The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  “Unconscious?”

  “In her nightie, face down on the bed. I rushed in and shook her. She was limp as a rag doll. Her heart was still beating, but her pulse was irregular. I went into the bathroom to look for salts, something, anything, and there it was—an uncapped bottle on the sink, absolutely empty. Nembutals. I had no idea how many she’d taken, only that she’d purposely swallowed an overdose of sleeping pills. Well, I settled down. I was very level-headed. You’d have been proud of me, Matt. I remembered that silly first-aid course we had to take in school—how I used to hate it—and some of the antidotes came back to me. So I went back to Medora. I figured if she’d been on the phone with Nardeau little more than a half hour ago, she must have done this right after, so maybe I’d caught it early enough. I turned her around, began to rub and pinch her, and finally sat her up. I brought her to, but she was incoherent and she kept passing out. I was desperate.”

  “You should have called for a doctor.”

  “I thought of it, but vetoed it. No, Matt. If a doctor came, she’d have been all over the front pages again. Another scandal. Even if she survived this, she’d never survive that. Oh, I figured if I couldn’t bring her around, I would call for an ambulance. But not right away. I got her to her feet, half dragged her to the bathroom, and gave her the basic antidote. Warm water made soapy. I spilled it into her. It worked instantly. What a mess. She kept throwing up. When she’d had it—and she was plenty conscious by then—I led her back to the bed. Then I ordered tea and burnt toast and milk of magnesia. While I was waiting, I telephoned Carol Earnshaw. Then, when the tray came, I poured some magnesia into the tea, shaved some of the burnt toast into it, and forced her to drink up. Antidote number two. In an hour she was better. Terribly weak, but safe and recovering, and both grateful and resentful that I’d saved her.”

  Brennan gazed past Lisa at the bursting life of the green trees, bushes, grass, and the bright flowers, and the wretchedness of Medora’s effort to court death seemed more gruesome than ever to him. “Why did she try it, Lisa?” he asked.

  “Well, you know how much hope she had that some police informer who’d been paid off by the police and Nardeau would recover her painting? It was all she lived for, to get that painting back and, with Nardeau’s help, get Fleur Ormsby or her husband to capitulate. Well, there was the great expectation of that, and there she was waiting for me to drop around when Nardeau called—and wham-bam, the whole dream blew sky-high.”

  “You mean the informer didn’t come through?” Brennan asked.

  “Worse, Matt. He did.” She paused. “He learned where the stolen paintings were supposed to be hidden. He tipped off the authorities. The police and Nardeau went there at dawn, some abandoned mill off the road to Chartres. Sure enough, there were the pictures, every one of them, a heap of charred ashes, with just enough fragments to make it clear that the ashes represented Nude in the Garden and the rest of the oils. Well, there they were, incinerated, gone forever. And there was nothing to be done, except for Nardeau to tell Medora. I gather he did it nicely on the phone, but how could anything be done nicely enough for poor Medora, once she knew she’d lost her last chance to go home? I gather she was too stunned to say anything much on the phone. But once Nardeau had hung up and she was alone with the disaster, she had a convulsive fit of hysteria, absolutely wild with grief, and she just sort of groped into the bathroom and began feeding those Nembutals into herself.”

  “Is she all right now, Lisa?”

  “Depends on what you mean. She won’t be able to work for a few days. Otherwise, she’s recovering, physically. I wanted to get a nurse, but she wouldn’t have it. Finally, when Carol Earnshaw arrived, Medora agreed to let Carol stay with her today and tonight. But what happens when she’s alone again, Matt? She’ll try it again, and if she’s saved, she’ll keep trying suicide until she makes it. You should have heard her. She kept mumbling about what’s the use of staying alive, what’s the use of going on and on in this crummy, bloody way. And I kept trying to soothe her, putting all kinds of pies up there in the sky. But she wouldn’t have it. Everyone, she said, has tried to help her and failed. And she saw no more reason to expect any more help. All she wanted was to be allowed to shut her eyes and sleep forever. Then, as I was about to leave her with Carol, despite what she’d been through she remembered the nonsense about you and Denise, and actually found the strength to tell me the truth about it, just because she wanted someone to be happy and because she felt you and I deserved it.”

  Brennan stared at the scenery of the Tuileries, no longer sure if all this celebration of life wasn’t what was unreal, all this and not Medora’s wretched wish for the final comfort of extinction.

  “She’s a good kid, Lisa,” he said at last. “She also deserves better.”

  “She’s entitled to everyone’s help, because she has a right to live,” said Lisa intensely.

  He nodded, his mind off on a journey. “Yes,” he said.

  “She can’t fight those Ormsbys alone. She needs all of us, and the two of us specifically. She needs devoted allies. That’s the reason I wanted to see you, Matt. I remembered hearing you say once, about Medora, that if nothing else worked out, well, you might have a way of helping her. Were you just talking? Or did you mean it?”

  He took out his pipe, and thoughtfully, he filled it. He looked at Lisa. “Yes, I meant it.”

  Lisa reached out and clutched his arm. “You really mean there is something you can do for Medora?”

  “There is something I can try to do.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not yet, Lisa. First, I’ve got to speak to Emmett Earnshaw. It would involve his help, too.”

  “Earnshaw,” Lisa said derisively. “He’s too self-centered to help anyone. After all those promises, what has he done for you?”

  “Never mind me,” said Brennan. “Whatever Earnshaw is, I think he is a man who does honor his debts. I’m not the only one to whom he’s indebted. He owes Medora a lot, too, for bringing Willi von Goerlitz to him when she did. I’m simply going to present him with her bill for payment.”

  “When?”

  “When? Today, Lisa. This afternoon.” He held up his wristwatch. “In twenty-five minutes, Earnshaw and Willi von Goerlitz are going into the Red Chinese Embassy to settle something mighty important. I guess he should be out of there, win or lose, after a couple of hours. Okay, at four o’clock, I’ll be at the Lancaster Hotel to see Earnshaw. If he’ll help me help Medora, we’ve got an outside chance of saving her.”

  “But a chance?”

  Brennan smiled. “A real one, Lisa.”

  Impulsively, her arms went around him and she kissed his lips. When she released him, she said breathlessly, “There. Even if you keep cheating on me, you immoral baboon, I’ll always love you. Always… Now I’ve got to run. See you for dinner. And I only hope Earnshaw, after he sees the Chinese, is in as good a mood as I am right now. I’ll be praying, Matt.”

  THEY WERE RIDING to their two o’clock appointment in the Goerlitz family’s Sedanca model Rolls-Royce, while the Goerlitz family’s deluxe Mercedes-Benz 600 followed closely behind them carrying Earnshaw’s Secret Service agent and the German stenotypist who had come down from Frankfurt with the legal staff at daybreak.

  They had left the Arc de Triomphe behind several minutes before, and now, peering out past the chauffeur in the open-air front seat and across the silver hood and “Silver Lady” on the radiator cap, Emmett A. Earnshaw could see that the Avenue de la Grande Armée had become the Avenue de Neuilly, and that the Embassy of the People’s Republic of China would not be far away.

  Earnshaw glanced at Willi von Goerlitz next to him and at Herr Direktor Fred Schlager at the opposite window seat. Willi had just returned from seeing his paralyzed father in the American Hospital. Admiral Oates had been there, too. Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz had been conscious, but was still too disoriented to recognize Willi. He had been in the intensive care ward, but Oates
had reassured Willi that the old man had been making normal progress toward recovery. Somehow, Willi had not been reassured, for his father’s improvement by no means guaranteed recovery of his former powers. From the start of his ride, Willi had been sober and taut. Observing the boy’s hard profile now, like the bas relief of a Teutonic prince on a Prussian monument, Earnshaw could not detect whether Willi was disturbed about his father or about his new responsibility as the acting head of the Goerlitz Industriebau and chief negotiator with the Chinese of a 300-million-dollar deal.

  Herr Direktor Schlager, on the other hand, appeared unperturbed by the crucial meeting that lay immediately ahead.

  At the start he had opened the walnut desk of the custom-made Rolls-Royce, emptied his briefcase upon it, and was tranquilizing himself by reviewing columns and columns of figures that represented German marks and Chinese yuan.

  “Well, now, I guess we should be on time,” said Earnshaw to no one in particular.

  “On the minute,” said Schlager with satisfaction.

  “I was reflecting that it’s been—uh—well, a number of years since I had anything to do with any of the Chinese Communists,” said Earnshaw. He realized that Willi had cast him a worried look, and he hastily added, “But I always found that I could talk to them. I must say, and I’m not one to hold on to the cliches of the Fu Manchu legend, that while they were always courteous and clever, they were also inscrutable, yes, inscrutable. Of course, that was Premier Kuo Shu-tung. I had him to the White House, after his United Nations speech, and he was rather a gentleman, no Maoist—”

  “The Chairman will not be present, of course,” interrupted Schlager. “The Vice-Chairman of the Central Committee, Marshal Chen, has headed the negotiations until now, with Mr. Liang, the Minister of Economics, always at his elbow. There will also be, I would think, Dr. Ho Ta-peng, one of their foremost physicists, who will be the Operations Superintendent of the Nuclear Peace City under our Operations Manager.”

  “Well, I don’t know them,” said Earnshaw. “That’s the new breed since China became a big voice in the United Nations and has been shaking its neutron bomb at us. But if they are like their predecessors, I don’t anticipate the meeting will be too abrasive. When they hear our proposal, I can’t imagine them raving or ranting.”

  “They will be polite,” said Schlager, and then he added without humor, “politely angry… I do not know what will happen after that.”

  “Leave it to me,” said Earnshaw, more for Willi than for Schlager.

  He fell back into the silk-upholstered rear seat of the Rolls-Royce, lowered the electric window slightly for the breeze, and lapsed into silence.

  Earnshaw knew that his personal confidence was real, not mere dressing for the others who depended upon him. Of course, he had always been confident in his White House days. But in that period it had not been unalloyed self-confidence, but also the conviction that Simon Madlock was doing well for him. He had dwelt, as Dr. von Goerlitz’s memoirs made clear, in a fool’s paradise. Now his self-confidence was based solidly on his own capabilities, which he had permitted to atrophy too long. He knew what was right and what was wrong, he knew how to handle people, and he was well briefed for the forthcoming encounter.

  He had arrived at the Hotel Ritz suite before nine o’clock this morning, just as the Goerlitz legal staff, down from Frankfurt, had concluded their preliminary talks with Schlager and Willi. The three attorneys, led by their senior member, the respected Walther Jaspers, unaware that Earnshaw would be a member of their team, had gone off immediately to the Chinese Embassy, where Economics Minister Liang had been waiting for them to review last-minute modifications in the 300-million-dollar contract. At the Chinese Embassy, the past hour, four design engineers representing the Goerlitz industries had been going over the small-scale mock-up of the Nuclear Peace City with Dr. Ho Ta-peng and his Chinese engineers.

  Alone with Schlager and Willi von Goerlitz, Earnshaw had spent almost five hours listening to the Herr Direktor’s briefing on the project, having his own questions answered, and debating alternative proposals that might protect Goerlitz Industriebau from Chinese deception and yet allow the project to be undertaken. There had seemed no compromise solution that might be acceptable to both the Goerlitz interests and the Chinese until Earnshaw had struck upon one, and it had been by far the best, entirely acceptable to Willi and Schlager, and possibly acceptable, at least possibly, to the Chinese.

  Earnshaw realized that Schlager had stuffed his papers back into the briefcase and was closing the walnut desk of the Rolls-Royce.

  “Boulevard d’Inkermann,” Schlager announced. “The Chinese Embassy is on the far corner. It is Boulevard Bineau 104. Are we ready? How are you, Willi?”

  Willi von Goerlitz stirred. “I am rehearsing my lines. I will not hide it—I am nervous.”

  Earnshaw laid his hand on Willi’s coat sleeve. “Nothing to be nervous about, my son. Just be natural and easy. It’ll be very civilized. As I always used to tell myself before I went into a conference with foreigners, ‘No need to worry, Emmett, when you’ve got truth and right on your side. Those are the best allies you can have, along with a little faith in the Maker.’”

  Willi looked doubtful. “I—I am depending mostly on you, Mr. Earnshaw.”

  “Then you know I’ll do my darnedest, try to handle it as your father might have if he were going in there.”

  The Rolls-Royce came to the stoplight at the intersection as it turned green, and the chauffeur started to steer the car from the Boulevard d’Inkermann into the Boulevard Bineau, but braked to allow two oncoming cars to pass. Earnshaw had a brief glimpse of the thoroughfare they were about to enter. The Boulevard Bineau was wide, almost majestic, with rows of trees seeming to rise out of the sidewalks, and attractive houses from another century set behind iron fences attached to stone foundations.

  They were moving once more, and turning again, and Earnshaw had his first view of the Chinese Embassy. It was, if not an eyesore, an incongruity in this old and gracious neighborhood of Neuilly. For one thing, it was unattractively modern. For another, it looked cheaply constructed. It seemed to be all windows with gray stone and metal slabs-in between, with its great bay windows opening into glass-shielded terraces instead of the usual French wrought-iron balconies.

  As they passed through the entrance gate, a uniformed French policeman stepped out of the entry cubicle to wave them along. Riding into the parking area of the courtyard, Earnshaw could see the yellow stars against a red field that was the flag of the People’s Republic of China. The main building climbed to six stories, and from close up, the numerous windows were more attractive, the wooden shutters folded back to reveal soft lacy curtains. As the Rolls-Royce came to a halt, Earnshaw noticed a small, pretty garden surrounded by diminutive lawn-level light fixtures with colorful red mushroom tops. It was homier now, more California now, and Earnshaw approved.

  Their chauffeur, as well as the Secret Service agent from the Mercedes-Benz idling beside them, leaped out to open the rear doors of the limousine. Earnshaw stepped into the courtyard, followed by Willi von Goerlitz and Fred Schlager.

  As he stretched his legs, Earnshaw’s attention was caught by the emblem above the double doors and the sign beside it. The sign, a copper plate, read: embassy of china in France. The emblem over the doors was a gold-edged red shield on which were engraved a large gold star, four lesser ones, and a gold representation of T’ai Ho Tien, the ancient Imperial Palace in Peking.

  Suddenly, the double doors of the Embassy were swung open by a young man in a dark blue fatigue uniform and a stout middle-aged lady in white blouse and navy blue skirt, and between them appeared a scraggy unicorn of a man with an abnormally small head. His pointed cranium was shaved; his crinkling smile revealed prominent cuspids; and his attire was a natty lightweight gray suit. He seemed to be in his middle thirties.

  Bouncing out of the doorway, he came in ungainly loping strides toward Schlager, hand outstretched. “Mr.
Schlager, how good to see you, sir.”

  Schlager shook his hand, then took his reedy arm. “Minister Liang, I should like to present Mr. Willi von Goerlitz.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Liang enthusiastically. “I believe we met briefly at the Hotel Ritz shortly after your arrival.” He dropped his smile and lowered his voice. “We commiserate with you on your father’s illness. I understand he is improved. A magnificent constitution. Give him our respects and best wishes for health.”

  “Thank you, I shall,” said Willi. “Minister Liang, in my father’s absence, knowing what his desire would be in this matter, we have invited his old friend and frequent adviser in business affairs, the Honorable Emmett A. Earnshaw, former President of the United States, to join us in this meeting. Minister Liang, Mr. Earnshaw.”

  As they shook hands, Liang’s sallow features were devoid of any sign of emotion. “We are honored, Mr. Earnshaw.”

  “My pleasure,” replied Earnshaw. He revived in his mind his earlier descriptive word, inscrutable, and was pleased.

  Liang had started to direct Willi von Goerlitz toward the open doors. “Marshal Chen has joined Dr. Ho Ta-peng and your engineer staff upstairs to have the pleasure of seeing your magnificent model of the city. Shall we look in on them before settling down to conclude our business?”