Ride a Pale Horse

by Helen Macinnes

  Coulton was flattered enough to sit up straight and talk frankly. “I was baffled, to tell the truth—couldn’t decide at first. The pens used in the signatures were identical to those used by the writers—the supposed writers, that is.” A quick smile as he added, “Stolen from the various offices, of course, like the paper that was used; possibly the typewriter ribbons, too. The machines could easily be doctored to duplicate the authentic action of the originals, provided you had been given the correct information on their makes and models. There’s always someone who’d like to earn extra dollars.”

  “Or someone blackmailed,” Menlo said. He had just dealt with a nasty case of blackmail for political purposes.

  “Or,” Kirby suggested, “someone who is a devoted party member and has kept his allegiance secret.”

  “Are you saying, Mr. Coulton,” Abel Fletcher asked, “that you have made no judgment on these forgeries?”

  “No, no. I now think they are forgeries. But in a court of law, you would find the experts split on their testimony.”

  “We will be before a court of world opinion, Mr. Coulton. And you say there will be disagreement among the experts about the validity of these signatures?”

  “Yes. They are excellent imitations of the originals.”

  “Well, gentlemen,” Fletcher said evenly, “we now know what we have—three examples of expert disinformation. The problem is: how do we deal with them?”

  Schlott said, “The best defence we have is attack.”

  “A confrontation?” asked Drayton worriedly. “How?”

  “Immediate disclosure to the press that three forged letters, fabricated by the KGB’s department of disinformation, have come into our possession along with a serious warning that two assassinations have been planned to take place. The letters, we have learned, will be produced when the assassinations have occurred—as proof that the United States is the guilty party.” It was the longest speech that Schlott had been known to make. “What’s wrong with that?” he demanded.

  For several moments, there was silence. Bristow straightened in his chair; it scraped loudly in the quiet room.

  “Yes, Mr. Bristow?” Fletcher asked.

  “There’s not much wrong with it—it may be our only option. But—” He hesitated.

  “Yes, Mr. Bristow?”

  “The man who sent us both information and letters wants to defect. If he hasn’t managed to escape before we release our news to the press, he’s a dead man.” And what about Karen, who carried the letters out of Czechoslovakia? Once Vasek was arrested and interrogated, his breaking point could come within a matter of weeks. If he held out that long.

  “A possible defector?” Fletcher looked around the table in surprise. They all shared his astonishment.

  “The cassettes will explain,” Bristow said quickly.

  Coulton said, “A defector—what’s that to us? They come a dime a dozen.”

  “He is bringing more information.”

  “Any indication of its value?” Coulton wanted to know.

  “He intends to name a name—someone in my unit or with access to it.”

  There was a shocked silence.

  “That,” agreed Kirby, “could be highly valuable information.”

  “But not as valuable as the safety of our country,” Abel Fletcher said. “We’ll listen to the recordings, Mr. Bristow. You said they would explain. I hope so.”

  Bristow switched on the cassette player and let Karen’s voice take over.

  As the playing ended, Abel Fletcher said, “You were right, Mr. Bristow. The cassettes explain a great deal.”

  “And raise some questions,” Coulton added. He frowned. “What if Vasek doesn’t defect? He used an American woman to carry out his plan.”

  “What plan?” Bristow asked, not concealing his rising irritation.

  “To make us look like fools to all the world if we publish this story. The Soviet propaganda machine would start turning out its own denunciation. We would be charged with fabricating the letters to aggravate the Cold War. And your unit, Bristow, would be accused of creating some expert disinformation of its own. If no defector arrives in Washington to give credence to these cassettes, where would you stand?”

  Bristow mastered his anger. “We do not create disinformation, and you know it.”

  “Of course not, of course not.” Coulton hastened to appease Menlo, who was glowering at him from the other end of the table. “Just playing the devil’s advocate, Bristow. Someone has to. Can’t just accept peculiar happenings because a pretty voice sounded so sincere. By the way, is she one of yours?”

  “No,” said Bristow.

  “An amateur?” Kirby asked, eyebrows raised. He was nervous about amateurs.

  “A journalist,” Menlo said.

  “We gathered as much.” This was Coulton, unable to resist scoring a point. “Her notes were somewhat delayed by a censor, weren’t they? But why? No reason given. No names, either, beyond Vasek and Prague. A hotel lobby was mentioned, a garden and its terrace well described. But exactly where? Why all the mystery? It makes her less credible.”

  Bristow kept his mouth tightly closed.

  Menlo said brusquely, “She is a journalist and a good one. I know her work.” He stopped there. “Recognised that voice,” he told Bristow.

  “A TV reporter?” Coulton guessed. “Oh, that explains how she could face a microphone without stumbling over a word. Can follow any script, I imagine.”

  Menlo explained to the row of wondering eyes, “She writes all her own material. Very perceptive, too. We can trust her not to be easily fooled.”

  “Good to hear,” Coulton said. “I apologise to the lady. But the big question remains—is Vasek, whom friend Bristow lists in his files as Farrago, now sitting in his office wondering if we are rising to the bait he has dangled before us? Menlo, you’re an expert on defectors, like my colleague here—Drayton. What’s your opinion on Farrago?” Menlo was silent.

  “He could be an authentic defector,” Drayton said.

  “Like Menlo’s recent triumph—the defector we call ‘Gregor’? Three—almost four—months since he was given refuge in a safe house, and what have we got out of him?”

  “That’s none of your business.” Menlo’s voice was sharp.

  “I agree. But there is talk that Gregor’s statements are not always provable, and I’m like everyone else around here—I can’t shut my ears when rumours abound. I’m not saying that he isn’t authentic, just that he’s been a disappointment.”

  Kirby said quickly, and with some interest, “When did Gregor contact you, Menlo? You brought him in. Was it during his five-year assignment to their embassy here?”

  “No. He went back to Moscow, took a year to decide—”

  “Acquired a taste for democracy, had he?” Coulton asked.

  Menlo ignored that. “And then left Russia,” he continued. “With our help.”

  “You’re too modest. With your help. He was a diplomat you liked when you met him in Washington—”

  Drayton said swiftly, “A diplomat who was a KGB general.”

  “Gentlemen!” Abel Fletcher broke in with considerable annoyance. “We aren’t here to discuss other defectors; only one possible defector, who is in Prague.” He looked over his glasses at Menlo. “Is he still there? Has he made any move—dropped out of sight?”

  “We’ve alerted our station. Its reports should be coming in,” Menlo said. He was ruffled by the gossip that Coulton had mentioned. Gregor was invaluable, a source of excellent information. If his stay in a safe house was prolonged, it was only for his own safety. Coulton, like other know-it-alls, knew damn little of the true facts.

  “Not enough time?” Fletcher asked sadly. “Not enough time for anyone. Mr. Bristow, you’ve studied Vasek, or should we call him Farrago? What is your estimate of the man? Briefly.”

  “His career has been varied, travelled a good deal. But for the last three years he has held a high position at KGB head
quarters in Moscow. He never belonged to any particular clique. There was antagonism between Brezhnev and Andropov, but Vasek kept clear of that. Recently, he was reported absent from Moscow. Now he has turned up in Prague, a demotion, obviously—could be an incentive to his defection. Some may say”—Bristow glanced at Coulton—“that is all part of a grand deception, but—”

  “No, no!” Coulton interjected with a laugh. “I wouldn’t say it is a part. I’d say it could be a part.”

  “But,” Bristow continued, “we heard Vasek’s own statement: he admits he is still a Communist. That was honest enough. He could be honest, too, in his rejection of war. World dominion won’t be achieved by any military power in a nuclear age. And eventual world control is the aim of all Communists. So Vasek would be likely to see war as a useless means for world dominion.”

  “He would still accept political means,” Kirby said, but he had found sense in Bristow’s reasoning. “You will have to keep a close eye on him when he arrives.”

  “We always take chances with defectors,” Bristow admitted.

  Schlott’s impatience burst out. “Do we go public on this? Do we disclose the letters, print the facts? What other options are there?” Angrily, he looked around the table. No one answered.

  Bristow drew a deep breath and ventured a suggestion. “First, the President could ’phone Andropov, advise him that we are sending an immediate delegation to Moscow. It must be received without delay—its information is vital to Russia’s interests as well as ours. Andropov must hear it himself.”

  “And then?” Fletcher prompted.

  “Our delegation shows Andropov we know what his Active Measures has planned. We tell him we will publish, reveal the full facts and let the KGB be damned—if it isn’t brought under proper control.”

  “He’s got the power,” Kirby said quickly. “All final decisions on Active Measures are made in the Politburo of the Communist Party Central Committee. He can void its previous permission to the KGB.”

  “That might work,” Menlo agreed. “Provided, of course, that Farrago is not in their hands. Their Department of Active Measures never risks possible failure—not knowingly. Exposure is the last thing it wants.”

  Coulton repeated Menlo’s phrase, “Provided Farrago is not in their hands... But what if he isn’t in ours? His escape could take time—might be weeks before he reached here. If he does.”

  Schlott said irritably, “What the hell does it matter if we haven’t got him? We could be guiding him out, couldn’t we?” He glared around the table. “Perhaps we are! The Russians won’t know whether we are in touch with him or not.”

  Menlo nodded. “Provided,” he said again, “that not one leak gets out of here.”

  “If it does”—Kirby’s usually benevolent face was cold, forbidding—“one of us will be held accountable.” There was silence as that hard fact was accepted.

  Abel Fletcher looked around the table. “Then we are agreed on sending a delegation? There will be, of course, complete urgency in carrying that plan out. The minimum delay.” He was addressing Drayton now. “The State Department might also warn the possible victims of assassination and communicate its intention to do that to Mr. Andropov if he is a little slow in believing we actually mean what we say.” He paused, waiting for any further suggestions. There were none. He nodded, pocketed his small recorder, and rose.

  As they all began to move towards the door, Kirby was saying, “I don’t think Castro would be flattered by the KGB’s intentions.”

  “Why Castro?” Coulton asked. “That’s the most ridiculous part in this whole set-up.”

  Kirby cut down that argument. “Castro’s assassination could be a calculated failure. Castro unharmed, but the apparent attempt on his life would ignite a giant fuse.”

  “Or,” Drayton suggested, “one martyr for the revolution. We’d be sure losers in Central and South America. Can you hear the Mexicans on our perfidy?”

  Schlott said, “Perhaps the Soviets are tired of paying him three million dollars a day.” That raised a brief smile. They began to drift into the hall, one by one.

  Abel Fletcher was slow in leaving. He halted before he reached the door to look over at Bristow, who was packing cassettes into his briefcase. He said, “I understood there were four cassettes, Mr. Bristow. We heard only two of them.”

  “The others did not deal with the letters.” Bristow glanced at Coulton, who was still at the door.

  “They didn’t concern the young lady’s meeting with this Farrago fellow?”

  Carefully, Bristow said, “Everything he told her was in the Prague cassettes.” And thank heaven that Coulton was now entering the hall. “The others recorded later incidents in Vienna.”

  Satisfied, Abel Fletcher took a few steps and then halted again. “Your section doesn’t try any disinformation on its own?” He was simply curious, all judgment suspended until he heard Bristow’s reply.

  “We track down disinformation; we don’t invent it.”

  “Track?” Fletcher prompted.

  The old boy was definitely interested. Disinformation was something he hadn’t known in his younger days—at least not as it had been perfected and brought to a fine art in recent years. Bristow responded as fully as he could. “We try to spot it as it appears in foreign newspapers and makes its way across the Atlantic. Arab radio stations are another source—they seem to specialise in rumours that are broadcast as facts. Then we analyse, try to forestall any lies, disprove them as quickly as possible. Any delay and we have myth accepted as truth.”

  “Your Farrago file suggests that you must also trace the inventors of these lies and keep a watch on their activities.”

  “We try.”

  Abel Fletcher gave Bristow one last searching look. “Good hunting!” he said, and smiled, and reached the door. Another pause. “Who invented that hideous word ‘disinformation’? Not any of you, I hope.”

  “Not guilty. Blame the men who could think up the phrase ‘Active Measures.’ Or a phrase such as ‘Wet Affairs’ to describe the blood spilled by their death squads.”

  Fletcher shook his head, pursed his thin lips, and went out to join his escort of Secret Service men.

  Bristow checked the cassettes again. Only the ones dealing with the Prague incidents had been necessary. They were vital to the committee’s final decision; the two Vienna tapes were not. Of interest to Menlo, yes, and other selected officers of Central Intelligence, but not to the deliberations that had gone on—and on—in this room. He could imagine Coulton’s amusement over a woman’s imaginary fears, an amusement that neither Bristow nor the men upstairs shared. But Coulton had never been part of any intelligence gathering. His career had begun in the Treasury, then developed into being their expert witness in forgery cases; after that, he was attached to the Bureau of Public Affairs, but not as a regular State Department official. Drayton, the career diplomat, had once confided that Coulton was neither fish nor fowl, which probably contributed to his carping and pecking.

  Bristow locked the briefcase, his thoughts now branching off to his suggestion for dealing with the letters. He found no pleasure in its acceptance by the committee, only anxiety that he had or had not been on the right track. There would be a few days of delay in putting that suggestion to work, while Schlott’s idea of going public could have happened tomorrow. But did they have a day or two to prepare for a Kremlin meeting? The assassinations could hit any time. And yet, his hope was still the same—the hope that Farrago had started his journey to safety before the Politburo could be confronted. Everything depended on that: the charges made by the United States would not hold up if there was no Farrago as witness to their truth. Farrago and truth? Ironical.

  Yet, as a Communist, he believed that truth was whatever was good for Communism, just as a lie was anything that was bad for it. And he obviously saw now that world chaos would not—in the long run—be good for Communism. Conquests were not successful or long-lasting if they had only ruins to domina
te. A new Dark Ages, that’s what he was afraid of; and weren’t we all? It took Europe almost a thousand years to climb back to sanity and civilisation once Roman law and inventions and culture had been ravaged by hordes of barbarians. In a new Dark Ages, we’d all be lost—Communists along with the rest of us. It took centuries to put civilisation together again once it had been smashed.

  Yes, everything depended on Farrago’s escape—including Karen Cornell’s own security. We’ll get the FBI to keep a close watch over her, Bristow decided grimly, and even if that most independent lady didn’t like it, he wouldn’t be too far away, either. He had still two weeks’ leave due him this year. Once this crisis was over—no one would drag his feet on this Kremlin meeting—once the threat was obliterated, he would have every logical excuse to take a couple of weeks off the chain and concentrate on Karen’s safety.

  He walked smartly into the hall, met two unexpected escorts to accompany him through the miles of corridors to that safest of safes. They weren’t Secret Service, just two from his own unit: Denis Shaw and Wallace Fairbairn.

  “Hey!” Fairbairn said, noting Bristow’s face. “Ease up, old boy.” To Shaw he said, “He’s probably hungry.” It was almost eight o’clock. “A good meeting?”

  “The usual talk. Words, words and more words.”

  Shaw’s eyes widened with excitement. In a whisper he asked, “Was it really about Guatemala?”

  “It’s in one hell of a mess.”

  “Isn’t everywhere?” Fairbairn asked. “Where do we go for dinner?”

  Bristow looked at Fairbairn’s face, handsome as always, but too expectant as he waited for acceptance. Damned nonsense, Bristow told himself—since when did he start guarding his answers to someone who was an old friend? Since that old friend had seen him together with Karen last Saturday and never even cracked a joke about it? “Not tonight. What about tomorrow?” And no evening stretching before him now, with questions coming at him like bazooka shells from Shaw.

  “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” Fairbairn said with resignation. “Okay. Denis and I can take a hint. See you in the slave pen in the morning.”