Ride a Pale Horse

by Helen Macinnes

  “If Bor is looking for one of my colleagues, he’ll find him trying to track down the censors.” A neat way to introduce my own worry, she thought. “I should be doing that myself. I’m leaving here at four thirty. I haven’t yet received my notes, and I—”

  “You’ll have them before you leave. I’m afraid the terrace is a bit crowded, too.” He looked around the array of occupied chairs and urged her towards the steps into the garden. He said clearly, “I know you’ve had certain problems. Why not tell me your complaints? I can explain anything that is puzzling you, and I am sure you will feel much better. Can’t have you leaving with unanswered questions, can we?”

  But once they had reached the flower beds and were strolling leisurely on a path that took them a little distance from the terrace, his voice dropped. “Don’t show surprise or shock at anything I say. You will argue with me, and I shall appear to be explaining away your doubts. Yes, you should interrupt me naturally, but no comments on what I am telling you. No astonishment, please.” For she had turned her head to look at him with her eyes wide and her lips parted. “When we reach that patch of grass ahead of us, we’ll stop for a little. My back will be to the terrace, so you will face it. Eyes will be watching us. And there is one highly skilled lip reader among them. That is why you must stay absolutely normal. What you say will be known.” He fell silent, stopped to look at a rosebush.

  She stopped, too, but kept her face averted from the terrace. “My turn to talk?” I’m on the verge of a story, she told herself, excitement once more stirring. I feel it, I sense it, I can smell it. All that playacting of his in the lobby, all that little pantomime on the terrace of attempting to pacify a complaining guest—yes, he is a man in trouble, bigger than any of those I thought I had.

  “Briefly. We haven’t much time—ten minutes at most.”

  “Then I’ll go on asking about my notes.” Her face turned to admire the yellow rosebush they had passed. She halted briefly. “Why the delay? My material didn’t need to be censored. It’s absolutely harmless,” she ended with considerable indignation.

  He looked back, too, at the cluster of flowers, long enough to let any watcher see his lips. “Harmless? We must be the judge of that. And I assure you, we only hope to make everything easier for our guests when they pass through the airport. Let me explain.” They resumed their leisurely stroll, their faces now unseen from the terrace. “Good,” he said. “You’re very good, Miss Cornell. Now let’s get to that stretch of grass.”

  “Why not the sundial in the centre of the rose bed? When I seem pacified, you could appear to be explaining its design to me.”

  He smiled; not just a gleam in his eyes, this time, but a smile that freed the pale expressionless face from its controlled mask. “A pretty picture. But the dial is bugged. So are these garden benches.”

  “What?”

  “No astonishment, Miss Cornell!”

  Is this more playacting, but now for my benefit? The sudden suspicion grew; kept her silent.

  He seemed to read her thoughts. “I am being serious, Miss Cornell. Believe me. This may be the most serious decision I shall ever make. My life is in your hands.” They had reached the stretch of grass, their slow pace dwindling to a halt. They stood there, quite naturally it seemed, Karen facing him, his back to the terrace.

  She recovered herself. My hands? “Thank you for explaining. But I still have some doubts. Yesterday, for instance”—Yesterday, what? “The agriculture people didn’t really answer my question about acid rain. I’ve heard much of your forest land is being killed by it. Is this true?”

  The mask had been dropped; there was a tightening of worry, almost of desperation, on his lips. His eyes searched her. He drew a deep breath. “I am planning to defect. Will you help me?”

  “I thought it was the other way around,” she said, then bit her lip. Nearly a mistake, she told herself, and managed to laugh. “Tell me more about this acid rain problem. It’s widespread. We have it also.”

  “Will you help?” His eyes, light grey, intense, were pleading. “I am putting you in danger, I know. But you will be helping your country, too.”

  She stared at him. Then she nodded.

  His hand had slipped quietly into the inside pocket of his double-breasted jacket, pulled out the top of a manila envelope. He held it for a moment, just long enough for her to see Tuesday: Village Visits. Her handwriting, partly smudged by the coffee she had upset over the envelope; a proper mess that had left the envelope stained enough to be discarded into her wastepaper basket last night. She had rescued the two pages of her notes and added them to the envelope filled with official handouts from the Ministry of Agriculture. The basket had been emptied of its trash while she had breakfast on the terrace this morning. In spite of herself, her eyes widened, her mouth fell open. Quickly, she recovered. “Really?” she asked. “How—how extraordinary!”

  The envelope disappeared back into Vasek’s pocket; his arms were folded as he went on talking in a low, strained voice. “You will find that envelope among the others on your desk when you return to your room. Do not open it. Just take it out—to America—among the rest of your notes. And deliver it to Peter Bristow. You know him. He will see it is given immediate attention.”

  “But I hardly know—” she broke out, and stopped in time. She shrugged. “I really am ignorant. You were saying that acid rain is spreading? Into Austria? Even Switzerland?” And it’s true; I hardly know Peter Bristow—I’ve met him only once, and then briefly. Naturally enough. He’s CIA or something hush-hush, and I’m the press. As soon as he heard my name, he made a diplomatic retreat.

  “You can always reach Bristow through Schleeman. They are friends.”

  He is too well informed, knows everything he shouldn’t know. Warily, she looked at the white face. “An immediate problem, you say? Even Sweden and Norway are concerned. Yes, it would be a good subject to write about. If only I could learn more,” she said slowly, “make sure of the facts. Reporters should be accurate, check all references. I really do need to know more than I do.” Can you catch my meaning? she asked him silently. She needed to be told what was in that envelope. Would he get it?

  He did. One hand briefly touched his jacket, just where its inside pocket was hidden. “No drugs, no currency, no diamonds. The envelope holds three letters. They are my insurance that I will be accepted by your government. I wrote these letters, taking the names of your Secretaries of State and of Defense. Also, of your President. You have heard of disinformation? These three brief documents are excellent examples—if I may say so. Of course, much praise must go to the expert forgers who could supply the signatures. It was a difficult undertaking, but it was successful. So far, the letters haven’t been given out to the press. Then I discovered that the delay is official policy: two events, only hinted at in the letters, are actually to take place. The letters will be made public, but skilfully, once the events have been attempted. They could start a major upheaval—riots, wild protests, an end to the Western alliance. Then, as I see it, war would ensue. A hideous war.”

  There was silence. At last, Karen said, “What would be the cause of—of so much damage?”

  “Two political assassinations, almost simultaneous.”

  She felt her face go rigid and dropped her head as if she were studying the grass at her feet. “When?” she risked, lips scarcely moving.

  “That is still being decided. They must be arranged carefully. All blame must fall on the Americans.”

  “That shouldn’t be difficult,” she said bitterly. Not the way things were going. Can I believe him? Is this really possible—is it true?

  “How long will you stay in Vienna? A few hours, I hope. That envelope is urgent.”

  “I can see that.” If true, if true... “I’m a very curious person, you know. I think I must study the material on acid rain before I—before I can write about it.” I am out of my depth and sinking fast, she thought. “But I’ll start some research when I reach home
—that’s on Friday. I’ll be only a day in Vienna, but I think Schleeman will expect me to get back to Washington and start explaining to him why that interview did not take place. The trouble is, I don’t know why it didn’t. Couldn’t you persuade someone at the top to let me do the interview this evening? Just one hour—that’s all I ask. I’ll stay here overnight and keep my engagement in Vienna tomorrow.”

  “Couldn’t you cancel it? Every day counts.”

  “It’s another interview, with someone who isn’t yet elected to the top job in Austria. But I’m betting on him. He will expect me to be there. And I do keep my commitments.”

  “I’m glad of that,” Vasek told her grimly. He became thoughtful. “Yes, you must appear to act normally. A rush to Washington might be—” He shrugged. “Remember, attract no attention; draw no suspicion. Someday we’ll meet again, and you can have full rights to this story. When? I don’t know. Soon, I hope. And don’t misunderstand me: I am still a Communist, but not one who believes he will advance our cause by forcing a world war. Tell Peter Bristow that. He may not yet know my present name, but he has quite a file on my past history.” There was a fleeting smile. “I hear that Bristow has labelled it ‘Farrago.’ Don’t forget: Farrago.” He paused, and it seemed as if that reminded him of something else, for he spoke urgently. “Talk only to Peter Bristow. He, alone, receives the envelope. No one else.”

  “Really?” she asked, and pretended boredom. Fully twelve minutes had passed since they had entered the rose garden, and that worried her.

  “No one.” The words were snapped out. “There is a man in Bristow’s unit—” he hesitated—“but I’ll name him, among others, when I reach safety. My second insurance,” he explained, and smiled broadly. “Now it’s time to return. After we say goodbye in the lobby, delay for twenty minutes before you reach your room. Your envelopes, all of them, will be waiting for you. You are ready to leave?”

  She nodded. She felt numb, so many conflicting emotions surging through her that rational thought had become a jumble. They walked back to the terrace, past two of the bugged benches. He was asking if her stay at the hotel had been comfortable, and she seized that topic like a lifeline. He had sensed she needed one, perhaps. Very pleasant place, she said, but she still wished she could have been somewhere in Prague itself, could have wandered through the city, attended a theatre, visited a café, just watched the world stroll by. (Yes, there was a woman, centre front row of the terrace, binoculars quickly lowered as Karen glanced in her direction. And a man at a side table, with a telescopic-lens camera, seemingly entranced with the rose bed.)

  “Next visit,” Vasek promised her as they passed through the terrace, “I’ll see that you have a room in the most central hotel.” They reached the lobby, some people standing and talking, fat armchairs stuffed with other guests who had become exhausted with conversation. He halted near one of the smoothly polished red-granite pillars, pressed her hand in a tight grip. “Thank you,” he said almost inaudibly. She left him quickly; Bor was approaching. Now for a natural-looking delay. The bar seemed the logical place, where she’d find Tony Marcus and let him do the talking for the next twenty minutes.

  3

  The bar was small, with tables closely packed, but at this time of the day only half-filled. As always, its heavy draperies on the windows were closed and the electric lights brilliant. Not a secretive place where people could be lost in the shadows or feel like making romantic assignations. She found Duvivier and Engel facing each other at a corner table. “Where’s Tony Marcus?” she asked. “I hoped he’d give me a quip or two to cheer me on my way.” The two men, pulling out a chair for her, looked as if they could use some cheering up, too.

  “He’s detained,” Engel said.

  “What?” She looked at Duvivier.

  “For questioning,” he said.

  “When?” she asked, and waved aside the offer of a drink.

  Engel said, “I saw him leaving with a plainclothesman on either side. Around eleven last night.”

  Duvivier was more pessimistic than usual. “Idiot! They searched his room while we were at dinner and found some papers—some material, anyway—that he hadn’t turned in to the censors.”

  “What kind of material?” Karen asked. Oh, Lord, she thought, what have I got myself into?

  “Could have been a case of forgetfulness,” Engel suggested.

  “Could have been something no censor would let him take out of the country.” Duvivier shook his head. “Let us hope not.”

  “When I reach Hamburg, I had better notify the British Consulate,” Engel said.

  “I’ll contact their embassy in Paris,” Duvivier agreed. “Officials here have attacks of forgetfulness, too.”

  “Perhaps,” said Karen uncertainly, “perhaps Tony will walk into the lobby before we leave.”

  The two men looked at her and then exchanged glances. Out of kindness to this sweet innocent, they made no comment. “Have that drink,” Duvivier said, and began to talk about the Convocation for Peace as he signed to a waiter. Engel joined in the conversation. Karen kept silent.

  Suddenly, she interrupted. “What makes me really mad is that none of us needs holier-than-thou talk about peace. We all want it—except the crazies. I want a Convocation for Peace, a real one, with every government that has nuclear weapons making an honest agreement to scrap every rocket and missile they possess.”

  “Every government?” Duvivier smiled at Engel. “White wine for the lady,” he told the waiter.

  “Yes. Yours, too, Yves. And England, India, Israel, Pakistan, South Africa, China—even the ones just at the planning stage, like Argentina—every single one of them, along with Russia and the United States.”

  “And supervision?” Engel asked.

  “Of course. Just stop the power plays, the fears, the stupidity.”

  “A wonderful world,” Duvivier said.

  “Why not? Let the United Nations put some muscle into their fat. It would give them more to do than listen to speeches and debates. What’s the use of all their projects if the world goes up in flames?”

  “True, true,” murmured Duvivier, and wished he still held such a hopeful view of mankind’s reasonable attitudes. Again he changed the subject. “What do you think of friend Bor? I see him hovering at the door.”

  Bor had watched Karen Cornell depart in the direction of the bar. To Vasek, who seemed about to leave the lobby, too, he said, “Thirsty lot, these journalists. But you seemed to have unruffled her feathers. How did you manage it?”

  “Not difficult.” Vasek looked at his watch. “I’m expecting a call—”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “Acid rain. And a room with a view of Wenceslaus Square. Censors, too—she objects to them as a matter of principle.”

  “Acid rain?” Bor stared at Vasek. The other two complaints had been expected.

  “Yesterday she asked questions at the Agriculture Ministry and got few answers.”

  “So you supplied them?” Bor’s grin was wide.

  “I did my best. Now, I do have to get to my office before four o’clock—there’s a call coming in. I think you’d better deal with that Hamburg fellow.”

  “Engel?”

  “He’s leaving around five, I believe. So send him away in a good mood.”

  “What about Rome?”

  “I’ll see Aliotto if I have time.”

  “He could be useful if you are still making that visit to Italy next week,” Bor suggested, watching Vasek. “Are you?”

  “That depends on my schedule here,” Vasek said crisply, and walked away.

  Never relaxes, Bor thought angrily; everyone kept running at his command. Seems to have settled down, though. How did he really feel about being sent to Prague? Was it a demotion from Moscow? Can’t tell from that fellow—but he’s more than a press aide or public-relations man. What’s his real job? KGB? In what department? Never a hint—he’s too important, is he, to talk to me? Well, I’ve
done my duty and watched him and there’s nothing out of the ordinary to report. He has a reason for everything. It’s curious, though. My orders were only passed through Prague—didn’t originate here. In Moscow? Curious... He was sent here to inspect our work. So I thought. Does the inspector need inspection, too? That’s Moscow’s style, all right: always looking over each other’s shoulder. What can you expect when they don’t trust themselves? Oh, well—now it’s time to find Engel and give him the kid-glove treatment. Why the devil can’t Vasek find the time himself to deal with those damned journalists? It was his idea to send them away happy; I’d let them go with a handshake. They’ll only insult us when they get home—capitalist lies, that’s all they’ll write.

  Bor looked at his watch, wished he could delay some more, but headed for the likeliest spot to find Engel. These Western journalists avoided the public lounge like the plague. His annoyance evaporated when he reached the bar. The American was sitting with the Frenchman and the German. She looked tired and nervous, had scarcely touched the drink before her. This could be an excellent moment, most opportune. “May I have the pleasure of joining you?” He smiled and bowed, and sat down before anyone invited him. He concentrated on the American. “You had a pleasant talk in the garden?”

  She stared at him, said, “Quite pleasant, thank you.”

  “Talk with whom?” Duvivier asked.

  “With Mr. Vasek.”

  “Really?” Engel was suddenly amused. “You didn’t tell us about that. Holding out on us, Karen?”

  She shook her head. “He was just being polite to me.”

  Duvivier said, “I’ve been trying to corner him for three days. How did you manage it?” He, too, was much amused.

  “We just met. By chance.”

  That’s her first little lie, Bor thought. This might indeed be the moment. “What did you talk about?” he asked most innocently, curious but friendly.