“She’ll have to!” Medora exclaimed. “This is so generous of you, Nardeau. Only—I hate to see you become involved over me—I mean, publicly—”
“It is not for you alone,” said Nardeau shortly. “It is for everyone who is not treated with the dignity of human respect.”
He cast his gaze out the window, and Medora, deeply moved by the one who was the father and husband she’d never had, wanted to thank him again and again. But knowing Nardeau as she knew him, she understood that his last declaration had been his punctuation, his period, to end the discussion of the subject. He loathed not only bathos but the slightest hint of sentimentality.
She could see they were passing through the Avenue Foch. “The Palais Rose is somewhere near here,” she said.
“Two blocks ahead.” He came around in the seat to study her again. “You are not permitting your American friends to get you into any trouble?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. They’ve been trying to help me, and there was a chance for me to help them in a little way, and I was eager to do anything I could. They’re nice people, Nardeau, extremely nice.”
“I am pleased… What is the rest of your day?”
“Well, after I leave them, I want to have my hair done, and then, well, nothing planned until show time.”
“I am going to the Galerie to see Michel. The stupid idiot is worried about me, but secretly happy. The exhibit is now attended by thousands, not hundreds, but for the wrong reasons. Now they come to stare at the blank spaces on the walls. It is not art that interests them but crime. Such people—merde! So. After, I will have lunch with Signe and maybe go with her to buy clothes at Henri à la Pensée and Chanel’s boutique—yes, I will indulge the Swedish slut—she suffers much from me, yet loves me—but after that I am free. Do you eat before your show?”
“A sandwich.”
—You will have the sandwich and drinks with Signe and me. At five. I am staying at Picasso’s old studio at 7 Rue des Grands-Augustins. You remember? I will expect you. The Citroën had slowed, and Nardeau squinted ahead. “The side street to the Palais gate is full of police.”
“You’ve had enough of police. Tell him to drop me here, Nardeau. It’s a half-minute’s walk.” The car had stopped. Quickly, she kissed Nardeau’s unshaved cheek, and descended to the curbing.
She waited until the Citroën had gone, and once it had, she started quickly toward the Palais Rose.
Approaching the intersection of the Avenues Foch and Malakoff, Medora could see a woman on the corner waving in her direction. A few yards more, and she clearly recognized the woman as Hazel Smith, and Matt Brennan was with her. Waving back, Medora quickened her step as the pair, in turn, hurried toward her.
The moment they met, Hazel took her arm warmly. “Just in time, Medora, right on time. The American and British delegates are already inside, and also the French. The Chinese are just arriving. That means the Russians should be here any minute.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Medora asked nervously.
Brennan, striding alongside, said reassuringly, “We’ll brief you when we get to the little vantage point we’ve staked out.”
As the three of them turned the corner into the Avenue Malakoff, Hazel said to Medora, “My, but don’t you look cheerful? Have you—”
“I was with Nardeau,” Medora announced happily.
“Nardeau,” repeated Hazel. “Of course. I almost forgot. Did he have good news?”
“I think so,” said Medora. “He was at the Préfecture de Police. They have someone who’s supposed to recover all five paintings, mine included, by tomorrow or the next day.”
“That’s glorious, Medora,” said Hazel with delight. “I can’t wait for you to clobber those Ormsbys.”
“Great,” said Brennan. He pointed toward the open gate and high iron fence protecting the crowded courtyard of the two-story pink-marble palace. “Let’s cross over.”
They scurried to the opposite curb. On either side of the open motorcar gate, both Frenchmen and foreign tourists lined the protective iron fence, every one of them observing with wonder the dignitaries and their ceremonious greetings as they met in the courtyard.
Brennan led the two women away from the gate, along the fence lined with spectators. “We’ll get a good view of every arrival through the fence,” said Brennan.
“How?” asked Medora. “All those people. I can’t see over their heads.”
“Just wait,” said Brennan. He halted behind three college-age French boys, one bearded, one in corduroys, the third in a black turtleneck sweater, who were slouching against the iron fence. Brennan tapped the bearded one on the shoulder. The young man swung around sullenly, but recognizing Brennan, he was instantly cordial. His companions had turned around now, acknowledging Brennan but mesmerized by Medora.
Medora thought: One of them will whistle.
The boy in the turtleneck whistled softly, and suggested in French to Brennan that he’d take Medora instead of the money. Brennan, removing franc notes from his wallet, replied gravely that he appreciated the compliment to his taste, since Medora was his wife. The three boys were immediately apologetic and abject. As they backed off from the fence, giving way to Brennan, Medora, and Hazel, one of them muttered something to himself in French about rich and lucky Americans.
The boys were leaving now. Medora, grasping a paling, knew that all three would be looking at her legs. Half turning, to confirm her guess, she realized she was wrong. Only the bearded one was considering her legs. The other two were staring boldly at the outline of her bosom, which even the light wool suit could not conceal. The turtlenecked one blew her a kiss, and Medora threw her head back to laugh, and then, because it was June, and because it was Paris, and because soon she would be snugly home again with Mum, she gayly blew a farewell kiss back to all of them.
Clinging to the fence, she saw that Brennan and Hazel, one on either side of her, were concentrating upon the activity in the courtyard. She addressed herself to Brennan. “How clever of you to arrange for orchestra seats.”
Brennan dismissed it with a gesture. “Standins come cheap this summer,” he said. “Fifteen francs a head. Can you see the people in the courtyard clearly, Medora?”
“Even the warts on their noses,” said Medora. “I have twenty-twenty vision.”
‘There’s the last of the Chinese delegation spilling out of that car,” said Brennan. “Look at them. Aren’t they incredible?”
“Why incredible?” asked Hazel Smith. “They’re Chinese and they look like Chinese.”
“That’s not what I meant,” said Brennan. “The other day a French nuclear physicist was discussing the Chinese with me, and he reminded me that they were far advanced in the sciences long ago, using gunpowder when Europeans were still using bows and arrows. But whenever I look at Chinese, I always see something else. I see men of an ancient culture, wise, fragile, other-worldly. I see the men of the Golden Mean, Confucius, Mandarin scrolls, the Ch’in dynasty, the patient people of Tang with their silks and porcelain and poetry, even the quiet, the silent coolies in the rice paddies. So when I look at them over there, I find it hard to believe that they are suddenly, the people of Marx, the new Cominform, the neutron bomb, the intercontinental ballistics missile.”
“You sound like some kind of colonialist,” said Hazel grouchily. “People change with the times. They have to or they become extinct.”
“Of course, they do and they must,” said Brennan with a trace of annoyance. “It is only the incongruity of its happening to the Chinese that rattles my brain. I deplore it esthetically. I’m sure what’s happened to the Chinese should have happened, had to happen, considering how many unprincipled foreign barbarians have violated China for centuries. There they go into the Palais Rose, the people of the Golden Mean, wearing nuclear chips on their shoulders. That’s what’s sad—that they have to behave that way because of us, of all of us in the Western world.”
Medora had listened, fascinate
d but bewildered. Hazel appeared less entertained. Grimacing at Brennan, Hazel said crossly, “Confucius say amateur sociologist nuttier than fruitcake. Come off it, Brennan. We’re taking a risk being here—I’d sure hate to be seen by certain people—while you—”
Brennan searched down the row of spectators standing between them and the gate. “We won’t be noticed,” he said. Then he added, “But you’re right. We’d better brief Medora.”
Hazel took Medora by the arm. “In a second you’ll have to be on the ball. Six limousines filled with Russians are going to pile into that courtyard. Thirty or forty Russians will be pouring out of the cars. Now, I know most of them, who they are, what they do. All you’ve got to know is one of them. Understand? One of them. Take a good look at every man you see, and tell us if any one of them resembles the big fellow who came into the Club Lautrec last night and took Joe Peet off your hands. Think you can do that?”
Momentarily unsure, Medora said, “I’ll try. Only I never said Mr. Peet’s friend was Russian. I only said he was foreign.”
“I know, honey,” Hazel reassured her. “Just do as I say. Okay?”
“I’ll try,” Medora repeated. “I—it’s—it’s all so mysterious.”
“What we’re doing may come to nothing, Medora,” Brennan said. “We’re only playing a hunch.” There was the sound of rubber tires skidding on pavement, and Brennan glanced off. “Here they come.”
The three of them peered through the iron bars of the fence as a French motorcycle escort preceded the two Zil limousines, a Chaika limousine, and a smaller Pobeda into the courtyard. French security police were leaving both the gate and steps of the Palais Rose to surround the cars.
“That’s Premier Talansky in the old Zil HI limousine up front,” whispered Hazel. “They fly it in ahead of him whenever he travels. I wrote a story about it once. Formidable. Bulletproof windows. Custom-built bar, Oriental rug, and a portable armory… Dammit, only four cars.” She sounded disturbed, but she looked relieved. ‘That means we missed the first two with the ministers and advisers. They must have arrived earlier. Well, let’s see—”
From the corner of his mouth, Brennan said, “Eyes open, Medora.”
Her eyes were alert and straining, but it was all so confusing. Men, mostly big men, wearing dark suits, were spilling out of the four motorcars at the same time. She had thought it would be easy, but suddenly, there were so many men, so many faces, people mingling, standing in front of each other. She began to feel distracted.
One party had broken away from the main group, and the members of it were starting for the entrance to the Palais Rose. “There goes Premier Talansky,” Hazel said quickly.
Medora’s eyes followed the lead group. Three or four faces could be seen clearly. Two or three others offered her only a fleeting side view. “No,” she whispered back.
Again, she concentrated on the two dozen or more Russians who remained in the courtyard. She recognized none of the faces that were visible. Her attention shifted to the second Zil limousine, where three burly Russians were attending the rear door which one of them, back to her, held open. A slight, bespectacled Russian ducked out of the Zil, followed by a heavyset officer attired in a Red Army uniform flashing with medals.
“Marshal Zabbin,” said Hazel in an undertone. “The Premier’s First Deputy. The one with the glasses is Dr. Tushin. A famous nuclear physicist.”
“No,” said Medora weakly.
Most of the new group began to fall in behind Marshal Zabbin, as he strutted toward the steps of the Palais Rose.
Suddenly, Medora’s eyes widened. She grabbed Hazel’s wrist, and in a strangled voice she cried out, “There he is!”
“Shhh,” Hazel hissed. Quickly, she brought her head next to Medora’s head, trying to parallel Medora’s line of vision. “Which one?” she asked urgently.
Medora was poking her finger through the opening between the bars. “The car the Marshal just came out of—he turned from it and I saw his face—he’s shutting the door now.”
They all saw him, as he finished closing the rear door of the Zil and turned slowly around, hands on his hips, to observe Marshal Zabbin’s progress into the Palais Rose. He was a big man, an Atlas of a man in excess of six feet, and solid as a soccer goalie. He was briefly full face now, flat black hair, beetle brow, broad misshapen Tartar nose, pocked left cheek, head set deeply between massive shoulders.
“That’s the one,” said Medora excitedly. “Mr. Peet’s friend.”
Hazel Smith did not respond, as she continued to stare straight ahead.
Brennan had turned from the scene to look at Medora, “You’re sure, Medora?”
“I’m absolutely certain.”
In the courtyard, the big Russian had once more turned his back toward them, as he went to have a smoke with the Zil’s chauffeur and a French officer.
Medora and Brennan were waiting for Hazel to speak, as she pushed herself away from the fence with finality. Hazel eased her spine, kneading it with both hands behind her. At last, lost in thought, she walked from the fence to the curb. Brennan went after her, and curious as ever, Medora did the same.
Medora heard Brennan say, “Well, Hazel?”
Hazel Smith gave an affirmative nod. “Yes,” she said, “I know that one. I recognized him immediately. I’ve seen him around Moscow, and on Government trips away from Moscow. I’ve seen him, and some of his friends, a hundred times. I don’t know his name. But I know who he is.”
Brennan remained silent, tensely waiting.
For long seconds, Hazel stared down at the curbstone. Finally, she lifted her head and met Brennan’s questioning eyes.
“He’s a KGB agent,” Hazel said. “He’s a veteran Soviet security police agent.”
Utterly lost, Medora shifted her gaze from Hazel to Brennan. Now it was Brennan who was silent, thinking.
“KGB,” he said at last, to no one in particular. “Joe Peet and a Soviet security agent.” Brennan’s forehead wrinkled. He looked at Hazel a moment, then he said, “Why?”
Hazel straightened, and she was her old brisk self again. “That’s for you to find out, my friend.” She offered Medora a smile. “Thanks, my dear. I’m not sure for what But thanks. Now let’s get out of here.”
Once again, as he had done three days ago, Emmett A. Earnshaw was marching along the first-floor corridor of the Hotel Ritz. Once again, the young fellow from Secret Service was dutifully tagging after him. Once again, Earnshaw was on his way to see Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz.
Usually, Earnshaw reflected, when one revisited the site of a debacle, especially a recent disaster where the stench of defeat still hung in the air, one was cowed and humbled and devoid of hope. Understandable, thought Earnshaw, if one returned to a site of slaughter and rout as the vanquished, alone, stripped of arms and army.
But Earnshaw felt neither humbled nor hopeless this mid-afternoon. If he had been briefly routed by Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz last Monday, he had not surrendered. Perhaps there had been a black period, yet an unexpected cohort had supplied him with the arsenal needed to fight again, and this time Earnshaw felt invincible. He expected nothing less than total victory.
Striding vigorously, he reached the end of the corridor. He ordered the Secret Service fellow to wait for him. Now, on his own, he started optimistically toward the Goerlitz suite.
Part of his buoyancy, Earnshaw knew, came from the knowledge that his visit was perfectly timed. Ever since yesterday, when that decent young Matt Brennan had so kindly passed on to him the information about Red China’s secret plan to use Goerlitz and then double-cross Goerlitz, Earnshaw had been considering different approaches to the bitter old German industrialist. Although confident of his strength, Earnshaw had not been ready to rush in where angels fear to tread, as Madlock used to say. He had considered a telephone call or a letter, but had finally decided that a personal visit would be the most effective and decisive means of bringing Goerlitz to his knees in abject gratefulness.
/> Earnshaw was glad he had not hurried the meeting, had postponed it until after the United States Ambassador’s lunch this noon. It had been an intimate, relatively informal lunch that the Ambassador had hosted in the official residency, the comfortable mansion on the Avenue d’léna that Myron Herrick had bought for the United States in the 1920’s. There had been a dozen guests, mostly from State or Foreign Service, many of them holdovers from Earnshaw’s incumbency (and all of them friendly to him), just as the Ambassador himself had been an Earnshaw appointee (to Italy, then after resigning, reappointed to France by the new President). The food had been mouth-watering, too. None of those fancy French dishes with all that sickening oil gook and wine. It had been a down-to-earth American meal, the kind Isabel used to cook for him, the crisp green salad with Thousand Island dressing first, and fried chicken and mashed potatoes and string beans, and a huge slice of deep-dish apple pie.
In this natural and convivial atmosphere Earnshaw had flourished. He had been the center of interest, congratulated for his British award, questioned about rumors that he might take a seat on the Supreme Court bench. He had purposely avoided being entrapped in any political discussions. Instead, he had regaled the Ambassador and his onetime assistants with jokes and anecdotes about fishing and poker and foreign customs. Because he had been among friends, it had been an easy matter to let drop the name of Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz. He had cast his line perfectly, for in minutes, he had reeled in an excellent catch—the information that Goerlitz was meeting with Marshal Chen, of the People’s Republic of China, the next morning to formalize a business agreement with the signing of contracts to build a Nuclear Peace City in the heart of China.
After that, the others had discussed international politics, and Earnshaw had withdrawn into himself to relish his delicious morsel of information. This, too, he had known, added to his bargaining power with Goerlitz. It was as if the German economic acrobat was about to make his greatest and most daring leap from on high in the morning, and Earnshaw was grabbing him in the nick of time to tell him there would be no net below.
The Plot Page 73
