Ride a Pale Horse

by Helen Macinnes

  “Go where?” she asked. But there was no answer. He was deep into sleep. He needs it, she told herself: last night he hadn’t had anything like three hours of sleep; twice she had opened her eyes briefly, found him wide awake. As she was now. Except she wasn’t as troubled as he had been. Worries are over for all of us, she thought as she looked at his face: all cares banished. Her spirits soared. Then she lay back, wondering once more how she could ever have fallen in love so completely and so quickly. Perhaps you didn’t judge love by the length of time you had known each other—it was the depth of time that mattered.

  She began rearranging her own life. The New York house would be sold. They’d live in Washington—no more commuting for her; she had hated it, she might as well admit, a drag on energy, a waste of leisure—but not in this apartment. Surely Peter would agree. Each time she entered the kitchen, she would think of Vasek and his arrival, and that was one memory she didn’t need. Memories... Schleeman had been right. They could tie you to the past, could make you captive. Silken chains.

  The alarm sounded. Bristow’s arm went out, his hand silenced it, then slipped from the clock, brushed against the revolver that lay on his table, fell back on the sheet, and was motionless.

  Karen was smiling as she rose and crossed around the bed to his side. She lifted the clock and held it near the flashlight to reset it for three forty-five. That would give him ample time to get ready. He needed all the extra few minutes of sleep he could get. In the meantime, she herself would shower and prepare to face another day. As she replaced the clock on the table, she glanced at the revolver he had borrowed from Taylor—a nasty, mean-looking object with a silencer attached. Surely, there was no longer any reason to have it at hand? As for the Beretta, she had forgotten about it. But she certainly didn’t need it to brush her teeth, she thought as she gathered her clothes and her handbag with its cosmetic pouch inside—comb, powder, lipstick. It felt heavier than usual. A small suspicion struck her, so she opened the bag and found the Beretta. Peter, Peter, she told him silently, aren’t you just a bit too careful? She repressed a laugh and went into the hall, closing the door quietly behind her.

  “Hi!” said Hansen. He was up on a stepladder in the hall, near the bedroom door, disengaging some wires that had been hidden by the moulding at the edge of the ceiling.

  She took a few steps to reach the ladder, pointed up at the wall—Peter was asleep on the other side of it—and kept her voice low. “What on earth is that hole?”

  Hansen came down a few steps, dropped his voice, too. “Just needs a little plaster—Taylor had to dig into it a bit.” Briefly, he showed her a small gadget, replaced it in his pocket. “All the better to hear with,” he said. “We had a warning signal in our room connected with it, too.”

  “And I never noticed it!”

  “No one did.” He looked at the wires still to be dealt with. “Won’t take long. Another ten minutes and I’ll be in the shower.”

  “Where’s Taylor? Asleep?”

  “He’s on his two-way radio. That’s his post.”

  So we are keeping in touch. Cautious people, these. “I’ll have the bathroom free for your shower in ten minutes. Fifteen?” she corrected herself.

  “Fifteen,” Hansen said cheerfully and climbed towards the ceiling, opening his knife to gouge out a well-hidden wire.

  She hurried past the bedroom- and living-room doors, reached the bathroom on the opposite side of the hall, switched on its light. Fifteen minutes, she warned herself as she slipped off dressing-gown and nightdress, washed her face, brushed her teeth, ran the shower, and stepped into its cool stream. That was another thing about this apartment, she thought: not enough hot water. But the bathroom light was strong, and once she was dressed, she could apply make-up accurately. She reached the last stage of combing her hair four minutes ahead of her allotted time. Just then, she heard a sound, a thud on the hall floor. Had Hansen slipped, fallen from the ladder? She turned from the mirror, comb in hand, to unlock the bathroom door. She had it only half-open when she stopped. A woman’s low voice was asking, “Bristow?” A man’s voice answered, “No.” A third voice hushed them both.

  For a moment, Karen stood paralysed. Then she reached into her handbag lying open on the ledge of the washbasin at arm’s length, grasped the Beretta, dropped the comb, flicked off the light, pulled the door wide. She drew to one side as she looked down the hall. Hansen on the floor, motionless. Three people moving away from him towards her, one man almost at the bedroom door and a woman following. He waved his pistol, pointing it towards the living-room door. The woman passed him as he waited for her to reach it. Karen raised the Beretta and fired. Nothing happened. Safety catch, safety catch—she released it, no time to aim, fired a warning shot.

  Bristow heard it. He was already on his feet. The thud in the hall had wakened him. Only a second of disorientation and his hand had gone out to warn Karen, found her gone. He swung his legs out of bed, grabbed the revolver on his table, switched off the flashlight. Silently, he reached the door, felt for its handle, yanked it open. On the threshold, only one step away, a man was aiming at the bathroom. Bristow whipped the butt of his revolver down on the man’s head, moved clear of the falling body. At the living-room door, a woman had turned to shoot at the bathroom, too, then swerved around to fire her second bullet at him. Bristow dropped low. The bullet passed over his head. Taylor stepped from the study and shot her in the right shoulder.

  Her revolver clattered to the floor. She grabbed hold of her wounded arm as if to stifle its pain. A fleeting look of astonishment, of anger; a faltering step, a low moan; and her knees buckled. She fell, clutching her shoulder, lay still.

  Swiftly, Bristow reached the bathroom. Karen was unhurt. She had drawn close against the wall at one side of its entrance, was standing there transfixed with horror, her eyes seeing only the hole that gaped in the tiles on the opposite wall. “Karen—”

  “Look out!” yelled Taylor, taking aim at a man who had just emerged from the kitchen. Bristow wheeled around, his revolver pointing.

  “All right, all right!” Waterman said quickly, threw aside his weapon, held up empty hands. He calmed his voice, hid his frustration: no quiet escape by the back door—locked, chained, an alarm’s red signal showing it was set—they would have stopped him on the stairs. At least, he had avoided the shooting gallery. “I fired at no one. I’m not responsible for that,” he protested as he looked at Hansen’s body. “She is!” Waterman nodded towards the girl and started slowly towards them.

  “Stay where you are!” Bristow kept his eyes on Waterman, his pistol aimed, while he sensed Karen coming to stand by his side. He slipped his free hand around her waist, gripped it tightly. She was still shaken.

  Waterman stared in complete amazement, looked from Karen to the Beretta she held, then back to Karen. He recovered, said with amusement, “So it was you who fired that shot.” The only one without a silencer. “I ought to have guessed. The smart reporter always on the scene. Or is this a new line of work, Miss Karen?”

  She ignored him, watched Taylor’s brisk movements as he gathered up the weapons on the floor and hurried to dump the load with a clatter somewhere in the kitchen. Almost at once, he was back in sight, stood looking down at Hansen. One shot in the back. Taylor took off his jacket and covered the body. With set face, he picked up Hansen’s knife. It had fallen as he tried to leap down from the ladder, too engrossed in his job to hear the front door’s lock being quietly turned. Taylor tore down a long strip of dangling wire, slashed it free, cutting it into three pieces as he came along the hall. He caught Waterman’s arms from behind, pinned them back, wrapped a piece of wire around his wrists, and tied the ends. “Shut your mouth!” he told Waterman, who had begun to protest.

  Next was Kellner. Taylor bound his hands, noticed no bullet wound. “He’s alive. Out cold. You hit him?”

  “Hard,” said Bristow.

  “Not hard enough.” Taylor moved on to Rita. “Don’t understan
d this one. I didn’t fire to kill—just caught her right shoulder.” He touched her neck. “Not dead. Fainted?” But she wasn’t the fainting type. He turned her on her face, pulling her left hand free from its clutch on her wounded shoulder, and gathered her wrists to tie them together at her back. “What the hell’s this?” He looked down at the heavy ring on her left hand, its face turned inward. He stared at the prongs that had pretended to hold its stone in place. “Came loose with her grip?”

  “Careful with that!” Bristow warned as Taylor removed the ring and held it out for them to see.

  “What the hell is it?”

  Bristow thought of Vasek. “Perhaps some kind of injection needle.”

  Waterman laughed. “Dear little Rita put herself to sleep. Oh, it’s harmless now—shot its bolt. Lucky it wasn’t carrying her usual cyanide. She threatened me with it, you know. I was forced to—”

  Bristow cut him off, saying to Taylor, “Get help. Three extra cars.”

  “They’re on their way. I was talking to Doyle when the shot was fired. I said, ‘Mayday,’ stepped out, left our connection open. Sorry I was late.”

  “Two seconds only. No damage.”

  “One second is enough,” Taylor said grimly, looked along the hall at Hansen. “They shot him in the back.” He left abruptly. At the study, he paused to say, “I’ll fill Doyle in,” and closed its door.

  Waterman had noted the look on Taylor’s face as he left. “I did not shoot your agent. I’m not a killer. I am political—” He saw only anger in Bristow’s eyes. “Karen, you know I’m not a criminal. You’ve worked with me, you know I’m no murderer.”

  “Then why did you come here? To congratulate me that I escaped alive from a bombing in Rome?” Her voice was cold, contemptuous. She has recovered, thought Bristow with relief. She is out of shock and as angry as I am. Her eyes travelled past Waterman, rested on Hansen’s body. “As a man, he was worth a hundred of you, Waterman.” She turned to Bristow. “Couldn’t we carry Hansen into the bedroom?” Her voice had softened; she was close to tears. “Peter—did they have to kill—”

  “Better leave him until the others get here,” he said.

  Waterman sensed Karen’s sudden emotion. “I’ve told you the truth. Please believe me, Karen. I did not kill him. I could have shot your Peter when he came out of that door.” He nodded towards the bedroom. “I didn’t.”

  “True,” said Bristow. “But you thought Rita would take care of me. Didn’t you? The way that your man took care of Menlo? The way he tried to take care of Fairbairn?”

  Tried? Barney had failed. Waterman stared at Bristow, began to calculate his remaining chances. Slim, now. If Barney had been taken alive, very slim indeed. Escape was the only way out—not a plea of innocence, not a protestation of ignorance. If he could move closer to Karen—if he could loosen the grip of the wire around his wrists still more, slip his hands free, be ready to grab her and her little pistol—yes, he might make that front door with her as a shield. Keep talking, he told himself. The knot on the wire could slip. Not easily, but with enough time it would give. And he had another half hour before Bristow’s people could possibly arrive. “You know,” he said with a smile, “if you are looking for the man who ordered Menlo’s death, and Fairbairn’s, and this assault—you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m not important, Bristow. A cog in the machine, as you are.”

  “So you’re pinning all blame on Coulton?” It was a shot in the dark, but it seemed to have hit its mark.

  “Coulton? Who’s he?” The words were casual, the eyes tense.

  “The man you were meeting last Friday evening at a very quiet club in Washington. Before you left for Rome. Remember?”

  “You’re crazy.” Waterman took a few steps towards Karen. “What’s he talking about?”

  “Back!” Bristow said sharply. “Back where you were!”

  Waterman retreated a pace. He leaned a shoulder against the wall, made a show of boredom. “Do we all have to stand here while we wait for your clean-up squad?”

  “Keep standing, and turn around.”

  “Just thought Karen would be more comfortable sitting down in your living-room.”

  “Turn around!”

  Slowly, Waterman obeyed. Another half hour and he might manage it; but now the knot still held, even if it was eased slightly, and he could feel Bristow’s eyes on his back. There must be some way, something that he could do. He tightened the muscles of his wrist, slackened them, tightened, slackened. Little by little, painful as it was. Then he heard the other man coming along the hall, saying, “Ten minutes and they’ll be here. Driving at ninety—no traffic problems this time in the morning.” Ten minutes. Waterman’s hope began to fade.

  Bristow said, “Handcuffs, Taylor. This one”—he indicated Waterman—“thinks he’s Houdini. And that one on the floor has stirred twice, probably faking a concussion.”

  “Won’t be a minute.” Taylor was as good as his word. He was back with two sets of handcuffs, his own and Hansen’s. He snapped them in place—Waterman first, Kellner next. Waterman felt the cold bite of the metal added to the pain encircling his wrists, and his vague hope turned to despair. Coulton got me into this, he thought, Coulton will get me out. Or is Coulton trapped, too? His depression plunged into the depths of failure complete.

  Taylor had examined Rita’s wrists and tightened the wire around them. She was still totally unconscious—a powerful drug, whatever she had used. Lying there, with a face so sweet and innocent, she was unrecognisable from the girl with the grimacing mouth and wild eyes who had fired to kill. That Magnum she had chosen to use, far too heavy for her; her aim would have been surer with a lighter pistol. She couldn’t always depend on a man’s broad back as her target from ten feet away. Hansen, blasted open—Taylor was gripped by a rush of deep anger. She’s the new breed of women, is she? Terrorist-trained, no doubt about that. Something rotten has been added to this world of ours. Next time I come up against one of them, I’ll not aim for a shoulder. That, I promise.

  Taylor moved towards the study, controlled his emotion enough to be able to speak. “I’d better keep in contact. As soon as they enter this street, I’ll get downstairs and let them in.”

  “Okay,” said Bristow. Waterman has given up, he thought, noting the slackened hands, the drooping head. Unless he decides he’d rather be dead than face his future. One lunge towards us, and I’d have to shoot him. I’ll be damned if I’ll help him commit suicide.

  “It sounds,” said Karen, watching Taylor enter the study, “as if the emergency is over. Really over.”

  “Yes.” But I’ll believe it, thought Bristow, when I see Doyle and his men come through that front door.

  “Then I don’t need this,” she said with relief and handed the Beretta over to him. He took it, slipped it into his belt, kept his eyes on Waterman and the revolver ready. “My aim,” she admitted, “was awful.”

  “Where did the bullet go?” He dropped a kiss on her head as he pulled her close to his side.

  “Into the ceiling, I’m afraid. A panic shot. I forgot the safety catch.” She shuddered. She would remember that moment forever. Even now, it reached out and laid an icy finger on her heart. “I was almost too late.”

  “But you weren’t.” His eyes left Waterman to linger on her face. “You weren’t, my love.” Without that warning, we would all be scattered on the floor, shot in cold blood as Hansen had been.

  Suddenly, she threw her arms around him, kissed him fiercely. “You could have been killed. You might have been dead. I thought—I thought I had lost you—” She broke off, kissed him again and again.

  Taylor ran past them, tapping Bristow on the shoulder. “They’re here!” he said, left the door open as he reached the landing and raced down the stairs.

  Waterman came to life. “Time for my exit, I see.” He started walking to the door.

  “Waterman—stop!”

  Waterman laughed, increased his pace. “Shoot a handcuffed man in the back? Le
t Karen do that job—she’s always been good at it!”

  Karen flinched, then shook her head.

  Bristow’s jaw was set, his eyes hard. “He won’t get far, and he knows it. A cheap shot, Karen. His specialty.” He’s lucky I wasn’t facing him with his hands uncuffed, but he knows that, too.

  Waterman reached the door as a group of men entered. He kicked the first man hard in the groin, shouldered Doyle heavily aside. The third man wasn’t caught by surprise; he was Taylor. He drew and fired as Waterman lunged at him. He didn’t aim at the shoulder, either. He aimed for the hip bone and gave Waterman something to curse for the rest of his life.

  29

  After Wednesday’s pre-dawn assault, the peace and quiet of morning in the Doyle house seemed incredible to Karen. And miraculous. And normal, she kept reminding herself—a word rarely appreciated until you found yourself facing hideous danger. But it was over; and she completed her readjustment from last night’s fears by setting to work. It was always the great pacifier.

  By mid-afternoon, her article on the terrorists—their background and history, the bombing and Martita’s planned escape, the cost in human lives, the scenes of destruction both inside the hall and outside in the street—was completed and corrected, typed into presentable copy, ready for mailing to the Spectator by an obliging Mrs. Doyle when that unflappable lady went marketing. Not even a six o’clock breakfast in her kitchen for four strangers, with herself presiding in blue dressing-gown and pink curlers, had dented Mrs. Doyle’s equanimity. It was the antidote they all had needed, including a grim-faced Doyle: something simple and true, honest and kindly—the reverse of what they had seen and sensed since Vasek appeared at Peter Bristow’s door. Tonight, thought Karen, we’ll all sleep.

  With thanks in her heart, she spent the next half hour daydreaming on the chaise in Mrs. Doyle’s guest room, which had been her working space today. From downstairs came the distant sounds of voices and a drift of music, even once a burst of laughter—not from Taylor; it must have come from Hansen’s replacement, as young and cheerful as he had been. That thought put her on her feet, made her start rearranging the clothes in a suitcase that had been packed for her Rome visit. So many new memories gathered in the last six days, putting the old ones to rest in the past. Where they belonged. Carefully, she refolded la Contessa’s elegant sweater. I will invite her to dinner, Karen decided; and Giovanni, too. I’ll send him a copy of my article on terrorism and write “Thank you” across its by-line. Schleeman will be astonished by it—not quite what he intended when he sent me to Italy. Schleeman... I should call him. But from here? Will that endanger the Doyle house?