Ride a Pale Horse (7 page)

There were trees in full leaf spaced along the sidewalks, and Karen had parked under a patch of green shade, natural air conditioning to bolster the car’s own system; this morning was typical August in subtropical Washington. She was about fifty feet away from the bookstore’s window—her eye always calculated short distances from the length of her New York living-room, and that was twenty-five feet—and on the opposite side of the street. Her plan was nicely worked out. She’d wait for Bristow to appear, let him start walking south. She’d follow, and stop just ahead of him, opening the passenger door as a signal. He was bound to notice—he was on the alert for a car, wasn’t he? Then all he would have to do was to cross the narrow street and get in.

If he came... She had had brief spasms of worry about that, and now this waiting brought on another attack. What if he appeared and she missed her cue because her view of his doorway was blocked by a slow-moving truck, like this one now edging past her, feeling its cautious way down a mostly residential street where it shouldn’t be allowed in the first place?

Eleven o’clock. No one at the entrance to 27A Muir. A woman at the bookstore window; two men, dark-haired but the wrong height, walking slowly past. As the woman left, Karen saw him emerge. Not from 27A but from the bookstore itself. He paused on its front step, glanced up and down the street. Peter Bristow? Definitely Bristow, although his Saturday clothes were very different from the tailored suit worn at a cocktail party. Hair dark, height almost six feet, well-proportioned body, good profile shown clearly by the quick turn of his head. Now he strolled south: a well-controlled walk—no slouching, no lumbering. (She always noted people’s movements: body language, in the way they walked or sat, was surprisingly revealing about attitudes of mind.)

“Everything according to plan,” she told the automatic shift, changing from
Park
into
Drive,
and congratulated herself. But before she could draw even with the man in the tan trousers and dark-blue sports shirt, he had crossed the street, hoisting a green cloth book bag over his shoulder, and looked squarely at the Plymouth’s driver. He’s seen me, he’s seen me all the time, she thought angrily as her stratagem crumbled. She had been so damned smart, and now she felt like a six-year-old.

She pulled up just ahead of him, noticed two automobiles about to overtake her, travelling too close to the Plymouth to let her open the passenger door. She opened hers instead, remembered to set the car at
Park,
scrambled over the barrier of automatic shift, hauled her precious bag with her just as he slipped into the driver’s seat, dropping his own bag behind him with one hand, closing the door with the other. Within seconds, the car was moving farther south to join a busier street and lose itself in traffic.

For a moment, he had stared at her as he entered the car. Now he looked at her again, this time concealing his surprise. “Smooth. Very smooth.” There was amusement in his eyes. “Did they teach you these little tricks at the Columbia School of Journalism, Miss Cornell?”

She recovered from her own surprise—he not only remembered her, he even knew something about her background. “All part of the curriculum—how to deal with covert assignments. And did Harvard give you your basic training, Mr. Bristow?” She glanced pointedly over her shoulder at the green book bag lying on the rear seat. An affectation, she thought, and something she hadn’t expected from him. All right, Peter Bristow, we’re even: let’s start again. “I’m thankful you came. I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“When Schleeman passes the word, I listen.”

Don’t we all? she thought. Except for last night when I evaded his questions. He will blow higher than Mount St. Helen’s when he hears the full truth. But that’s another problem for another day.

“We’ll drive around, and you can tell me whatever you told Schleeman. Sorry to take over the wheel of your car, but it might have been difficult to give your information and drive through traffic.”

She hadn’t thought of that. “Especially in a strange car.”

“You borrowed it?” She really was being security conscious, perhaps overmuch. Or did she think he’d expect it? He could only wonder at the strange notions the public could entertain about his work.

“Rented it this morning.”

“Where?”

“At the airport.”

He shook his head in amazement, repressed a smile. She’s serious, damned serious about all this, he thought. “Why don’t you begin?” he asked quietly and kept his eyes on the traffic.

“There’s a lot to tell—the way things happened, how it was done.”

“Give me the main points.”

“I’ve just come back from Czechoslovakia by way of Vienna. On my last afternoon in Prague—actually just before I left—a man contacted me.”

“And that day was?”

“Wednesday.”

A day in Vienna, a day travelling home. “You got Schleeman to ’phone me as soon as you arrived here?” She nodded. He said, “Sorry. Go on.”

“The man’s name is Josef Vasek. A Czech, an intelligence agent, high-placed. He wants to defect. He asked me to alert you.”

“Vasek... Vasek... Never heard of him.” But he knew me, Bristow thought worriedly.

“It’s a recent alias. He said it possibly wasn’t recorded—as yet—in the file you keep on him. Disinformation. That’s his special field.”

Bristow’s frown deepened. “He didn’t give you one of the other names he has used?”

“He said they were numerous, a mixture. You know him by the label you put on his file: Farrago.”

The car almost swerved. There was a long silence. And how the hell did Vasek get that information? Few know about that Farrago file: six people in my unit; the head of our section; the top brass, of course; and no one else. So how did its name get into the hands of an enemy agent? Someone planted by the KGB? A mole? But surely not one of my people—we’ve worked together for years. He stared at the traffic, both mystified and alarmed.

She had opened her shoulder bag, was drawing out an envelope. “I was to give this to you. Only to you. No one else. Urgent, he said.”

Bristow roused himself. “What’s it about? D’you know?” His glance veered back to the stream of cars, saw a street corner ahead of him, edged the Plymouth towards the outer lane to be ready for a right turn.

“Samples of his work—as insurance that you’ll help him. They are to be issued to the media as soon as the assassinations take place.” She held out the envelope.

He negotiated the turn into a side street with little traffic and enough free space to park by the kerb. “Assassinations? In the plural?” he asked incredulously as he switched off the engine. He looked at her: blue eyes, large and beautiful, were completely sincere.

“Yes. Two of them.”

“Whose?”

“He didn’t know. Date and place still being decided. He predicted wide protests, riots, the end of the Western alliance and of NATO. He foresaw a world war.”

Bristow took the stained envelope, handled it carefully. The censor’s stamp of approval caught his eye at once. The partly blotted inscription at the top of the envelope puzzled him:
Tuesday: Village Visits.
“Your envelope?”

She nodded. “One of several.”

“You risked using it to carry—” he began almost sharply.

“No! I didn’t put the letters there. Farrago did. But that’s another part of my story.”

He eased the envelope’s flap loose—it looked as if it might have been opened and resealed—and pulled out three sheets of heavy paper with embossed letterheads, held them by their edges. His lips tightened, his jaw went rigid. He finished reading the three short missives. He drew a deep breath as he replaced them in the envelope. “Excellent samples of Farrago’s talent,” he said bitterly. He recovered. “And what else did he have to say?”

“Farrago had no idea—”

“Forget that name,” he told her. “At least, don’t use it.” Then his voice softened. “Sorry—my fault for calling him Farrago. But he used so many names that it became simpler to give him the one on his file. Go on! He had no idea—?”

“No idea that the letters would be used to back any assassination.”

“I wonder.” Or had he really been following someone’s suggestions for these letters’ contents? Highly unusual for him: Farrago was the source of ideas, not their echo.

“I think he told the truth. Defection is the strongest protest he could make, isn’t it? He is a Czech and a Communist, but he is in total disagreement with the use of these letters.” With their use, Bristow wondered, or with something else? Such as a demotion under the Andropov regime? Strange, though. “He’s Russian, not Czech,” he advised Karen. “KGB from away back when.” He looked at her startled face. “What’s the other part of your story? A lot to tell, you said. I’d like to hear it.” If she hadn’t known about Farrago, he wouldn’t even have listened to her. Whose side was she on? Her story might make that clearer.

“All of it?” She glanced at her watch.

“All. But first, we’ll have to get this envelope into safe hands—can’t go carrying it around with us all afternoon.” He reached for his book bag and loosened the drawstring around its neck, presumably to slip the envelope out of sight. But he had second thoughts and handed the envelope back to her. “Less chance of damage if you keep it.” She noticed the hard bulge of a heavy object inside the green cloth covering: books tied together or some massive tome? He dropped the bag on the rear seat once more, became aware of her silence, said, “You
are
free, aren’t you?”

She thought of her own work, her notes ready and waiting on her bedroom desk. “I’m free,” she said.

“Good. See that mom-and-pop paper shop just ahead of us? I can telephone from there, won’t take five minutes. Hang onto your bag.”

As he left the car, he saw her reach across to lock its door behind him. She had locked hers, too. This time he didn’t smile at her precaution: he had his own problems on security to work out.

The telephone call had taken considerably more than five minutes. Bristow had made three calls, but he wasn’t explaining. Two had been to Langley—the first one in search of the Director, with an urgent request to be given him when (and if) he reached his office this afternoon: highly sensitive material to be read and discussed as soon as possible; this evening or night preferable; tomorrow early morning at latest—if not too late. (I stuck my neck out there, Bristow thought, but I don’t request many urgent interviews.) The second call to Langley was brief—Fairbairn, his good right hand, was at work today and would take his car, drive to a gas station that was the most easily reached from Langley. No name given, but Fairbairn knew which one. He’d be there at twelve thirty and wait if necessary. “Emergency,” Bristow had said without any details. His third call was briefer yet. He had to cancel that tennis game this afternoon; sorry, Diana, but this shoulder was acting up again; he’d keep in touch. Karen had the car door unlocked as he returned. There was a newspaper under his arm, two candy bars in his hand. That accounted for the delay, she thought as he tossed them into the back seat. She refrained from saying, “I was beginning to worry,” and only said, “All settled?”

“The best I could do.” There might be a chance that the Director would be in his office this evening—he worked erratic hours and kept all his subordinates hopping. It was a piece of luck about Wallace Fairbairn, though. It might have been Denis Shaw, always full of questions; or Jan van Trompf, who—like a lot of sticklers—could be something of a ditherer when the unusual came up. Susan Attley was on leave—she’d be back at her desk next Wednesday. Bob Reid took Saturdays off, definitely. Manuel Domingus was punctual with his work and it was good, but he never kept an appointment on time.

They drove in silence for the next ten minutes. He’s probably making up his mind what to tell me, Karen decided. “When do we eat the candy bars? I’m hungry.” Breakfast had been at six that morning.

“You’ll spoil your lunch.”

“We lunch somewhere?” she asked in surprise. “Then I’ll wait.” She hadn’t wanted a candy bar anyway; it was just a small ploy to break into his thoughts without appearing to be the inquisitive reporter. That, he would shy away from, even if his manner was now easier, his voice friendly.

“We’ll pick up some food at a sandwich place. Okay with you? And I’ll hand over the envelope to—to one of my friends. I’m meeting him near the quick-food joint.” The gas station that Fairbairn often used was right next door to the cafeteria.

She recognised the road they were travelling. It could take them towards Langley. “The envelope is open,” she reminded him.

He reached into his trouser pocket, produced a small roll of Scotch tape. I’m beginning to believe her, he thought in surprise. There was a directness about her, a frankness that was appealing. Or perhaps it was just those sincere blue eyes. Careful, he warned himself.

“Mom and pop’s novelty counter?” she asked.

“You’re pretty quick, aren’t you?” But his tone was bantering: no barbed wire laced around it. She smiled and shrugged. “Here!” He handed over the tape. “Seal that envelope so no one can open it. Not this time,” he added.

Her smile faded, her hands froze on the fastener of her bag. Then she released its catch and extracted the envelope, began pulling the tape out of its container. She seemed thoroughly absorbed by the job on hand.

He let her finish it. “Was it you, Karen?”

The use of her first name calmed her slightly.

“I hope it was, and no one else,” Bristow added.

“No one touched this envelope except me. And Farr—and Vasek warned me not to open it.” She hoped that would close the subject.

“And that was a challenge in itself, wasn’t it?”

“No!”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you did open it—there was a big story inside. Impossible to resist.”

“It wasn’t that!” Not altogether, at least.

“Besides,” he went on smoothly, “the American public ought to be told. Your first duty is to them.”

“Will you stop inventing reasons for me?” She was angry enough to hit him with the truth. “If that envelope had been stolen, who would have known what it contained? What help would that have been to you? What good would that have done Vasek? Yes, I opened the envelope—after I had a scare in Vienna.”