The Plot

by Irving Wallace

  It was a beautiful sight and afternoon, here at Maisons-Laffitte, and he wished he could enjoy it more.

  “Matt?” he heard Doyle call out loudly.

  He glanced back and raised his arm. Doyle came toward him and shoved in beside him against the rail, flourishing two pasteboard tickets. “Placed the bets. And saw Fowler. Mystery solved.”

  “What happened?”

  “From the little that Fowler could find out, that unexpected Chinese proposal today was not merely a new piece of machinery to be considered in the disarmament design. It was actually a big monkey wrench tossed into the existing machinery. A real stiff ultimatum from the Peking gang. The whole Summit is shaken. I gather when Premier Talansky understood the full import of it, he blew his top at the Chinese afterward. Anyway, he canceled everything today—including Maisons-Laffitte, which he’d looked forward to—and gathered his main advisers around him at the Russian Embassy—Zabbin, I suppose Rostov, the rest of them—for an emergency huddle. So that’s it.”

  “I don’t believe that’s all of it,” said Brennan. “I don’t believe the Russians got sore at the Chinese. But we’ll know soon enough.”

  “The fact is, Matt, the top Russians aren’t here.”

  “No, they’re not.”

  As Brennan stared across the track, he saw a flag go up in the distance, a gong resounded, and the white webbing that restrained the nine entries disappeared. A deafening shout, from thousands of throats in unison, tore through the air.

  “They’re off!” Doyle yelled. “Come on, baby, come on, Iberian!”

  To Brennan, the galloping steeds, so far away, resembled diminutive toy animals wound up and released en masse. They were bunched together, jamming toward the rail, fighting for position. They came pounding at the farthest turn, larger and more real now, more defined, glossy bodies “on perpetually hammering legs. They were stringing out, rushing along the inner rail, driving hard toward the last turn.

  Although captivated by the fluidity of this perpetual motion, Brennan again was struck by the most unusual aspect of French horseracing for an American. The horses, he realized with renewed incredulity, were running in the reverse direction, coming from the right to the left, clockwise, while I races in the United States ran from left to right.

  All nine thoroughbreds were swinging around the last turn and straightening into the homestretch, and Doyle, binoculars pressed to his eyes, was groaning, “Where’s Iberian? I can’t even see her number!”

  They were looming large now, the jockeys hunched over their mounts, going to their whips, the big dolts, geldings, fillies thundering toward the finish line. While Brennan could make out that two horses were clearly in the lead, from his angle he could not make out which one of the two was in front.

  The bedlam, the steady roar of the crowd, had reached an ear-shattering crescendo, and above it, Doyle, binoculars still pinned to his eyes, was bellowing, “It’s Number 7 and Number 2, Matt! Theirs and yours! Prince Yuri and Diplomatique! Here they come, neck and neck—look at them!”

  Brennan could see them plainly now, charging hard, and suddenly, when they were twenty meters from the finish, he could see one falter, and the other go flying ahead, passing under the wire a full length in front. His eyes followed the winner as it flashed past him. Number 2.

  Doyle was pounding his back. “You won, you lucky bastard, you won!”

  Brennan nodded dumbly, and turned away from the rail. “Well, coming here wasn’t a total loss.”

  “Your diplomat took the Russian by over a length… “Maybe that’s prophetic.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on that” said Brennan, wryly.

  “You going to stay for the next race?” asked Doyle.

  “I’d like to, but I can’t,” said Brennan. “The spider’s receiving the fly in his parlor, remember? I’m seeing Sydney Ormsby at .four. Operation Medora, for better or for worse. No, I’ll just collect and take off. What about you? Want a lift?”

  Doyle considered the invitation only briefly. “I think I’ll hang around and try my luck on the fourth race, Matt. Maybe see you later for a prayer meeting.”

  “We could both use one.”

  “Dammit, I just remembered. I’ve got an appointment with the proprietor of one of my favorite restaurants tonight. Got to sample the cuisine for my cookbook. I’d better follow through until I have something more important to write about. See you tomorrow anyway.” He shoved his binoculars in his pocket, felt something, and called out to Brennan, “One second, Matt.” He brought out a folded sheet of paper.

  “You wanted me to pick up the program of the banquet that the President of France is giving for the other four leaders at Versailles tomorrow night, didn’t you? I got hold of a copy. Here it is. Formidable heading. PROGRAMME POUR LE DINER OFFICIEL OFFERT PAR LE PRÉSIDENT DE LA RÉPUBLIQUE FRANCAIS AU PALAIS DE VERSAILLES. It gives the evening’s schedule of events, the times, so forth. Is that what you wanted?”

  Brennan accepted the schedule and stuffed it into his pocket. “Exactly. Thanks, Jay. I’d better cash in and run.”

  Leaving, Brennan saw a crush of people at the rear grandstand stairway. The spectators were pressing against two rows of police who, arms linked, were holding them back to leave a passageway. Brennan hurried forward to catch a glimpse of the departing Russian visitors. As onlookers applauded sympathetically, to make up for Prince Yuri’s defeat, the Russian delegates descended the stairs, smiling, waving appreciatively. Brennan went up on his toes, trying to inspect each one. He counted off nine of them, and as before, every one was a stranger to him.

  He watched them continue toward the exits and their limousines, and at last he turned to find the nearest cashier’s window. Clutching his ticket, he saw a line of winning bettors forming, and he fell in behind the others.

  The line moved forward at a snail’s pace, and Brennan consoled himself with the thought that the 500 francs he had won would buy Lisa a deserved gift. He speculated on what he might purchase for her, and tiring of that, he thought of his forthcoming appointment with Sydney Ormsby, and finally, he put that out of his mind, too.

  Idly, he looked off. The rear compound was teeming with horse-players, marvelous French types and some not so French, and then, far across the compound, Brennan made out two husky men walking rapidly toward the exit, and they were definitely not French, and one of them, the one he could see clearly, seemed familiar.

  Brennan squinted, and that instant he identified the one who seemed familiar. The Tartar giant with the misshapen nose and mottled cheek. Boris Dogel. The KGB security guard. His shorter, stockier companion had slowed to light a cigarette, and for a moment, before Dogel blocked him from view, a portion of his face was revealed. Nikolai Rostov.

  Brennan gasped. Rostov! Rostov here, after all. Their backs were to him now, and he couldn’t be sure, couldn’t be absolutely positive, but the man had resembled Rostov, was undoubtedly Rostov, with Dogel serving as his KGB protector.

  The Russian pair was moving toward the exit once more, and Brennan found himself moving, too. He had left his place in line and was striding quickly across the rear of the compound. He shoved people aside, attempting to keep the two Russians in sight. They were nearing the exit. Brennan began to run, but other visitors were running before him, running across his path toward the circle where the horses for the next race were being walked and mounted.

  Desperately, Brennan tried to battle through the unruly crowd. Pushing free, he had started to run again when suddenly a young Frenchman, sprinting, loomed up before him, and they collided.

  Jolted off balance, Brennan stumbled and fell heavily to his knees. Stunned and bruised, he remained on one knee, shaking his head, trying to get rid of the dizzying specks of color swarming across his eyeballs. He closed his eyes tightly, opened them, and although one leg pained him, his vision was almost restored but his dizziness remained.

  He felt friendly hands reaching under his armpits. He looked up. Several Frenchmen, includin
g the one who had bumped into him, and an Oriental gentleman, all of them filled with concern, swam before his eyes. They were trying to assist him to his feet. He stood up groggily, tottering, thanking them, thanking them again, insisting that he was fine now.

  As the Frenchmen melted away, Brennan realized that the Oriental gentleman had stayed behind. The Oriental gentleman was rotund and grinning. Brennan stared at him.

  “Ma Ming?” Brennan said.

  The Chinese nodded. “Bad fall for you. Are you all right? Dangerous to run in a crowded place. They stumble that run fast. Wisely, and slow, that is best. From your Shakespeare.”

  All at once, Brennan remembered the reason he had been running fast.

  Rostov and the KGB guard. Rostov and Dogel.

  Ignoring Ma Ming, he frantically examined the area around the exit. They were no longer there. He searched beyond the exit. They were not there, either.

  Filled with self-anger and self-recrimination at his missed opportunity, Brennan said curtly, “Sorry, excuse me, but I’ve got to catch up with someone.”

  “I know,” said Ma Ming pleasantly.

  But already Brennan had resumed his pursuit on wobbly legs, hastening across the remainder of the compound. He reached the exit gate breathless. He scanned the special parking zone. The last of the limousines had gone. His gaze moved to the taxis as they inched up to take on passengers for Paris.

  A large Renault had cruised into position, and two passengers leaped forward to claim it. Brennan’s eyes narrowed.

  The first of the two passengers, yanking open the rear door of the taxi, was Boris Dogel. He held the door, impatiently waving his companion inside. Brennan’s eyes shifted to the companion. And, to Brennan’s amazement, the companion was no longer Rostov or anyone who resembled Rostov. The companion entering the taxi was pimply, sallow, slight, and his name was Joe Peet.

  Rooted to where he stood, bewildered, Brennan watched the KGB man follow Peet into the taxi, slam the door behind him, and then Brennan watched the taxi grind forward, slide past him, and spin away toward the Forest of St. Germain and Paris.

  He had wanted to shout after them, but it was useless. He had wanted to chase them in his car, but that was hopeless, too, and besides, his Peugeot was parked at least ten minutes away in a crowded lot.

  Immediately, he remembered Ma Ming, back in the compound, Ma Ming who had also tried to call upon Joe Peet. And he again heard Ma Ming’s last words, uttered minutes ago, after he had told the Chinese that he had to catch up with someone. Ma Ming had said, I know. What did Ma Ming know?

  Brennan turned around, his eyes roving over the area behind the grandstand, trying to seek out the Chinese.

  Like Rostov, like Peet and Dogel, Ma Ming had vanished.

  For a moment, Brennan considered retracing his steps and hunting for the Chinese journalist. But his sure instinct told him that his effort would be a waste and would only serve to make him late for his appointment in Paris.

  Limping on his bruised leg, trying to make some sense out of several acts of legerdemain that made no sense at all, Matt Brennan left the premises of Maisons-Laffitte.

  Not until a half hour later, when he guided his car into the Champs-Élysées, did he remember that he had forgotten to cash in his win ticket on Diplomatique, conqueror of Prince Yuri.

  WITH HIS BACK to the English publisher, Matt Brennan stood over the tray of depleted bottles resting on his desk in the sitting room of his Hotel California suite, and once more he mixed a round of drinks. For himself, one inch of Scotch and the rest water. For Sydney Ormsby, three inches of Scotch and a dash of water.

  Brennan considered his handiwork. Then, on second thought, he added another fourth inch of Scotch to Sydney Ormsby’s whisky. Comparing the color of the drinks, he could see that Ormsby’s was deep amber, his own pale yellow. It had been his formula throughout the meeting, but Sydney Ormsby had been too eager to please a potential best-selling author to note the difference, and now he would be too intoxicated to be aware of such refinements.

  In the two hours that had passed since Sydney Ormsby had introduced himself at the door and entered Room 112, Matt Brennan had worked with Machiavellian care to bring the young Englishman to the moment of decision. That moment was swiftly approaching, the critical moment, and the one on which the entire scheme balanced. This drink, Brennan prayed, would make what was to follow possible.

  Taking up the drinks, Brennan turned from the tray and started toward Sydney Ormsby, who was lolling on the velour-upholstered divan, eyes closed, whistling to himself.

  Brennan was conscious again of how singularly unattractive the young English publisher was, and how difficult it had been to wear the guise of friendly hospitality in his presence. Of course, Brennan knew, his dislike of Ormsby had been predetermined by the awareness of the English playboy’s unsavory role in Medora Hart’s life. But from the outset, Ormsby’s appearance and manner had served to prejudice Brennan even further,

  Sydney Ormsby had arrived wearing the attire of a dandy, and affecting an ascot and umbrella cane. No matter how winning he had tried to be, how eager to impress a potential asset to the book publishing division of Ormsby Press Enterprises, Ltd., what came through of him to Brennan was a spoiled, supercilious, nasty young boy who had no respect for his elders and was used to having his own way.

  But Ormsby had tried to be charming, no doubt about that. He was on special assignment from his brother, sent after big game, and his instructions obviously were to come home with the trophy at any cost. In his adenoidal high-pitched voice he had tried to play masseur to Brennan’s ego. How he had envied Brennan’s Bohemian life, and wished he himself possessed the gift of writing that would enable him to be a free soul and nonconformist. How he had admired Brennan’s experience of the Continent, and regretted his own insularity and his inability to adapt himself to the plumbing and varied tongues across the Channel. How he had always desired an afternoon such as Brennan had just enjoyed at Maisons-Laffitte, but alas, how inhibited his own visits to Ascot had always been since he had been expected to devote himself to representing his brother whenever the family silks were entered in the steeplechases. How he had craved the pleasures of Paris that a person like Brennan could know, and which he could not, hampered as he was by his relentless duties and Sir Austin’s exalted position. How wonderful, he had said, to be an American unrestrained by tradition, to be a traveler with an experience of politics, to be a researcher and crusader courageous enough to pierce secrets behind the Iron Curtain.

  To Sydney Ormsby, for two hours, Brennan had been a potentate among mere mortals and altogether admirable.

  To Matt Brennan, for two hours, Ormsby had been a detestable little fake.

  Now the time had come for Brennan to re-examine “the pleasures of Paris” that Ormsby had earlier insisted had been denied him. The fact that these pleasures had actually not been overlooked by Ormsby, as Brennan knew from the gossip of Lisa and others, was the very fact that had inspired Brennan to undertake this action on Medora’s behalf. In battle, one scouted and probed for the weakness of a foe, and when the weakness was revealed, one struck fast and without mercy. Brennan suspected the publisher’s weakness, and the moment to strike at the vulnerable heel had arrived.

  “Your whisky-and-water, Sydney.” They had swum to a first-name basis after the second round of drinks, and this was the fourth.

  Sydney Ormsby stirred himself, came to life, and sat up, still projecting eagerness. “Thank you, thank you, Matt,” he said through his nose. Immediately, he downed a quarter of the whisky and smacked his lips. “Best yet.” Nervously, his ferret eyes followed Brennan to the chair, and then he said, “To get back to the book—”

  “Yes, the book, good ol’ book,” muttered Brennan, remembering to simulate a thickness of speech.

  “S’great book.”

  “An’ great title,” said Brennan proudly. He savored it aloud. “The Secret Civil War Inside Russia Today.”

  “I
f book’s all Mr. Earnshaw says, it can make you a bloody fortune.”

  “Like what?”

  “Generous advance, royalties, subs-iary, maybe one hun’ert, two hun’ert thousan’ pounds sterling.”

  “Not bad,” said Brennan.

  “Maybe more,” said Ormsby craftily.

  “Ummm,” said Brennan.

  “Depen’s on book. Earnshaw tol’ my brother your manuscript’s all finish—finished.”

  “Practically.”

  “Anyone see it yet?”

  “Earnshaw.”

  “Oh, yes, yes. I mean anyone in the book fiel—field?”

  “Not really, Syd. ‘Cept I’m here to sell it, an’ several—”

  The telephone rang. Brennan jumped to his feet and hoped that it was the prearranged call. If it was, the timing could not have been better.

  He answered the telephone.

  “Mr. Brennan?” It was what he had hoped for, Carol Earnshaw’s voice.

  “Yes. Brennan here.”

  “Is that horrible beast still there?” she whispered.

  “Ah, yes, Mrs. Winkler. I meant to call you, but I’ve been terribly tied up. I received the offer you sent over by messenger. The advance against royalties seems fair enough. Especially, since you were kind enough to make it sight unseen, based only on our conversation. But I’m entertaining several offers, and I’ll need the weekend—”

  He went on in this vein for a minute, watching Sydney Ormsby from the comer of his eye, pleased that Ormsby was imbibing steadily and becoming increasingly nervous.

  Hanging up, Brennan returned to his chair, saying, “American publishing female. Openhan’ed enough to make an offer without reading the manuscript. It shows trust—”

  “Well, actually, we—we’re not pushing to make our decision on a reading, either, Matt—only want a glance to know how far, how far we can go—”

  “I don’t mind at all, Syd, ol’ boy, not at all. Matter of fact, that’s not what’s upper-foremost in my mind. No, sirree. I prob’ly going to turn Mrs. Winkler down, ‘cause she’s a bit of a bore, if you know what I mean?”