The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  “I’m not really.”

  “You are really, my boy. I know you.”

  “Here’s the champagne.” They waited, and then they had it before them, and he said, “And here’s to you.”

  “Not on your life,” she said. “Revision. Ready?” She lifted the glass. “Here’s to us.”

  Falsely, he acknowledged the toast, and they drank.

  “It does get bubbles in your nose,” she said with delight, and then she seemed to remember. “All right, Matt, out with it. Bad day?”

  He gave a short nod. “Bad.”

  “Tell me.”

  He told her. Wiggins, Isenberg, Earnshaw.

  “I don’t blame you for not swinging at the bar,” she said. “But tomorrow’s another day, as the saying goes.”

  “Yes, it is. I’ll be better tomorrow. In fact, I feel better already. More champagne?”

  The first drinks had begun to relieve his head of self-pity. He wanted her forever, but he loved her enough to want her to be happier than that. He wished her a bright, handsome, ambitious young man—and already hated that young man—a young man nearer her age, who would have youth’s funnel vision that saw only victories and success ahead and could not see or know of the Waterloos lurking.

  But tonight, this last night, he was her young man, and she deserved better than his complaints and recital of defeats. Let’s forget Rostov until tomorrow,” he said. “Let’s enjoy tonight. Make believe we’re on the swings. Well, the first thing I’d want to know is all about you, and about your day, everything, every move you made, everyone you met, everything you heard, every thought you had.”

  “I missed you. That’s the main thing. I wasn’t cut out to be a career girl going places. I was cut out to have your babies.”

  It wrenched him, this, their babies, but he was determined on a mindless amusing evening for her. “Okay. Babies in the works. But where were you today? Tell me about those fashion shows you covered, everything.”

  “Are you really interested, Matt?”

  He drained his glass and poured them both more champagne. “If you were involved, I’m interested. Come on, Lisa.”

  She was hesitant. “Well, you asked for it.” She seemed eager to divert him, as she began to recount her activities from her early waking until they had come together in his rooms to dress for dinner.

  She had gone to a Harper’s Bazaar luncheon and stopped by to look in on a Vogue cocktail party, and at the latter she had run into Legrande, who had invited her to an informal dinner party toward the end of the week at his château in Vaucresson. Legrande had remembered her friend—“meaning you, Matt”—and had heard about her friend’s trouble with the police at his showing. The designer had been most apologetic and hoped that she would bring Brennan to his party. “So remember, you’ve got to take me, Matt. His parties are supposed to be fabulous.”

  Before she had gone to the cocktail gathering, she had covered three collections, one at Saint Laurent, one at Balenciaga, one at Givenchy. The collections were exhausting, a strain, and the best parts were the intermissions, during which everyone gathered around to gossip. Tons and tons of gossip. The buyers and fashion press were always insiders, and they were truly an international crowd, and the whisperings were beyond belief. If she were only a newspaperwoman like Hazel Smith, or a columnist, Lisa said, she could write a million stories.

  “And have a million lawsuits for libel,” said Brennan to the two Lisas created by four glasses of Clicquot Rosé 1955. “Hold out your glass and let me fill it.”

  Holding out her empty glass, she went on with her chatter. No, she did not think there’d be many libel suits about what she’d have to report, not actually, because most of what one heard could be proved true. The sources were the best. Top people. Like hearing a directrice telling today how one of her mannequins had been propositioned by Sir Austin Ormsby’s brother, Sydney Ormsby, the fellow who was involved in the Jameson case, and the model had rejected Ormsby because he was an overbearing and horrible person. “Which reminds me of what you told me a little while ago about that Medora Hart and how she was being persecuted,” said Lisa, “and now I believe it.”

  But the wealthy customers were still the best sources of gossip, Lisa went on, and many of them were the wives or mistresses of Summit delegates, and they probably knew more about the latest activities in the Palais Rose than the leaders and ministers themselves.

  “One wife of a French minister was pointed out to me at the Balenciaga collection,” Lisa said, “and she was there to buy a decollete dress, the latest, the most, because she was seducing an English delegate to get hold of information for her husband. How do you like that?”

  “I like that,” said Brennan, feeling slightly drunk. “That’s love and devotion. If you loved and devotioned me, you’d pick up some gossip about Rostov.”

  “I wish I could, Matt,” she said seriously, “but so far, no luck. Now, if you were to ask me something else about politics, maybe I could help. The things you hear. Even Chinese stuff. The inscrutable Chinese, ha. Take the two Chinese wives of Red Chinese delegates I overheard this afternoon at—I forget—either at Givenchy or Saint Laurent—babbling away a mile a minute in pretty fair English about how Germany was building some kind of nuclear city in China, and is supposed to run it, but when it’s done, Russia is going to run it instead. Now, wouldn’t that be news to Germany?… What’s the matter, darling? Oh, I’ve lost you. I bet I’m boring you.”

  Brennan had been only half attentive, but the last of what Lisa had said had suddenly penetrated through the vapors of champagne anesthetizing his brain. An alert signal had reached and aroused a gray mass of shallow memory. He appeared momentarily distant to Lisa, because he was distant, off listening to Professor Isenberg, off listening to Jay Doyle.

  Brennan’s brain replayed the Isenberg recording: “… a new Nuclear Peace City, reactor-powered factories with their own community, that China is having private industry from West Germany come over to build for them… involves advanced fission techniques that Chinese scientists are not yet trained to handle… They can’t use a Russian, although to my surprise, there were a number of Russian scientists at our convention in Peking.”

  Brennan’s brain replayed the Jay Doyle recording: “Why is Goerlitz in Paris? Officially, to meet with the Chinese about something called a Nuclear Peace City he’s contracted to build and run for them, using his German scientists and technicians.”

  Brennan’s brain replayed the Lisa Collins recording: “… two Chinese wives of Red Chinese delegates I overheard this afternoon… babbling away a mile a minute in pretty fair English about how Germany was building some kind of nuclear city in China, and is supposed to run it, but when it’s done, Russia is going to run it instead. Now, wouldn’t that be news to Germany?”

  News to Germany? And how, Lisa!

  Brennan’s mind leaped ahead. News to Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz also, Goerlitz who was investing a fortune in China. News to Emmett A. Earnshaw also, Earnshaw who was trying to win over Goerlitz. News to the leaders of the United States and Great Britain and France also, who trusted that Soviet Russia had made a clean-break with Red China and was now completely on the side of the Western democracies.

  News. The initials of North, East, West, South spelled N-E-W-S. But did gossip, overheard by a twenty-two-year-old New York fashion designer at the intermission of a Givenchy or Saint Laurent fashion collection, a frivolous fashion showing—did that also spell N-E-W-S?

  “Lisa,” Brennan said slowly, “what did you just say?”

  “Well, welcome back to the earth people, astronaut Brennan… What did I just say? I said I bet I’m boring you.”

  “No, dammit. Before that. I was listening, all right. What did you say before that? The wives of two Chinese delegates babbling on about the nuclear city Germany is building in China, and the Russians—”

  “Oh, that,” said Lisa. “I was just trying to tell you the sort of—”

  “Tell
me the whole thing, everything you saw and heard, everything you heard, every word of it.”

  “Every word? I don’t know if I remember—”

  “You’ve got to remember,” Brennan interrupted sharply.

  She was instantly contrite and concerned. “I—I didn’t think it meant anything. Is it terribly important, Matt?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. It could be. Yes.”

  She swallowed. “Okay. Well, these two Chinese women were talking, as I said—”

  “Who, why, what, when, where? Every detail you can recall. Don’t gloss over it.” He pushed his champagne glass aside. “Where were you when you heard this? Go ahead. Do your best, Lisa.”

  “I feel awfully dumb suddenly. But I’ll try, although I don’t understand.” She tugged at one earring, trying to remember. “It was at one of those fashion houses about two o’clock—no, later—about two-thirty this afternoon, almost at the intermission. I slipped out of the collection to go to the ladies’ lounge before the big rush. I locked myself in—this is embarrassing, Matt—I went inside the lounge and locked myself in where all little girls go, and there I was when I heard these three women come in—”

  “Three? I thought you said two.”

  “No, three. I forgot to tell you. There was also a very genteel aristocratic Frenchwoman—I’ll call her the countess, because I think she sounded like one—and she was sort of the hostess for the two doll-like, rather young and pretty Chinese wives, who seemed to be her guests.”

  “How could you see them? I thought you were locked in?”

  “I was,” Lisa said with exasperation. “Really, Matt, don’t be so mortifying. Haven’t you ever been inside a public toilet? You can see through the crack in the door. The women were at the washbasins and mirrors, fixing their hair, freshening up, and I had glimpses of them. But mostly, I heard them conversing. The French countess had brought them in, minutes after me, also to beat the intermission rush. Apparently, the French countess spoke no Chinese, and apparently, the two Chinese wives spoke no French. But I gathered that they had a knowledge of English in common, fairly fluent English but rather stilted, the kind foreigners learn in a British colony school.”

  “Fine,” said Brennan, “there they were talking, and there you were, out of sight, listening. What next?”

  “The Chinese wives were discussing their social engagements for the week, and one of them said that she expected the most lavish dinner would be the one that the German industrialist, Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz, was giving for the Chinese delegation at the Ritz this coming weekend. Then one Chinese wife said to the French countess, ‘My husband considers this dinner terribly important because our Government is concluding negotiations with Goerlitz for a Nuclear Peace City that the Germans are going to build for us in Honan Province—’” Lisa hesitated. “Yes, I’m sure she said Honan Province, and in a section of it, a county, called Lankao. I’ve loved Chinese names ever since I first saw The Mikado. Or was that Japanese? Anyway, she said something to the effect that this new nuclear center would be bigger than the ones the Chinese already had at—at—oh, I can’t remember.”

  “Lanchow and Paotow?”

  “I guess something like that, and something about this city the Germans were constructing being China’s real Leap Forward.”

  “What else did she say, in her words, if you can remember them?” Brennan persisted.

  “Let me think.” Lisa finished her champagne. “Yes. This Chinese wife went on in this way. ‘Marshal Chen appointed my husband to help conclude the negotiations and sign the contracts with the Germans in two or three days, and Goerlitz is giving the dinner party to celebrate. It is a great honor for my husband, and he was eager that I appear at my best for the Goerlitz dinner. So he ordered me to go out today to find a new gown. He wants me in Western dress. I don’t mind that, except it is so frightfully costly.’ Then the French countess said, rather nastily, I thought, ‘I wouldn’t condescend to wear something especially to please Goerlitz or any German Nazi. I detested them before the war, and I despise them even more now. They were murderers before, and they’re economic bloodsuckers now.’ That’s almost exactly what she said, Matt, and immediately both Chinese wives were defensive. The second Chinese woman said, ‘Oh, we don’t care for the Germans any more than you do. We’re only using them. Our country’s welfare comes before a profiteer’s piece of paper. We’ll let them build for us, but we won’t let them stay on and manage things.’ Then the first Chinese wife said, ‘That is true. I’ve heard my husband say that once he’s rid of the Germans, we can bring in our Russian friends to direct the nuclear center with us.’ The French countess continued to be rather testy. She said something like I’m not sure the Russians will be much better. The Germans are arrogant, and the Russians are savages who can’t be trusted.’ Both Chinese wives began protesting excitedly. One of them was saying, ‘No, you are mistaken. We know the Russians well. Their scientists are intelligent, dependable, and sympathetic to our cause. We have had our differences with them, it is true. I don’t understand enough politics to know the reasons, but I have heard my husband say that we will soon be comrades again.’ Then she began powdering, and worrying whether she could find the right gown in time, and after that they left. I don’t know why I listened so closely, but I guess I did so because I’d never seen or heard a native Chinese up that close, and I was fascinated and hung on every word. I guess I’m lucky I did, if this is so important to you, Matt. Is it, now that you’ve heard the whole thing?”

  Brennan nodded vigorously and summoned the waiter. He requested a piece of scratch paper, and the waiter tore a blank page out of his order book. Brennan thanked him, found his pen, and turned back to Lisa.

  “It could be very important,” he said.

  She pointed to his pen and paper. “What are you doing with that?”

  “I’m going to make notes on what you’ve been telling me. I want you to start all over again. I want you to repeat every word you’ve spoken to me. Do you mind?”

  “Matt, must I? I’ll faint from nervousness, trying to remember everything again.”

  “Lisa, please try. I think I have most of it in my head. But I just want to be sure.”

  “Well… all right, I need some more champagne.”

  Brennan poured, and then he waited, his pen ready. “Go ahead, dear. Make believe you haven’t told me a word. You were in the powder room, and the Frenchwoman and the two Chinese wives came in. And one of the Chinese ladies began speaking of Goerlitz.”

  With a sigh, Lisa put down her champagne glass and began reciting her entire story once more, sometimes altering or enlarging upon what she had already told him, and as she spoke, Brennan wrote steadily until he had filled both sides of the notepaper in a crabbed hand.

  “That’s it,” said Lisa, “the whole thing, and now promise you won’t make me tell it again.’ 9

  “No. You’ve done wonderfully.” He studied what he had written. “Drink your champagne. Let me think a moment.”

  It had the ring of truth, all of it, Brennan felt. The gossipy casualness of the entire dialogue that Lisa had overheard, the very setting, the sounds of wifely chatter, the way it fitted in so logically with what Brennan had already heard from Professor Isenberg, gave it the sound of veracity.

  Goerlitz, like Krupp before him, was actually constructing factory complexes, and entire prefabricated cities along with them to house the workmen. Years ago, Brennan recalled, Krupp had built similar factories and cities, like the city of Djerba in Tunisia and the city of Rourkela in India. Krupp had actually advertised this Instant City service for sale in his annual catalogues. In India, several hundred miles west of Calcutta, he had taken an underdeveloped area—plains, rice paddies, hills, primitive villages—and converted that area into prospering Rourkela, a steelworks that produced one million tons of raw steel a year, and a modern city that now held a population of 100,000 persons. It had been an unbelievable undertaking and achievement. Thereafter, Krupp’s com
petitor, Goerlitz, had tried to emulate him in a smaller way, and with the Chinese Nuclear Peace City he was attempting to exceed Krupp.

  Brennan continued to reflect upon this. Goerlitz headed a mammoth private industry. He was in it for the profit. He was building the Chinese city not only for the immediate money he would make from its construction, but for the money that he would make by having hundreds of his German scientists and technicians move in to operate the plants on a permanent basis. From a long-term point of view, Goerlitz’s greatest profits would come from having his experts and laborers run the plants, and from the monopoly Goerlitz would possess in supplying both new and replacement equipment to the factories and installations in the prefabricated city. For one of the world’s most powerful industrialists, it was a brilliant investment—providing his contracts were honored. If they were not honored—it could be a financial disaster.

  But here, from Lisa, was startling information, hitherto unknown to Goerlitz or to any Westerners: that Red China secretly planned to abrogate its contract. Once the Chinese had their nuclear city, they would confiscate the factories, nationalize them, discontinue payments, and throw Goerlitz and his Germans out. Then, because they needed assistance in running these advanced-design nuclear reactors, the Chinese planned to revive their friendship with the Soviet Union and bring their old Russian comrades in to replace the Germans.

  The implications were stunning.

  Brennan heard Lisa speaking. He looked up. She was pointing to his notes. “Matt, what’s all that for?”

  He folded the scratch paper carefully and placed it in his pocket. “It’s for Emmett A. Earnshaw,” he said.

  “What’s that got to do with you?”

  “It’s got a lot to do with us” said Brennan. “It could mean everything or nothing.”

  “I’m in a fog.”

  “I’ll help you out of it, a little. I’ve got to think this through. But as of now, Lisa, Goerlitz is about to destroy Earnshaw, and Earnshaw is helpless unless he has some leverage to move Goerlitz out of his hardened position, make Goerlitz amenable, make Goerlitz grateful and indebted to him. If Earnshaw can use this information of yours to give the German a warning, well, he should be able to get anything he wants from Goerlitz.”