Ride a Pale Horse (36 page)

“No?” Bristow’s hand held steady.

“We talk in your apartment.” The stranger almost smiled. “I did not expect such a warm welcome for a defector.” His voice was still low, but now recognisable. He noticed Bristow’s eyes. “We spoke at ten past six today. Tomorrow, we talk at four.” The smile became real. “If you please, lead the way.”

Bristow motioned with his pistol. “You first. And quietly.” Then he followed Josef Vasek up the stairs.

On the first landing, Vasek paused to point at a door. Bristow signalled no, up, silence. They reached the top of the narrow staircase, and Bristow halted by his apartment’s entrance as Vasek, his attention focused on the exit at the end of the landing, went to investigate. “Back stairs. Outside,” Bristow said softly and watched Vasek test the lock and chain. Vasek approved, now turned to the kitchen door that lay adjacent. He was about to reach for its handle, but a sudden “No!” from Bristow stopped him. Bristow pointed to a small button-sized light glowing red on the wall above, and then to the mat lying in front of the kitchen’s threshold. He didn’t need to say, “The alarm is set.” Vasek’s foot was arrested inches from the mat, and he stepped back in time. He gave his second abrupt nod of approval and returned along the small corridor to stand beside Bristow at the apartment’s front door and watch him unlock it.

The Beretta gestured to Vasek, and he entered first. He saw a dimly lit hall stretching before him, two men facing him with drawn revolvers. He swore and wheeled around, hurling his books at Bristow as he lunged towards the landing. Taylor’s pistol butt hit him neatly on the back of his head.

Bristow picked up the books. His left arm had shielded his face automatically from Vasek’s wild throw. Only one book had reached him, glanced off his shoulder. No damage done. “Pull him into the kitchen. Prop him on a chair. He’ll be out cold for the next ten minutes. Search him.”

“Handcuffs,” Taylor told Hansen.

“No need,” Bristow said, pocketing his Beretta. “He’s a guest. Overnight.” Tomorrow, we get him out of here, he decided, and rubbed his shoulder.

“He?” Taylor asked, already opening the canvas shopping bag.

“Definitely. And Hansen—leave the wig in place. The eyeglasses too. He’d prefer to take them off himself.” And why spoil all his fun? Bristow put his arms around Karen and kissed her. “All right, honey?”

“Now I am.” She was still slightly dazed by the speed with which Taylor and Hansen had drawn their revolvers and moved to the door. “We heard a floor creak and someone say ‘No!’ And then the knock—I knew it was yours, but the door opened and
that
came in.” She looked at the sagging figure with its shoulders held by Hansen to keep it erect on a kitchen chair. The head, with a straggle of grey bobbed hair falling over a low forehead, drooped forward. Heavy glasses had slipped down to the end of a thick snub nose, rested on its upturn. “Is it really a man?”

“A friend of yours.”

“Clothes and wallet,” Taylor reported from his search of Vasek’s shopping bag. “Canadian passport. Blank notebook; pen and two pencils.”

“Try his skirt pocket.” Vasek’s hand had slipped inside it just after it was freed of his books. A touch-and-go moment, Bristow thought. Might have had to shoot his wrist, and that could have brought Mrs. Abel running upstairs—she was in her living-room, not yet in bed with her hearing aid removed for sleep. He noticed now that Hansen and Taylor had silenced their footsteps with sneakers. Their two loose summer shirts were also something new, and there was the good smell of stew from one of the pots on the stove over which a large hooded flashlight was perched. Another of these lights was on the kitchen table, new candles—thick and heavy—in the dining area. With shades and curtains drawn and one meagre bulb replacing its usual bright lighting, this kitchen would seem dark enough from the yard and from the back of the houses on the next street. “You’ve been shopping, I see,” he said to Hansen.

“Just picked up what we needed.” Three visits to stores far from Muir Street, and one to Langley for equipment: not a bad afternoon’s work, Hansen considered.

Taylor, without comment, had extracted a Smith & Wesson .38 from Vasek’s pocket and laid it on the kitchen table. A silencer from the other pocket was placed beside the revolver. Then he lifted the wide skirt, removed a knife from a sheath attached to a garter. It, too, was dropped on the table. His hands searched the rest of Vasek’s body, found a small transceiver tucked into a well-padded brassiere. He held it out to Bristow with one eyebrow raised. Bristow frowned, said softly, “Make it a natural accident.” Taylor opened the back of the transceiver, examined its frequency circuit under the flashlight’s beam, carefully eased a wire and pulled it hard, leaving it free enough to loosen any connection without being a noticeable break. He closed the transceiver and again raised the questioning eyebrow. “Back in place,” Bristow said, and Taylor returned it to its padded nest. It could no longer receive or send any messages: switched on, there would be only a good imitation of the sound of frying. Why the hell did Vasek need it anyway? He was the lone wolf, entirely on his own. “Anything in the lining of his bag?” Bristow asked in a whisper.

“Nothing hard to the touch,” Taylor said, but he knelt on the floor to search the bag again. “Zippered lining,” he reported. “Concealed.” He drew out a transparent plastic bag with three small tablets, white and round. “Looks like aspirin,” he said as Bristow studied them under the light.

Aspirin they were certainly not. “Get three plain aspirins from the bathroom cabinet,” Bristow said. “Quick!” And Taylor was quick. He returned as Bristow finished the delicate job of opening the plastic container. Three bogus aspirin were replaced by the real thing. Taylor was back at the shopping bag, zipped up its lining as Vasek’s head raised, his eyelids flickering. In front of him, he saw Bristow with his arm around a woman’s shoulder. He looked at her twice, made sure. Behind him, Taylor left the shopping bag, now in good order, and moved quietly aside.

“It was no trap,” Bristow said. “You are safe. Welcome to our foxhole.”

Vasek’s eyes left Karen, glanced at his weapons on the table. “Can’t be too careful when you are travelling,” he said. His hand touched his breast for a brief moment; then, reassured, it dropped to his side.

“No need for them here. We have our own little arsenal.”

Vasek shrugged his shoulders free from Hansen’s support and rose. Again he looked around the kitchen, noting Taylor’s revolver out of its holster. Next, his attention switched to Karen. He swept off the grey wig and bowed. “My thanks, Miss Cornell. I am in your debt. Perhaps you will identify me as being completely authentic and relieve these gentlemen’s suspicions.” He pulled off his glasses and some of the putty that had transformed his nose. “I took the advice you gave me in Rome. Contact lenses. But if I could get rid of them, wash and change—you might find me more recognisable.” He picked up his bag. “Would you show me where?” he asked Hansen.

“It’s—” Karen began in amazement.

“Yes,” Bristow said, “that’s who it is.” He nodded to Hansen, who urged Vasek ahead of him towards the bathroom.

As Vasek was about to enter the hall, he paused to say, “Thank you, Bristow—I prefer to be nameless. Meanwhile.” He looked at Hansen, at Taylor. “Your people?”

“Security.”

“Is this house in danger?” He was suddenly alarmed.

“No,” Bristow said. “Just Miss Cornell.” There was a bitter edge to his voice that startled Vasek.

“I am sorry,” he said stiffly. And entered the hall.

Karen’s lips were tight. “He told me two weeks. He said in Rome he needed two weeks—and he was here in four days.” Vasek’s subterfuge seemed to upset her more than any mention of danger. She listened to the closing of the bathroom door. “Do you trust him, Peter?”

“As much as I trust any liar,” Bristow said and hugged her. “How was your day at the office?” he asked to get her mind away from Vasek. Taylor, he noted, was removing the weapons from the kitchen table, finding a place for them behind some dishes that were packed into a small cupboard.

“Finished my rough draft.” And it was good, she felt. Her account of the bombing on Via Borgognona was as objective as if she had been a disinterested observer with her own emotions ignored. And somehow, her description of the scene had seemed all the more immediate and hideous. “Schleeman will approve. I think. Did you call him?”

“Damn!”

“So it was that kind of a day at
your
office?” she asked jokingly. But her eyes were anxious.

“Doyle must have ’phoned him about Menlo. They were all pretty close in their OSS days. He probably told him you had arrived and were resting up.” Doyle could handle a good excuse, and Schleeman was experienced enough to accept a hint.

Taylor, until now seemingly oblivious, said, “Mr. Doyle contacted us at seven thirty, asked if you had got home. I’ll let him know. Do I report on Mr. Nameless?”

“I’ll do that later. All I want to do now is wash and eat. Can you contact Doyle from here?”

“Can do. Hansen brought in a transceiver strong enough to reach him.”

“Reach him anywhere?”

“Within a ten-mile radius. We also got a sound-activated recorder.” Taylor pointed at the hall, high up on the wall, close to the moulding.

“All set?” Bristow could see nothing—he’d have to climb up on a ladder for a close look.

Taylor actually smiled. “Only have to turn it on—once we’re asleep.”

“Do it now. Can it reach the dining area?”

“Sure can. Kitchen, front door, and that part of the hall. Not the rooms. Hansen and I will be taking shifts on a chair between your bedroom door and the living-room.”

“Just as well.” Bristow glanced over at Karen, who was now setting two places at the dining table. “Our guest could be in danger, too. How far, by the way, could his little transceiver reach?”

“Not very far. A house on this street, perhaps. Three hundred yards at most, I’d guess.” Taylor was about to leave.

Bristow stopped him, hesitated, then said, “Tell Doyle we’ll need an ambulance here—five thirty tomorrow morning. I’ll explain to him later. Just get it laid on. And Taylor—there’s a car about twenty feet north of our street entrance. Neutral colour, couldn’t see it clearly in the shadows. Dark grey or brown, perhaps. Two-door, certainly. Worth investigating. Could be someone inside.” With a transceiver, thought Bristow. “Yes, tell Doyle it definitely needs investigating.”

Taylor nodded and was on his way. An early removal, he thought as he entered the hall, and good riddance. If Mr. Nameless insists on taking his weapons with him, I’ll ask if he’s got a permit to carry them. And that thought brought a second smile of the day to Taylor’s lips. A defector? One more bleeding headache.

Karen was saying, “I’ll heat the stew. We ate at half past six. The men were hungry—and I really thought you wouldn’t be here until midnight. Anyway, you probably want to talk alone with Vasek.”

“It’s my one chance. He will be in other hands soon.”

“Thank heaven for that! Did you know he was coming here?”

“No. He isn’t the confiding type.”

“Except when it suits him.” She was still angered by his lie which she had passed on in good faith. “In Rome, I had a nightmare after I met him in the church. He was a death’s-head—a skeleton in his priest’s cassock.”

Bristow took her in his arms, held her close. “By tomorrow, you and I will never see him again. Don’t worry about—”

“I’m not worried. I’m flaming mad. Wish I had never met the man. Won’t even get that story he promised to give me whenever it could be told. Not that it matters,” she said, and tried to laugh. All that mattered was Peter safe. “I’ve changed,” she added in surprise. Changed so much. Where were all her ambitions now?

We both have, he thought, and kissed her.

They heard Vasek’s voice, booming in good will as he at last left the bathroom. Bristow said, “I’ll wash, won’t be a second. Keep him smiling till I get back.”

“Where will he sleep?”

“The living-room. There’s a couch or two armchairs or the floor.” With a quick kiss on her nose, he hurried into the hall. “Be with you soon,” he told Vasek, who was now dressed in a blue suit, slightly creased but presentable. He was thinner, too, and handsome: dark hair greying at the temples, clear-cut features, not a wrinkle showing on his smooth skin.

Vasek halted at the kitchen door, looking at Karen almost uncertainly.

“So nice to meet you again without skeletons dangling around,” said Karen. “Do come in. I’m sorry about the subdued lighting effect. And we have the air conditioning turned low—it makes too much noise at full strength. How was your trip? Not too difficult, I hope.” Chatter away, she told herself, like a babbling brook. Don’t even be tempted to remind him that Aliotto died and he was responsible. As he was. Who would have thought that just talking to a man could get you killed?

Vasek seemed reassured and became a most charming though restless companion for the five minutes it took Bristow to return. Karen lit the candles, saying, “It’s dark enough to imagine you’re in the most expensive New York restaurant. Stew is on the menu, but you can always call it
boeuf bourguignon.”
What, she wondered, had he been looking for in those five minutes? He had wandered around, touching this, rearranging that, as he talked to distract her attention.

“Aren’t you having dinner with us, Miss Cornell?” Vasek asked. He was now seated at the table, fingering the under-edge of the plate set before him, lifting the wine bottle by its bottom to check the vintage. He relaxed: no small listening device anywhere; his wrist watch had registered not one bug.

“I’ve eaten. I didn’t expect any guest, or I’d have waited. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

“Tomorrow.” Vasek raised his glass of wine to her and watched her leave. “Was it wise—if she is in any danger—to bring her here? To your apartment?” He put down his glass without drinking.

Bristow settled in his chair, lifted fork and knife. “Why not? Karen is here for the same reason you came to this address. No professional in his right mind would believe I’d risk lodging either of you in my own home.”