Ride a Pale Horse Read online

  Bristow roused himself. “What’s it about? D’you know?” His glance veered back to the stream of cars, saw a street corner ahead of him, edged the Plymouth towards the outer lane to be ready for a right turn.

  “Samples of his work—as insurance that you’ll help him. They are to be issued to the media as soon as the assassinations take place.” She held out the envelope.

  He negotiated the turn into a side street with little traffic and enough free space to park by the kerb. “Assassinations? In the plural?” he asked incredulously as he switched off the engine. He looked at her: blue eyes, large and beautiful, were completely sincere.

  “Yes. Two of them.”

  “Whose?”

  “He didn’t know. Date and place still being decided. He predicted wide protests, riots, the end of the Western alliance and of NATO. He foresaw a world war.”

  Bristow took the stained envelope, handled it carefully. The censor’s stamp of approval caught his eye at once. The partly blotted inscription at the top of the envelope puzzled him: Tuesday: Village Visits. “Your envelope?”

  She nodded. “One of several.”

  “You risked using it to carry—” he began almost sharply.

  “No! I didn’t put the letters there. Farrago did. But that’s another part of my story.”

  He eased the envelope’s flap loose—it looked as if it might have been opened and resealed—and pulled out three sheets of heavy paper with embossed letterheads, held them by their edges. His lips tightened, his jaw went rigid. He finished reading the three short missives. He drew a deep breath as he replaced them in the envelope. “Excellent samples of Farrago’s talent,” he said bitterly. He recovered. “And what else did he have to say?”

  “Farrago had no idea—”

  “Forget that name,” he told her. “At least, don’t use it.” Then his voice softened. “Sorry—my fault for calling him Farrago. But he used so many names that it became simpler to give him the one on his file. Go on! He had no idea—?”

  “No idea that the letters would be used to back any assassination.”

  “I wonder.” Or had he really been following someone’s suggestions for these letters’ contents? Highly unusual for him: Farrago was the source of ideas, not their echo.

  “I think he told the truth. Defection is the strongest protest he could make, isn’t it? He is a Czech and a Communist, but he is in total disagreement with the use of these letters.” With their use, Bristow wondered, or with something else? Such as a demotion under the Andropov regime? Strange, though. “He’s Russian, not Czech,” he advised Karen. “KGB from away back when.” He looked at her startled face. “What’s the other part of your story? A lot to tell, you said. I’d like to hear it.” If she hadn’t known about Farrago, he wouldn’t even have listened to her. Whose side was she on? Her story might make that clearer.

  “All of it?” She glanced at her watch.

  “All. But first, we’ll have to get this envelope into safe hands—can’t go carrying it around with us all afternoon.” He reached for his book bag and loosened the drawstring around its neck, presumably to slip the envelope out of sight. But he had second thoughts and handed the envelope back to her. “Less chance of damage if you keep it.” She noticed the hard bulge of a heavy object inside the green cloth covering: books tied together or some massive tome? He dropped the bag on the rear seat once more, became aware of her silence, said, “You are free, aren’t you?”

  She thought of her own work, her notes ready and waiting on her bedroom desk. “I’m free,” she said.

  “Good. See that mom-and-pop paper shop just ahead of us? I can telephone from there, won’t take five minutes. Hang onto your bag.”

  As he left the car, he saw her reach across to lock its door behind him. She had locked hers, too. This time he didn’t smile at her precaution: he had his own problems on security to work out.

  The telephone call had taken considerably more than five minutes. Bristow had made three calls, but he wasn’t explaining. Two had been to Langley—the first one in search of the Director, with an urgent request to be given him when (and if) he reached his office this afternoon: highly sensitive material to be read and discussed as soon as possible; this evening or night preferable; tomorrow early morning at latest—if not too late. (I stuck my neck out there, Bristow thought, but I don’t request many urgent interviews.) The second call to Langley was brief—Fairbairn, his good right hand, was at work today and would take his car, drive to a gas station that was the most easily reached from Langley. No name given, but Fairbairn knew which one. He’d be there at twelve thirty and wait if necessary. “Emergency,” Bristow had said without any details. His third call was briefer yet. He had to cancel that tennis game this afternoon; sorry, Diana, but this shoulder was acting up again; he’d keep in touch. Karen had the car door unlocked as he returned. There was a newspaper under his arm, two candy bars in his hand. That accounted for the delay, she thought as he tossed them into the back seat. She refrained from saying, “I was beginning to worry,” and only said, “All settled?”

  “The best I could do.” There might be a chance that the Director would be in his office this evening—he worked erratic hours and kept all his subordinates hopping. It was a piece of luck about Wallace Fairbairn, though. It might have been Denis Shaw, always full of questions; or Jan van Trompf, who—like a lot of sticklers—could be something of a ditherer when the unusual came up. Susan Attley was on leave—she’d be back at her desk next Wednesday. Bob Reid took Saturdays off, definitely. Manuel Domingus was punctual with his work and it was good, but he never kept an appointment on time.

  They drove in silence for the next ten minutes. He’s probably making up his mind what to tell me, Karen decided. “When do we eat the candy bars? I’m hungry.” Breakfast had been at six that morning.

  “You’ll spoil your lunch.”

  “We lunch somewhere?” she asked in surprise. “Then I’ll wait.” She hadn’t wanted a candy bar anyway; it was just a small ploy to break into his thoughts without appearing to be the inquisitive reporter. That, he would shy away from, even if his manner was now easier, his voice friendly.

  “We’ll pick up some food at a sandwich place. Okay with you? And I’ll hand over the envelope to—to one of my friends. I’m meeting him near the quick-food joint.” The gas station that Fairbairn often used was right next door to the cafeteria.

  She recognised the road they were travelling. It could take them towards Langley. “The envelope is open,” she reminded him.

  He reached into his trouser pocket, produced a small roll of Scotch tape. I’m beginning to believe her, he thought in surprise. There was a directness about her, a frankness that was appealing. Or perhaps it was just those sincere blue eyes. Careful, he warned himself.

  “Mom and pop’s novelty counter?” she asked.

  “You’re pretty quick, aren’t you?” But his tone was bantering: no barbed wire laced around it. She smiled and shrugged. “Here!” He handed over the tape. “Seal that envelope so no one can open it. Not this time,” he added.

  Her smile faded, her hands froze on the fastener of her bag. Then she released its catch and extracted the envelope, began pulling the tape out of its container. She seemed thoroughly absorbed by the job on hand.

  He let her finish it. “Was it you, Karen?”

  The use of her first name calmed her slightly.

  “I hope it was, and no one else,” Bristow added.

  “No one touched this envelope except me. And Farr—and Vasek warned me not to open it.” She hoped that would close the subject.

  “And that was a challenge in itself, wasn’t it?”

  “No!”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did open it—there was a big story inside. Impossible to resist.”

  “It wasn’t that!” Not altogether, at least.

  “Besides,” he went on smoothly, “the American public ought to be told. Your first duty is to them.”

/>   “Will you stop inventing reasons for me?” She was angry enough to hit him with the truth. “If that envelope had been stolen, who would have known what it contained? What help would that have been to you? What good would that have done Vasek? Yes, I opened the envelope—after I had a scare in Vienna.”

  “Vienna?”

  “I think I was under surveillance there, even more than in Prague. A very odd thing happened—” She broke off. “Well?” she demanded. “Was I right to open the envelope?”

  “You have a point there,” he conceded. “I’m sorry I needled you. I had to make sure that no one else had tampered with it.” Doesn’t she realise that, if all this is true, she may have put herself in jeopardy? “Vasek warned you not to open the envelope. Did he give you a reason?”

  “He said it could be dangerous to me.”

  And how right he was. But why hadn’t he given her a concrete example of the risk she would run? Or at least explained that the less she knew, the safer she was. “It could very well be.”

  “Why? The dangerous time for me was between picking up that envelope from my desk in a Prague hotel and reaching the Austrian frontier. Which I did with no trouble at all.”

  “That was the first hazard you faced. The second was in Vienna, wasn’t it?”

  “And the third? Any prediction on that one?” She was half-serious, half-mocking.

  It all depended on whether she had indeed come under suspicion. But he wasn’t going to add to the sudden fears that she was trying to hide. “I’m no oracle,” he said with an encouraging smile. “How could I make even a guess until I hear the full story? Do you remember the details, what was said and how it was said?”

  “I remember,” she said tensely. “Couldn’t forget them. Thanks to a sleepless night,” she added, lightening her voice.

  “Can you give them to me in sequence? From the moment Vasek met you?”

  “From the moment I was waiting in my hotel room for my envelopes to be returned by the censors, and the telephone rang.”

  “By ’phone—he made the first contact by your room telephone?” My God, thought Bristow, she could be in danger. “Okay, okay,” he added, easing his voice, trying to allay any alarm his startled question might have aroused, “I’ll be patient. Just don’t forget a thing, Karen. Thank heaven we have a trained ear and eye to give us the particulars.”

  “Can that actually be praise for journalists?”

  “Actually, yes.” Ahead of them, on a stretch of land that had flattened out and been robbed of its trees, he could see two square shapes of whitened concrete huddled together. The gas station was the nearer building, drawn off the highway, its red pumps standing at attention under a string of stiff bright-coloured pennants. Beyond it were the blue and yellow neon lights of the café.

  Bristow lessened his speed as they passed the side road on his left that slanted into the highway. What he could see of it, for trees still lined its narrow curve, gave no glimpse of Fairbairn’s green Buick heading for their rendezvous. Not to worry, he told himself. Fairbairn won’t be late; we are early.

  They reached the gas station and parked on its free side in a small one-time field, now bare of grass, partly filled with two old trucks and three cars in need of repairs. “We still have seven minutes to wait,” Bristow said. “Sorry about the view.” They were facing a blank wall.

  “Better than gas pumps and stiff little flags. Is that where you’ll meet your friend?”

  “Just around the corner. He’ll probably be buying some gas.”

  “And then,” she guessed, “you’ll wander into the washroom, and he will follow, and you’ll give him this.” She presented the envelope.

  “Perfect,” he said as he noted the elaborate crisscross of tape on its flap. No one could risk opening it without pulling away some of the envelope, too.

  “A nice tangled mess,” she agreed. “But how will you keep the envelope out of sight?”

  He had foreseen that small problem and had already opened his book bag. He was now lifting a dictating machine and some cassettes out of its depths. “Much too heavy,” he told her with a grin. “We can’t have them bruising and crumpling those nice flat sheets inside the envelope. How did you manage to keep them without a fold or wrinkle?” Karen just kept staring at the machine.

  “Well, you know now... Do you mind?”

  She shook her head, tried to look nonchalant. She could see the good sense of having her story on tape. “Recorded for posterity—I’m flattered. Do you always come prepared?”

  Not prepared to meet anyone like you, he thought. Beauty and brains—it was a devastating mixture. “I use these gadgets for accuracy.” His voice was stilted, embarrassed, and he knew it. “My memory isn’t as good as yours.”

  “I wouldn’t like to bet on that.”

  “What about this?” He was looking at the book bag critically. “Too noticeable?”

  “Eccentric—for a gas station.”

  He replaced the machine and its cassettes in the bag. “In your care,” he told her.

  “Why don’t I get the sandwiches and something to drink? It would save time.”

  He hesitated for a moment, looked at his watch. It would take them at least half an hour to reach the place he had decided to tape her story: a secluded spot, no one to wonder at them—or intrude—and a spreading tree for cool shade. Time wasn’t for wasting this afternoon. “Okay. Beer for me—doesn’t matter what kind. Anything liquid. Here’s your expense account.” He found a ten-dollar bill in his pocket, tucked it under the strap of her handbag. “Better leave now. And stay inside the café until I pick you up. Okay?”

  She nodded, and then broke into a laugh as he pulled up his shirt and flattened the envelope against his diaphragm, anchored it there by tucking his shirt back into his trousers.

  “All set,” he said as calmly as if he did this every day before breakfast. “Let’s go.”

  She glanced back when she reached the corner of the gas station: he was locking the car’s trunk, presumably with his book bag stowed inside. Why not use the Washington Post, lying beside two candy bars, to cover the envelope? Ah, yes, she realised suddenly as she saw a station wagon at one of the gas pumps: man enters washroom, newspaper under arm, second man follows; first man exits with no newspaper, second man comes out holding it. That old bromide, she thought; too obvious. But she was wondering, as she took a short-cut behind the gas pumps to reach the circular driveway in front of the café, why so much security? Then she smiled at herself. After all the precautions she had taken, who was she to cavil at his? And it was proof, perhaps, that he was taking her seriously. Or the envelope. Or the Farrago name.

  Unexpectedly, a brown Honda left its parking space in front of the café and—taking its own short-cut—skimmed past her to reach the gas station. She flashed the driver and his companion an angry glare, but it had little effect. Manners, she thought bitterly, whatever became of good manners? Or perhaps some men just liked to see the ladies jump, an old tradition—hadn’t Papa Haydn used that phrase with glee when he inserted a loud bang in the middle of a placid sonata? But before the driver glanced away as if nothing had happened, he had a damned good look at me. Somehow, that troubled her.

  Bristow was later than she expected. It was with relief that Karen saw him driving up to the café. She was out of its door, a bundle in each arm, as he halted the car.

  “Sorry,” he said, his face tight, his dark eyes angry. “Ten minutes wasted.” He lifted the packages into the car as she climbed on board. She was barely settled before they had reached the highway and swung round to follow the direction they had taken earlier.

  “Your friend was late?” she asked.

  “No. My fault.” And blast me for an idiot. There I was, leaning against the Plymouth’s trunk, congratulating myself that I’d have a clear view of Fairbairn’s Buick tooling along the highway, then suddenly wondering if he had misheard me over the ’phone and chosen another route to reach the gas station. And when
I walked to the corner of the building just to check, there he was, gas already pumping into his car. Not the Buick. He had been given a lift in Shaw’s little number when his own car developed a flat tyre, and Shaw was there, too. Shaw, the perpetually curious.

  “Your fault?” she asked disbelievingly.

  “He arrived on time, but he took another road—one I hadn’t expected. Just a misunderstanding. No harm done. Envelope safely transferred and now about to be stashed in the safest of safes.” But not in our file room. I made that clear. It raised a smile from Fairbairn, as if my supercaution was a touch comical, but he said nothing. Nothing, too, when I specified its destination—in Blau’s special security vault, but accessible for immediate consultation. Which meant a record of delivery, time of deposit indicated. Miriam Blau was meticulous about that. Anyway, I’ve made sure it won’t lie on a desk for some unauthorised eyes to note the Czech censor’s mark. The stamp itself caused a tightening around Fairbairn’s lips for a moment, but he will hear the details tomorrow or the next day, once the top brass decides how we handle them.

  “Well, you took every care,” Karen said. Why blame himself for someone taking the wrong route? She smiled, remembering the envelope safely hidden under a sports shirt. “Did your friend have to hide it your way?” Or perhaps he had carried a useful newspaper.

  “No need.” Bristow’s voice had dropped its worry. “His idea of dressing for summer is a seersucker suit. The jacket hid the envelope nicely.” We’re making good time, he thought, even if I’m keeping to the speed limit. No risk of being stopped by a traffic cop, no more delays.

  Something jolted Karen’s memory. “Was he in that Honda? A brown Honda? It nearly sideswiped me on my way to the café. Who was the driver—is he usually so wild?”

  “Erratic sometimes. But why say ‘usually’—he didn’t do it on purpose, did he?” That wasn’t Shaw’s style. He was eager, yes, but never aggressive.

  She shrugged, didn’t mention that the driver had stared at her; the other man, too, but less obviously. Instead, she said, “They must have arrived too early and parked, and then suddenly noticed the time and came rushing out.”