Ride a Pale Horse

by Helen Macinnes

  “A very clever stratagem of the CIA,” Vasek concluded at the end of his story.

  “Sometimes we aren’t entirely stupid.”

  “But it failed,” Vasek reminded him.

  “Well, we do. Now and again.”

  “You are still thinking about Menlo.” Vasek was watching Bristow.

  “Yes.” Bristow shook his head. “It’s hard to believe. You’ll have to furnish proof, of course.”

  “Of course. Did you never wonder why he kept himself so much apart? He resisted all friendship. Even his holidays in Nova Scotia—by himself—in lonely places—” Vasek seemed to hesitate. “We met there. Twice. A most suitable rendezvous. No one to see us but the salmon and a few speechless peasants.”

  Bristow felt sickened. Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Now about you. You must leave here tomorrow—for your own security. We’ll take you to a safe house, see that it is well guarded.”

  “Where will that be?” The question was quiet but quick.

  “I’ve no idea. Nor do I know who will be debriefing you. Many people, I think, from other sections. You are a very important man, Vasek.” Bristow paused, said as a seeming afterthought, “Perhaps even more important than our political refugee who came asking for asylum four months ago.”

  “The one who calls himself Gregor?” Vasek was casual. “He’s a friendly type—always says what he thinks will please you. But I hope your people will be on guard against that.” Vasek frowned. “Menlo wasn’t present at Gregor’s questioning, was he?”

  “Well—he could have been. Gregor asked for asylum through him.”

  “So Menlo vouched for him. Very clever. And Menlo no doubt persuaded his colleagues that Gregor’s statements are trustworthy.” Vasek shook his head in admiration of Menlo. “Where is Gregor now? Still being questioned? I did not think even his imagination could invent so much misinformation.”

  “I’ve heard he doesn’t stay long in one place.” Not with two attempts made to kill him. “A matter of security.”

  “I am relieved to hear your people take our safety so seriously. Mine will be a problem, too.”

  “We’ve had other defectors besides you and Gregor. None have been terminated or abducted as far as I know. But then, I don’t deal with defectors. Only with words.” With lying words, Bristow thought. “Disinformation is my field,” he reminded Vasek with a smile. And I bet, he told the pale-grey eyes that were studying him, you have more fields of interest than that.

  “How will you handle the problem of Menlo?”

  “Not mine to handle. He’s had a bad accident.”

  “Serious?”

  “Could be fatal.”

  There was no surprise on Vasek’s face, just mild amusement. “Perhaps,” he suggested, “your colleagues from another section have already handled the problem for you.”

  Again Bristow restrained himself, said nothing.

  “No more questions?” Vasek asked, preparing to rise.

  “Not from me.”

  “When do I leave here?”

  “Well—I’ll have to make arrangements. No one expected you so soon. But give us a little time. We won’t delay. For safety, it would be best to leave when the light is poor.”

  “It will be interesting to see how your people deal with my departure.”

  “Yes, you can compare our arrangements with KGB methods. By the way,” Bristow said as he pushed back his chair and got to his feet, “did you write the three letters yourself? The letters you gave Miss Cornell to deliver to me?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “They were masterly. One supposedly from the Secretary of State, another pretending to be from the Secretary of Defense, and a third—equally deceiving—from the President himself. A brilliant tour de force. They had your touch, I thought.”

  “In that case, I won’t disappoint you. I composed them.” Vasek paused, added quickly, “Of course, I had no idea of how they were to be used.”

  “You mean, with two assassinations planned to precede their publication?”

  “That would only lead to worldwide disruption, to riots—anarchy. And war. Who could win a nuclear war?”

  “Behold a pale horse,” Bristow quoted, then paraphrased, “and its rider’s name is Death, and Hell followed with him.” It was the first time that Bristow had seen Vasek perplexed, but the Book of Revelations wasn’t exactly approved reading in the Soviet Union.

  In silence, they began to walk slowly into the hall. Before they would leave the area that Taylor’s recorder covered, Bristow halted to say, “There is a joint agreement—between Moscow and Washington—that the letters will never be published by either side. Can we trust that agreement, or is it just another scrap of paper?”

  “Now you are being too suspicious.”

  “If you had been caught or killed on your way through Europe, would it have been a broken agreement?”

  “Possibly. But I am here. And I intend to stay alive.”

  And not make an escape and call it an abduction? Return secretly to Moscow, have the letters published and catch us out? “We’ll make sure of that,” Bristow said and led the way down the hall. “Sorry we’ve no extra bed. But the sofa in the living-room isn’t too bad. Undress in the bathroom, where there is plenty of electric light and no window to give it away. Don’t open your curtains or the shade. And leave your door ajar to let some light into your room so that you can see your way around. Don’t want you breaking an arm with a fall over the coffee table.”

  “CIA brutality?” Vasek asked with a laugh. He clapped Bristow on the shoulder and went into the bathroom, closing its door firmly.

  Now he may try using his transceiver to reach the man who is waiting for instructions, Bristow thought. There will be no privacy in his room for any talk with a door ajar and Hansen sitting barely ten feet away from it.

  On impulse, Bristow moved back into the kitchen and removed the large flashlight over the stove, then the second light from the table. In the dining area, the candles were out, but he dampened their wicks with the last drops of coffee. He switched off the kitchen’s meagre bulb, checked to see if the small red button was glowing over the back door, and returned to the dimly lit hall. Half-way along it, he handed one of the powerful flashlights to a surprised Hansen and bent close to him. “Take the flash to Taylor. Tell him I want to reach Doyle at eleven o’clock.”

  Hansen rose from his chair, padded silently to the guest room, while Bristow waited, his eyes on the bathroom door. Hansen was back almost immediately, but Taylor was with him, too. Taylor was whispering, “Mr. Doyle will be out of reach until eleven thirty. Something is going down.”

  Can’t have it all my own way, Bristow thought. “What is?”

  “Didn’t say. But we got a patrol car to investigate your street—the dark-brown two-door near this apartment.”

  There was the sound of movement from the bathroom. Quickly, Bristow pulled Taylor into the kitchen. They listened to Vasek’s voice bidding Hansen good night, and as silence returned to the hall, Bristow asked, “Anyone inside that car?”

  “One man. Chauffeur’s cap and blue suit, waiting for a party to end, he said. Then as the cops began to search him, he changed his tune: he gave his name—Russian—and claimed diplomatic immunity.”

  “What?” Bristow recovered. “Did the cops have time to find anything on him?”

  “No weapons—just a transceiver. They’ve moved the car and the Russian, taken them to the station to clear up this immunity business.”

  “He went quietly?”

  “Better that than being arrested for loitering with intent.”

  “Okay, okay.” As they re-entered the hall, Bristow lowered his voice still more. “Any tricks, and use this.” He tapped Taylor’s holstered revolver. “Wound. Don’t kill. Pass the word.”

  Taylor looked at him, nodded, moved silently down the hall, stopping to bend over Hansen’s chair and whisper.

  He got the message, Bristow thought, and enter
ed his bedroom: emergency situation—be ready for anything.

  Karen had been trying to read by flashlight, but she had fallen asleep, half-propped up on the pillow, her book lying spread-eagled on the floor. He placed the larger flash he had brought from the kitchen on his bed table, turning its powerful beam away from the window. Gently, he eased her head into a more comfortable position, then slipped off his shoes, dropped quietly beside her, lay staring up at the darkened ceiling. A few slow deep breaths, a loosening of his spine and shoulders, and he felt his body gradually ease. Lightly, he placed his hand over Karen’s, let it rest there. His mind began to come out of shock.

  Menlo... Menlo... No, don’t think of Menlo and the venomous lies that were being woven around him: deal with that later. Now, think only of Vasek. Vasek and his connection with his embassy—was that why he had wanted to know the address of the safe house, so that it could be reported to the “chauffeur” in the car? So that his people would know where to find him and “abduct” him when he gave them the signal? Yet they had waited until the final stages of his plan. And he had been hunted by other members of the KGB. Their search had been intense, his danger as a “defector” had been real enough. Witness his alarm tonight when he found that Hansen and Taylor were Security and realised he had entered an apartment that needed to be guarded; or his panic and reaction when he entered and thought he was trapped, betrayed by me. It wasn’t the first time that an intelligence officer had let a difficult and unwelcome guest be given that raw deal as the simplest solution.

  Vasek—the man who took chances—his defection planned weeks ago as one sure way to get at Gregor, render Gregor’s information suspect. Gregor was the target; everything else—Menlo and his section, our mole—was peripheral. And to be accepted as an honest defector, Vasek took his biggest chance: perhaps half a dozen, at a very high level, even fewer, knew of his plan. The rest of the KGB were told he was defecting, and their search for him only made his myth seem true and acceptable. But would they have killed him when he was found? I doubt that, thought Bristow. Their orders are probably to seize him and return him alive to Moscow. Even a man who is proud of the chances he takes might not want the risk of being shot by one of his own. Although tonight he seemed to have no qualms about killing a KGB officer in Zurich, some poor bloody fool who got in the way of his master plan.

  And if I’m right, Bristow concluded, his pulse racing, his smile broadening, then he has no connection with the Sam Waterman cell—with Coulton or Shaw or any others who have been brought in to prevent their disclosure. They are peripheral, too. Only, the Russian who claimed diplomatic immunity tonight is one of the few who knows Vasek is not a defector. He has used us all—the KGB and the CIA, Karen and me, everyone—but he didn’t foresee one thing: we’ve got him. Yes, we’ve got him.

  Bristow laughed softly. Karen, who had been watching him for the last five minutes, raised herself on an elbow and touched his cheek. “Do I share the joke?”

  He turned, drew her close to him, put a finger on her lips to warn her to speak low, pointed to the wall behind which Vasek lay.

  “Later?” she asked. Always later—security, safety, security.

  “Perhaps not so much later.”

  “When?”

  “With luck, by tomorrow.”

  “And I’ll hear the joke?”

  “You’ll hear everything.” Sure, it broke the rules, but she had been in this case from the beginning. Karen knew more about it than most.

  “I’ll hold you to that promise,” she warned him, her arms around him, her kisses on his lips. Then she laughed. “Are you going to sleep with your clothes on, darling?”

  “I’m staying awake. A report I have to give—” he looked at his watch—“in thirty-five minutes.” He would tell Doyle the essential facts: Vasek a fake but must be treated as genuine; one suspicion, and he will cut his losses and escape; special care, tightest security requested; full details will be given tomorrow morning—eight A.M.

  “You do need sleep.”

  “Forgotten about it.” He wouldn’t be the only one who’d be forgetting sleep once Doyle passed on his warning. There would be several lights burning late tonight, and several tempers, too. “What about you?”

  “Wide awake.”

  “Would you listen to this, honey?”

  What now? she wondered, as he freed her from his arms and slipped out of bed. He opened the drawer of his night table, found the two mini-cassettes he had placed there along with the three white tablets before he had joined Vasek at dinner. Then he lifted the large flashlight and handed it to Karen as he got back into bed. “Hold that, darling. Give me some light on these things.” He examined the miniature cases of tapes. “I brought them from Joe’s—my answering service. He had two intruders but recorded their voices. Just want you to listen, say nothing. Raise your hand if you recognise either of them.” He found the small switch that would start the tape. “Okay,” he said encouragingly and took the heavy light away from her. “I’ll play it at lowest volume, so keep the machine close to your ear. This is a recording made between four and six o’clock this afternoon.” Waterman’s voice should be on the earlier half of it—Joe had returned to his office by five. Bristow turned on the replay mechanism, held the mini-cassette to Karen’s cheek.

  She listened to various sounds; an unknown voice; more noises of movements. And then, her eyes dilated in astonishment. She raised her hand.

  Bristow stopped the replay. “Well?”

  “Sam Waterman.”

  “Definitely?” He ran back the tape just enough to play the Waterman voice once more.

  “Definitely,” Karen said. “He may call himself Winston, but he is Waterman. What on earth was he doing in Joe’s office?”

  “Snitching tapes of ’phone calls to me. Now, try this recording, honey. It may be difficult.” Perhaps impossible, Bristow thought. It had been twelve days since Karen had heard Rita’s voice in a Vienna café.

  He played the second tape. First came Joe’s ’phone call, telling Bristow about Winston’s visit. Next, sounds of a wheelchair moving around; Joe’s voice angry; Ken’s voice defensive as he left to buy some groceries. Movements again. Then a woman speaking American but with a slight foreign accent picked up and emphasised by the microphone.

  Karen was suddenly alert. Puzzled, too. She signed for the tape to be stopped, said, “Replay it, Peter. I have to be sure.” Again she listened intently. She looked at him. “It can’t be—”

  Bristow switched off the recorder. “Can’t be—?”

  “The girl who came into the café with Waterman and Andreas Kellner. Rita.”

  “Are you sure that’s her voice?”

  “Rita said ‘interesting’ to rhyme with ‘arresting’—said it often. One of her favourite words. And that woman on the tape—the same light voice, the suspicion of an accent, and ‘interesting’ used three times just the way Rita drooled it out. But—she isn’t in Washington, is she?”

  “I think you’ve just proved it.” He replaced the mini-cassettes in the nightstand’s drawer.

  “And after she was so sweet and charming, she held Joe up—threatened to blow his head off if he didn’t give her your recorded ’phone calls? That was Rita?”

  “You heard her.”

  “What was that noise at the end? A blow?”

  “With her revolver butt on the back of Joe’s head. Nothing too serious. He sensed it coming, dodged a little. Could have been worse.”

  “The running footsteps were Rita’s?”

  “Yes. To meet her friend in the car that was waiting for her. A broad-faced man, light hair, looking hot and uncomfortable in a suit never meant for late summer in Washington.”

  “Andreas Kellner—”

  “We don’t know.”

  “It could be. With a tightly knotted tie?”

  “He was pretty red in the face, I heard.”

  “It was Kellner,” Karen said. “They go together—a team, I have thought. But why
in Washington? Why your telephone messages?” I don’t like this, she told herself. I don’t like this one bit.

  “Because,” Bristow said, taking her hands in his, calming her sudden fear, “they are after Vasek. And Vasek made two calls to me, both of which they have stolen.”

  “Why? Did he arrange a meeting on either of them?”

  “No. He promised another call tomorrow—at four o’clock—to set up time and place.”

  “Four o’clock—another lie,” she said scornfully.

  “He’s an expert.” Bristow looked at his watch again. “I’d better get moving. Lock the door. Open it only when I give that special knock.” He hesitated, then moved quickly to a closet, found his Beretta in his jacket pocket. “Do you know how to use this?”

  “No.”

  “Simple. Release this safety catch. You point, arm at full length, and squeeze the trigger gently. Got that?”

  “I—honestly, Peter, I—”

  “Take it, darling.”

  “What about you—if you think there’s danger here?”

  “Taylor will have a spare I can borrow.”

  “Danger from what—from him?” She nodded towards the living-room.

  “No more, I think. Not directly from him.” The danger could now come from his KGB comrades who had been searching for him. Or from his co-conspirator, the friend with diplomatic immunity, who might be deciding that it was already the time to stage an abduction: better to have their plan aborted, and Vasek would agree, than be a prisoner of the Americans. “I’ll get him away as soon as possible.” I’ll move up his timetable, Bristow decided. Ambulance at three, even two o’clock or earlier if Doyle can arrange that. He laid the Beretta on the table beside Karen, who was lost in her own thoughts.