Ride a Pale Horse

by Helen Macinnes

  But Bristow could fill in those details for himself. He had once taken a tour of the chapels. “Bastard,” he said under his breath; but a clever one. “I need another drink. So do you.” He signed to the captain. “We’ll order now. And have some real food,” he told Karen with a smile. “You didn’t eat much yesterday, did you?”

  “No,” she admitted. Half an omelette, small to begin with; and for supper, a third of a chicken sandwich. She chose medallions of veal; he ordered a steak from the grill. With a bottle of Soave Bolla, it was a very pleasant meal. The talk, which he kept far away from problems, was very pleasant, too. It ended. And once the waiters had removed themselves with the plates and the last crumbs brushed off the tablecloth, they could linger in peace over small cups of filtered coffee. Bristow said, “So that was the important thing first. What comes second?”

  “Aliotto.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s a lot of small details—just incidents.” She looked at him, hesitating.

  “I’m listening, Karen,” he said with an encouraging smile. He stretched out a hand and covered hers as it lay beside her coffee cup. “Come on,” he urged gently. “And remember I’m the guy who likes every detail.”

  “Even the possibly stupid ones?”

  “Even those.”

  “And you won’t laugh at me?”

  “Laugh with you. Never at you.”

  I believe that, she thought as she looked into his eyes. She relaxed, and he could withdraw his hand. She began talking: the airport, the room, the telephone calls, no direct contact with Aliotto until tomorrow evening. “And,” she finished, “the meeting with the terrorists is scheduled for the next morning—Monday. Perhaps it has been cancelled. Or has Schleeman been misled again?”

  He pieced together the information he now had about Aliotto, a man popular in varied circles; friendly with Vasek, enough to have Vasek ’phone him last Tuesday; since then, certainly since Karen’s arrival, an enigma. A change in Aliotto? Natural or compelled? He was vulnerable, Vasek had said. Bristow ended his brief silence. “I know someone who probably has a friend at police headquarters. I’ll find out through him if the meeting is still scheduled.”

  “Time and place. And do the authorities expect me? I need to know all these things.”

  “We’ll find out.” I’ll get in touch with Levinson as soon as possible—he was the type who believed in co-operation, whenever feasible, with the police top brass in whatever friendly country he was stationed. “Do you intend to be at the Monday meeting even if Aliotto is not available?”

  “Yes. That’s why I came to Rome.”

  “Dutiful, aren’t you?”

  She raised her eyebrows. “You are telling me about duty?”

  When he signed name and room number on the bill, he was imagining Menlo’s sour amusement; expense account and Levinson were two suggestions that originally had roused little enthusiasm in Bristow. Now he was finding them both necessary and all within his first two hours in Rome. Yes, Menlo would have more than smiled. That craggy face would have split into a wide laugh.

  As they were bowed out of the restaurant, he said, “Why don’t you show me the room with so much privacy—its location, at least?”

  Her confidence was restored enough to let her say lightly, “Why not? But I am beginning to feel just a little ridiculous.” Somehow the room, after a good luncheon and company to match, began to seem unimportant.

  It was on the second floor, down the long corridor she had described. He noticed the doorway at its far end and checked to see that it did open onto a service stairway. As they returned past the room, he halted abruptly as he saw its door lay slightly ajar. His eyes travelled to the lock. Something was wrong there. It had lost its grip. Before he could examine it more closely, a maid appeared from the pantry area and came hurrying to intercept them.

  “Signorina,” the maid said as her sharp dark eyes recognised Karen. Relief showed in her face, and then a touch of anxiety. “You left something behind in your room? But I saw that everything was moved safely. Nothing remained.”

  “Everything was perfect,” Karen told her.

  “We just wanted to thank you with this,” Bristow said and slipped sixteen hundred lire—the rough equivalent of a dollar—into a willing hand. “What happened here?” He pointed to the lock. “Did someone forget his key?”

  The maid’s eyes became guarded. “It will be repaired on Monday,” she said stiffly.

  “I think someone lost his temper,” Bristow went on jokingly. “Or a thief perhaps?”

  “Oh, no. No, signore. Nothing was taken. I assure you. Ricardo and I—we saw them. And they ran.” She gestured to the service stairs.

  “Both of them? Or were there more?”

  “Oh, no, signore. Just two. Dressed as kitchen help—we thought that is what they were, at first. But of course they were not employed here.”

  And either didn’t have access to any keys or tried one that didn’t work. Bristow said, “Of course not. Too bad they ruined the lock. It looks new.”

  “It was. Now it will have to be changed again.” She shook her head. “People nowadays—”

  “That’s right,” Bristow said with a parting smile. And to Karen, as they walked along the quiet hall, “Are you feeling just a little less ridiculous?”

  The maid hurried after them. “Signorina,” she called, “I forgot to add water to the flowers. Have you remembered?”

  “No. Thank you for telling me.”

  “Mi dispiace molto,” the maid apologised. “They were so beautiful.”

  “I’ll do it right away,” Karen assured her.

  Bristow took her arm and pulled her towards the elevator. “I know she’s lonely and likes to talk with the pretty signorina, but what flowers?”

  “Someone sent them to me. I don’t know who. The card must have dropped out.”

  He looked at her, shook his head. “I’ll see you to your room. Which floor?”

  “The fourth.”

  “Good. We’ll be almost neighbours.” Thanks to Levinson, no doubt.

  The elevator was empty. She said slowly, “Those two men—kidnappers?”

  “Probably they were after your typewriter or watch.” But, he thought, they wanted much more than some easily sellable items.

  “I wonder,” said Karen.

  They reached her suite. “Cosy,” said Bristow. The sitting-room was agreeable and elegantly furnished. The bedroom, larger, was enticing. “You’ll be comfortable.”

  “Poor flowers,” Karen said, looking at the basket with its profusion of drooping heads. “I’ll get some water. Oh, Peter, would you order up some drinking water for me? And white wine? And Scotch for you? Not for use now,” she added. “Perhaps later? Some time?”

  “Might as well make use of the refrigerator,” he agreed, opening its wood-panelled door. “A lot of little bottles inside,” he reported and shook his head at the array of sweet liqueurs.

  He investigated the television set, also disguised as a piece of furniture, and at last came over to the table on which the basket of flowers had been set, watching Karen as she parted the drooping stems to let a tumbler of water pour onto their roots. He caught her hand, put a finger to his lips, and pointed.

  She looked more closely, then stared at him in horror. He studied the miniature device that nestled so unobtrusively under chrysanthemum leaves, but he didn’t touch it. It might transmit, reach some place not far distant from this room. Or it could record and have its microtape collected daily. In either case, best leave it undisturbed and its discovery concealed. We’ll get rid of it, but not too quickly. He said, “I don’t think you’ll have much luck with these flowers—they look dead or dying. Too bad.”

  “Perhaps some aspirin in the water?” She hoped she sounded natural. She set down the tumbler as her hand trembled.

  “Could always try it. But I think it’s useless.” He was over at the ’phone now, calling room service with an order for drinks as he g
estured to Karen to leave for the bedroom. He joined her there, closed the connecting door, switched on the radio, turned on the television near her dressing-table.

  She was sitting on the bed, looking suddenly woebegone and helpless. “The ’phones?” she asked. “Are they all right?”

  “Everything is all right except that damned basket. Don’t blame the hotel. Someone is playing games with it and with us.”

  With me, she thought. “But it’s senseless. If they wanted to kidnap me—as perhaps they’ve kidnapped Aliotto—why go to the trouble of bugging my room?”

  “To have a record of anything you said over a telephone or to a visitor in your room.” Before they snatched you, he thought.

  “Was that tiny gadget powerful enough to reach in here?”

  “If you left the door open and didn’t have a radio playing and the television going. Look, Karen—I hate to do this. But I have a ’phone call to make and a man to see. The sooner I do that, the better.”

  “I’m all right. Really. How long will you be away?”

  “With luck—if my friend is in his office—about an hour.”

  “Then the very best of luck.” He was looking at her with such real anxiety in his eyes that she gave him the most reassuring smile she could produce. It had some effect.

  “Just stay here. Don’t go sightseeing. We’ll do that together. Right?” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll see you by five—or five thirty at latest.”

  “Peter, stop worrying about me. I’ll be—”

  The telephone rang. She reached for its receiver on the night table. “Who?” She sat up erect, stared over at Bristow. “Sorry, I didn’t quite recognise your voice. This is Luigi Aliotto? How glad I am to hear from you! How is your cold? Delighted you are better... Dinner tonight?”

  Bristow shook his head.

  “No. I’m sorry. I’ve already accepted an invitation. I thought you couldn’t meet me until tomorrow evening... No, I can’t change my plans. He’s a very dear friend who is visiting Rome.” She listened as Aliotto talked on about the many things they had to discuss. “Meet you for a drink before dinner? Well—”

  Bristow nodded.

  “At half past five?” She kept her eyes on Bristow. He shook his head, held up six fingers. “Half past five is a little early. I could manage six, I think.” Bristow pointed in the direction of downstairs. “Why don’t we meet here, at the Imperial? I could easily manage that by six. My friend will expect me by seven, though. You do understand, Luigi?... Yes, he is most attractive... All right, I’ll meet you in the lobby. Six o’clock.”

  Slowly, she replaced the receiver. “So he wasn’t kidnapped,” she said. “Lord, what idiotic notions I sometimes have!” She dropped back on the bed, drew a deep breath. Those two sneak thieves had been after only her typewriter or watch as Peter had said. “At least, I hope so,” she added uncertainly.

  He was still watching her and concealing his own doubts. “I’ll be in the bar, too. Or near there. Not far away, I promise.” Suddenly, he knew of one piece of news to leave her smiling. “We can relax about Vasek’s letters. They’ve been dealt with.”

  “The letters?” She sat up, eyes wide with surprise. “So soon?”

  “A confrontation in Moscow. A joint agreement signed by both. No use of letters by either party.” Unless Vasek was caught; or dead. Then our case would seem one big bluff, and God only knows what Soviet reaction would be. It wasn’t the first time they had disregarded a signed agreement.

  “And no assassinations.” She was smiling, her relief increasing. “Incredible how quickly an agreement was signed—usually it takes weeks of argument, doesn’t it?”

  “We threatened to publish.” That was the limit of what he could tell her. He had gone beyond Menlo’s one sentence, but the results were good: she had put aside her fears. “Get rid of that basket, Karen.”

  She nodded, followed him into the sitting-room, thinking of the letters. “We really must have sounded as if we meant it,” she said.

  That had been Menlo’s explanation. Bristow hadn’t quite believed it then, and it still puzzled him. Too easy, too simple. To sound as if we meant it—was that really enough? “See you later.” He opened the door to the hall to face a startled boy with a laden tray. The goddamn drinks, he thought, and more minutes passing. Levinson could be leaving his office before I even telephone him.

  “I’ll sign,” Karen said. “This is on Schleeman.” And now she wasn’t just smiling, she had begun to laugh.

  13

  Bristow called Michael Levinson from a public ’phone in the hotel lobby, relaxed when he heard that husky baritone he remembered too well. As usual, Levinson was nonchalant. “Heard you were around. I’m stuck here at the office, but drop over and see me. Use the short-cut. I’ll have Giovanni meet you. When?”

  “Soon. And Mike—I need to make a call to my boss; there’s a business deal he’s considering, and I think he’d better have another look at it. Can I use your ’phone? It could be a long chat.” And a nicely scrambled one.

  “Okay. Always liked the old geezer. Can’t have him losing his shirt on a bad investment. I’ll let him know you’re calling.”

  “Be seeing you.”

  Satisfactory, Bristow thought as he left the lobby and had the doorman call a taxi. He could have walked the short distance to Levinson’s domain in five minutes, but caution was needed. The brief interchange between them had been discreet enough to please Levinson and fit his present assignment, too: he was specialising in tracing the clandestine purchases of American classified technology by so-called friendly foreigners who then resold them at a handsome profit to the Soviet Union. Old geezer... Menlo might not appreciate the description, but it suited his eccentricities admirably.

  The cab arrived. Bristow directed it up Via Veneto, then right; then after a short distance, right again until they had circled a few blocks. No one followed. Bristow dismissed the cab a little distance from the street which led—if he walked its full length—back to the Imperial and Via Veneto. But Levinson’s doorway would be reached just before Bristow approached that end of the street. Circuitous, careful, and probably necessary, even if the roundabout journey irked him. He set out at a leisurely pace. Nothing urgent ahead of him, it must seem.

  As for what he would tell Levinson, he’d leave most of that to Menlo’s discretion. Levinson would probably know about the defection of a KGB colonel called Josef Vasek, but he might not be involved in the actual search here in Italy. He certainly didn’t know about the three letters. No one knew except the people who had been involved with them: seven men at last Monday’s meeting, two Secretaries, a Director, the President, the KGB of course, and Karen herself.

  Karen... She had been as surprised as he had been at the speed of the Moscow agreement. “We threatened to publish,” he had told her. “We really must have sounded as if we meant it,” she had replied. But, he kept thinking, was that really enough? And he kept saying, “No. It damned sure wasn’t.” So what else could have made the Kremlin listen? Not have the suspicion that it was mostly bluff? Unless—unless the KGB had discovered that there were two small pieces of evidence: the date of the Secretary of State’s visit to Saudi Arabia; the sworn statement of three typists that their initials had been used on letters they had never typed. Still not enough. The Soviets would rely on the secrecy of that Saudi visit to prevent the Americans from using it publicly; and the typists, of course, they would dismiss as paid lackeys.

  So what the hell prodded the Soviets into an agreement? What if—what if the KGB had uncovered more than the two small pieces of evidence we had? The contents of the Prague cassettes? Vasek’s words relayed by Karen, an admission of his authorship of the letters, of their future use, of his intention to defect. Yes, that was something that wasn’t any American bluff. The KGB would be the first to sense the full weight of evidence against them—one of their own, able to verify Karen’s account of that Prague meeting. But how, Bristow wondered, had the KGB been
able to discover the contents of the cassettes so damned quickly? Only a matter of days. Not even long enough for whispers to start or the inevitable guesses that were endemic in Washington.

  His thoughts ended abruptly. Ahead of him was the door to Levinson’s short-cut set into the high wall that encircled the embassy grounds, a door that was narrow and heavy and no doubt guarded inside. The street was quiet. A few parked cars, apparently empty; no traffic now; only one pedestrian—a good-looking blonde, elegantly dressed, walking a white French poodle not far from the door. On the opposite side of the street, an imposing row of houses, and a black Ferrari standing before one of their entrances. Yes, it all seemed safe enough, except for that blonde. She was dawdling, letting the poodle take charge of her; she looked at Bristow as he passed her, appeared to be amused—perhaps an apology for her pet’s whims. He decided to walk on and reach Via Veneto before he turned back. At that moment, a quick movement from the Ferrari caught his eye. A young man had slipped out and was already half-way across the street, heading for the door. Bristow was ready to enter as the stranger—tall, dark, and definitely vigorous—turned his key in the lock. The blonde paid no attention.

  “Bristow? I’m Giovanni.” He closed the door behind him, nodded to a couple of gardeners who were studying Bristow from the shade of the nearest tree.

  “How did you recognise me?” Bristow asked.

  “Saw you check into the Imperial.” Giovanni’s voice was pure American; in looks and dress, he was completely the well-heeled Roman. “You know the way from here?”

  “I can make it.”

  “Ciao,” Giovanni said in his nonchalant way. He gestured to the door. “You just pull it hard when you go. Self-locking.” He left with a cheerful wave and an exchange of quick and authentic Italian with the gardeners. They were able-looking types and still watching Bristow carefully as he followed the path to a small annexe. The guard inside its door was equally capable, even if he was dressed like a janitor. Bristow was expected but had to show his CIA identification and wait until a ’phone call to the second floor let him pass.