The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  “Gruyn. That’s right. Well, Emmett, I tell you—he became a wheeler and dealer in armaments, made a load under Louis XIV, and built himself this cozy manse. He used the same architect who helped build the Louvre and Versailles palaces. It took him two years and a fortune to get this place finished, but it was worth it. Then—what was it you told me, Monsieur Urbain?—oh, yes, Gruyn got into trouble misappropriating public funds—embezzlement circa seventeenth century, and wound up in the Bastille. Later, his son sold this place to a handsome blond playboy named the Comte de Lauzun, who had rather a sporting time of it with several of King Louis XIV’s mistresses. This lad was also condemned to imprisonment in some chateau—for trespassing—but wound up marrying the King’s first cousin. What happened next, Monsieur Urbain?”

  “In 1899, the City of Paris acquired the Hotel de Lauzun for a museum,” said the protocol head, “but in 1945 decided to use it for Government receptions. In earlier times, Theophile Gautier had a club of hashish smokers here, and once Baudelaire rented a heart-shaped room here.” He smiled formally. “More recently, the clientele has improved. We have received here a queen of England, a queen of Holland, a king of Denmark, and tonight, of course, the Summit.”

  Fleur Ormsby had taken hold of Earnshaw’s arm. “Oh, do come along with us on the tour, Emmett. We must see Baudelaire’s heart-shaped room.”

  “Thanks, Fleur, but I must decline,” said Earnshaw. “I’m afraid my ancient legs aren’t up to it tonight.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Fleur. “Can’t be blamed for trying.” She glanced around. “By the way, where is your darling niece?”

  Earnshaw opened his mouth to tell her and, suddenly, remembering, clamped it shut. It was difficult to remember that Fleur Ormsby was the enemy. He swallowed Medora’s name and said, “Carol? She’s off on some date.”

  “Delightful,” said Fleur. “Can’t say I blame her. What would she want with all these doddering fogies?”

  “I haven’t seen Sir Austin yet,” said Earnshaw. “Any idea where—?”

  Fleur aimed her beaded evening bag toward the high windows overlooking a quay of the Seine. “There, where you’d expect, where the champagne is being served. Should I take you to my master?”

  “Fogy I may be, but I’m not doddering, Fleur. I can make it.” Feeling traitorous to Medora and Carol, Earnshaw gave the enemy a warm smile. “Thanks for your invitation. Enjoy the tour.”

  Sipping his champagne, which had gone flat, Earnshaw wove his way through the packed reception room. He approached Sir Austin Ormsby just as the Englishman was turning away from the champagne tray with a fresh glass in hand.

  “Make it two,” Earnshaw called out.

  “Ah, there you are, Emmett. Two it is.” Sir Austin accepted Earnshaw’s half-filled glass and traded it for a brimming one. “Was about to set out on a safari after you, despite the dense and impenetrable jungle, rather like Stanley on the hunt for Dr. Livingstone. Smashing party, don’t you think?”

  “I’m afraid I’m out of shape for this sort of thing,” said Earnshaw.

  He could see that Sir Austin was devoting himself to the champagne. He could also see that Sir Austin’s features—hooded eyes, thin aristocratic nose, tight lips beneath the small mustache—no longer gave the impression of affected fatigue but reflected genuine fatigue. For an instant, Earnshaw wondered whether it was Sir Austin’s participation in the Summit that had tired him so, or his underhanded efforts to protect the family name by assisting Fleur to obtain and destroy the scandalous painting of her. Earnshaw observed that the Englishman’s face was flushed, and suspected that he had been drinking excessively. Earnshaw decided that this was not in celebration of progress made at the Palais Rose but in celebration of a cruel victory over a helpless showgirl. For the first time in his long relationship with Sir Austin Ormsby, he could see his friend—his former friend—as Carol and Medora saw him.

  Earnshaw wondered how he should begin, but before he could decide, Sir Austin had already begun. “Emmett, I wanted to say—”

  Other guests, pressing about them, had pushed them closer together, and Sir Austin was momentarily annoyed with someone who had backed against him.

  “Shockingly overcrowded,” he muttered to Earnshaw, and then, making an effort to recover his poise and display some affability, he lifted his champagne glass higher. “Cheers, Emmett, and our gratefulness for the fine column of commentary you’ve been producing daily. Our subscriber response has been ecstatic. What I wished to say was—thank you ever so much.”

  “Well, that column wouldn’t have come about if you hadn’t tipped me off about the Goerlitz memoirs,” said Earnshaw.

  “I’ve been meaning to ring you up about that. Forgive me. The last I heard—the beginning of the week, wasn’t it?—you weren’t too optimistic. Did you finally get to Dr. von Goerlitz?”

  “You mean did he see me? Yes, he saw me. It was as I predicted to you in London. I tried, I tried very hard, but he was intractable. He wouldn’t change a word of the chapter against me, let alone pulling it out of his book.”

  “Damnation,” said Sir Austin. “I was sure you’d win him over.”

  “No.”

  “Well, Emmett, I do hope you’re not discouraged. You’ve got to prevent that offensive chapter from seeing the light of day. Are you keeping after the wicked Prussian?”

  Earnshaw was tempted to reveal what Sir Austin apparently did not know, that Dr. Dietrich von Goerlitz had been incapacitated by a stroke and was this minute lying mute in the American Hospital at Neuilly. But since it was still a secret, he decided to refrain from making Goerlitz’s condition public. “I haven’t given up, but I’m afraid there’s no chance of swaying him, Austin. I’ll simply have to gird myself and take it. I’ve suffered worse blows in my life, although not much worse.” He halted, trying to determine how to proceed. “By the way, Austin, have you heard anything more about the publication of those memoirs?”

  “I wish I could tell you something, but that’s really Sydney’s department,” said Sir Austin. “I do think that I heard him mention, just the other evening, that there had been bidding from various publishers. Of course, Sydney isn’t following the fortunes of the Goerlitz memoirs too closely, since we have no interest in publishing them. As I advised you before, Emmett, I wouldn’t associate our firm with anything that might be detrimental to a friend.”

  “I can only repeat, Austin, that I have nothing but admiration for your decency,” said Earnshaw with a trace of irony that he was certain the Englishman would not detect.

  “If a man doesn’t have moral standards,” said Sir Austin piously, “he has nothing. I have always held with Lord Chesterfield that to do as you would be done by is the plain, sure, and undisputed rule of morality and justice.”

  “I’m with you all the way,” Earnshaw acquiesced, but he could bear no more of Sir Austin’s sanctimonious cant. “Incidentally, how is your brother making out otherwise?”

  “With the foreign publishers? Poorly. We’d rather hoped to latch onto a potential best seller or two here, before the Frankfurt Book Fair. But aside from the Goerlitz memoirs, there is nothing salable being offered, worse luck. Sydney’s quite depressed about the whole situation. I wish I could invent a best seller for him, just to give him a pickup, and bolster our next list, but I’m afraid there is little that anyone can do.”

  Earnshaw had been biding his time. Now he blurted, “Maybe there’s something I can do.”

  Surprised, Sir Austin Ormsby blinked down the hook of his nose. “How’s that, Emmett?”

  “Help Sydney get a best seller, I mean.” He went on hurriedly. “I’ve really felt bad that you and your brother had to miss out on the Goerlitz memoirs because of your friendship with me. I was praying for some way to make it up to you. Well, don’t sell the Lord short. Yesterday my prayers were answered. And quite by accident. I was going to telephone you or Sydney immediately, but I decided I’d better read the manuscript first. I finished it a couple o
f hours ago. It was so remarkable, the impact of it so great, I was tempted to run straight to your hotel. But I figured I’d see you here and tip you off.”

  Sir Austin’s eyes were shining as brightly as avarice. The languor of the gentleman had been supplanted by the restless lust of the tradesman. “What is this manuscript, Emmett? You say you’ve read it?”

  “Every word,” said Earnshaw, trying to maintain a pitch of controlled enthusiasm. “I’m no literary judge, but just from the contents, I’d say it could be a tremendous find. Let me tell you quickly how it came about. When I was in the White House, one of our most promising young diplomats was a fellow named Matthew Brennan. Maybe you recall the name? He ran afoul of our security people because one of our physicists, who was his responsibility, slipped away at the Zurich Parley and defected—”

  “Of course, I remember,” Sir Austin interrupted.

  “Okay. This Brennan was forced to quit government, and he’s been living in Europe ever since. Well, when I arrived in Paris, I happened to bump into him. I’d really never known him. We got to talking, and I got a new view of him, and we agreed to let bygones be bygones, and we patched things up. Well, yesterday, rather diffidently, this Brennan asked to see me about a personal matter, and so I invited him over. He came into the suite lugging an impressively bulky manuscript. He explained that he’d been quietly researching and writing it for the last three years. He asked if I would read it and tell him what I thought, insisted he’d shown it to no one before, and said if I liked it, perhaps I’d write a foreword. Well, Austin, as you know, I’m not much of a reading person, but I couldn’t say no to this fellow, so I promised to have a look. I intended simply to scan and skip and be done with it.” Earnshaw paused for effect. Then he shook his head with wonderment. “Austin, from the first page on I couldn’t stop, couldn’t put the darn thing down. I kept reading it all of yesterday, half into the night, and picked right up at breakfast and just finished it hours ago. It is dynamite. As far as I know, the best political exposé that’s been written in a decade. The research is incredible, almost too incredible, and every page of it documented. Well, I called this Matthew Brennan right up and I told him I’d pay him to be allowed to write the foreword. Then I thought about you and Sydney, and so I asked Brennan if he had a publisher. No, he said, he had none, and wasn’t sure how to go about getting one. I told him I’d get him one. He was delighted.”

  Sir Austin Ormsby’s face twitched with cupidity. He gave up his empty glass to a passing waiter, took another one filled with champagne, and almost spilled it. “Emmett, I can’t tell you how appreciative I am. Knowing how conservative you are, I’m absolutely impressed by this—this manuscript—absolutely dying of curiosity. What’s it about? You haven’t told me what’s inside it.”

  Earnshaw felt the calm that precedes victory. The fish had been snagged. He needed only to reel it in. “Brennan calls his book The Secret Civil War Inside Russia Today. The point is, and he dramatizes it, proves it, there are two separate governments in Moscow right now. The public one, in the Kremlin, in the Palais Rose, is pro-West, pro-coexistence, pro-One World, anti-International Communism. The second government, working underground in Moscow, outside the Kremlin, too powerful to be eliminated but not yet strong enough to take over, is anti-West, anti-One World, pro-Cominform, in support of acting jointly with Red China against the democracies. As a result, according to Brennan, the Summit conference is a sham, and whatever the outcome, it will prove meaningless. The future of the world, of mankind, will depend entirely upon which of the two Russian governments wins the struggle inside Moscow.”

  Sir Austin appeared shaken. “Good heavens, can that possibly be? I’ve never heard of such a thing. How could he document it? You say he has?”

  “Every sentence, every paragraph. Understand this, Austin—” Earnshaw lowered his voice. “Brennan was accused of leftist sympathies and driven out of the United States. I’m ashamed of that, but there’s the fact of it. Naturally, he was attractive to Communists and Commie agents in Europe. When they beckoned, he responded, because he felt bitter toward his homeland. So he got himself involved with—with certain people around Europe, behind the Curtain, and he began to find out that there was a hard core of Russians who opposed the present government and were organizing to overthrow it. Well, Brennan’s an American, after all, and he couldn’t go on watching this happening, this subversion of future peace, and so he broke away, began writing it down, and came to Paris to see certain people meeting at the Summit to dig out the final material he used in his exposé.”

  “And you read it, Emmett? You believe it?”

  “There’s no question about its veracity. Here and there, perhaps, he stretches a point for effect, or overdoes it, or conjectures, but overall I’d vouch for the accuracy of the manuscript. Can you understand what this adds up to, Austin? This isn’t merely a literary document. It’s a gospel for our survival on earth.”

  Sir Austin had taken a strong grip on Earnshaw’s arm. “Emmett, you did say this chap doesn’t have a publisher, and you’d recommended us?”

  “I said that, and Brennan is agreeable to letting you have first look.”

  “If it is half of what you claim it to be, Emmett, and Sydney concurs, this can be a worldwide sensation—not only as a book, but by its immediate serialization in the press—good Lord, Emmett, I’m not merely speaking of profits. I’m also thinking of how this could alter the political picture, our attitudes toward the Summit and the near future.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did you tell Brennan you were going to speak to me?”

  “Yes, Austin, we discussed that part of it at great length. The author, understandably, is suspicious and wary, and I think he has a fair idea of what his findings are worth. So you’ll have to handle him with kid gloves. I told him I was sure you’d be interested, and I explained it was your brother, Sydney, who was in charge of your book division, and you’d want Sydney to call upon him.”

  “You’re darn right Sydney will call upon him. What’s the soonest Brennan can be seen?”

  “I should think sometime tomorrow afternoon, if Brennan isn’t too busy,” Earnshaw said. “In fact, I’m sure Sydney will be able to see him tomorrow. I might add that Brennan has only one finished draft of the book, and I doubt if he’ll let it out of his hands for even a minute. I think Sydney will be expected to skim through the manuscript right there in Brennan’s presence.”

  “No problem, no problem,” said Sir Austin anxiously. “What should I do? Have Sydney phone Brennan?”

  “Yes. He’s at the Hotel California. And I’ll tell Brennan to expect the call and set aside plenty of time tomorrow.”

  “I promise you Sydney will be there promptly, wearing his reading spectacles and carrying a contract in one hand.”

  Earnshaw grinned. “Better have him carry a quart of J & B whisky in the other hand. Brennan likes a convivial drink. I hope your brother does.”

  “Sydney? You know Sydney. The prototype for Wine, Women, and Song. But tomorrow I shan’t mind, if he comes away with this winner.” Sir Austin snatched up Earnshaw’s hand and pumped it. “I’m truly grateful to you, Emmett. I’m absolutely blithering with excitement. Do you mind if I dash off this instant and phone Sydney? I want to prepare him. And you remember to keep the Brennan chap under wraps until Sydney pops in on him. Thanks, Emmett. See you up at the festive table.”

  As Sir Austin whirled around to rush for the telephone before dinner, he bumped into the heavyset man immediately behind him. The other guest staggered off balance, and Earnshaw was about to assist in keeping the guest on his feet when he saw that Sir Austin had managed to do so. Satisfied, Earnshaw turned his back to them and began to move away, although still able to hear Sir Austin’s mortified apologies, “Sorry, sir, dreadfully sorry, but I—oh, it’s you—well, now, instead of sending your cleaning bill to the British Embassy, send it over to the Quai d’Orsay. That’ll teach our over-enthusiastic hosts not to shovel
guests into a room as if it were some sort of Black Hole of Calcutta.”

  Still marveling at Sir Austin’s unfailing social aplomb, Earnshaw felt doubly pleased with himself for having so smoothly manipulated a crafty British Foreign Secretary. The first step in Brennan’s plan had been successfully taken.

  Earnshaw suffered no twinge of disloyalty toward a former friend. Certain persons should, when the opportunity presented itself, be taught compassion for others. This had been such an opportunity. As one who had recently been ill-used by others, Earnshaw had transferred his sympathies to his niece’s friend, Medora Hart.

  But now, with the first half of his mission in the Hotel de Lauzun concluded, Earnshaw knew that the second half must be discharged before the call to dinner. It was to Matthew Brennan that he owed his major debt. However, it was more than the mere repayment of a debt that motivated Earnshaw at this time. Brennan had gained not only his sympathy but his compassion. Brennan’s stigma was similar to the one that Earnshaw himself would soon have to bear. Both would be unfair. If Earnshaw could do nothing more for himself, at least he could try to remove the burden of disgrace that was destroying Brennan.

  Earnshaw halted in the center of the Salle des Gardes and sought the President of the United States.

  There were too many gay, effusive people in the room to make identification of any one of them easy. Yet, Earnshaw thought that it should be easy. In contrast to the others in the room, the President would be remote and aloof, the handsome soulless human computer, the political executive of science designed for a nuclear age.

  Seeking his successor, Earnshaw found him at last, standing before a window with his overattentive aide, young Wiggins, both peering out at the Seine below, as the French Foreign Minister described some sight or other to the pair.

  Earnshaw hesitated. The task ahead, the second part of his pledged mission tonight, was not only more difficult than the first, but also more disagreeable. While Earnshaw was charitable to almost every fellow being on earth, he could find little that was attractive or praiseworthy in his successor. His dislike for the Chief Executive stemmed not alone from his personal dislike of cold, calculating people. It did not even stem from political differences or from the means by which the President had encouraged, or permitted, his staff, his press, to denigrate Earnshaw’s record in office. Earnshaw’s resentment had a more primitive basis: It was against human nature (anyway, Earnshaw’s nature) to feel any warmth toward an equal who obviously regarded you with condescension and disrespect.