The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  “Whatever happens, I will never forget what you have done,” said Willi.

  Earnshaw snorted. “What have I done? Played President again for a few minutes back there? Well, I tell you, I only did what comes”—he paused and grinned—“unnaturally. And you know what? It felt good, felt darn good for a change… Now give me a jiffy to dress, and we’ll get out to that hospital.”

  With a determined step, Earnshaw left the room.

  Seeing him thus, Brennan wanted to rub his eyes. To himself he made a silent vow to think twice before ever again referring to Emmett A. Earnshaw as The Ex.

  LONG AFTER MIDNIGHT, they still kept the death watch.

  There was no sound in the spacious, rectangular waiting room of the American Hospital in Neuilly except the regular ticking of the tall grandfather clock in the far corner.

  Slumped in a green leather fauteuil, Matt Brennan puffed steadily at his pipe, hypnotized by the hands of the grandfather clock, knowing that the surgery must be in its crucial phase and almost finished. At last, he inspected the others in the waiting room, to judge whether they knew that the operation had probably reached its climactic point and to judge also their degrees of anxiety.

  Medora Hart, legs crossed, was seated on the maroon leather sofa between the clock and the television set, leafing through the pages of Paris Match. While she had been the catalyst of the death watch, she now appeared the bewildered interloper, the distant relative who had arrived in town to meet the family in an unexpected moment of grave crisis. In the very center of the room, holding on to the arms of his chair, waited the heir, Willi von Goerlitz, staring down at the asparagus fern set on the long, glass-sheeted table. At a small desk nearby, Carol Earnshaw, resembling a youthful Dutch girl in her bulky coat, huddled nervously, continually casting glances at Willi. She rose as if to go to him, but seeming to think better of it, she turned to the prominent marble bust atop a column with the lettering JOHN H. HARJES, FOUNDER AND FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE AMERICAN HOSPITAL.

  There were the four of them, and only the fifth and sixth members of their party were missing. Emmett A. Earnshaw had drifted out into the corridor to join Herr Schlager, and with him find someone connected with the surgery who could provide an interim report on the progress of the operation and the condition of Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz.

  Reaching toward the ashtray before him, Brennan knocked the bowl of his pipe against the heel of his hand, emptying it of ashes. Filling the pipe once more, he looked off through the wall composed entirely of French doors that revealed a terrace. It was too dark to see beyond the terrace, but Brennan was reminded that in another time, when he and Stefani had brought young Ted here for diagnosis of a persistent fever, he had stood by in this very room and from the doors had seen, below the terrace, a lovely garden. It reminded him that tonight he could not see the garden, and that while his son had survived the fever, the boy had not survived for his father. Nor had Stefani. The loss of the boy had been, for himself, a true bereavement, even if the second loss had not. And now there was a third. There was the fresh loss of Lisa Collins over the evening’s drunken nonsense, but then he rationalized that the loss would have occurred anyway.

  Life had become mathematical, a game of subtraction. Without Lisa, there could be no reborn Brennan. Without Rostov, there could be no Lisa. Without Earnshaw, there could be no Rostov. Without Goerlitz, there could be no Earnshaw. Without Admiral Oates, and a miracle, there could be no Goerlitz, and—full circle—no Brennan.

  He had not allowed his mind to contemplate his own immediate future if Goerlitz did not survive the surgery.

  Such selfish concern seemed indecent, like worrying about tomorrow’s dental appointment while attending a friend’s funeral. Nevertheless, the concern hovered gloomily behind his frontal lobes. If Goerlitz died, the lever that Brennan had given Earnshaw would be useless, and if it were useless, Earnshaw would probably have no more interest in lingering about Paris merely to intervene with the President on Brennan’s behalf.

  The waiting-room door opened, and he saw everyone’s face turn toward it, and he turned, too.

  A bemused Earnshaw had come back to the waiting room, closely followed by Herr Schlager, who resembled a bantam Hindenburg trying to make sense out of the Reichstag fire.

  Earnshaw had gone to Willi, who had leaped to his feet “Well, young man, we couldn’t find out much, of course. There’s a whole team in there working with Oates, the best people available, we were told. We managed to lay our hands on a French intern who was leaving the surgery, and Mr. Schlager here spoke to him in French, and as I gather it, the operation is going as well as can be expected.”

  Willi looked inquiringly at Schlager. “Herr Direktor, is there hope?”

  “Hope, of course, always hope,” said Schlager with a show of his old ebullience, as he patted Willi on the back. “Your father is a strong man always. The carotid, one of Dr. Dietrich’s arteries, has an extensive clot formation. But they have reached the obstructions. They have made an incision between the chest ribs, and because the troubled area is long, they are now inserting an artery graft to bypass the bad area. It is my understanding this is not unusual.”

  “Then it is successful so far?”

  “Yes—” said Schlager, but he could not disguise his uncertainty.

  Willi swung toward Earnshaw. “Is it, Mr. Earnshaw? I want the truth. I am no child.”

  “Uh—yes, yes, Willi, we have nothing to keep from you,” said Earnshaw. “Apparently, the operation is going along smoothly. The only problem—well, now—uh—I know you are aware of your father’s cardiac condition—there is some, well, concern whether his heart can hold up—”

  “But the pump, the special machine, is it not here?”

  Earnshaw exhaled loudly. “Yes, but not every patient reacts to its implantation in the same way.” He shrugged.

  “There is nothing to do but put our complete faith in the Admiral’s hands and in God’s will.”

  The young man nodded. “Yes, Mr. Earnshaw.”

  “It won’t be much longer,” Earnshaw promised. “Ten or fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. I have the Admiral’s word he’ll report to us directly the second it’s over. Okay?”

  “Yes, Mr. Earnshaw, thank you.”

  The former President glanced absently around the waiting room, smiled at Carol, and found a cigar in his breast pocket. “I think the best thing for all of us is to keep ourselves distracted until we have the result. Simon Madlock used to—well, matter of fact, I’ve always said—speculation is as senseless as trying to locate Heaven or Hell, since you’re going to find out for yourself soon enough anyway. Let’s wait for results.” He clamped his cigar between his teeth, permitted Schlager to light it, nodded his thanks and looked about aimlessly. He became aware of Brennan. “Oh, Matt, by the way—”

  Brennan advanced to join Earnshaw, Willi, and Schlager.

  “—I wanted to tell you,” Earnshaw continued, “I had a little talk with Herr Schlager while we were tramping around the corridors. I thought I’d better inform him of what I was going to tell Dietrich when I dropped by the Ritz this afternoon. I must say, Herr Schlager was pretty stunned.”

  “Unbelievable,” Schlager muttered. “It is impossible to imagine the dishonoring of such a contract. The People’s Republic of China has always been one of our best customers. They have always been trustworthy. I cannot see why they would—how do your television gangsters say?—double-cross—why they would double-cross Goerlitz Industriebau now. They have needed us before. They will need us in the future.”

  “Not necessarily, Mr. Schlager,” said Brennan, “not if they have Russians to replace you.”

  “Russians!” the German director exclaimed. “Impossible. For years, the Russians and Chinese are not friends—”

  “Friends who have fallen out have been known to make up again,” Brennan reminded him.

  “In business, yes—” admitted Schlager.

  “In politics, too,” said Brennan.
“For you, the Nuclear Peace City may be purely business. For your customers, it may also be politics.”

  Earnshaw intervened. “Matt, I’ve told Herr Schlager you were the source of this secret piece of information. Maybe he’d find it more acceptable if he got it directly from you. Also—” Earnshaw reached back, took Willi by the arm, and brought him closer into the group. “Also, come what may, I think Willi here should know what’s going on. Have you got a mind for this right now, Willi?”

  “I—I do not know.”

  “Your father was in Paris to sign contracts with the Chinese Government to build that nuclear complex for them. Now Matt Brennan has learned a little secret, that the Chinese were going to let your father spend all those millions of dollars or marks constructing the nuclear reactors and the workers’ community. Then, when the time was right for them, the Chinese intended to default on payments, nationalize the plants and city, confiscate the equipment, throw your personnel out, and bring in Russian engineers and physicists to help manage it with them. Your father knew nothing of this. That’s what I was coming in to tell him today—or yesterday—whatever time it was—because once warned, he could’ve been fully prepared for anything.” Earnshaw gestured at Brennan. “Run through it, Matt. Let them hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  Urgently Brennan began to recount the story of Lisa’s adventure. His audience hung on every word until the very end. As he concluded, Brennan tried to assess their reactions. But suddenly, he was aware that all eyes were focused on the entrance to the waiting room. He glanced over his shoulder.

  An elderly physician, wearing green surgical cap and gown, and with the aspect of a dour Scot, stood inside the door.

  “Admiral Oates,” Earnshaw called out.

  Oates limped forward, washing dry hands. His wrinkled countenance showed neither victory nor defeat.

  “Which one is the young man?” rasped Admiral Oates.

  “This is Willi von Goerlitz,” said Earnshaw, pulling Willi toward the White House physician.

  Admiral Oates bothered about no formalities. ‘The surgery was a success,” he announced curtly. “We performed an end-to-side bypass graft. We used a synthetic arterial graft, diverted blood around the obstructed passage, and completely restored brain circulation. I won’t deny there was one bad moment, as we implanted the Garrett-Farelli artificial heart at the beginning. But the patient’s heart action soon stabilized, and remained constant and strong to the completion of the surgery. Dr. von Goerlitz has just been wheeled into the intensive care ward.” Admiral Oates put out his bony hand. “I am pleased to bring you this news, young fellow.”

  Willi gripped the physician’s hand fervently. “I thank you. I thank you more than I can explain with words. I would do anything on earth to repay you.”

  “Never mind about that,” said Oates sourly. “Just send a case of good German bock over to the Ambassador’s residence and we’ll call it square.”

  “Done!” exclaimed Schlager, elatedly pounding Willi’s back. “Willi, your father made it! I knew he would make it!”

  “Admiral Oates,” Willi was saying, “when can I see him?”

  “In due time, in due time,” said Oates. “Perhaps later in the morning. More likely, in the afternoon. Where can I reach you? The Ritz? I’ll be in touch with you there.”

  Carol had edged into the circle. “Willi, I—I’m so happy for you.”

  He nodded dumbly, but was smiling.

  “Admiral.” It was Schlager holding up a chubby hand. “How long do you anticipate Dr. von Goerlitz must be hospitalized?”

  Oates pursed his lips. “Ah, yes, I was about to get to that. He will have to be kept in the intensive care ward for at least a week. After that, well, I hesitate to predict. I am certain you understand the variability in the postoperative conditions of patients who have suffered a CVA or stroke. A stroke can take a great toll, especially in a man Dr. von Goerlitz’s age. Right now, of course, once he regains consciousness he might find either side partially paralyzed, his speech impaired, his vision blurred. Under these particular conditions, rehabilitation would be lengthy. As soon as feasible, Dr. von Goerlitz would be moved to his home or a rehabilitation center, and be provided with physical therapy to prevent the atrophy of the affected muscles, to restore his speech as much as possible, to put him on his feet, so to speak.”

  “How long before he can communicate with us?” inquired Schlager anxiously.

  “It could take time.”

  “You mean even months?” asked Schlager.

  “Sometimes years, but again progress may be surprisingly rapid,” said Admiral Oates. “In any event, barring complications, he should be on the road to recovery soon. He certainly needn’t be a paralytic. At the same time, I won’t promise that you can depend upon his being the active businessman again. Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better return to my patient.”

  As Oates turned to go, Earnshaw caught his arm. He handed the physician a cigar. “On me, Admiral.”

  “I was waiting for you to offer me one,” Oates growled, and with that he limped hastily from the waiting room.

  The death watch was ended, and yet, Brennan sensed, the business of the evening was not.

  Willi had gone off to one side with Carol when Schlager summoned him back.

  “Willi,” the director of Goerlitz industries said, “tomorrow morning at ten o’clock is the long-prepared-for meeting at the Chinese Embassy to sign the contracts with Marshal Chen and Economics Minister Liang for the Nuclear Peace City. With your father disabled, you are now in charge of the industries. You must attend in his place.”

  Willi recoiled. “How can I? What do I know of this complicated matter?”

  “Almost enough,” said Schlager sternly. “You will know enough. Besides, I shall be there with you, and the attorneys will be in from Frankfurt to join with us.”

  Willi gestured at Earnshaw and Brennan, as he spoke to Schlager. “You heard what they said about the real intentions of Marshal Chen. Don’t you believe it?”

  “It may be true,” Schlager conceded, “quite possibly true. We can proceed with caution, feel them out. But if this rumor is untrue, if we believe the Chinese act in good faith as always, we dare not miss the opportunity. We have too many competitors eager to replace us. We must try, and you must be with us, Willi, available to sign.”

  Willi shook his head adamantly. “No, I do not like it. I’d rather cancel or postpone the meeting for a while—”

  Earnshaw interrupted, “May I have a word? Willi, as I see it, Herr Schlager is right about one thing. It would be a mistake not to meet with the Red Chinese while they are here in Paris at the same time you are here. This is no time for evasions and indecisions. This is a time to act, an opportunity that comes only once. You must meet with them, Willi, but I would suggest for a reason different from the one Herr Schlager gives you. Not merely to take advantage of a big deal, if it’s really there. No. The real reason you should go ahead is because for once you can confront the Chinese with truth—assuming this is the truth, and I believe it is—rock them with it, throw them off balance by exposing to them your knowledge of their secret intentions. In fact, this may serve to thwart inflammatory political activities in the future.”

  “A risky business,” said Schlager.

  “Life is a risky business,” said Earnshaw. “Listen, Willi, you level with them, and they’ll respect you more for it. You can’t afford a deal that’s one-sided, their-sided. At the same time, you want them for a customer, if they can be trusted. Okay. You lay it on the line with them, and either they get mad and throw you out—which is just as well, because it proves they meant to cheat—or they decide it’s worth their while to be honest, and you find a compromise, a way of keeping the deal alive without your being hurt. Whatever happens, you should be there to let it happen, my son.”

  Willi had been listening with respect. “Mr. Earnshaw, maybe you are right, but I am not capable of handling such a situation. My father c
ould do it brilliantly. But I have no such experience. Perhaps the business part, with our Herr Direktor, with the attorneys—I could manage that. But the other part—accusing them yet not accusing them so they suffer no loss of face, the diplomatic and political part—that I cannot do and Herr Schlager cannot do. It needs someone like my father, with his tactical skill.”

  Throughout the exchange Brennan had been listening carefully, studying the three speakers, studying Earnshaw most of all. His mind was made up. “Willi,” he said, “allow me to make a suggestion.”

  They turned to Brennan, waiting.

  “You’re worried that neither you nor Mr. Schlager can treat diplomatically with the Red Chinese. Am I correct? You require someone with the skill your father possesses in this area.” Brennan paused. “You have such a person who, I am sure, would be pleased to assist you. I’m referring to our former United States President, Mr. Earnshaw.”

  Willi blinked at Brennan, glanced at Earnshaw, then looked back at Brennan. He seemed hesitant and uncomfortable. “Why—maybe—I—I don’t know,” he stammered.

  An understanding smile had crossed Earnshaw’s face. In a kindly tone he said to Willi, “Of course, you don’t know, young man. Matt is right in two respects. I’d be glad to pitch in. I’d feel confident of my experience. But you don’t know about me, and—let’s be frank tonight—you have every reason not to be sure about me. You’ve read what your father has written about me in his memoirs, and you have cause to doubt my value to—”

  “No, no, Mr. Earnshaw,” Willi interrupted. “I have no such—”

  “Let me finish, Willi. In part, your father’s low opinion of my record is justified. I can see that now. But once something is made clear to a person, well, if he has any intelligence, he’s better off for it.” Earnshaw’s smile disappeared. “I assure you, young man, I’m ready to make up for a good deal of lost ground. In fact, I’m eager to do so. I didn’t do too well with our Chinese friends when I had the chance, some years ago. I suspect I might do better with them today. I’d like nothing more than to try, not only for you but for myself. Anyway, I won’t blame you for saying no—”