Ride a Pale Horse (40 page)

“I’ll walk—I won’t be carried!”

“All right, all right. The choice is yours.” What was Vasek hoping for? To be seen by his embassy friend and be tailed to his new address? “We’ve tried to secure the street as much as possible. Cars parked within thirty yards of my front door have been moved away.” That had an instant effect: Vasek stared. “For your safety, of course,” Bristow added.

Vasek’s calculations were over. He even smiled. “I thank you for all these measures. I hope my presence here has not put Miss Cornell in danger.”

“In more danger,” Bristow corrected him.

“At least,” Vasek said, “you can thank me for bringing you and Miss Cornell together.”

Vasek playing Cupid? The vision was so preposterous that Bristow almost burst into a laugh.

The hall door opened, and Hansen appeared with two white-coated men following him.

“How does the street look?” Bristow asked.

“Quiet, sir. The stretcher is downstairs. I’ve checked all the men—know them well.”

“Our guest may prefer to walk.”

“That could be dangerous. The ambulance isn’t parked directly in front of the house,” Hansen said.

“Too obvious,” Bristow agreed. He looked at Vasek, who had listened intently and was now picking up his bag. “Do you need that?”

“Just evidence of how I arrived—a demonstration to convince your colleagues that my disguises were credible enough to make my escape through Europe possible.”

“A practical demonstration?” Bristow wondered how valuable the three white tablets must be to produce such an excuse.

“Better get downstairs. The ambulance can’t wait too long.”

“My books—” Vasek said. “I’ll have time to read, won’t I?”

“Books? Oh, yes, the ones you threw at me. Have you seen them?” he asked Taylor and Hansen. “No?”

Taylor took his cue and looked blank. Hansen said, “Miss Cornell tidied up—”

“Then she’ll find them for us,” Bristow said quickly. “Don’t worry,” he told Vasek. “We’ll have them sent on to you. I won’t forget. I promise you. Come on, we’re wasting time.”

The door was open. Vasek was being ushered out. No one had laid a hand on him. “We will meet again,” he told Bristow. “Once everything is cleared—”

“Yes,” Bristow said, “I’d like to hear the details of your journey. Must have been fantastic.” He was the naïve and admiring American. Vasek accepted that and followed the two attendants and Hansen downstairs. Bristow watched them go.

At the foot of the staircase, Vasek gave a murmured command. Then he lay down on the stretcher and was covered by a blanket. The front door opened and shut.

Bristow drew a long breath and stepped back into the hall, closed its door. Taylor, with a look of approval still on his face, reached a storage closet and extracted the three books he had stashed away last night. Bristow took them. Old editions with worn bindings:
Vanity Fair, Moby Dick, Great Expectations.
“Polishing his English, I see,” Bristow said dryly and riffled through the volumes one by one.

Something at the back of
Great Expectations
caught his eye. The marbled paper that covered the inside of the binding seemed to have loosened with age and been pasted back. At least, its edges had been pasted—the centre felt spongy, as if the gum or paste or glue didn’t cover completely. A lower corner was peeling slightly, hadn’t quite caught hold. He felt its tip—just the normal touch of paper, as if, like the centre, it had been missed by the paste brush. “How do we get this paper removed—without damaging it? We’ll have to replace it exactly.”

“Steam,” Taylor suggested and began filling the kettle.

Bristow was still looking at the lower corner; he tested it gently. Where would Vasek get any steam? “Just a moment,” he told Taylor. “Let’s see—” He lifted the corner with care, eased it up. Suddenly, the whole lower edge of the marbled endpaper, and its outer side, too, came loose. Inside, flat against the binding, was a piece of flimsy paper. Slowly, he pulled it out. He unfolded the delicate sheet, smoothed it on the kitchen table. “Get that strong light,” he told Taylor, “and we need a camera. I’ve one in the study.”

“I’ve got a mini-job. Good for close-ups.” Taylor glanced at the sheet of paper. “A map. Only a map of Washington,” he said, partly astonished, mostly disappointed. Then he caught Bristow’s impatient eye on him and hurried away.

Yes, only a map, but one made in great detail and in miniature scale—every street was lettered or numbered, and the surrounding portions of Maryland and Virginia marked with main highways. Bristow studied a red dot. Perhaps it indicated the embassy’s safe house where Vasek could find refuge until he was smuggled out of the country. He had escape on his mind, that was certain. A map, the cash in his wallet—what had Vasek said? Money is the source of all our successes. But any unbribable guards wouldn’t be drugged or poisoned by three aspirin tablets. How long would he stay as a defector? Two weeks, three? A couple of months? Long enough to establish his credibility with a few pieces of useful and true information, and then put an end to our faith in Gregor’s reliability. Which only proved that Gregor was a most valuable source of real information, so accurate and trustworthy that Gregor must be neutralised if not destroyed.

Taylor was back. Six photographs were taken. “Just to make sure,” Bristow said. The map, refolded and smoothed, was placed back in its central position under the marbled endpaper. The self-sealing edges were pressed down and the lower corner left slightly unfurled.

Hansen returned as they were studying their handicraft with approval and relief. “Safe away,” he announced. “Saw him into the ambulance. No one tailing. No one on the street, either. And I checked the parked cars—all empty.”

“He changed his mind about the stretcher, I noticed.”

“Pretty damn quick. Guess you put the fear of God into him.”

“He has no God,” Bristow reminded Hansen. “Now, here’s our schedule. We pack. And leave before the light strengthens. At four thirty.”

“Pack all equipment?” Taylor asked.

“Everything. And don’t forget your sound-recorder. In fact, I’ll take its tape right now.” Just let Vasek try to deny he had ever written the letters, and our dinner conversation will leave him stuttering. “I’ll have that piece of film, too.” Bristow looked at his watch. “A little over two hours before we start leaving. In your car. Okay?”

“Piece of cake,” Hansen predicted.

The grey Chevrolet turned into Muir Street, lessened its speed as it travelled towards the bookstore. “Stop here!” Waterman said. “Cut your lights!” Andreas Kellner, with a small smile playing around his lips, obeyed. The American and his orders were amusing.

Rita, alone in the back seat, leaned forward to ask, “Why here? This is too far away. Have we to
walk?”
She didn’t like the idea: not safe, even if this street was asleep at three fifteen in the morning. Besides, how could they carry Vasek for fifty metres? Madness.

“There are no cars parked near Bristow’s address.” Waterman’s usual easy-going manner was fraying. “Do you want ours to be the only one?” In Vienna, he had been told this little sexpot was only a courier, a go-between messenger. He was beginning to wonder about that.

“There’s nobody around to notice.”

“That’s why we delayed our visit.” One reason why. The other was Barney. No word from him. No report from Shaw to Coulton, either.

“Delayed too much.” Rita’s idea had been to enter the apartment as soon as midnight was reached.

Waterman looked at her eager face. Was this urgency a sign of repressed fear? Since she and Kellner had arrived two days ago, she had talked incessantly about action: get the job done, get out. Or perhaps she enjoyed this kind of work.

Kellner was watching the dark street. “How are you sure we’ll find Vasek here?” His English, unlike that spoken in Vienna, was fluent. He even had a London accent to match his tailored suit.

“Bristow is his definite contact.” Coulton had vouched for it. “Bristow was named as that, by Vasek himself.”

“Vasek told him on the ’phone that they’d meet tomorrow—”

“I know his methods. That ’phone call could have been for our benefit. He knew we were closing in. Why else did he abandon his motel room early this evening?” A set of sports clothes and a blond wig were all that Barney and Kellner had found.

“How did he know we were about to raid his room? I don’t like this. Not at all,” Kellner said. “Someone talked.”

“No one talked. He sensed it. Sensed it was time to reach Bristow, and no more delay.” There was a sceptical silence from Kellner. “Only five people knew we had traced him: Barney, both of you, myself, and the man who passes on instructions to us.”

“Your mysterious Fred,” said Rita. “Does he exist?”

Coulton existed, all right, thought Waterman grimly. He should never have dropped the name Fred—a moment’s lapse in caution.

“What about your contact at the embassy—didn’t he talk with you today?” Kellner asked.

“He’s been replaced. I met with his substitute. Gave me five minutes.” That still rankled. “He arrived in Washington yesterday. From Moscow. He was more interested in the two tapes of Vasek’s ’phone calls than in anything else. Said he could give us reinforcements tomorrow, but not before. I didn’t actually name the motel. He was pressed for time.”

“Idiot!” said Rita. “So he sent us chasing after some stupid tapes. We could have got them tonight.”

“He’s no idiot. The tapes must be significant.” And who’s to argue with a colonel in the KGB even if he was dressed as a chauffeur?

“We left Prague to find Vasek, not tapes.” Rita’s impatience was growing. “So let’s find him.” Damn these two-door cars. If she weren’t blocked by Sam’s seat, she’d be out on the sidewalk right now. “Come on!” she told him. “It’s almost three thirty by my watch. What’s the delay?”

Kellner said quietly, “Barney. We need him. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

“Could be on his way here. He knows the address.” Waterman seemed unconcerned.

“Why hasn’t he used his transceiver, got in touch with you?”

That had been Waterman’s own question, but he hid his worry. “Not near enough, possibly. Its range is limited.”

“Where is he?” Kellner demanded.

“On another assignment.”

“Are you responsible for that? Or was it your Fred’s idea?” Kellner’s quiet voice ended. In sudden anger, he said, “You two have something more in mind than Vasek’s capture. Nothing comes before that! Nothing!”

“I know,” Waterman said. “We want him as much as you do. He will name names. His words. I have reliable information on that. If he does, Fred and I—and our group in Washington—will be uncovered.”

“What other assignment was so important?”

“A complication. Also involving our security. So we are dealing with it.” At least, Fred Coulton is dealing with it. I just take his orders.

“And risk losing Vasek?”

“No, we won’t.”

Rita said, “Then move now! We can do without Barney. You come in his place.”

“That’s not my function.”

Kellner said smoothly, “In Vienna, you came with us to introduce an American journalist. Tonight, you came to direct us around Washington streets and make sure we lost any tail. But at this moment, you are here and Barney is not. We go into the apartment together. Or we don’t go. My report to Prague will cover these facts.”

“I am—”

“I know. You are an outlet for disinformation, a valued one, I’ve heard. But you’ve been trained in other skills, too. We need them now!”

“I am unarmed. I brought no—”

“Not any more.” Kellner reached across to the glove compartment and found his spare revolver. “Take it. You know how to use it.”

“We’ll rouse the whole neighbourhood if we have to—”

“With silencers?” Kellner asked.

“I’m ready,” Rita said. She checked her own revolver and slipped a heavy ring onto her left hand. “One little jab from this,” she told Waterman, who had turned to stare at her, “and Vasek will be flat on his back in two seconds.” She laughed as she waved the ring on her finger right under his chin and watched him draw back. “Surely you didn’t expect Andreas to carry Vasek downstairs all by himself, did you? We really do need you,” she added sweetly.

“What about Bristow?”

“You deal with him.” She tapped the pistol in Waterman’s hand. “Might help to solve that complication you talked about.”

“We’ll drive nearer the doorway,” Kellner said. “There’s been no movement in this street. They’re all asleep.” He started the engine, edged the car along the kerb to the bookstore. “No talking. Silence once we enter.”

“The door will be heavily locked,” Waterman warned him.

“And I know how to unlock it.” Kellner drew the car to a gentle halt, stared up at the apartments above the bookstore. “Which floor? Did your Fred help us with that much information?”

“I scouted the bookstore myself. The woman who owns it lives above her shop.”

“So the top floor is our target,” Kellner said and switched off the engine. “Move!” he told Waterman. “Rita—leave that handbag; bring the electric torch.” They stepped out of the car. With a last glance up and down the street, Kellner joined them and set to work on the lock. “Keep watch!” he told Waterman in an angry whisper.

Rita had eased her revolver into the belt of her well-fitted pants and now held the flashlight over the keyhole with one hand while she twisted the loose ring on her other hand so that it faced inward. With sudden pressure on its central stone, it could release the prongs that appeared to hold the fake gem. It worked well. She had used it before. But at those times, the prongs—stabbed against a wrist or the side of a neck—had ejected cyanide. Lucky Vasek, he was only going to sleep for an hour. Perhaps not so lucky. A traitor would not find Prague so enjoyable. Promotion for us, she thought; we managed it where others failed. But if Vasek wasn’t found here—She looked at Waterman, and her lips no longer smiled.

He noticed that swerve of her head, sensed a threat. Then he averted his eyes, kept them scanning the silent houses, the empty sidewalks. He could still hear Kellner’s angry whisper and wondered on the reversal of their roles. He was now taking orders instead of giving them. A protest was useless. Kellner had become a different man from the amiable figure he had met in Vienna. Kellner—and Rita, too—were much more than they had seemed. Much more, he thought, his tension mounting with his sense of helplessness.