Ride a Pale Horse

by Helen Macinnes

  “A friend of yours.”

  “Clothes and wallet,” Taylor reported from his search of Vasek’s shopping bag. “Canadian passport. Blank notebook; pen and two pencils.”

  “Try his skirt pocket.” Vasek’s hand had slipped inside it just after it was freed of his books. A touch-and-go moment, Bristow thought. Might have had to shoot his wrist, and that could have brought Mrs. Abel running upstairs—she was in her living-room, not yet in bed with her hearing aid removed for sleep. He noticed now that Hansen and Taylor had silenced their footsteps with sneakers. Their two loose summer shirts were also something new, and there was the good smell of stew from one of the pots on the stove over which a large hooded flashlight was perched. Another of these lights was on the kitchen table, new candles—thick and heavy—in the dining area. With shades and curtains drawn and one meagre bulb replacing its usual bright lighting, this kitchen would seem dark enough from the yard and from the back of the houses on the next street. “You’ve been shopping, I see,” he said to Hansen.

  “Just picked up what we needed.” Three visits to stores far from Muir Street, and one to Langley for equipment: not a bad afternoon’s work, Hansen considered.

  Taylor, without comment, had extracted a Smith & Wesson .38 from Vasek’s pocket and laid it on the kitchen table. A silencer from the other pocket was placed beside the revolver. Then he lifted the wide skirt, removed a knife from a sheath attached to a garter. It, too, was dropped on the table. His hands searched the rest of Vasek’s body, found a small transceiver tucked into a well-padded brassiere. He held it out to Bristow with one eyebrow raised. Bristow frowned, said softly, “Make it a natural accident.” Taylor opened the back of the transceiver, examined its frequency circuit under the flashlight’s beam, carefully eased a wire and pulled it hard, leaving it free enough to loosen any connection without being a noticeable break. He closed the transceiver and again raised the questioning eyebrow. “Back in place,” Bristow said, and Taylor returned it to its padded nest. It could no longer receive or send any messages: switched on, there would be only a good imitation of the sound of frying. Why the hell did Vasek need it anyway? He was the lone wolf, entirely on his own. “Anything in the lining of his bag?” Bristow asked in a whisper.

  “Nothing hard to the touch,” Taylor said, but he knelt on the floor to search the bag again. “Zippered lining,” he reported. “Concealed.” He drew out a transparent plastic bag with three small tablets, white and round. “Looks like aspirin,” he said as Bristow studied them under the light.

  Aspirin they were certainly not. “Get three plain aspirins from the bathroom cabinet,” Bristow said. “Quick!” And Taylor was quick. He returned as Bristow finished the delicate job of opening the plastic container. Three bogus aspirin were replaced by the real thing. Taylor was back at the shopping bag, zipped up its lining as Vasek’s head raised, his eyelids flickering. In front of him, he saw Bristow with his arm around a woman’s shoulder. He looked at her twice, made sure. Behind him, Taylor left the shopping bag, now in good order, and moved quietly aside.

  “It was no trap,” Bristow said. “You are safe. Welcome to our foxhole.”

  Vasek’s eyes left Karen, glanced at his weapons on the table. “Can’t be too careful when you are travelling,” he said. His hand touched his breast for a brief moment; then, reassured, it dropped to his side.

  “No need for them here. We have our own little arsenal.”

  Vasek shrugged his shoulders free from Hansen’s support and rose. Again he looked around the kitchen, noting Taylor’s revolver out of its holster. Next, his attention switched to Karen. He swept off the grey wig and bowed. “My thanks, Miss Cornell. I am in your debt. Perhaps you will identify me as being completely authentic and relieve these gentlemen’s suspicions.” He pulled off his glasses and some of the putty that had transformed his nose. “I took the advice you gave me in Rome. Contact lenses. But if I could get rid of them, wash and change—you might find me more recognisable.” He picked up his bag. “Would you show me where?” he asked Hansen.

  “It’s—” Karen began in amazement.

  “Yes,” Bristow said, “that’s who it is.” He nodded to Hansen, who urged Vasek ahead of him towards the bathroom.

  As Vasek was about to enter the hall, he paused to say, “Thank you, Bristow—I prefer to be nameless. Meanwhile.” He looked at Hansen, at Taylor. “Your people?”

  “Security.”

  “Is this house in danger?” He was suddenly alarmed.

  “No,” Bristow said. “Just Miss Cornell.” There was a bitter edge to his voice that startled Vasek.

  “I am sorry,” he said stiffly. And entered the hall.

  Karen’s lips were tight. “He told me two weeks. He said in Rome he needed two weeks—and he was here in four days.” Vasek’s subterfuge seemed to upset her more than any mention of danger. She listened to the closing of the bathroom door. “Do you trust him, Peter?”

  “As much as I trust any liar,” Bristow said and hugged her. “How was your day at the office?” he asked to get her mind away from Vasek. Taylor, he noted, was removing the weapons from the kitchen table, finding a place for them behind some dishes that were packed into a small cupboard.

  “Finished my rough draft.” And it was good, she felt. Her account of the bombing on Via Borgognona was as objective as if she had been a disinterested observer with her own emotions ignored. And somehow, her description of the scene had seemed all the more immediate and hideous. “Schleeman will approve. I think. Did you call him?”

  “Damn!”

  “So it was that kind of a day at your office?” she asked jokingly. But her eyes were anxious.

  “Doyle must have ’phoned him about Menlo. They were all pretty close in their OSS days. He probably told him you had arrived and were resting up.” Doyle could handle a good excuse, and Schleeman was experienced enough to accept a hint.

  Taylor, until now seemingly oblivious, said, “Mr. Doyle contacted us at seven thirty, asked if you had got home. I’ll let him know. Do I report on Mr. Nameless?”

  “I’ll do that later. All I want to do now is wash and eat. Can you contact Doyle from here?”

  “Can do. Hansen brought in a transceiver strong enough to reach him.”

  “Reach him anywhere?”

  “Within a ten-mile radius. We also got a sound-activated recorder.” Taylor pointed at the hall, high up on the wall, close to the moulding.

  “All set?” Bristow could see nothing—he’d have to climb up on a ladder for a close look.

  Taylor actually smiled. “Only have to turn it on—once we’re asleep.”

  “Do it now. Can it reach the dining area?”

  “Sure can. Kitchen, front door, and that part of the hall. Not the rooms. Hansen and I will be taking shifts on a chair between your bedroom door and the living-room.”

  “Just as well.” Bristow glanced over at Karen, who was now setting two places at the dining table. “Our guest could be in danger, too. How far, by the way, could his little transceiver reach?”

  “Not very far. A house on this street, perhaps. Three hundred yards at most, I’d guess.” Taylor was about to leave.

  Bristow stopped him, hesitated, then said, “Tell Doyle we’ll need an ambulance here—five thirty tomorrow morning. I’ll explain to him later. Just get it laid on. And Taylor—there’s a car about twenty feet north of our street entrance. Neutral colour, couldn’t see it clearly in the shadows. Dark grey or brown, perhaps. Two-door, certainly. Worth investigating. Could be someone inside.” With a transceiver, thought Bristow. “Yes, tell Doyle it definitely needs investigating.”

  Taylor nodded and was on his way. An early removal, he thought as he entered the hall, and good riddance. If Mr. Nameless insists on taking his weapons with him, I’ll ask if he’s got a permit to carry them. And that thought brought a second smile of the day to Taylor’s lips. A defector? One more bleeding headache.

  Karen was saying, “I’ll heat the st
ew. We ate at half past six. The men were hungry—and I really thought you wouldn’t be here until midnight. Anyway, you probably want to talk alone with Vasek.”

  “It’s my one chance. He will be in other hands soon.”

  “Thank heaven for that! Did you know he was coming here?”

  “No. He isn’t the confiding type.”

  “Except when it suits him.” She was still angered by his lie which she had passed on in good faith. “In Rome, I had a nightmare after I met him in the church. He was a death’s-head—a skeleton in his priest’s cassock.”

  Bristow took her in his arms, held her close. “By tomorrow, you and I will never see him again. Don’t worry about—”

  “I’m not worried. I’m flaming mad. Wish I had never met the man. Won’t even get that story he promised to give me whenever it could be told. Not that it matters,” she said, and tried to laugh. All that mattered was Peter safe. “I’ve changed,” she added in surprise. Changed so much. Where were all her ambitions now?

  We both have, he thought, and kissed her.

  They heard Vasek’s voice, booming in good will as he at last left the bathroom. Bristow said, “I’ll wash, won’t be a second. Keep him smiling till I get back.”

  “Where will he sleep?”

  “The living-room. There’s a couch or two armchairs or the floor.” With a quick kiss on her nose, he hurried into the hall. “Be with you soon,” he told Vasek, who was now dressed in a blue suit, slightly creased but presentable. He was thinner, too, and handsome: dark hair greying at the temples, clear-cut features, not a wrinkle showing on his smooth skin.

  Vasek halted at the kitchen door, looking at Karen almost uncertainly.

  “So nice to meet you again without skeletons dangling around,” said Karen. “Do come in. I’m sorry about the subdued lighting effect. And we have the air conditioning turned low—it makes too much noise at full strength. How was your trip? Not too difficult, I hope.” Chatter away, she told herself, like a babbling brook. Don’t even be tempted to remind him that Aliotto died and he was responsible. As he was. Who would have thought that just talking to a man could get you killed?

  Vasek seemed reassured and became a most charming though restless companion for the five minutes it took Bristow to return. Karen lit the candles, saying, “It’s dark enough to imagine you’re in the most expensive New York restaurant. Stew is on the menu, but you can always call it boeuf bourguignon.” What, she wondered, had he been looking for in those five minutes? He had wandered around, touching this, rearranging that, as he talked to distract her attention.

  “Aren’t you having dinner with us, Miss Cornell?” Vasek asked. He was now seated at the table, fingering the under-edge of the plate set before him, lifting the wine bottle by its bottom to check the vintage. He relaxed: no small listening device anywhere; his wrist watch had registered not one bug.

  “I’ve eaten. I didn’t expect any guest, or I’d have waited. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “Tomorrow.” Vasek raised his glass of wine to her and watched her leave. “Was it wise—if she is in any danger—to bring her here? To your apartment?” He put down his glass without drinking.

  Bristow settled in his chair, lifted fork and knife. “Why not? Karen is here for the same reason you came to this address. No professional in his right mind would believe I’d risk lodging either of you in my own home.”

  “True,” said Vasek, and burst into laughter.

  “Hey—keep it down!” Bristow warned him. “Sounds carry.”

  “A most careful man,” Vasek observed with approval.

  “A hungry one.”

  “You’ve had a busy day—no time for lunch?”

  “Like you, I’m sure.”

  “Yes. A difficult day. A difficult week. You will want to hear the details—”

  “Of course.”

  “And you’ll have many questions to ask.”

  “And you’ll have many answers to give. But,” Bristow said, “why don’t we leave that until later? First we’ll eat and then we’ll talk.”

  “For a little. I need sleep as well as food.”

  “Don’t we all?” It was nine o’clock now. By ten, Bristow thought, I can stretch out on a real bed and relax. Vasek was making only a skilful pretence of eating and drinking until Bristow had finished half a plateful of stew and a glass of wine. At last he set to, ate with zest. Supper was over in thirty minutes.

  “Coffee keeps me awake,” Vasek objected as Bristow poured two cups.

  That’s the idea, Bristow thought. He drank and again noticed that Vasek waited, then forgot his objection as Bristow reached for the coffee pot and a second cup. A Byzantine world this man lived in. Real? Or his own creation? Did he really think I might drug both of us to catch him? If I had eaten little, would he have eaten at all? Bristow concealed his amusement, said gravely, “How do you get rid of the car?”

  Vasek stared. “Car?”

  “The one you left on the street.”

  “That is not my car. I used it. Temporarily. It was parked—no one there.”

  “Neat. But you took a chance.”

  “I take chances.”

  “True,” Bristow said with a brief smile. “How did you recognise me?”

  Vasek lit a cigarette, sipped his coffee. “Simple. I had a description and a photograph—as well as your address and ’phone number—from one of your colleagues. I also know you drive a Camaro.”

  “Which was parked out of sight from your car.”

  “But I saw you enter it this morning. It wasn’t far from your door.”

  “You’re an early bird.” Bristow’s light reply seemed to baffle Vasek. He said nothing. “In fact,” Bristow went on, “you’re early in everything, including your arrival in Washington. Brilliant. How did you manage it? Friday, late afternoon, you were a priest in Rome. Then—?”

  “Then,” said Vasek, “straight to a bus station. A change of clothes, hair, passport, and I was on my way to Zurich on a tour. Another change in identity, and I was in Paris. From there, a new passport and alteration in appearance brought me to New York.”

  At the latest, his arrival was on Sunday. And if he skipped Paris, took the Swissair flight from Zurich on Saturday morning, he could have been in New York early that afternoon. Bristow said, “Fabulous. Did you run into any trouble—any precarious moments?”

  “In Zurich, yes. But only a brief alarm. I left the man—a Czech agent who could recognise me—in the airport washroom.”

  “Permanently, I suppose.”

  “Most permanently.”

  “What name are you using now?”

  “Vasek. Josef Vasek.”

  “The same as you used when you met Miss Cornell in Prague?” And let’s hope that Taylor’s sound-recorder is working loud and clear.

  “Why not? It is my oldest name. I have a liking for it. I began my career in Prague, you know.”

  “Before you started using all those other amazing pseudonyms that we’ve gathered in your file?”

  “The Farrago file.” Vasek’s amusement grew. “Quite extensive, I’ve heard—again by courtesy of your colleague.”

  And that’s the second mention of our mole. Am I supposed to be breathless, ask in wonder who it can be? Bristow said casually, “Did you train him?”

  “No need. He was well trained by the CIA.”

  “So you turned him. When?”

  “Not difficult. He was at a period of his life when he was bitter—disillusioned—the Vietnam fiasco—”

  “When?” Bristow insisted.

  “After his wife died. A long illness that wiped out his savings. The kind of moment that makes a numbered bank account in Zurich sound attractive.”

  Bristow was suddenly wary. Shaw a widower? He had never been married, or else he had concealed it damn well. “We know his identity,” Bristow said quietly.

  “You know who he is?” Vasek was astounded. “You actually found Menlo?”

  Bristow’s spine sti
ffened. He stared at Vasek, couldn’t speak.

  Vasek pressed his advantage. “Or perhaps you uncovered the man Menlo had recruited to assist him? Also one of your colleagues, also in need of ready cash. Money is the root of all our successes, wouldn’t you say?”

  “When was he recruited?”

  “By Menlo? Two years ago, I believe. Wallace Fairbairn’s young daughter had a bad accident on her bicycle—a lot of expensive treatment needed to get her walking again. But you remember, of course.”

  Bristow nodded. Fairbairn had borrowed money to meet some of the bills, but it had been paid back. Every dollar of it. That, Bristow knew. The two thousand he had lent Fairbairn had been returned within a year—a quiet transaction (Bristow’s stipulation), about which not even Emma Fairbairn had known.

  Vasek took Bristow’s silence as a concession of complete failure. “Is it possible that you named the wrong man as your mole? One that Menlo had chosen for—what do you call it?—for a stooge. Shaw, I hear, is well suited for the part. An amiable idiot. But such men are always around.”

  “You’re saying that Shaw was selected by Menlo to take the fall—if Menlo or Fairbairn was about to be discovered?”

  “Yes. But you shouldn’t be surprised. There are many such cases.” Vasek was expansive in victory. “I remember in Moscow—” and he plunged into a long reminiscence about a similar dupe in his own department.

  Bristow’s attention was far away. His first impulse had been to take that soft white face and smash it down into a coffee cup. But he had mastered his boiling emotion, now sat motionless and let his cold thoughts race. Vasek had made one mistake: he had underestimated the speed of Menlo’s intense investigation, the careful gathering of facts and circumstantial evidence that had let Bristow finish the job. Vasek didn’t even know that the report was completed, probably thought that Menlo’s death—he must have learned about the death somehow, otherwise he wouldn’t have lied so boldly—would even halt the investigation or at least cripple it while Bristow started the belated task of gathering evidence all over again. Nor had Vasek learned that Bristow was in possession of Menlo’s notes—a second mistake. Bristow was the man who had been out of touch, ignorant of what had happened during his absence in Rome. Let’s stay ignorant, Bristow decided as he began to listen to Vasek’s detailed anecdote. And stay alive.