, head on his chest, as she sobbed, “I didn’t mean it—honest to God, I swear—I swear on Mom and Pop—I didn’t—”

  For a while, he held her, patted her, until her tears had ceased. Then he found his big handkerchief and gave it to her.

  “That’s enough now, Carol. That’s enough of that. Want to ruin my best suit?… You said nothing that was so wrong. We all say things we don’t mean under stress.”

  “But I didn’t mean it,” she begged.

  “I know you didn’t, my dear. I blame myself. You wanted to help me, and I was ashamed and—and unreasonable. I had to strike at someone, and you happened to be at hand. This is all bad. It’s been—it’s been a bad time here, and we mustn’t let it go on. Maybe it would be smartest if both of us cleared out, just turned around and went back home where we belong, and got away from where I can be hurt, and from where I can hurt you.”

  “Whatever you want to do, Uncle Emmett.”

  “Yes, I think that will be best. I’ll make arrangements tomorrow. Uh—now, if you don’t mind, I think I’d better lie down for a while before dinner. And you’d better wash your face. It needs it. See you later.”

  Vacant-eyed, he went into the entry hall, and he turned into his bedroom just as the bedside telephone began ringing. Undoing his tie, he picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Earnshaw? Jay Doyle in the lobby, ready to come up and raring to get to work.”

  “I’m not up to it today, Jay,” he heard himself say. “You go off and write whatever you want.”

  “But don’t you want to—?”

  “No, Jay. Do it on your own today. I don’t care what you write. Say whatever you think is right—I trust you—and sign my name.”

  He hung up.

  No, he did not care what he said about the Summit Or what was said about it for him. He didn’t give a damn whether anyone saved the world or not, since it was a hostile world in which he no longer wished to live.

  He drew off his coat, and unlaced his shoes before slipping them off, and then lay down on top of the bedspread.

  To hell with everyone and everything, he thought, and then his mind went to the many pulpits of his past.

  And there were voices, and thunders, and lightnings; and there was a great earthquake… so mighty an earthquake, and so great. And… the cities of the nations fell.

  Come, Armageddon.

  That was his mood.

  CONFUSED by Earnshaw’s refusal to see him, Jay Thomas Doyle picked up his bulging briefcase, thanked the telephone operator, retreated through the lobby, and stopped on the sidewalk in front of the Hotel Lancaster.

  Earnshaw’s refusal was unexpected and his short temper was unusual. Doyle wondered what was eating him. He wondered, also, what column he should write today under the former President’s name. Not that Earnshaw had shown himself to be a useful collaborator in their few meetings. To date their procedure had been simplicity itself. Doyle would dig up what information he could on the proceedings, official, and the progress, unofficial, of the Five-Power Conferences at the Palais Rose. He would research background facts. He would report his findings to Earnshaw, who, in turn, would fumble helplessly for a topic to discuss in his next column. Doyle would discreetly guide him toward a subject, write the column, obtain Earnshaw’s approval, then file the story for syndication. There was little enough that Earnshaw did. But to do absolutely nothing, as he now intended to do, was an utter abdication of responsibility.

  Yet, Doyle did not mind. It would be easy to find a non-controversial subject concerning the latest disarmament talk and write it up in the noncommittal style that so accurately reflected Earnshaw’s image. Best of all, for Doyle, was the fact that, not having to visit with Earnshaw, he had gained an hour to concentrate on what was in his briefcase and uppermost in his mind.

  He had spent a long time in the third-floor reference room of Le Figaro, peeling through cardboard-bound copies of the newspaper, stacked behind shuttered shelves. He had located almost every available story of the last decade and a half that mentioned Nikolai Rostov, and he had arranged to have these stories photocopied. He had spent an even longer time in the Paris bureau of ANA, digging out stories bearing Hazel Smith’s by-line over many years, and he had had these copied also. Then, after routinely finding the background material he might need for the Earnshaw column, Doyle had filled a spare office briefcase with his combined findings, meaning to use some of the material when he met with Earnshaw, and examine the more important papers with greater care before and after he saw Hazel Smith tonight. He had reached her by telephone only an hour ago, and she had readily agreed to another dinner date. He had been elated, but eager to study his research material one more time before seeing her. Now with the Earnshaw appointment canceled, he would have that opportunity.

  Standing on the sidewalk, he had almost decided to go to his hotel room when he saw the attractive, informal café-restaurant, Val d’Isére, across the street. He realized with surprise that he had put nothing in his stomach since his late breakfast, nothing except three or four soft drinks. The diet pill had worked. He would be trimmer, as well as more alert, for Hazel tonight. Still, he must not starve himself to the point of weakness. At Val d’Isére, he could have coffee and a roll, and sufficient solitude to study the contents of his briefcase with care.

  Crossing the Rue de Berri in a step less ponderous than any taken in the last days and weeks—he had lost three or four pounds since morning, he was certain—he reached the Val d’Isére, moved between the flowers and green plants shielding the outer terrace from foot traffic, and entered a dining room which seemed cooler for the framed scenic p
hotographs of white ski slopes on the walls.

  About to take the first empty place, Doyle saw Matt Brennan at a table in a corner, engaged in conversation with a waiter. Doyle made his way past the other diners, most of them relaxing over their aperitifs.

  “Matt, good to see you. I was intending to look you up later.”

  “Well, here I am. Rest your feet. I need company.”

  “Thanks.” Doyle placed his briefcase against a table leg, and sat with a grunt. “What did you order?”

  “Hemlock.”

  “So that’s the way it is,” said Doyle. “Maybe I can make you change your order.”

  “Okay. Make it a Danish beer, garçon… What’s for you, Jay?”

  Doyle started to count calories, and then he stopped. “The same.”

  When the waiter had left, Brennan said, “Aren’t you supposed to be up there with Earnshaw right now? That’s what he told me.”

  “That’s what he told me, too,” Doyle said. “Amazing thing. I rang him from the lobby, and he wouldn’t see me. Ordered me to go off and write whatever I damn pleased. I never heard him in a more despondent mood. Kind of surprising. He’s a pretty smooth-tempered guy, even when things are rough… Hey, what do you mean, Earnshaw told you I was coming up? Did you see him?”

  “I probably contributed to his bad mood. Yes, I saw him. I walked in on him without being invited.”

  Doyle was impressed. “All things considered, that took a lot of guts.”

  “Guts is all I’ve got left, Jay. And they’ve been going, going, and I think they’re almost gone.” He offered a cigarette to Doyle, who refused it, and then he picked one out of the package for himself. ‘Trying to get to Rostov has been like trying to find Judge Crater on the continent of Atlantis. Only harder, as you know. Matters haven’t improved since yesterday. Well, I was despairing enough to be foolhardy. I walked in unannounced on Earnshaw, hoping he would help me. I’ve got news for you, Jay. Foolhardy is still foolhardy.”