The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  Brennan wondered if the second envelope contained more of the same. Here the contents deceived him. The two dozen color photographs had not a single nude female among them. Here, instead, were pictures of landmarks, taken in Paris and its environs. Actually, only a third were taken inside Paris, and these were unimaginative shots of the Arc de Triomphe and the exteriors of the Palais de l’Élysée, the Opera, the Palais de Chaillot, the Louvre. The remaining two-thirds of the colored photographs were routine shots of the chateau at Fontainebleau, the outside of Malmaison, the esplanade and gardens and exterior of the wings of the main palace at Versailles. In only one of these photographs had Joe Peet intruded his own person, perhaps as a keepsake for Ludmilla one day, should that day ever come. Someone had captured Peet on film, as he stood before the statue of the Sun King on horseback in the middle of the courtyard leading to the entrance of the Versailles palace. Whoever it was who had taken this picture had left his own shadow on the cobblestones between the camera and Peet himself. The shadow, although distorted, was that of a big man, a bulky man. Perhaps an official guide that Peet had hired. Or perhaps a friend from the KGB named Dogel.

  Well, Brennan conceded silently, this was the other side of a dual personality. For here was Peet the classicist, the appreciative lover of Fontainebleau, Malmaison, Versailles. The very one who hoarded the scholarly translations of that rough diamond of the nineteenth century, Sir Richard Burton.

  With care, Brennan settled the camera and envelopes back into the suitcase. So much for Joe Peet the hobbyist.

  There were more magazines waiting. Brennan leafed through them rapidly. Another archive of ungarmented girls. Brennan returned these to the suitcase, also.

  The pile of effects had been reduced to one bundle of pamphlets held together by a rubber band. Slipping off the rubber band, Brennan fanned out the rectangular glossy travel-bureau folders. Again, Peet the classicist, the student of France’s glory. Two tour folders of the wonders of Fontainebleau, one of Chantilly, two featuring a visit to Malmaison, and one, two, three—seven—seven advertising the historic beauties of Versailles, its grand palace and the two Trianons.

  In his mind Brennan tried to marry Joe Peet to these magnificent monuments to France’s past. The pairing simply did not take—unless, of course, he did not know this other side of Peet, unless he had been misinformed and had underestimated him. While this was unlikely, it was possible. After all, he had had only one brief glimpse of Peet. His only real knowledge of the young man had come from a clipping carrying Hazel Smith’s by-line, and from some offhand remarks and judgments imparted by Hazel and Doyle, these and Peet’s lewd behavior with Denise and the nude photographs and cheap magazines in this room. Yet, Brennan had read of great scholars whose avocations had been pornography, and he had read of uneducated men who had become lettered through self-discipline. Perhaps his own sketchy view of Joe Peet was the false one. Brennan promised himself to find out more, the moment that he left this room, if he left this room.

  About to close the fan of sightseeing leaflets and secure them with the rubber band, Brennan found his attention arrested by one of them. The sightseeing leaflets had seemed unused, or well preserved, but now he noticed one that was well used and had a dog-eared page. Brennan separated this leaflet from the others.

  The worn leaflet bore the title: Visit the Splendours of Versailles. A reproduction of Louis XIV’s palace graced the front cover, and on the back page was a montage of photographs of the Marble Courtyard, the exterior of the palace, the Queen’s Staircase, the King’s Council Room, the Hall of Mirrors, the Grand Canal and Gardens, the Grand Trianon, the Petit Trianon. Imprinted at the bottom were the name, address, and telephone number of the tourist agency that had issued the pamphlet, as well as their tariff for a day’s visit, including limousine and driver and lunch at Le Londres restaurant.

  Brennan opened the leaflet. The two inside pages were given over to a three-dimensional map of the main building and two wings of Versailles Palace. Apparently, the map had been consulted by Peet, for there were coffee stains on the Salon of Hercules. Then something else caught Brennan’s eye. The inner courtyard had been marked in pencil. There were three lightly crossed X’s, one outside the Queen’s Staircase, another below the King’s Council Room, a third beneath the King’s apartments. Brennan scrutinized the map for other markings. An X had been made and erased before the Versailles museum section of the Palace.

  Brennan raised his head from the leaflet and stared into space. It was difficult to invest any of Peet’s effects with significance. Yet, these markings gave Brennan pause. They were probably meaningless, scratched on the map while taking coffee at Le Londres to remind Peet where he had made his photographs or to indicate a fascinating site he wished to remember. Yet, Peet, the classic-minded tourist gathering folders on Versailles, Fontainebleau, Chantilly, Malmaison, was one thing. But Peet as historian annotating a map in his collection was another thing, a rarity worth further consideration.

  Quickly, Brennan began scanning the other tourist leaflets, looking for more X’s. There were no more. The leaflets were immaculate. Even the two duplicates of the marked Versailles advertisement were in mint condition.

  Brennan became aware of the sound of his wristwatch ticking. He looked at the watch dial. He had been an interloper in this room for twenty-five minutes. He sat back on his haunches. There was no sense in pushing his luck further. About to bind the leaflets together with their rubber band, he hesitated. Some instinct in him, unsatisfied, wished to retain the stained and marked Versailles tourist map for further study. Yet, another instinct in him warned not to take it, for it might be missed He remembered the duplicates. He separated one from the pack, opened it to its map, and laid it side by side with the one bearing Joe Peet’s markings. Finding his pen, Brennan brought it down to the unmarked duplicate, and with as much accuracy as possible he copied the placement of Peet’s penciled X’s by inking in similar X’s on the clean map.

  Finished, he folded the duplicate of Visit the Splendours of Versailles, and stuck it in his inside jacket pocket. The original leaflet he returned to the pack, bound the pack with the rubber band, and shoved the leaflets into the suitcase. He took one last look at the bag. Everything was in order. He closed it and pushed it back under the twin bed.

  Jumping to his feet, he dusted the knees of his slacks. He surveyed the hotel room one final time. Nothing appeared amiss. Joe Peet would return to it and find it as seemingly uninvaded as when he had left it early this morning.

  Swiftly, Brennan moved to the outer door. A decision. Should he open it gingerly, peek outside to see whether the corridor was clear, before slipping out? Or should he boldly open it and make his exit? Of the two, the first was the greater risk. If he peeked out and was seen, he invited suspicion and detention. If he simply walked out naturally, as if leaving his own room, he was safer, even if a maid saw him and remembered too late that he was not the room’s present occupant.

  Brennan yanked open the door, stepped into the corridor, looking neither left nor right, pulled the door shut, took out his key, unhurriedly locked the door, and turned away from Room 55. Only then did he covertly glance to his left and his right. Not another person was in sight.

  Exhilarated by his successful foray, he started briskly away. Not until he reached the stairs was he able to evaluate the degree of his success. At what had he actually succeeded? At surviving a dangerous mission. That part was true, but it was merely negative. For what had his mission accomplished? He had not obtained a single concrete piece of evidence, not even a clue, that linked Joe Peet, American, to Nikolai Rostov, Russian. Brennan had learned only that Joe Peet might be more than merely a post-adolescent lecher. If he was, if this could be confirmed, then there would be no reason for Peet not to have been collecting Sir Richard Burton (despite the nonexistent edition of a book whose title might have been overheard incorrectly) or not to be interested in Versailles and the other landmarks of French history. If there was
clear evidence of his having a self-educated second side, there was no reason to link him to Rostov, or to expect to catch Rostov through him. In that event, Brennan knew, the sole alternate avenue to vindication would be shut down to him, and only Earnshaw would remain to clear the path to Rostov.

  But first, he must make sure whether the time he had given to Joe Peet had been a waste.

  He started down the steps to the Hotel Continental lobby to do what he had overlooked doing before: to telephone Herb Neely about Joe Peet. The call was mandatory before he went on to the United States Embassy to hear in full what Neely had been able to learn, presuming anything more could be learned, or even should be learned, about the schizoid Mr. Peet.

  AFTER SPEAKING BRIEFLY to Herb Neely on the telephone, Matt Brennan had paused at the zinc bar of a bistro to order a small bottle of Perrier and watch two French laborers in berets play the pinball machine. Refreshed by the mineral water, Brennan went outside into the Rue de Rivoli, and at a leisurely pace he walked toward the United States Embassy.

  Only after he had covered six blocks, and was passing the Hotel Crillon and entering the Avenue Gabriel, did he feel perturbed about what lay immediately ahead. Although Neely, a friend, would be waiting to welcome him, Brennan considered the Embassy itself a bastion of the enemy. Since his country had, in effect, disinherited him, he had come to look upon its embassies as hostile fortresses peopled by belligerent men who were openly scornful of him. Perhaps his attitude was unreasonable, even paranoid, but it existed. Reality was not always what you felt, he reminded himself, but was often how you felt.

  He passed through the open gates, nodded sadly at the familiar statue of wise old Ben Franklin in the cobblestone court, and marched straight to the double doors that stood beneath the legend chiseled into stone: UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.

  Once he was inside, an irony brought a crooked smile to his lips. He was here on Joe Peet business. Joe Peet wanted to abdicate allegiance to this country and was not allowed to do so. Brennan wanted to pledge allegiance to this country and was not allowed to do so.

  Brennan crossed the black-and-white marble floor to the high reception desk situated between two mammoth Ionic columns. He told the gray-haired lady that Mr. Neely, the press attaché, was expecting him, and before she could inquire, he gave his own name and waited tautly for those arching eyebrows. If she recognized his name, she showed no sign of it. She telephoned upstairs. Hanging up, she said, “Yes, Mr. Neely is expecting you.” She pointed off. “You’ll find the elevators over there. Tell the operator M-l. The press attaché has his office across from the elevator.”

  Brennan thanked her—for more than assisting him, actually—and he headed toward the elevators. Moments later, he emerged into the mezzanine corridor and walked in the direction of the teletypes hammering steadily outside the press offices. Entering the large room that always reminded him of the city room of a metropolitan newspaper, he saw that three of the four desks were occupied by Government press personnel at work. Not one looked up.

  Through the doorway to his left, Brennan could see Herb Neely in his tiny book-lined private office, hunched low over an ancient Underwood standard typewriter, pecking away on the keys with two fingers.

  As Brennan approached him, Neely raised his head, bemused, squinting from behind rimless glasses, and then he grinned warmly. “Hi, Matt.” He jerked a thumb toward the lone chair in the crowded office. “Be with you in a minute. On the last line of an official release.”

  Neely returned to his typing, and Brennan remained standing, examining the titles of the reference books inside the press attaché’s bookcases. The typing had ceased. Brennan turned back to find Neely yanking the sheet out of the machine and handing it to him.

  “Have a look, Matt. Good news for a change.”

  Brennan took the sheet of paper. The letterhead read: “AMBASSADE DES ETATS-UNIS, Service de Presse, Information pour la Presse, Paris, le 20 juin.” Neely’s two-paragraph release contained an optimistic quotation from the President of the United States, stating that he was satisfied with the progress the leaders of the Five Powers had made in their disarmament discussions, that complete accord had been reached on the reduction of conventional armed forces, on the reduction of non-nuclear armaments, on a timetable for achieving both, and that now the more difficult areas of nuclear weapon and delivery system prohibitions, as well as international control and policing measures, were being explored. The President foresaw an agreement on these crucial points that would be satisfactory to all nations represented at the Summit.

  “Very good news,” agreed Brennan, handing back the release. “Maybe the species Homo sapiens will not become extinct after all.”

  “And maybe you’ll get a chance to join the species again, Matt.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Neely held up the release. “The President’s in an excellent mood. Didn’t you tell me Earnshaw has agreed to see him on your behalf? Well, the President ought to be mellowed and receptive.”

  “I hope so. I’m afraid to depend upon it. That’s why I keep looking for other baskets to put some of my eggs in. I guess that’s why I’m here this minute.” Brennan moved to Neely’s door and firmly closed it.

  Neely watched him. “So it’s that way, Matt.”

  “I’ve been involved in some research that I’m afraid should be strictly between us,” said Brennan. He sat down across the desk from Neely. “But first, Herb, did you have any luck on Joe Peet?”

  “No problem,” said Neely. He ran a hand over his thinning blond hair, removed the rimless spectacles from his nose, and bent forward to open a legal-sized manila folder. “As I suspected, we had a little on him. When Peet was unable to get his visa extended in Moscow, he stopped off in Paris and made a nuisance of himself around the Embassy. He treated us like a lonely hearts agency. He wanted us to intervene with the Russian Embassy here. But I reckon you understand, Matt, we couldn’t promote the cause of an American trying to give up his American citizenship, even if his motivations were not political, only romantic.”

  Brennan smiled. “I can understand that.”

  “Nevertheless, to get Peet out of our hair, we occupied him with filling out every sort of form, mostly those asking for autobiographical information. I have those forms here. Also, after Peet got back to the States, he bombarded us with letters appealing for our help. I’ve got those, too.” He fingered the contents of the file. “Of course, Matt, according to security regulations, I can’t show you what is in the file. Restricted, you know.” He put on his glasses again, and his eyes twinkled. “But I happen to have read it all, and I don’t remember anything in the regulations that prevents me from discussing Joe Peet. What I mean is, if someone I trusted happened to ask me, ‘What do you know about a fellow named Joe Peet?’—well, I might be inclined to tell him.”

  “What do you know about a fellow named Joe Peet?” asked Brennan with solemnity.

  “Funny thing, your bringing him up,” replied Neely with equal gravity. “I was just thinking about this Peet fellow. No, I don’t mind telling you the little I know.” Silently, he turned the pages of a form in front of him and then studied several letters before he looked up. “Joseph Peet, no middle name. Born thirty-two years ago in Chicago. His parents were of Lithuanian extraction. His mother died in childbirth. Joe was the child. No brothers, no sisters. And no known relatives, either. When Joe was five or six months old, his father had to go to Milwaukee for a job interview. His father left infant Joe with the landlady overnight. His father never came back. Joe wound up in an orphanage on the North Side.”

  “Tough,” said Brennan.

  “Yup… Anyway, I guess he wasn’t a very attractive kid, because in one of his letters he says he was the longest resident that orphanage ever had. He was at least thirteen before the city finally farmed him out to foster parents, who I gather were somewhat unlovely. They didn’t want a child. They wanted someone around the house to do the dirty work and they wanted the ci
ty’s support check. Well, the first chance Joe Peet had, he cleared out. Ten minutes after he was finished with the sixth grade, he hit the road.”

  “Are you sure? Hazel Smith interviewed him, and Peet told her he’d had two years of high school in Chicago.”

  “Public relations,” said Neely. “Once a man gets up in the world, he wants to appear educated. I know a publisher who had two semesters of night classes at Columbia University, nothing more, but you read Who’s Who and you’d think he was a Columbia grad. People aren’t afraid of making up things for the press, but they’re afraid to lie to the Government. And these forms on my desk are Government, and Joe filled in that his education stopped at the sixth grade.”

  “Okay,” said Brennan. “What else?”

  “Peet knocked around the country, hitchhiking, riding the rails, odd jobs, scrounging out a living, until he was drafted. He was in Army Ordnance. They sent him over to Vietnam. He was a truck driver. He claims to have won a medal. It turned out to be a Good Conduct ribbon.” Neely shook his head. “Sad.”

  “Well, all things considered, he might have behaved worse. I guess he considered the ribbon an achievement.”

  “Oh, I’m not denying that. It’s just sad, the whole thing, that’s all. Anyway, after his discharge, Peet took his army savings and went straight to New York. He was a dishwasher or something for Schrafft’s, then a bellhop at the St. Moritz Hotel, and because he did some favors for some out-of-town actor staying at the hotel—favors—you can guess the kind—the actor helped Peet get a job as a sort of messenger and errand boy at Lincoln Center. And then came the Bolshoi Ballet, and he was assigned to bring them food and cigarettes, backstage, and the Russian dancers apparently treated him with kindness and respect—‘like a proletarian—Peet wrote in one letter—and I suppose this was the first warmth the kid had ever received, and so he became fascinated with Russia. Well, you know the rest, Matt. He saved up for a short tour of Russia, met this young Russian broad—she was twenty-three—and fell head over heels in love.”