Ride a Pale Horse

by Helen Macinnes

  Bristow dropped the Capri folder on a chair, followed. Armando’s... why the change? More privacy? Hardly. Armando’s as he knew it two years ago had been an expensive hangout for the beautiful people. Aliotto must have adequate spending money. And, more important, Aliotto was hellbent on taking Karen to Armando’s. Bristow’s questions sharpened.

  He paused near the door to light a cigarette and give Aliotto and Karen time to start crossing Via Veneto. Giovanni slowed his pace as he passed Bristow and paused on the front steps to light a cigarette, too. As Bristow reached him, he said without raising his eyes from the flickering lighter, “Where?”

  “Armando’s.”

  “I go first. You follow.” Giovanni left.

  It was an old dodge in surveillance. Suits me, thought Bristow as he walked down the steps.

  Giovanni had decided not to wait for a taxi and was now hastening to catch the pedestrian flow before the white-uniformed policeman, from the heights of his traffic-control box at the juncture of Ludovisi and Veneto, would bring it to a halt. Soon, Giovanni—hurrying like all the other late arrivals at the crossing—was right behind Karen and Aliotto; then he overtook them and drew well ahead. Bristow was already at the intersection and just made it across Via Veneto before its traffic started. He veered to his left, taking the opposite sidewalk from the one that Aliotto was using as he escorted Karen along Ludovisi.

  Twice, Aliotto glanced over his shoulder, but no one walked behind him except an elderly woman leading a granddaughter by her hand. He didn’t look at the other side of the street, where Bristow, some distance back, was following two young couples with arms linked around waists. Giovanni, his stride as smooth as the cut of his suit, had reached Armando’s and was now entering. A few seconds more and Aliotto guided Karen inside. Bristow didn’t increase his pace, walked on for a short distance before he stopped at the kerb, let two cars pass; and only then—no one had been following—did he cross Ludovisi and approach Armando’s restaurant.

  He stepped through its handsome glass doors, mounted a few steps, and was in a cramped foyer so small and filled with urns of flowers that the few people clustered there made it seem crowded. They were talking, laughing, oblivious to everyone else; obviously old acquaintances meeting after their summer out of Rome. With difficulty he made his way through them, thankful that Giovanni was already inside the bar to keep an eye on Karen. I take it all back, he told that expensive young man: you’re as good as Levinson said.

  At this hour, the restaurant was empty and would stay that way until ten o’clock. The bar was, so far, only half-filled. It was a vast stretch of wall-to-wall carpet, divided into a few broad alcoves by a series of see-through bookcases that reached the ceiling. But the teak shelves had not been installed for books. Very wide, very deep, they displayed collectors’ items of Venetian glass. The arrangement was artistic, well separated, no clutter, and the general feeling was of space and lightness. The total effect was attractive—mirrored walls and Venetian chandeliers set the rows of crystal gleaming on the small counter that lay in one corner of the room. No stools, no customers there; only a man with an air of intense dedication fixing the drinks that the red-coated waiters ordered. Voices were held low, laughter muted. Even the background music—Respighi, of course—was gently played.

  From the bar’s entrance, Bristow couldn’t see Karen and Aliotto. Or Giovanni. So he walked up the centre of the room to note who was sitting around the low coffee tables enclosed in each alcove—or section or recess or whatever they liked to call it. The first enclave had its squat armchairs mostly occupied. The second had two tables occupied and one free. He might take it once he made sure where Karen was. But just then he caught sight of a tall man slouching in an armchair in that second alcove. The man’s back had been towards the room, his face unseeable until his head turned to order a drink from a waiter. It was Sam Waterman.

  Bristow walked on. Sam Waterman. His companion had been facing the room: young, thick dark hair, black moustache, grey suit, lemon-yellow tie, and unknown to Bristow. Sam Waterman... He gets around, thought Bristow as he recovered from that shock, including crossing the Atlantic as fast as I did. How? Not by the usual overnight flight to Rome from New York; and there is none by day. He was at Schleeman’s club in Washington around five thirty yesterday. Must have had private transportation, either with Soviet help or in a jet owned by some millionaire who dabbled in far-left politics. Anyway, Waterman’s here and—Bristow’s thoughts stopped dead. In the very next alcove were Karen and Aliotto.

  Karen could see him as he strolled past, but she couldn’t have noticed Waterman—her low armchair was backed against the teak divider between his section and hers. Aliotto, facing her across their coffee table, had a full view of both Waterman and his friend. Fortunate that Karen hadn’t been offered Aliotto’s chair. Or was it not a matter of chance but of arrangement? Bristow went tense, took the first vacant table he saw in the fourth alcove, sat down to face Karen but his view of her was partly blocked by a sea-blue vase shimmering with flecks of gold. He glanced around at the tables near his and suddenly realised he was sitting, damn fool that he was, next to Giovanni’s. Yes, he admitted now, he had been really shaken. Waterman and Karen in Vienna; and now, Waterman and Karen in Rome.

  He ordered a Scotch and tried to find the answer to the questions that raced through his mind. There was an answer to be found—if only he wasn’t feeling so goddamned bewildered. Jet lag beginning to hit him? He hoped it was that and not premature senility that clogged his brain. Why, he kept asking himself, why was Waterman so speedily in Rome? Was he in control of the search for Josef Vasek—or the link between a Communist sleeper in Washington and a Communist cell here? Did he bring information or instructions to Rome? Unanswerable questions, Bristow decided, and a sign of his exhaustion that his mind had even posed them. He made himself relax, lit a cigarette, kept his eyes on what he could see of Karen.

  Giovanni’s secret amusement, when Bristow had chosen a seat without making sure who his neighbours might be (a C minus to you, Bristow), turned to sympathy. Bristow had reason enough to be worried even if he knew only half of this little drama. Giovanni, first to arrive, had seen the whole play of events. By good luck, for which even Giovanni could not take credit, Aliotto had chosen the alcove adjacent to his and made quite sure that the American girl would sit where she did. And then the two men, one known to Giovanni, one unknown, had followed Aliotto almost directly—they must have been loitering in that small crowd in the foyer, for they hadn’t been visible on the street—and chosen the alcove where they could watch Aliotto. Deliberate selection. The two men had halted as they caught sight of Aliotto’s blond head and veered towards the nearest vacant chairs. Even this meeting had been timed well. By seven o’clock, the fashionable hour for cocktails, every seat would have been occupied. Yes, Giovanni decided; deliberate, and very smooth. Now let’s do some play-acting of our own.

  Giovanni took a cigarette from his silver case. Giovanni’s lighter failed. Giovanni looked around for a match book and could find none. (Naturally enough: he had pocketed the one on the ashtray as he waited for Karen and Aliotto to enter the bar.) Giovanni, in flawless Italian, could ask the man at the next table to oblige him with a light. And as Bristow flicked his lighter, Giovanni could lean over to draw on his cigarette and ask quietly in English, “D’you know the guy who’s with the Bulgarian?”

  Bristow froze.

  “Yellow tie, black hair. Who’s the other?”

  “Waterman, a.k.a. Winter.”

  “Thanks, pal.” The cigarette was lit. Giovanni drew back to his own table. “Grazie.”

  “Prego.” Bristow’s drink arrived. He sat unmoving, haunted by Menlo’s warning that Bulgarian Intelligence had moved in on Italy. What the hell was one of them doing here with Waterman? He drank some of the Scotch, slowly, in an agony of waiting. At ten minutes to seven, Karen was rising to her feet.

  “No,” she was saying, her voice carrying clearly as sh
e smiled down at Aliotto’s protests. “I really must go. I have to get back to the hotel before I meet my friend at Doney’s—I forgot my lipstick. Can’t face an evening without that, can I? We’ll have to hurry.” And hurry she did.

  So she saw me, Bristow thought—she spoke for my benefit. Bless her quick wits. Now I won’t need to meet Aliotto tonight. I’ll trust her to leave him flat in the Imperial’s lobby. He dropped the price of his drink and a twenty-percent tip beside the saucer on which his tab lay as he rose from his table. Take it easy, he warned himself, slowly does it. Giovanni was already on his way to the door. Waterman and the Bulgarian were about to follow Karen, but their path was blocked by Giovanni, who was practically on her heels. Aliotto, lagging behind, turned his head to look at the Bulgarian; a brief glance, but definite. Bristow was sure about that. Then Aliotto hurried to catch up with Karen, who was being escorted into the foyer by a gallant Giovanni.

  Bristow could increase his pace. He walked smartly past Waterman and his friend, didn’t look at them, reached the street. Just ahead were Karen and Aliotto, and in front of them Giovanni. Bristow dropped caution, followed closely. She was well guarded, front and rear. If any Bulgarian had hoped to pull her into an automobile on this darkening street, he thought, as a car almost stopped beside her and then drove on, two able-bodied witnesses were certainly discouraging.

  He kept Karen well in sight, all the way back to the Imperial.

  In the lobby, Karen had her hand kissed once more as she made a quick but friendly goodbye to Aliotto. The Italian didn’t even notice Bristow when they passed each other: his face was a study in despair. Something, decided Bristow, was much further wrong than an evening cut short by a beautiful woman. His attention turned to Karen, now entering the elevator with a group of French visitors, and he managed to reach it before its door closed. On the fourth floor, he followed Karen into the corridor. “Ten minutes to find your lipstick,” he told her as he saw her safely into her room and could leave for his own at the other end of the long hallway. I’m too damned far away from her, he thought as he walked its length, and added that worry to all the others he had collected today.

  Quickly, he washed and changed into the one complete suit he had managed to pack. Saturday evening, and what do we do? A pleasant drive, as he had planned earlier, through the Borghese Gardens to the Casino Valadier, where a dining terrace looked down on Rome from the heights of the Pincio? Good food, a magnificent view of a brilliant sunset, then night and an abundance of stars. But the events of the last hour made him want to cancel the whole idea. He couldn’t, though: Karen, in her pretty dress, was not to be disappointed. Overreacting about that car on Via Ludovisi? But Giovanni, too, had heard its slow approach; he had stopped, looked around as if he were about to cross the street while Bristow directed an intense stare at the two men in the car—one at the wheel, the other in the back seat. Suddenly, the car speeded into a more normal rate of travel, disappeared into the mass of traffic on Via Veneto. A grey Fiat, Rome plate and number.

  With his tie still unknotted, Bristow went over to the telephone. He’d risk a call to Levinson’s office—it was the awkward choice between the need to know and security—but the ’phone rang just as he was about to lift the receiver.

  “That was quick,” Giovanni’s voice said. “I’ve requested a trace on that car. Okay?”

  “Very much okay. And would you ask the office to make copies of any newspaper items they have on file dealing with terrorists in Italy for the last four years or so?”

  “Doing your homework?”

  “It’s much needed. By the way, did you know either of those two in the car?”

  “Kissing kin to Yellow Tie. I suppose you’ll need that material by tomorrow?”

  “Soonest possible. And get your boss to call mine. Waterman’s in town. Important!” Bristow ended the call, stood grim-faced. He drew a long breath and dialled Karen’s number. “What about dinner?” He tried to sound cheerful. “Ready to leave? I’ll collect you in another five minutes, if that’s all right with you.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Her voice was excited.

  “See you,” he said and left the ’phone to unlock his bag. From its hiding-place he drew out his small Beretta, neat enough to slip into his jacket pocket. It had been a long time since he had stepped out for an evening with a pistol as company.

  Karen had the door open as he knocked. Bristow said, “You’ll have to learn to ask a visitor for his name before you let him in.” To soften the warning, he touched the side of her cheek for a moment and brought a surprised look to her eyes. He dropped his hand. Careful, he told himself, still aware of the soft feeling of her skin: no emotional complications, not at this time. Concentration was needed, not romantic involvement. And a damned hard effort it would be. “All set to go?”

  She had been ready, with purse and scarf in her hand, but as she looked at him and noted his face was strained and tired, she tossed purse and scarf onto a chair. “It would have been lovely. Only—I think we could talk better here. Why don’t we order supper now? D’you mind?” Thoughtless of her to think he really wanted to take her out for a Saturday night in Rome. He was more than tired; he had to be exhausted. Since he got off the plane this morning, he had been constantly on the move—not a minute to himself. She knew she had guessed right as she saw his relief.

  “Suits me.” This would be the safest place to spend an evening; to spend tomorrow too, although she would probably rebel against that idea. “I’ll fix the drinks. Sure you don’t mind staying here?”

  “I’d like a rest—for a change. Armando’s was bewildering. The bar itself was extraordinary. Rather nice to relax there, if you had the right company.”

  “Aliotto seemed pretty attentive.”

  “When he was being himself. A mixture of charm and warmth. Then—” She hesitated.

  “Then what?”

  “He became nervous. On edge. Scared, in fact. Then once again he made an effort and everything was natural. He is a nice man, you know; kind-hearted, even sentimental.”

  “How often did that switch occur?”

  “It’s probably silly, but I thought it happened when he looked past my shoulder.”

  “At the next alcove?”

  “You’re clairvoyant, Peter.” She took the glass of wine from him, smiled her thanks. Her face turned grave. “A man with a black moustache and dark hair had been sitting there—I recognised him as I was leaving. He was with another man whose face I couldn’t see, but taller, older than the other, I thought.” She frowned, trying to place the tall man who had bent down to pick up something he had dropped. “Odd, really odd,” she said.

  “A dark-haired man with a yellow tie?” Bristow prompted. “You knew him—how?”

  “He met me at the airport instead of Aliotto.” She saw Bristow’s lips tighten. “No coincidence that he should turn up at Armando’s, was it?”

  “No coincidence,” he admitted.

  “So that’s why he was there—to remind Aliotto to ask me the right questions. And I suppose it was he who had Aliotto take me to Armando’s.”

  Bristow said nothing. She was right on both counts, although the instructions might have come originally from Waterman. Unlikely that Waterman would confront Aliotto openly himself.

  “You know, I have the odd feeling that the tall man was no stranger. Have you an idea of who he—”

  “What hold have they got on Aliotto?” Bristow asked. He didn’t expect an answer, but he had slid the conversation away from Sam Waterman. “Gambling debts? Compromising photographs with an important politician’s wife? Important enough to have Aliotto’s career smashed—no more publication in reputable papers?” He sounded as if he were joking. “Just guessing. But they’ve got to have some hold.”

  “His mistress.”

  Bristow stared at her. “And how did you get on to the subject of mistresses?” he asked in disbelief, sat down to face her.

  “Only one mistress. He adores her. W
e were talking about—” Karen stopped, embarrassed.

  “About what?”

  “You. He was teasing me, you see. He’s quite sure that the dear friend who has been monopolising me ever since he arrived in Rome must be—oh, well—anyway—He was teasing me, and then quite suddenly he was serious, sad, talking about finding the right woman, the right man, the only thing that really mattered in life. I asked him, ‘Why haven’t you married, Luigi?’And it poured out. There was a woman, the most beautiful of women, but her husband wouldn’t give her a divorce. She left him, came to live with Aliotto. I said I would like to meet her. At that, Aliotto almost broke into tears. ‘She’s a prisoner. No one can get near her.’ So I said, ‘What about the police—can’t they help?’ He shook his head; if he told the police, she would be killed. He must do what they wanted. They were determined men. And then he fell silent. And I said nothing. You see, I had thought it was the husband who had arranged her abduction.” Karen stopped. She was upset.

  “And after that?” Bristow asked gently.

  “He said he shouldn’t have told me, hadn’t meant to, but it was a relief. Now I would understand why he had behaved so strangely: the strain was unbearable. I asked if her husband could really have her kidnapped—was it quite legal? Not her husband, he told me. ‘For money?’ I asked—a stupid question; how could a journalist have enough money for a ransom? ‘Not money,’ he said almost in a whisper. ‘Not money.’ Then, abruptly, he changed the subject.”

  Bristow could understand the scene: Karen, her beautiful blue eyes filled with sympathy, would elicit any man’s trust. “Aliotto was sending us a message, I think.” As much as he dared, at least. Poor bastard, they had his neck in a noose.

  “Perhaps he was,” Karen said slowly. “He changed the subject to Josef Vasek.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that—after he looked past my shoulder.”

  “What about Vasek?” Bristow asked quickly.