Ride a Pale Horse

by Helen Macinnes

  “No. I’d love something to eat.” And no more questions about Prague or Vienna. She laughed as she added frankly, “I’m starving.”

  Starved for what? he wondered. “Look out for Aliotto,” he said. “I hear he’s quite a wolf.”

  “I’ve handled wolves before.”

  Much too well, Schleeman thought as he locked his office door behind them.

  9

  Thursday evening arrived and found Karen about to leave New York. The outbreak of hostilities at her house on 49th Street had been settled to the satisfaction of superintendent Max. Birney, the second-floor tenant who had planned to add French windows and a balcony to the back of his living-room (at his own expense, and surely Miss Cornell would see he was adding to the value of her property), hadn’t listened to the suggestion that his balcony would overhang the one sunny area in Max’s backyard where tomatoes, lettuce, and zinnias grew. He did listen, however, to the fact that, if her property values were improved, then taxes would be higher and his rent would have to be much increased. That prospect brought capitulation. Birney knew quite well that his present rent was far below today’s rates. So with all that settled, and thin dresses packed for Rome’s end-of-summer heat, and her column on Czechoslovakia along with the Austrian interview all edited by Black and reviewed by Schleeman, she could take the evening flight from Kennedy with her mind at rest.

  Except for Peter Bristow. He hadn’t tried to reach her. What was happening? Had Vasek escaped—was he safe? Had the letters been dealt with? The cassettes heard and acted upon? Probably she’d never know what had been going on all this week. In a month or so, she could write the story of Vasek—or perhaps she’d not be given that clearance for six months, if ever. The play was over as far as she was concerned—her part in Act I was ended, and any appearance in Act II or III had been written out. Was that it?

  Yet she felt she ought to let Bristow know that she was leaving for Rome. He might possibly, just possibly, want to reach her in Washington or New York to make sure everything was normal and under control. It was something she had been arguing with herself since she had started packing. She was supposed to word any telephone message in the code he had suggested; the trouble was that it didn’t fit. Yet without “lunch” or “dinner” appearing in her call—no name, he had said—how would he know who was leaving the message?

  It took her the taxi ride to Kennedy to make up her mind about contacting Bristow. She shouldn’t mention Rome; “travelling” might be enough. All she was trying to do, she persuaded herself as she at last stood before a telephone at the airport with the required coins in her hand (so easy to charge it to her New York number, but this way was safer), was to keep Peter Bristow unalarmed if he found she was unreachable.

  Her message, after three rehearsals, seemed passable enough to her. Bristow’s answering service (a man’s voice) was attentive. Karen spoke clearly. “I’d love to have lunch or dinner with you, but I must cancel all engagements for the next few days—I’ll be travelling. I’ll call you when I return.”

  Not her best composition, but adequate, she hoped. She had ten minutes left to catch her flight.

  Bristow reached home and checked with his answering service for the second time that evening. It was accustomed to his constant calls. Normally, they were around five hours apart; since Saturday, three hours and sometimes less. There had been no messages from Karen. Tonight, there was one. He heard it, asked for it to be repeated. “When was it made?” At six forty this evening he was told. It was now just after nine o’clock.

  He went over Karen’s message again. Travelling where? A holiday in Vermont, a jaunt to California, where? Schleeman would know; and then again he might not. If she was taking a short vacation, no one at the Spectator would know how she was using it. Perhaps that woman who had the Washington apartment where Karen roomed? Mary Dunstan. He ’phoned her several times, reached her eventually. He was a friend of Karen’s, he explained and stayed nameless. Did Mary know where he could reach her? Mary didn’t know; only that Karen wouldn’t be in Washington next week. “Thank you,” he said, cutting off what was about to become an interested conversation. It was now eleven o’clock.

  On Friday morning, he telephoned Menlo as soon as he reached his office, something he rarely did and only in emergencies. Menlo was senior enough to call you and not you call him. Bristow found him about to leave for a meeting, but he was sufficiently interested (Menlo had unbent a great deal since the six-man conference last Monday) to ask, “Anything special?”

  “Have you heard from Aitchison?” Aitchison was Menlo’s particular friend at the FBI who had obliged Menlo with someone to keep a watch over Karen. As Menlo had said, she was their secondary witness: she could back the statements made by their first witness to the truth—Farrago. Menlo even dubbed them “Senior” and “Junior” as a safe method of discussing their activities over a telephone.

  Menlo asked quickly, “Is Junior in trouble?”

  “No. Just travelling.”

  Menlo didn’t like that either. “Where?”

  “I thought Aitchison might have heard.”

  “I’ll check. I’ll call you. This meeting won’t take an hour.”

  A short but important meeting, judging from Menlo’s haste and an excitement in his voice that couldn’t be disguised. Bristow replaced the telephone, tried to concentrate on his own work.

  Menlo’s call came fifty minutes later. “See you in my office. Bring the file on Blitz, will you? I’d like to discuss its recent editorials on Lebanon that are being quoted in Europe.”

  Bristow retrieved the bulky folder on Blitz from the file room—a newspaper, written in English, published in India, financed and directed by the Soviets. It initiated much of the disinformation that appeared later in Pakistan, the Middle East, and soon afterwards in Europe. As he was leaving, Wallace Fairbairn entered, glanced at the bulging folder with a tape tied around it that could barely hold it together.

  “Who the hell wants that old turkey?” Fairbairn asked. “Menlo? What does he hope to find there now?”

  “Whatever it is, he’ll find it.” Fairbairn dropped his voice. “Heard anything about that envelope we delivered?”

  “Not a murmur. We’d be the last to hear anyway.”

  Fairbairn could agree with that. “How did you get hold of it?”

  “It was handed to me. Simple.”

  “And no explanation—that’s odd. If I know you, Pete, you had a look-see inside.”

  “Too well sealed. Couldn’t risk it,” Bristow said. “Or did you chance it?”

  Fairbairn shook his head. “Scared me off, too. Wonder who’s dealing with it?”

  “No doubt the computers.” They laughed and parted.

  Bristow found Menlo alone in his office and waiting with a touch of impatience. “Sorry to be late. I met Fairbairn, who wanted to know about the envelope.”

  “Oh?”

  “Natural curiosity. I gave it to him to deliver here. The envelope was well sealed.” And its delivery had been prompt, receipted with the exact time of its arrival. There had been no slip-up there.

  “So I noticed. Your work—or Miss Cornell’s?”

  “Hers. After I had read the letters.”

  “I’ve news about them. Have a chair, Bristow.”

  Good or bad? Bristow wondered as he sat down to face Menlo across his desk.

  “We met with the Soviets. At first, there were some denials. Then protestations of ignorance. Then well-simulated anger against our attempt to slander the Soviet Union. But they kept talking, two whole days of sharp argument. In the end, there was an agreement. The letters would not be used in any way by either side. Abel Fletcher requested and received a written statement to that effect, signed by Andropov. In turn, the Soviets received an identical statement signed by the President.”

  “As easy as that?” Bristow’s disbelief was plain. “It’s too simple.”

  “The arguments could have dragged out for weeks. But Bob
Schlott was there, with rows of ribbons on his chest, stating that we were making the letters public on Friday—today, that is—if no agreement was reached. And Drayton, at his diplomatic best, observed that such a revelation about disinformation was necessary to place full blame on the men who had concocted these letters for any assassination they had planned.” Menlo paused, imagined that scene, smiled. “Must have been quite a session. Our representatives are now on their way home. Their reports reached us just two hours ago.”

  Bristow said, “What made the Soviets listen? Has Farrago escaped and they haven’t found him?”

  “He’s out. They haven’t found him. We haven’t, either, but they don’t know that. What they do know is that these three letters are missing. We have one of our agents’ word on that. He was present when the Czechs found the letters gone. They had been sent there, I gather, so that Prague could disseminate them and keep Moscow’s name unsullied by the whole dirty business.”

  “So he’s out and in transit.” Bristow was thoughtful. “How did he manage it?”

  “Our agent reports that Vasek was scheduled officially to leave for Rome this past Monday—a special assignment. He advanced his visit by four days on the pretext of an emergency and left last week. He used his travel pass and all his credentials to fly to Italy in comfort.” Menlo was much amused. “He arrived there and vanished. He’s entirely on his own. Where—we can’t even guess. We are looking, though. But with the greatest discretion—we can’t alert the Russians that we haven’t got him. They are searching, too, although they were forced to assume we must be in touch with him when our delegation arrived so quickly and were so sure of their facts.”

  Bristow was thinking about Vasek’s timing. Advanced his Rome visit by four days... “Then he left Prague one day after Karen. When were the letters discovered missing?”

  “Quite soon after he had gone. But not in time to have him arrested at the Rome airport. Cool as they come, your Farrago. Must have planned everything for weeks, even months.”

  Bristow continued his own line of thought. If Vasek had left early on that Thursday and the disappearance of the letters was discovered a few hours later, then the Vienna incidents around Karen’s handbag—along with Rita’s questions and Kellner’s probe—proved she was under suspicion as one of Vasek’s last contacts. Even with the problem of the letters resolved in the Moscow agreement, she could still be in bad trouble. As long as the KGB was looking for Vasek, she was in danger. “If they could link Karen with the delivery of the envelope,” he began slowly, and halted.

  “Did anyone see her deliver it to you?” Menlo asked.

  “No one saw her actually hand it over. That took place in a car she had rented. She took every precaution.”

  Something was still worrying Bristow. Menlo said sharply, “Did anyone see you together last Saturday? Anyone who knows you?”

  “We weren’t together—I made sure of that—when I handed the envelope to Fairbairn. Shaw was with him, but he stayed in the car.”

  “Could they have seen her at all?”

  “They drove pretty close to her—she was on her way to the cafeteria. They were parked there, waiting for me to appear. They were early. They could have seen us arrive.”

  “And Fairbairn also saw the Czech censor’s stamp on that envelope,” Menlo said, speaking the words that Bristow had avoided. “So could Shaw, for that matter. He probably noticed its markings, too, when Fairbairn brought it back to their car.”

  Why the hell had Shaw accompanied Fairbairn? They were friends, sure. But it wasn’t necessary for both of them to be there. Unless Shaw didn’t allow anyone else to handle his car. Some men were like that.

  “Vasek told Miss Cornell he had a mole to name when he talked with us,” Menlo said smoothly, but the furrows on his brow deepened. “Someone who knew the name you had given to his file. Someone in your unit, Peter.”

  “I’ve been promoted. Peter...” But Bristow’s growing depression didn’t let him take any comfort in Menlo’s unexpected thaw. “I’m aware of that.”

  “Ease up, Peter. Suspicion is an ugly business. The quickest way to end it is to find the truth.” He hesitated, then made a decision as he watched Bristow’s troubled face. “We have to realise that the KGB doesn’t accept assumptions permanently. They’ll search for Vasek until there’s no doubt left; either he is safe here or dead. If they can terminate him, we have no witness, only Miss Cornell’s word that he did pass her the letters, that he did say he wrote them. And then—”

  “I know,” Bristow said. Then Karen might be eliminated, too. Might? Damn Vasek to bloody hell; he had given the letters to Karen, hadn’t taken the risk of carrying them himself. That’s something I’ll never forgive him for, thought Bristow. He controlled his voice. “We had better find Vasek before they do.”

  Menlo nodded. Bristow, he was thankful to discover, knew exactly what could be at stake. “I have learned of Miss Cornell’s destination. Aitchison’s men followed her taxi to Kennedy yesterday evening. One tailed her inside the airport. She made a telephone call. And then she took the flight to Rome.”

  “Rome? What the hell is she doing there?”

  I agree, thought Menlo. Vasek should be far from Rome by this time, and yet—I wish I didn’t have the feeling that the pot has only been simmering and is now reaching boiling point. He said nothing.

  Bristow was on his feet. “I’ll see Schleeman. He must know.” He glanced at his watch. “Too late to meet him for lunch. Better make it for dinner or a drink.” Not a visit to Schleeman’s office—too unusual. Not questions over a telephone, either. No alarm sounded. Play it loose.

  Menlo approved. “Here’s my number. I’ll be at home. Call me anytime between eight and midnight. Let me know why she’s in Rome.” He was scribbling on a note pad as he spoke, handed the page to Bristow.

  “One thing I’d like to know—and perhaps your Prague agent could find out. What other foreigners were contacted by Vasek just before he defected?”

  “You think they could be under suspicion, too? We can’t go looking out for everyone, Peter.”

  It was an admission, thought Bristow, that Menlo had Karen on his mind. “Another thing—my leave. I’m due two weeks. I’d like to take them.”

  “Starting when?” Menlo sounded casual.

  “Tomorrow. Can that be arranged?”

  “I’ll see to it. Here—don’t forget this!” Menlo lifted the Blitz folder from his desk, hefted its bulk. “We are thought to be a little eccentric in keeping our files in steel cabinets. But how do you computerise the kind of data we gather and manage to compare twenty newspaper clippings simultaneously?”

  Once, Bristow had thought Menlo’s insistence on old-style files was more than eccentric, but after working in disinformation, he had changed his mind. There was only one way to examine a variety of news reports and articles: spread them out, side by side, on a large flat surface where a paragraph, even a sentence, and sometimes only a phrase, could be collated, cross-referred or contrasted, and traced. The human eye, backed by instinct and memory, was still a necessity, and thank God for that.

  Menlo had a parting word for him. “Remember—anytime between eight and midnight.”

  He’s more worried than he admits, Bristow thought as he closed Menlo’s door behind him.

  Bristow entered the file room and met Fairbairn shepherding Frederick Coulton out. All three were equally surprised.

  “Just showing our forgery expert where we slog out the day,” Fairbairn said and waved vaguely in the direction of the other offices. “He doesn’t believe we do much work. I told him he shouldn’t judge conditions by the two hours we take for lunch.”

  A nice allusion to the emptiness of the rooms, thought Bristow. “Occasionally, we do some work,” he told Coulton.

  Coulton glanced back at the steel cabinets lining the small file room. Each held four deep lockers with its own combination for opening them. “You’re strong on security, I see. Impressive. But”
—his eyes were now on the Blitz folder—“what happens when you run out of space?”

  “Menlo will find some more,” Fairbairn said with a laugh. “Where’s Shaw, for God’s sake? He’s been giving Coulton lunch, and now he’s making some ’phone call.” He looked along the corridor impatiently.

  “Why not use the computers?” Coulton asked Bristow. “Or d’you think some hacker playing around with his two-bit machine will obtain access?” He spoke with amusement.

  Bristow only smiled. It had been done, but not by hackers.

  “Anything that simplifies work,” said Fairbairn, “is detrimental to the brain. That’s Menlo’s dictum.”

  “Which reminds me,” Bristow said. “We’d better have a session this afternoon, Wallace. That Athens editorial you analysed last week seems to have had its origins in Blitz last month.”

  “Well, I’m free once I deliver our friend to Shaw.”

  Coulton said, “Sorry if I’m holding up any momentous decisions. Why don’t I find Shaw and let him escort me out? Or simply make an exit by myself—if I don’t lose my way in this labyrinth.”

  “Here he comes,” Fairbairn said as the young man trotted down the corridor. “Get ready for some more questions, Coulton. Shaw,” he added in an aside to Bristow, “has discovered the fascinations of forgery.”

  Shaw, annoyed and breathless, said, “Sorry, Freddy. It was a wrong number—didn’t find out for several minutes—some crank at the other end of the line—a real foul-up.”

  Freddy... Bristow had never seen Frederick the Great with Shaw before. Chummy, he thought as the two of them left for the elevator. To Fairbairn he said, “Give me forty minutes. Once I dump this folder, I’m going to lunch.”

  “Thought you’d given up the habit. How was Menlo?”

  “Admonitions and advice.”