The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  “Hazel—my God, Hazel—”

  His bearish arms and bulk smothered her in a fervent embrace, and through all his layers of fat she could hear his heart and feel his trembling.

  It took willpower to restrain her tears. But then, pressed against him, she wanted no willpower, which was unfeminine, she wanted to be what she was, which was feminine, feminine, feminine. She tasted the salt of her tears and she did not care. She desired only to be a woman, a woman who was no longer alone.

  “Jay—” she whispered brokenly. “Love me.”

  IT WAS THE FIRST LIGHT of the new day shining through the drapes that forced her to open her eyes. The bedside clock was ticking loudly, and she reached for it, grasped it, brought it in front of her. The hour was six-thirty in the morning.

  She could hear him snoring and exhaling, and she dropped the clock on the bed between them, turned her head sideways on the pillow. In the half-light between the last of the darkness and the first of dawn, she could make out the mound beside her.

  He lay on his back like a beached Moby Dick, eyes tight, nostrils distended, mouth open, exhaling and whistling. She shouldn’t be looking at him, she knew, when he was helpless like this. It was unfair to observe and judge another person while he was sleeping or eating, when he was unaware he was being watched, when he had not slipped on the public mask. Yet, she was pleased to see how relaxed and content was his puffy countenance. It was something, something good.

  She turned her gaze upward at the pink squares of the ceiling, and she felt luxurious enough to belong in these luxurious surroundings, because she owned so much, so suddenly.

  In retrospect, what she clung to of their lovemaking six hours ago was the snugness and safety of being in his arms, naked, wanted for herself and not her by-line, wanted for her total femininity and not her sex alone. It had not been like the past, when he was younger, harder, stronger. It had been like now, when he was older, flabbier, weaker. His love had not been arrogant, as once, but more anxious and needing. And his panting—the panting had been of age, not passion. Or maybe some passion. But the rest, short-windedness. He must reduce. He must exercise. He must learn to obey her.

  It had not been perfect, but then, she remembered, it never had been, not really. Younger, successful, he had sometimes made love alone, it had often seemed, using her for his pleasure and feeling that she should be sufficiently satisfied by just her knowledge of his satisfaction. Last night, he had made love not alone, not with her, but almost for her, to please so that he could be pleased. But in the end it had been for himself, too, she guessed, except much differently from long ago. For finally, he had made love needing her too much, needing the security of her approval, like an infant suckling at a mother’s breast.

  No, in the honesty of dawn, it had not been physically stimulating, nothing like the wild animal love, the almost helpless and therefore guiltless rapings, that had aroused her in the nights of the years after the young Doyle and before the present Doyle. No, last night had not been like those other nights, the Russian nights, when her nakedness had resisted yet begged for the sunderings and wrenchings that had so often torn body free from mind. No, last night’s engagement, soft and timid and apologetic, had not served to arouse her sexuality, but it had touched and moved something deeper, and she supposed that to be her total femininity.

  Yes, last night had been better than any other night she had known. She and Jay, stretched on their sides, holding one another, needing each other, joining—this had been sweet, delicious, this had been familiar, comfortable, mutual; this had been belonging with one of your own, not being serviced by an alien bull.

  Yes, this had been sweet love, if not good sex, and she had shown her appreciation, she had helped, she had given all of herself to make more of him, and then gloried in his pleasure because it had come from her. Yet, that had not been quite enough, for after his fulfillment she had whispered of her own need, and he had helped her, and she had become his slave until her release, and it had been wonderful.

  He had slept first. She had remained awake, drowsy behind closed eyes, projecting his future. And finally, before sleep, she had come to her decision. He needed her in many ways: this way, but in many more ways. She had satisfied one part of him. Now she would fulfill the rest of him.

  For himself, so that he would be made whole. For them, so that they could go on together. She had yawned and thought how little there was left of life. It was worth any emotional gamble to make the most of what was left, to use it well. It had been her final thought, she supposed, before sleep.

  Now, with dawn, she was wide-awake, and her final thought had become her foremost morning thought.

  Quietly, she left the bed, determined not to disturb him, for there was much to be done before he awakened.

  She would bathe and dress, and search through his belongings, and then do what she had promised herself she would do. After that, she would know what was possible.

  Methodically, and with zest, Hazel followed her plan, and it seemed that two hours could hardly have passed when she heard Doyle awakening. At the sounds of his getting out of bed, she looked up from the sofa of the salon where, stockinged feet curled beneath her, she had been absorbed in her reading.

  Through the slight opening of the bedroom door she could hear him thumping about.

  Cupping one hand to her mouth, she called out, “Jay?… Are you up?”

  His hoarse morning voice came back. “About time, I’d say. Why’d you let me oversleep?”

  “Because you’re a darling, and you needed it. Should I order breakfast for us?”

  “And how. Eggs and coffee. Let me wash. I’ll be right out.”

  She waited to hear his bathroom door close, and then she ordered breakfast for both of them. After that, she telephoned ANA to find out if there were any messages for her. There had been several, and one was from Medora Hart.

  Promptly, she called Medora at the San Régis. She told Medora that she could speak only briefly to her, since she was phoning from a booth, but she would talk to her at greater length sometime during the day. Remembering the Nardeau exhibit the night before last and suspecting why Medora had called her, Hazel asked if the nude painting had flushed out Lady Fleur Ormsby. It had, indeed, and that was the reason Medora had telephoned. Quickly, Medora recited the details of her scene with Fleur Ormsby. Then, Medora unfolded her newest scheme. If Hazel would be willing to write a feature story on Nardeau’s Retrospective Exhibit, pretending to have interviewed the dealer of the Galerie, as well as Nardeau by telephone, and pointing out that the sensation of the opening had been Nude in the Garden, which Nardeau had confirmed was a painting for which the present Lady Ormsby had once been the model, this might be enough to break Fleur down. Hazel’s story, of course, would not be intended for publication, but Fleur would not know that. It would be written as if it were ready to be put on the wires. Medora would send a copy of it to Fleur through Carol, and Medora would promise Fleur to have it killed if Fleur met her terms. Was this too much of an imposition upon Hazel?

  “Imposition? Nonsense! It’s a sensational idea, Medora. And it’ll work. This’ll do it. Absolutely a cinch. Okay, honey, here’s what. Soon’s I get back to the office, I’ll bat it out. I’ll send a flimsy of it over to your hotel by special messenger. Then you two carry on from there. Honey, you’re in, you’re home free. Accept my advance congratulations.”

  Hanging up, Hazel was delighted that she could contribute to Medora’s final triumph. She would help save Medora. Now all that remained was to help save her beloved Jay—and herself.

  There was a knock at the door, and she opened it and waited while the Room Service waiter rolled in the breakfast cart and set the places. After he had gone, she plopped down on the sofa, picked up the manuscript, and became engrossed in the remaining pages. Five minutes later, she had finished her reading. Sitting back, stimulated and excited, she reviewed the contents of the book and deliberated on her own role.

  Sud
denly, she was aware of Jay in the room, advancing toward her. He was cleanshaved, freshly groomed, neatly dressed. He came toward her, a cow-eyed pudgy Romeo, sank down on the sofa beside her, took her in his arms and kissed her.

  ‘Thanks, Hazel,” he said at last.

  Somehow, his anxiety to be grateful irritated her. This morning, she wanted not obsequiousness but authority. “Jay, you don’t thank someone for love. It’s mutual.”

  “I only meant—how happy you’ve made me.”

  “I’m happy, too.”

  “It was like old times,” he said. “Only better.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Well—breakfast.” He drew the cart closer to them, and as he did so, his eyes fell on the manuscript resting on the low table before Hazel.

  He blinked at it, puzzled, and then he looked at Hazel. “Honey, what’s that?”

  She smiled at the discovery of her surprise. “Your book,” she said. “The Conspirators Who Killed Kennedy”

  “But, Hazel—” Still confused, he said, “Did you—did you read it?”

  She continued to smile. “Every word of it. The first chapter. The entire outline.”

  At once, he was troubled. “Hazel, I didn’t bring you up here for that. I—”

  “Jay, you didn’t bring me up here, period. I brought myself up here. And this morning, I hunted for the book, found it, and read it, because I wanted to.”

  “But I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Jay, listen. I wanted to read it. I’m glad I did.” She gripped his arm. “Jay, it’s a masterpiece, the best work you’ve ever written. The research, the writing, the suspense, an absolute cliff-hanger. How did you do it? I gave you so little to begin with in Vienna, and look what you’ve done with it. Why, Jay, it’s not just a book. It’s a historic document. It’ll be a world sensation, the greatest best seller in best-seller history.”

  He had been listening open-mouthed, and now his eyes had filled. “My God, darling, my God, you really mean it?” He grabbed her in his big arms, clutching her to his chest. “Hazel, you really mean it?”

  She freed herself and smoothed her hair back into place. “I’ve meant everything I’ve said, Jay. You know how tough a critic I am. But I couldn’t put it down. It’s a winner.” She shook her head. “After Dallas, after they got Oswald, even I began to have my doubts about what I’d heard in Vienna, about the conspiracy. Yet, here you’ve gone out and demolished all the arguments pointing to Oswald as the killer and built up the case for conspiracy with your incredible challenges and questions, questions that are as shattering as facts.”

  “That’s right, Hazel, that’s right.”

  Suddenly, she straightened, and all at once she was no longer Hazel Smith, soft-hearted bedmate, but Hazel Smith, hardheaded journalist. “Now let’s have our coffee, Jay, and let’s be practical.” She watched his quivering hand, as he gave her a cup and saucer, and she observed the unsteadiness increase, as he brought his own coffee to his lips, eyeing her expectantly.

  She sipped the coffee, no longer hot, but she did not mind. She drank down half of it and set her cup and saucer back on the tray. “Okay, Jay,” she said, “you’ve got everything there but the final proof. I suppose you’ve heard that before.”

  “Yes, Hazel.”

  “Okay, I’ve made up my mind. Your book deserves it. You deserve it. Jay, I can’t guarantee anything, but I’ve decided to help you. I’m going to help you get the final proof.”

  “Hazel, I—I can’t tell you what that means to me,” he said emotionally.

  “I know what that means,” she said. “It means you’ll be on top again.”

  “We’ll be on top,” he corrected her quickly.

  Good boy, she wanted to say. Good, good boy. Instead, she said, “Very nice.” Briskly, she resumed in her practical tone. “I’ve been in Moscow forever, as you know. I’ve seen everyone, got to know everyone who is anyone. It’s part of my job. I know many Russians in Government, some big ones, and a lot of them are my friends.” She paused. “And the Russian in Vienna, the one who hinted at the conspiracy—he’s still around, he’s more important than ever, and luckily, he’s still my friend.”

  She could see that Jay Doyle was beginning to perspire. She could see, also, he was becoming too abject. “Hazel, I—I can’t tell you how I—”

  “You don’t have to tell me a thing,” she said crisply. “You just listen… This old friend of mine from Vienna—I told you he’s more important than ever. Well, he is. He’s important enough to be in the Russian delegation to the Summit. In other words, he’s right here in Paris this minute.” She went more slowly now, attempting to think before she spoke. “I’ll try to see him, and if I can, I’ll try to bring this matter up. Naturally, it’s a touchy subject. It was never clear to me, in Vienna or since, whether he meant that he was approached to join a Russian-directed conspiracy to assassinate President Kennedy or whether he was approached to join an international Communist—what might be called a new Comintern—conspiracy, I mean, one inspired by the worldwide Communist hierarchy in general, by the party, or simply by one Communist government specifically. Also, it was never clear to me from the little I heard in 1961 whether the conspiracy was official or a completely unofficial intrigue concocted by a handful of fanatical Red extremists. I don’t know. That’s what makes it touchy. If I bluntly bring up the subject, or even find a tactful way to work it into conversation, and the conspiracy happened to have been Russian and was official, well, I’m not going to get anywhere, except into hot water. My Soviet informant will clam up, and that’ll be that. The last door’ll be slammed shut, Jay, and you’ll have to give up and forget it.”

  Doyle nodded in assent.

  “Just so you understand,” Hazel continued. “And on the other hand, if the assassination was not an act that involved Soviet Russia, if it was something committed by Communist party hotheads without official sanction, that might be another thing altogether. Then my Russian friend, my informant, might be willing to talk, spin out a little more information, once he recalls that I know this much from him. He wouldn’t have to talk much, just a few facts, or hints of facts, or maybe clues or leads to the real killers. Even a single name of some Communist, living or dead, in Hungary or Albania or Italy or Cuba.”

  “That’s all I’d need, Hazel, that’s all.”

  “Yes,” she said, reflecting upon it, “but even that much, even at best, won’t be easy. The only thing I’ve got going for me—for us—is my old friendship with—with this informant. I’ve done him many small favors over the years. This’ll be a chance for him—if it’s not dangerous for him, if it’s humanly possible for him—to do a favor for me in return.”

  She had become lost in the recent past these moments, remembering nights in Moscow and afternoons in the countryside—their enjoyment of the garlic-flavored chicken tabaka at the Aragvy restaurant; their shopping in GUM for a karakul cap for him and black lace underwear for her; their dacha hideout with the outdoor privy; their compliance to “do dna!” when they drank bottoms up; their serious hours of dusha-dushi, those soul-to-soul talks. She was remembering, remembering favors given and favors received, uncertain how the balance sheet stood right now, uncertain how she would go about it and what would happen once she did, knowing only she must make the effort.

  She had come out of the Rabbit Hole, and there was Jay Doyle. “All right,” she said, “that’s it. I’ll get right on it. What’s today? Tuesday. No, that was yesterday. I’m all mixed up. This is Wednesday. Okay. I should have something definite for you this week. Consider it in the works.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say to you, Hazel. I don’t know why you’re doing this for me.”

  She made a snorting sound and reached for a piece of toast. “Because I’m in love with you, you fathead. Now, eat your breakfast before it all gets cold.”

  V

  HAVING LEFT Doyle’s suite reluctantly, and the Hotel George-V lobby willingly (embarrassed
by the covert glances from tourists and bellboys, who had stared at her dressy evening attire), Hazel Smith returned to her apartment a few minutes before ten o’clock in the morning. After changing into her work uniform, a black-and-white-checked linen suit and low-heeled shoes, she settled down to make two telephone calls.

  Her future with Jay Doyle was still uppermost in her mind. And so her first call was to the Russian Embassy in Paris.

  Once again, as she had done a hundred times before in Moscow and in other European capitals, Hazel followed the procedure that she and Nikolai Rostov had long ago agreed upon. She represented herself as the secretary of an employer who had assigned her the task of leaving a message for Minister Rostov. There was always one secretary, herself, but there were always many mythical employers she had invented, naming them to suit the city in which she made her call.

  This morning, she was M. Gerard’s secretary. Oui, ma-dame, Monsieur Gerard would like to leave word for Minister Rostov to telephone him. It concerns the business matter about which they have corresponded. Minister Rostov might best reach Monsieur Gerard between the hours of noon and two o’clock. Non, madame, not necessary, for Minister Rostov is already in possession of Monsieur Gerard’s private telephone number. Merci.

  Next, Medora Hart’s future was on Hazel’s mind. And so her second call was to the Hotel San Régis.

  Medora, who was in her room, admitted she had hoped Hazel would call back, and was pathetically pleased that she had done so. Still elated over Hazel’s approval of the new scheme directed against Fleur Ormsby, Medora was further thrilled by Hazel’s promise of cooperation. The two discussed the Ormsbys at length, and Hazel outlined the contents of her fake ANA story. She would, she promised, write her feature story as if it were a breathtaking front-page beat—Nardeau had confessed, under questioning by this reporter, that the hit of his Retrospective Exhibit, Nude in the Garden, had been painted from a living model, and that the naked girl who had posed for the painting while still a wild young debutante was none other than Lady Ormsby, recently become the wife of the British Foreign Minister, Sir Austin Ormsby. Furthermore, M. Michel Callet, the proprietor of the Nouvelle Galerie d’Art, where the astonishing painting dominated center stage, admitted that it was creating greater controversy than had Édouard Manet’s nude Olympia when it had been exhibited in Paris in 1865, and the disgusted Empress Eugenie had slapped it with her fan.