Ride a Pale Horse

by Helen Macinnes

  “Had I seen him? He was in Rome, certainly as of last Tuesday, when he had telephoned Aliotto. I looked astonished. It was no act, Peter. I was absolutely dumbfounded. I said I scarcely knew the man. Then I did some changing of the subject on my own. Was it true, as Duvivier and Tony Marcus believed, that Vasek was KGB and not a press aide at all? And had Aliotto heard anything more about Tony Marcus? Was he safely back in London?”

  “Did Aliotto have any more questions about Vasek?”

  “No. He merely tried to bring him back into the conversation, saying he was worried about the man. Aliotto had arranged passage on a freighter from Genoa, but Vasek had never taken it.”

  “And you, Karen—what was your reaction?”

  “I was amazed. I said, ‘Don’t tell me a democratic man like you, Luigi, has been helping KGB agents in their secret missions.’ Aliotto spent a full minute persuading me he would do no such thing. Vasek was a friend who was defecting. And I registered plain old astonishment again.” She looked at Peter. “Was that all right?”

  “Very much all right.” Bristow had begun walking around the room. He was restless, trying to make up his mind. “Wouldn’t you reconsider that meeting on Monday with the terrorists?” he asked at last. Just get her home as quickly as possible, that was all he wanted.

  “But everything’s arranged. I have my official permit—it’s in my purse. I persuaded Aliotto to give it to me because there was no need for him to collect me at the Imperial and take me to the place. My translator would be with me, and we’d arrive together.”

  “No objections to a translator?”

  “He didn’t think one was necessary—I understood his Italian, didn’t I? I said there might be other accents that weren’t so easy to follow. No more argument—I sounded quite decided. I rather think he didn’t want a translator’s voice interfering with his concentration. But we can whisper, can’t we?”

  “The mildest murmur,” Bristow said. “Now, what about a rare steak? Some salad and cheese?” And from now on we talk about ourselves and no more bloody politics.

  “Wonderful,” Karen said. And please stop worrying about me, Peter: I am worrying enough all by myself. “After dinner—tonight—Peter, would you object to staying here?”

  He looked at her.

  “This couch is firm enough, and long, too. Sorry to ask this, but it’s just that... well... I’m a little nervous.” She tried to laugh. “There! The emancipated woman has admitted it. She needs company.” And she’s scared, damned scared.

  “I’ve slept on a couch before this,” he told her, watching the relief in her eyes. Business-like, that’s us. She had set the tone; he’d better keep it. He picked up the ’phone and requested room service.

  “What about some Bordeaux?” he asked her and added it to his order.

  “Poor Hubert Schleeman,” she said.

  “Not tonight. My expense account this time.”

  “It’s all because of Vasek,” Karen said as Bristow left the ’phone. “They—whoever ‘they’ are—want to control me as they do Aliotto. But why did they attempt to abduct me last night from that isolated room? They must have intended it, or else they’d never have changed my original reservation. But why?” she demanded, her anger breaking out. “Because Vasek talked with me?”

  “With you and with Aliotto. They got something out of him—probably the details of the Genoese sailing. But Vasek never showed, so they’re using Aliotto now to get to you. They may think that you know more about Vasek’s plans than anyone. In a sense, you do: you met him yesterday in Rome.”

  “And they could learn that? Make me talk?” Her voice faltered.

  “Karen, please—”

  “No, tell me the truth. I can face it. It’s not knowing what is the truth that makes me afraid.”

  “They would make you talk,” he said very quietly.

  “But I can tell them nothing important!”

  “They don’t know that.”

  “But a—a—an amateur like me? They must be crazy to think a professional like Vasek would send messages by an amateur.”

  That had puzzled a lot of people, he thought wryly. “Except that Vasek never did what was expected. It’s his kind of deception.” Bristow paused, considered, and then said, “If I hadn’t asked you to make the cassettes, you wouldn’t be in this danger. My fault—”

  “No!” she said sharply. “It’s Vasek’s fault for choosing me. And I made the recordings willingly. They did help, didn’t they?”

  “Yes. Without them, we’d still be arguing in circles—or have taken action that could have been desperate. The Vienna cassettes weren’t played to that meeting at Langley—they have been heard in secret by only three people besides us. Because they could identify you. The Prague tapes identified only a woman’s voice.”

  For a minute, she said nothing at all. Then, in a surprise question which only proved to Bristow that Vasek hadn’t been stupid in his choice of this amateur, she asked, “If you had played the Vienna cassettes, would I ever have reached Rome?”

  No, he thought; probably not.

  “Who was the other man in Armando’s? The one who dropped something so conveniently under the table?” As Bristow hesitated, she said, “The truth, Peter: you recognised him, didn’t you?”

  “Sam Waterman.”

  “Waterman... So he is after Josef Vasek.” She managed to smile, said, “Well, you’d better keep me safe, Peter.”

  That I will, he promised silently.

  Room service arrived, and they began talking of other things.

  It was approaching eleven and the sitting-room was at peace. The waiter had wheeled away the dinner table; the maid had brought in fresh towels for the bathroom and turned down Karen’s bed. Both beds, actually, either from custom or assumption or from her sense of symmetry—like the way she had displayed Karen’s nightdress with waist tucked in and skirt spread out over the coverlet and Karen’s slippers neatly together on a little foot rug. With warm wishes for a good night, she slipped out of the room.

  “Nothing seems to astonish her,” Karen said with relief.

  Except when she sees I slept on that damned couch, thought Bristow. But tonight he’d have slept on the floor with pleasure. Anyone who slipped through hotel security, and it was tight since the attempted “robbery” on the second floor last night, would have to face him before Karen was reached. At this moment, he was feeling at ease. A good dinner, excellent company—a cure for most troubles if you didn’t let yourself brood on them. He watched Karen as she entered her own room to pull off the extra coverlet and pillow from the unused bed. Typically, she concealed her nervousness by being completely practical. “I have doubts about your suit,” she told him as she returned to drop pillow and coverlet on the couch. “How many did you bring?”

  “One.”

  “What’s amusing you? You’ll look as crumpled as a dishrag tomorrow. And you know what I’d like to do then?”

  “What?”

  “Visit the Forum. I bet you’d make the most wonderful guide. You’re a historian, after all.”

  “Was,” he reminded her. “Contemporary history, too. Not Roman.”

  “But you’ve visited Rome before—and Athens.”

  Yes, he thought, in the last three hours we’ve discovered a lot about each other’s early lives.

  “And so,” Karen said, as she arranged pillow and bedspread to her taste, “you would be bound to learn what Rome and Athens meant. That’s you, Peter: you don’t spend time anywhere without knowing what happened and when and why.”

  “That’s me, is it?” In a way, she was right about Rome and Athens: their history had fascinated him. The source of Western civilisation, and what were we doing with that legacy? Heading for ruin and chaos if we let the barbarians take over—the repeated pattern of ancient Athens and Rome. A walk through the Forum was a necessary warning for all of us, classicists or not. But not for Karen tomorrow. “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to go there n
ow,” he began. “Let’s wait and see the Forum when—”

  The telephone rang. They looked at each other. “It might be Schleeman,” Karen said. “I ought to have called him—just forgot.” She picked up the receiver, showed amazement. “For you, Peter. How did he know you were here?”

  “Who?”

  “A man. Sounds young. And amused.”

  Bristow took the receiver. It was, of course, Giovanni. “Knew where to find you,” he said triumphantly. “Sorry to disturb you, but you’ve two visitors about to enter your own room. Beat it there. Important.”

  Bristow replaced the receiver, deciding what to tell Karen. “I’d better change this suit you were so worried about.”

  Karen studied him. A neat excuse, but for what? “How long will that take?”

  “I’ll be as quick as possible.” He was already at the door. “Don’t let anyone inside. Not even the maid.”

  “And identify yourself,” she reminded him, “if you don’t want to stand out in the corridor.”

  “Three long knocks, two short.” He still hesitated to leave.

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll make my call to Schleeman.” Reassured, he left.

  No one waited outside his room. Bristow opened its door, his free hand in his pocket ready to grasp his Beretta. Two men were inside: Levinson and a stranger. Middle-aged, grey hair, deep tan, and remarkable eyes, Bristow noted.

  “Just thought I’d drop by with this,” Levinson said and handed over a bulky envelope. “Five years of newspaper reports. Enough?”

  “Splendid. And thank you. A great help in several ways.”

  “I wanted to introduce you to my good friend,” Levinson went on. “We were having dinner together, and I told him about your problems—as much as I’ve been told,” he added pointedly. “This is Chief Inspector Alberto Tasso.”

  Tasso—a distinguished name. “A descendant?” Bristow inquired politely as they shook hands.

  “I am afraid not.” Tasso’s English, like his dark-grey suit, was impeccable. His deep-set eyes studied Bristow with interest. “We shall meet on Monday morning, and I shall escort you inside the room. As a translator, I believe.” Almost a smile touched the severe mouth. “You are qualified?”

  “More or less.”

  Tasso seemed pleased with the answer. This, he was thinking, is one of those Americans who deal in understatement as much as any Englishman. Never underestimate such men. But he only nodded and retreated into his customary silence.

  “Inspector Tasso,” Levinson explained for him, “has been attached in recent years to Rome’s special anti-terrorist force. So he is involved in Monday’s proceedings. They should go smoothly. The place is in—” he looked at Tasso, who again nodded his approval—“a branch police station, now unused; moved to another location. It’s north of the main post office, a small street surrounded by a lot of other small streets—no open piazza fronting it for any pro or contra crowds to gather. The narrow streets can easily be cleared if any terrorist sympathisers try to protest there. You’ll find the exact address inside the envelope.” Levinson looked again at Tasso. “That’s all, I think.”

  Tasso added, “I’ll be inside the entrance at ten thirty.”

  “We’ll be there,” Bristow said. They shook hands again.

  Levinson said, “I sent your message to Menlo. He was... well, let’s say a little surprised.” He enjoyed that memory—Menlo wasn’t easily confounded. “Good luck, Bristow. No trouble is expected, so it will be pretty routine. From what I hear, the events this evening at Armando’s all circled round Miss Cornell. We’ll keep an eye on her, come Monday. That is—” he corrected himself quickly—“Inspector Tasso’s men will watch out for her.”

  Tasso nodded and opened the door, and Levinson, with a one-finger salute for Bristow, followed him into the corridor.

  Bristow only glanced inside the envelope. The pile of newspaper clippings would be studied at leisure. The address of the meeting place—Via Borgognona—was also there. He relaxed. Quickly, he changed out of his clothes into his old wash pants and sports shirt—he never wore pyjamas, didn’t even own a set of them—and replaced his socks and shoes with loafers. He looked more like a casual day at the beach than a man about to sleep on a couch. The Beretta was a problem. It couldn’t be hidden in a tight trouser pocket. So he found his toilet kit, made of thin leather, shapeless but concealing, and slipped the pistol inside after he had removed his hairbrush. But he managed to find space for razor, comb, and toothbrush.

  With the kit and envelope securely in hand, he strolled along the corridor. Any hurry would have roused more stares than he did encounter from a party-dressed group of late revellers.

  Karen had just ended her call to Schleeman. She looked with a moment’s astonishment at Bristow. “Modest,” was her amused comment, “but definitely more comfortable.”

  “Definitely. The best I could do. I travel light.” He threw the toilet kit onto the couch, handed her the envelope. “Tomorrow’s cram course.”

  She pulled out the sheaf of newspaper clippings, and her eyes widened. “Peter! Background material—this is what I hoped Aliotto would give me. How did you manage it?”

  “Friends in the right places. No, honey, don’t start reading now. We’ve got all of tomorrow.”

  “No Forum?” She picked out the note with the Via Borgognona address, glanced at it.

  “Another time.”

  She half smiled.

  “I mean that,” he said.

  She looked at the note. “Borgognona. So that’s how it’s spelled. It’s somewhere between the Corso and the Spanish Steps—just north of the main post office. We’ll reach it within half an hour at most, wouldn’t you say?”

  He stared at her. It was hard to remember that anyone who was as beautiful as Karen was also sharp as a needle. “You know your Rome.”

  “I managed to get that out of Aliotto,” she admitted as she tucked the note back into the envelope.

  If Aliotto knew, then so did Sam Waterman and his Bulgarian friends. “The best-kept secret.” Bristow hid his alarm. “Reminds me of Washington.” He glanced at his watch. “Time for some sleep.” He noted that she had left open one of the doors in the sitting-room. He walked over to check if it led to a closet or communication with another suite and found a small bathroom. Tactful, he thought. “All the comforts of home.” Almost. He shook his head, returned her good-night wave. I’m beat, he admitted at last.

  But he made sure of the lock on the room door, unzipped the toilet kit, and placed it close to his hand as he dropped gratefully on the couch. A lot to think about, he told himself: Aliotto had found out Monday’s address in advance—why? Natural curiosity? Or perhaps he had been instructed. He was being played like a damned yo-yo, the poor bastard. Then quite suddenly exhaustion hit Bristow. Thoughts drifted, ended, and he was asleep.

  15

  Ten minutes ahead of time, they arrived at Via Borgognona. (As difficult to pronounce as it was to spell, thought Karen.) They left the taxi at the street’s corner, both of them interested in the surroundings but for entirely different reasons. Bristow noted with approval that each end of this block had been shut off to traffic: one had four men at work on its pavement, the other had a water-department truck and three men seemingly surveying a problem with its main. Pedestrians were scarce. And the restaurant they passed, just before entering the disused police station, had MONDAY CLOSED posted on its door. Karen was studying the setting—the narrow street, the low old buildings—that would probably start the first paragraph of her article. She was back in her own world, with yesterday’s cram course on terrorist activities giving her a feeling of confidence in the background of the two young people she was about to meet. With her blue linen suit and smoothly brushed hair she was as attractive as ever, Bristow considered, but definitely the professional. She had scarcely spoken since they left the Imperial, and he had kept silent, not intruding into her thoughts. He had plenty of his own. But security on Borgog
nona was good; he relaxed a little. Now for the interior itself.

  They entered directly into a rectangular hall, brightly lit but bare and shabby, with worn wooden floor and peeling plaster on its walls, stretching to the rear of the building. Half-way along its length, a staircase on its right had been roped off. The floor above looked as if a demolition project had begun and was abandoned for this morning. At the foot of the stairs, a table had been set up along with a metal detector of the type used at airports. Beyond that point, as the hall narrowed, there was a wide doorway on its left wall which must lead to the meeting room. It was guarded on either side by uniformed policemen. The rest wore civilian clothes—one checking the list of visitors along with their credentials; two at the detector; two more (one a woman) at the table where contents of shoulder bags and pockets were being examined. There was a thin line of people passing slowly through these checkpoints. Where’s Tasso? Bristow wondered, his eyes searching the small group of officials who stood near the staircase wall and watched the slow traffic at the table. Tasso was there, half-hidden by the large bulk of a detective.

  “We wait,” Bristow advised Karen. Tasso had seen them and was coming forward.

  “How many journalists? I thought there were to be only five of us.” She could count eight right now. Some had cameras and tape recorders, too. “I didn’t think those were allowed,” Karen said.

  Tasso had heard her. He shook hands with them both, expressed his pleasure in seeing her here, and then said, “All cameras—if small—are examined most thoroughly. Larger cameras are not permitted. The same procedure applies to tape recorders. You brought none, Miss Cornell?”

  “I just wasn’t told.” She tried to hide her chagrin. Dammit, she thought, Aliotto should have warned me. A recording would be really useful.

  Tasso said, “No need to bring one here, Miss Cornell. We are taping all the proceedings. I will make sure you have a full transcript by this evening. Believe me, it will be much more accurate than these small gadgets—he waved a hand at a cassette that was being removed from its machine with protests from its owner—“can capture at a distance.”