Ride a Pale Horse by Helen Macinnes
“As usual,” Fairbairn said with another of his easy laughs. “See you later, Pete.”
“See you.” Bristow went into the file room and locked up Blitz. He could find no sensible reason why he should have waited until Frederick Coulton had left. Except that Coulton had no business here, even if young Shaw had been trying to impress his visitor from State. As Menlo had said, suspicion was an ugly business, but he still wondered why Coulton was wandering around the file room.
He didn’t use the telephone in his office but called Schleeman from the cafeteria. Schleeman was at his desk; a lot of work to clear up, he explained, before he left for the Maryland shore this evening. That forestalled any dinner invitation. “I’d like to see you,” Bristow insisted. “Can you manage an early drink? Somewhere near your office?”
Schleeman considered that. “Something important to discuss?”
“I’m taking a vacation and thought I’d talk with you before I leave tomorrow.”
Talk? Schleeman was interested. “It will be a very short drink—my wife is giving a party tonight, got to be there this time. Meet me at my dub. Five thirty.”
“Five thirty is fine. But at your club?” Bristow had doubts about that. A private meeting was what he needed.
“We’ll probably be the only people around at that early hour. Besides, it’s dead in the late summer—everyone out of town. See you at five thirty. You know the routine if I’m delayed.”
“Yes. I wait for you in the visitors’ room.”
“And don’t you be late or it’s my head on the block.” Schleeman ended the call with a short laugh.
Bristow had a quick sandwich and coffee, now wondering how he’d break the news to Fairbairn and the others about the leave he was taking. They shouldn’t be too surprised—he had postponed it twice since June. Rome, he kept thinking, why had she chosen Rome?
10
To enter Schleeman’s club at this time of day in late August was like stepping into a church in midweek: space abounding and no one to fill it. There was the same hush, a silence surrounded by pillars, a ceiling that soared over frescoed walls, a marble staircase leading not to a pulpit but to dining-room and bar. There was little sign of life, with Congress in recess and bureaucracy at half-staff. No one was in the entrance hall except the porter behind his mahogany desk and another guest who was early—like Bristow himself—and waited alone in the visitors’ room, its wide doors permanently open. The stranger was thin and tall, with thick brown hair and dressed in a light-coloured gabardine suit that hadn’t been sitting in an office all afternoon. That much Bristow’s quick glance had told him. The man’s equally quick glance veered away in disinterest as he walked to a chair, picked up a magazine, and began leafing through its pages.
Bristow went to the desk, introducing himself as Schleeman’s guest. “Not much business tonight,” he added, and stayed where he was. He’d rather remain here than face another guest, be caught in a polite exchange of chitchat.
“No, sir. But it’s early. Later there will be a few—the gentlemen whose wives are in the country.”
Or, to quote the old adage, when home became intolerable there was always the club. But better not say it aloud. The porter, correct to the last button, might see no humour in his club being merely an alternative to the sound of TV or hot rock played at fever pitch.
“Perhaps you would care to join the other gentleman in the waiting room?” the porter suggested, as elderly and dignified as the vaulted ceiling above him. “His name is Mr. Jones.”
Bristow had another unobtrusive look at the lanky figure, who was discarding one magazine for another. Waiting seemed to make him impatient. “I don’t think he’s much in the mood for conversation.”
The porter dropped his voice. “He has been waiting ten minutes, and he will probably have to wait ten minutes more. Mr. Coulton is usually a little late. Now your host, Mr. Schleeman, is always on time. I take it you were a little early tonight?” he asked anxiously.
“Five minutes.” That relieved the porter. His Mr. Schleeman had not been guilty of keeping a guest waiting. “Is it Mr. Frederick Coulton who is usually a little late?”
“Yes, sir. A recent member. A very pleasant gentleman. Is he a friend of yours?” The porter’s rising curiosity was cut short as he looked at the front door and saw Schleeman mounting the half-dozen steps that led up into the hall. “I think Mr. Schleeman is now arriving, sir.”
“Exactly on time, too.”
The porter nodded approvingly and then allowed himself a brief stare. Schleeman had glanced towards the visitors’ room as he reached the hall. He stopped abruptly, whirled on his heel, retreated down the steps, and only then—well hidden from the guests’ waiting room—signalled for Bristow to follow him and made a rapid exit into the street.
The porter looked at Bristow, who said as casually as possible, “There seems to have been a change in plans.” And with a parting nod, he followed Schleeman. A last quick glance at the stranger in the empty room showed nothing changed there. The man was still thumbing through the magazines.
He found Schleeman waiting just outside the club’s entrance. “The quickest drink I’ve ever had,” said Bristow, trying to relieve Schleeman’s definite agitation.
Schleeman, his face set, took Bristow’s arm in a firm grip and urged him to increase his pace. “My car is around this corner. We can talk there. My God, Pete, did you know who that was?”
“Someone you want to avoid.”
“Someone I don’t want to see you with me. Did he spot me, d’you think?”
“You were pretty quick on your feet.”
Schleeman’s excitement was still high. “Can you imagine it? Sam Waterman, all spruced up, sitting in the waiting room of the most conservative club in town.”
Bristow almost halted. He stared at Schleeman. Sam Waterman meeting Frederick Coulton?
Schleeman said irritably, his anger beginning to break, “Sam Waterman also Steven Winter also heaven knows who else.”
“I’ve heard of him.” And seen his record, too.
“You’ve never actually met him—he didn’t recognise you as Bristow?”
“We both drew a blank. What’s his persona tonight—Waterman or Winter?” For the porter’s register, it had been Jones. For Coulton?
“He’s the same, whatever name he uses.” They reached the Mercedes. Schleeman’s anger made him fumble with the lock, but at last they were inside. Schleeman closed all windows, turned on the air conditioning. “Can you beat it?” he was saying. “Infernal impudence! Who invited him, I’d like to know. Pity we couldn’t stay to see.”
“Dodging behind a pillar? We’re better off here.”
“Wonder if his host knows whom he’s entertaining.”
So do I, thought Bristow. What brought these two together? As for Coulton, who held a highly sensitive position—good God, important and trusted enough to have taken part in Monday’s high-level meeting—Bristow had never heard him speak well of journalists. The forgery expert had suffered at their hands on his court appearances as an expert witness. “Let them revel in their ignorance” was the phrase he used when a newspaper misquoted his opinion.
“You think I’m prejudiced against Waterman?” Schleeman asked, misinterpreting Bristow’s silence. “I hate that guy’s guts—not only because of the way he deceived us at the Spectator. I don’t like the part he played in Vienna. Something damned odd there. I think he has moved into politics in a heavy way.”
“Could be. Karen told me about that meeting in Kärntnerstrasse.”
“She did, did she?” Schleeman looked at Bristow with a new surmise. “You must have got on nicely, you two.”
“I did, at least. That’s why I called you today. I had hoped to take her to dinner tomorrow, but she isn’t in Washington. Or New York. Is she on vacation, or did you send her travelling again?”
“She’s in Rome. And it’s a job none of us could turn down. Much too good an opportunity to let slide.??
“What’s the assignment?”
“Aliotto—Luigi Aliotto, a journalist she met in Prague—called me last Monday—he writes for Domani.” And Schleeman launched into a full explanation.
Bristow listened, made no interruptions, no comment at the story’s end.
“What’s on your mind, Pete? Come on—out with it!”
“Just planning a little holiday in Europe.”
Is he indeed? “Rome?” Schleeman asked, and began to wonder.
“Why not?”
“Karen is still under suspicion, is that it? She isn’t in danger, is she?”
“Only from me dogging her footsteps.”
Schleeman’s alarm faded. He studied the young man: a strong face with good bones, a steady gaze, dark eyes that met Schleeman’s with a smile. “Don’t go keeping her mind off her work. She has a job to do in Rome, you know.”
So have I. “Where is she staying?”
“At the Imperial.”
“Have you heard from her?”
“She arrived safely, hasn’t met Aliotto yet. He’s been nursing an attack of twenty-four-hour flu.” Schleeman looked at the clock on the dashboard, thought of the questions he had wanted to ask. Damn Waterman for chasing them out of his mind.
“Better not be late for your wife’s party.” Bristow unlocked his door.
“Before you leave for Rome, see my old friend Menlo. He has been interested in Waterman.”
“I’ll call him as soon as I reach a ’phone.” Bristow avoided noticing the telephone in the car, looked over his shoulder at the quiet street with its rows of impressive buildings. “Not a café or drugstore in sight.”
“Try this,” Schleeman said with amusement and reached for his car ’phone. Young fox, he thought—did he imagine he could outrun an old one? Could be an interesting conversation with Menlo. Bristow in Rome must mean something more than chasing a girl, even one so damned attractive as Karen. Schleeman made his identification with the Exchange and handed the receiver to Bristow.
Thanks. I’ll possibly still find him at the office.” He asked for that number and reached Menlo. “Could I see you at home this evening?”
Menlo, who had been about to leave, said without much enthusiasm, “Is it urgent?”
“I’ll be heading for Rome tomorrow.”
“Did you find the reason for Junior’s travel urge?”
“I did. There’s too much to tell at the moment.” Bristow could sense Schleeman’s disappointment. “I’m using a car telephone. My friend beside me has an urgent appointment, so I have to keep this short.”
“It can’t wait until tomorrow?”
“Better not.”
“All right, all right. I’ll see you here.”
“In forty-five minutes.” And Menlo would be in a pretty disgruntled mood. But there was one big advantage in meeting him in his office. The computers at Langley might come up with something more than Aliotto’s name.
Schleeman replaced the receiver. “He’s actually seeing you, at his place? That’s a new one on me. Menlo’s home is his castle: drawbridge up, portcullis down.”
“And barracuda in the moat? I won’t have to risk them. He’s waiting in his office.” Bristow stepped onto the sidewalk. “I’ll be in touch when I get back. We’ll have a longer session.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
Bristow nodded and set off at a rapid pace in the direction of his parked Camaro.
There was always something to occupy Menlo’s attention: he was up to his elbows in work when Bristow arrived earlier than expected. “You must have driven like hell.” He pushed aside a map of Italy along with lists of freighters sailing in this last week from Genoa and Naples.
“The traffic wasn’t too bad, either.”
“Sit down, sit down. What’s it all about? Why did she take off for Rome?”
Bristow gave him the information exactly as he had heard it.
“It sounds reasonable. What worries you? Apart from the location itself, and the fact that Aliotto was in Prague for that convocation.”
“The timing of the invitation worries me.”
“It could be purely accidental. And I’m now less perturbed about Rome. Vasek isn’t likely to hang around a city where he was last seen. He will be avoiding airports, of course. A freighter out of the Mediterranean is his best bet. He could break the voyage at Algeciras or Lisbon or Tangiers—some place where he could risk taking a plane or shipping out on another freighter.”
“He never does the expected. That’s why our file on him consists of bits and pieces.” Aliases, disguises, sudden appearances and disappearances: the Farrago record was full of inexplicable gaps and surprises. “Before he specialised in disinformation, he was a fully trained agent in the field. Even there, he managed to stay mostly anonymous. We recognised him more by his actions and style than by the man himself.”
Menlo thought over that, registered it, and went on to Luigi Aliotto. “Ever heard of this Italian journalist?”
“Not known to us.”
That was a good sign, Menlo thought: Aliotto was not listed as a pipeline or outlet for disinformation. “And have you ever read Domani? It’s a monthly, I think. Right?”
Bristow nodded. “A serious periodical and reputable. Small but important. Published in Milan. Its articles are often reprinted abroad. So Aliotto is possibly okay. Schleeman must have checked before he sent Karen to Rome.”
“We’ll make our own check.” Menlo swivelled his chair to face the small table behind him on which his computer stood. A tap of the key to activate it, and the Smart Modem took charge as he typed. First name and password, then his command: information on Luigi Aliotto, journalist, based in Rome; correspondent for Domani, published Milan. With that on the monitor, he pressed the Execute button. The monitor went blank as the search started. “Now we wait,” said Menlo. “It’s usually quick, but an unknown journalist in Italy may take a little time.” He rose, a lanky figure in loosely fitting shirt and pants—his clothes always seemed too big for his long thin frame—and stretched his back. “Damn that disc,” he said, rubbing his lower spine. He began the customary slow stroll around his office. “How are you going to handle Miss Cornell in Rome? Personally or keeping in the background? I’ll alert Levinson to expect you. You’ll find him at the embassy.”
“Personally. I’m there on vacation.”
“Will she accept that?”
“Perhaps she’ll raise an eyebrow and think I’m overreacting. But she would find more to puzzle her if I was in Rome and made no effort to reach her. Schleeman will certainly pass the word that I’m there on holiday. We’d better keep everything normal. There’s no good in stirring up her fears about some possible danger. So, unless I sense some trouble brewing, I’ll meet Karen as if I hadn’t a care in the world. But I’d like to tell her that the problem of the letters has been settled. Just that,” Bristow added quickly. “Not a detailed account.”
“Keep it to one sentence if you think that would relieve her mind.”
“I know it would.”
Indeed? wondered Menlo. “There may be no danger at all. This whole visit of hers to Rome could be only another bloody coincidence. I’ll alert Levinson all the same. No protests about that, Peter. He could be helpful in many ways. One of his girls can book you into the Imperial.”
“Nice, but too rich for my bank account.” With the traveller’s cheques he had bought and the emergency money he had drawn out of his savings, he would probably have to hock his Camaro to stave off bankruptcy. “Enough cash on hand?”
“For the next week, probably yes.”
“I’ll instruct Levinson to see you get an advance on your expense account. You may be acting on a personal basis, but you are definitely reporting to me. So you’re on the payroll. No one in Rome will know that except Levinson, and any contact you two make will be discreet. As for the Imperial, it couldn’t be handier: it’s practically adjoining the embassy. And if you’re keeping a c
Bristow said nothing. Doubtless, Menlo would have one of Levinson’s girls or boys watching from the background. And only this afternoon, when he had signed the traveller’s cheques, he had actually thought he was vacation-bound. A quaint notion. He studied Menlo, wondering how many other surprises were going to hit him.
Menlo eased himself into his chair. “Can you be ready to take off at twelve thirty? Yes, tonight. There’s a flight out of Washington with some NATO personnel and two members of the Senate. Space is available. I’ve reserved it for you. You’ll be arriving at an airfield not too far from Rome—no fuss, no customs, no KGB or Czech or Bulgarian agents disguised as porters or travel guides watching incoming and outgoing traffic to the United States. Look out for the Bulgarians. In the last few years, the Czechs have concentrated on Austria, the Bulgarians on Italy. So make that flight if you can.”
“I’ll make it.” Or else I won’t reach Rome until Sunday morning. Bristow glanced at his watch, looked impatiently at the computer, and said, “Before I leave, I’ve got an unexpected footnote to add to Sam Waterman’s file.”
“Waterman-Winter?”
Bristow nodded, quickly described the strange incident at Schleeman’s club.
“Coulton was meeting him there? Coulton?”
“So the porter said.”
“Coulton is a member of that club?” Menlo’s disbelief grew.
“A recent member.”
“Must have cost him a third of his year’s salary.” A pause, and then sharply, “What kind of car does he drive? New?”
“I’ve no idea.” Bristow’s sudden amusement faded. It had better not be a Mercedes or a Jaguar, unless Coulton had a rich aunt who had just bequeathed him her stash of tax-free bonds. Strange the direction Menlo’s mind had taken, while Bristow had only wondered how Coulton could be such a damned fool.
“He could have consulted us before he started playing host to that bastard. Or checked with the Bureau of Public Affairs’ info on Waterman. But no, Coulton wouldn’t. He thinks security precautions are mostly for idiots, and he’s not one—”