Ride a Pale Horse by Helen Macinnes
“I can’t keep it, you know. Mail it back where?”
“We’ll return it when we give her a dinner party in Washington.”
“We are giving dinner parties?”
“Why else get married?”
She turned to face him, staring in wonder. “Married? You’re rushing things, Peter.”
“Not half quick enough.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Damn this seat belt,” he said and unbuckled it.
“Are you sure?”
He became serious. “Yes,” he said. “I am sure.” He looked deep into her eyes. “And you?”
“Yes,” she heard herself say, “I’m sure.”
This time, he could really kiss her properly.
As they drew back at last, Karen caught her breath, said, “I feel slightly—slightly delirious.” And madly and truly in love, something I thought could never happen again. Peter, Peter—I adore you. Then she laughed with sudden joy, pressed his hand as it lay against her breast, held it there. Her head fell naturally on his shoulder.
“I’ve never been happier,” he told her, and he meant it.
Someone behind them said he’d like to sleep. So they sat, hands tightly held, fingers intertwined, and talked softly. Not exactly what he would have planned for their first night together, Bristow thought. But she was safe. And homeward-bound. And he was the luckiest of men.
20
A black Monday—Menlo kept thinking about this day’s bad news from Rome all the way home. It was past five o’clock now, and a long evening ahead of him before he met Bristow and Karen Cornell at the airfield. Must stop brooding—no future in that, he told himself as he neared his house.
It lay on a quiet street, was sheltered like its neighbours by hedges and trees. He turned his car into the short driveway, lined with azalea bushes, that cut across a stretch of grass to the small garage at one side of the neat little house, six rooms in all. Behind it, a meagre backyard ending in an eight-foot wall that kept out any picnickers in the woods at the rear of the property. (Before it had been built, their discarded beer cans and paper bags had been an eyesore.) And that completed Menlo’s three-quarters of an acre.
Not much but my own, he thought as he took a pre-dinner stroll around the front garden, a glass of bourbon and branch water in his hand. Garden? Only grass and bushes. When Peg had been alive, it had been different: flower beds, window boxes, touches of colour everywhere. But everything was different now. You couldn’t spend thirty-five years of your life happily married and not feel an emptiness that invaded every part of your home. It was more space than he really needed, yet he had gathered too many things here, and not just memories, to move into a couple of rooms in some new condominium. Books, music, the furniture that Peg had chosen, the small mementos they had collected on trips abroad. Besides, when did he have the time for an upheaval like a removal? He didn’t even have time enough to water the grass, and it needed it badly. Later this week, he’d drag out the hoses and set up the sprinklers, trim back some of the bushes too. His friends said he had become addicted to overwork since Peg had died, almost ten years ago. Better that than becoming an alcoholic. Lonely drinking was no solution.
He turned back to the house. Minna, as long established here as the azaleas, would produce dinner in another fifteen minutes. Each afternoon, she’d shop for the foodstuff (the best part of her day, Menlo thought), clean, prepare dinner, and depart at eight for home and her TV. If he were late, she’d leave something for him to heat up. A makeshift arrangement, but judging from the amount of frozen dinners sold in the food markets, Menlo considered himself luckier in his domestic arrangements than most people these days.
The telephone was ringing. He hurried as he heard Minna shouting into it: the louder, the clearer was her belief. Her accent, too—Hungarian born, she still had difficulty with English—would only bewilder the caller more. Had to be a friend, he thought as he rescued the receiver from Minna. His home number was unlisted.
“Sorry,” said a man’s voice, young, apologetic. “I tried to reach you at your office. I hope it’s all right to call you now. Mr. Bristow gave me your number before he left on vacation. For an emergency, he said.”
“Who’s this?” I know that voice, Menlo thought. Bristow’s answering service, possibly. “Who are you?” he insisted.
“Joe Lampton,” the voice said. “You left a message with me last month for Mr. Bristow. About cancelling a meeting.”
Menlo relaxed. “What’s the emergency?”
“Well, it’s more like—something strange. I took a call from Mr. Bristow—we’re connected with his telephone, so it was his number the man used. Wouldn’t give his name. Said it was urgent. He must speak with Mr. Bristow. I told him Mr. Bristow was out of town—couldn’t be reached. Was this a business call? If so, I’d give him the telephone number of Mr. Bristow’s office. Someone there could perhaps help him. He shouted, ‘No!’ He dropped his voice, said, ‘No one else. Only Bristow.’ He asked when Mr. Bristow was expected to return. A week or ten days, I told him. He swore. Not in English. Some foreign word, but I got the idea. Then he said, ‘Take this message. I wait for his return. I arrived earlier than expected. Two weeks were not necessary. I shall call his number each day, half an hour later each day.’ So I said, ‘Later than what?’ Later than this call, I was told. I asked for his name. He only said, ‘Someone Bristow would very much like to meet.’ He rang off then.”
Surely not Josef Vasek. Farrago. And yet the stranger’s words (“No one else. Only Bristow... earlier than expected... Two weeks... Someone Bristow would very much like to meet”) all pointed to Vasek.
Joe was saying, “Mr. Menlo! Are you there, Mr. Menlo?”
“Still with you. You’ve got a tape of that conversation, of course.” And that’s what we need to study; let Karen Cornell hear it, too—she could identify the voice.
“Standard procedure.” As if, Joe’s hurt tone seemed to be saying, any telephone-answering service could function without taping its calls. “I’d like to have it.”
“Mr. Bristow will—”
“Certainly. As soon as he returns. When did the stranger ’phone?”
“Five forty.”
“Then at six ten tomorrow, put his call through to Bristow’s office.”
“Mr. Bristow’s? He isn’t—”
“I’ll be there.” And Bristow, too. “Any idea where the man telephoned?” Vasek, Menlo kept thinking, alone and safe out of Europe, travelling with no help—the man’s confidence was startling. But the Farrago file said that was typical.
“A pay ’phone. Some public place. I heard traffic noises. He had to add coins, a lot of coins. Long-distance, I’d think. By the way, I hope you don’t mind, sir. I told him to call collect tomorrow. That way, we might trace the place where he’s telephoning.”
“Good for you, Joe. Glad you called.” And Joe was a good man, Menlo thought. His legs might have been blasted off in Vietnam, but he was still as capable as when he had been Bristow’s driver. Bristow’s and young Schleeman’s driver. Schleeman’s son had lost more than his legs by that road mine. Must call Schleeman, he reminded himself, see if he has any ideas about a safe house for Karen Cornell. His place in town? Empty until after Labour Day, with a reliable man as its caretaker. No, he decided suddenly, too risky. Schleeman was too obvious a choice. Waterman and his friends would investigate that house once they didn’t find Cornell at her usual addresses.
At least, she was on that flight now. It had already taken off by this time. If she were on board. But Bristow would make sure. Of that, Menlo was certain. Bristow’s girl, Levinson had called her. If so, pretty damn quick work. Not that he had anything against love. Just that love and danger didn’t mix. Emotional involvement could blunt a man’s judgment.
He saw Peg’s photograph smiling at him from the mantelpiece. “I know,” he told her. “We were engaged within a week, married in a month.” He smiled, too. Minna’s voice, calling from the hall, ended his memories. “
He had planned on a three-hour sleep after dinner with a loud-buzzing alarm clock set for ten o’clock. But as he lay down, the telephone rang. Cursing it, he was back on his feet. It was Levinson from Rome. At one in the morning? Menlo’s acute anxiety, nicely lulled by Minna’s blueberry pie, surged back.
Levinson said, “I thought you’d like to know that they’ve left the hotel. Smooth departure. Couldn’t be neater.”
Menlo drew a long deep breath. “Thanks, Mike.” And he was grateful, even if his digestion had stopped short.
But Levinson had another piece of news. “Remember the fellow that Pete knew?”
What fellow? Bristow knew hundreds. “Come again.”
“The joint identification,” Levinson tried.
Levinson’s agent had recognised a Bulgarian, Bristow had identified Sam Waterman. Waterman... “Last Saturday?”
“Right. Well, I thought we’d try to locate him for you. So we checked the hotels—recent arrivals—just a chance—but we found his name on one register. He stayed for two nights and left this morning. He was flying over the Mediterranean when the big bang went off. Nice planning.”
“Flying where?”
“To New York. Non-stop. Departure ten fifty, arrival two ten at Kennedy.”
“Did you tell Bristow?”
“Only now verified the facts. Sorry to break into your dinner hour. ’Bye.”
It took Menlo a full minute to recover and dial Tom Doyle’s number, and found him in the middle of a family party. “Wife’s birthday,” Doyle explained. “Just a moment and I’ll close the door.” It banged shut, ending the sound of laughter. “The three girls are here, one husband, one fiancé. Quite a roomful. We’re just about to sit down for dinner,” he added as a tactful hint.
“Won’t keep you long. We’ll need special precautions, Tom. I’ve just heard from Rome that Waterman is here—we discussed him at lunch, remember?”
That sobered Doyle. “Here?”
“Reached New York this afternoon. Could be in Washington right now. So, special precautions. Right?”
“I’ll see to it. I’ll have two men collect you, as a starter.”
“No need—”
“That’s my department,” Doyle reminded him. “Wish you’d reconsider—”
“No.”
“I can bring Bristow to you.”
“After you’ve settled the girl some place safe? Come on, Tom. That’s your job. Right? Bristow and I have other things to do.” Such as study the tape made by an answering service. “Goodbye.”
Menlo had been half-amused, half-irritated by Doyle’s concern. He wasn’t the one who needed guarding. By this time, Waterman would have learned the results of today’s bombing. Nice planning, as Levinson had said, to be well out of Rome when it happened. That, of course, explained why he used his own name at a hotel and with the airline; he’d have witnesses to testify when he had left. A false name wouldn’t have cleared him, could have increased the weight of evidence against him—if ever he were caught and brought to trial. He’s an eel, Menlo thought, as strong and voracious, as cunning and quick as any that lurked in the salmon pools of a Nova Scotia river. Remembering his own battle with such an eel less than three weeks ago—it had swallowed his best hand-tied fly right down into its stomach in one gulp; no way of recovering it unless you could stamp a hold on its neck with your foot and slit its belly open. And even a firm hold didn’t mean you could keep it still for just one moment. Menlo had cut his good line, let the eel twist from the bank back into the water—it also knew where to jump, that three-foot stretch of muscle—and now it was tearing young salmon to shreds with Menlo’s prized fly in its stomach. Not, he thought as he went into his bedroom, his idea of fishing. He could use a couple of hours of it now. There was nothing like casting for trout in a cold rippling stream—slow rhythm and gentle sound—to calm your anxieties. He stretched out on the bed once more, and this time he slept.
* * *
Menlo was dressed and ready to leave, but there was almost forty minutes until the car would arrive to pick him up. He had already checked the back door and the windows in the other rooms: all bolted and secure. In the living-room, they were still wide open to let the night air have full access; closed, the place would have been suffocating. Their locking would be the last thing he’d do before he turned on the alarm as he left the house. A necessity he disliked, but in the last few years there had been armed burglaries even in this quiet, sedate section of Fairfax County. Once, he thought with nostalgia, we could leave our doors unlocked and drive off to a movie. Something new has been added to our lives, a feeling of threat. It can’t be blamed, not this kind of menace, on big bad government or heavy-handed bureaucracy. The lawbreakers have been let loose among us, the criminal activists, whether they’re into small-time thuggery or into grand-scale terrorism. Two extremes of the same ruthless intent: do what you want and have no sense of guilt. These terrorists, for instance—the ones who bombed a group of journalists in Rome to let a comrade make her escape—they don’t see themselves as political puppets. They are their own heroes, the advance guard, men and women of courage, risking everything for their beliefs. Who could be nobler? They’ll find justification for anything they do, even for killing and maiming the innocent. If ever we let—Was that a car he heard?
They’re early, he thought, glancing at his watch. Barely twelve yet. He rose from his chair, moved stiffly to the window. There was nothing to see, just darkness and black shadows; no headlights beamed along the road. The engine switched off. Must be a late visitor at a neighbouring house, he decided, and walked back to his chair. False alarm. Unless, of course, Doyle’s agents had overestimated their timing and arrived too soon, were now waiting in their car for twelve thirty to approach. Punctilious they were, he knew from past experience. They’d appear at his door not a minute late, not a minute early.
He didn’t sit down again. He switched off the Brahms Fourth he had been playing, stood debating with himself. He decided to start preparing to leave. He’d walk down to the gate and, if they were waiting for him in the car, he’d join them. They would arrive too early at the airfield, but better that than late. Better, too, than sitting around here, unsettled as he was. Strange, this feeling of tension. Too much strain recently, perhaps. Yet, stress didn’t usually affect his mind, just his goddamned back.
He closed and locked the windows, drew their curtains together, checked the lights he usually left burning: here, bedroom, hall. One more thing—a flashlight. The porch, when he turned on its light, wouldn’t be much help with the driveway, a dark stretch of gravel and the road not much brighter. Street lamps were few and far-spaced around this district.
In the hall, he picked up his jacket and was now ready for the usual hassle in setting the alarm system. First, he reminded himself, unlock the front door, activate the warning signal and be ready to get out and have the door shut again in forty seconds. Or else the damned thing will blast off. As he was about to unlock the door, he saw the lock wasn’t secured. How was that? he wondered. Did he forget to twist its knob to the locked position? Did he sit and listen to Brahms this evening with an outside door ready to open? No, he had locked it as usual; the back door, too. And just then, he saw the handle turn. Gently, carefully. He wrenched the door inward. Two men stared at him. They were as startled as he was.
In that moment of paralysis, he could note one was young—tall, fair-haired, and armed. The other’s face was hidden by a stocking mask—medium height and build—he was now straightening up from the lock, quickly side-stepping into the shadows to avoid the light from the hall. The unmasked man jabbed his revolver at Menlo’s chest. “In! In!”
Suddenly, Menlo raised his arm, aiming the flashlight at the man’s wrist. But he was even faster, struck Menlo on the shoulder with the butt of his pistol, sent him reeling
“Quick!” The man holstered his revolver, stopped to grip Menlo’s shoulders and pull him away from the threshold. “Shut and lock that door! Then give me a hand.” Together, they dragged Menlo into the living-room. “Now where?” he asked his silent companion. “Over by the fireplace,” he answered himself, and let Menlo’s head drop on the raised edge of the brick hearth.
“Dead?” asked the masked man.
The other shrugged. “He had guts. But he has lost his speed.” More guts than you, he thought, staring at the concealing mask. “You can take that thing off your face. No one to see you now.”
The other hesitated but kept the mask in place. He moved to the desk.
“Afraid I’ll know you again?” The idiot put on that mask even as I stepped into the car, right make and colour, at the right place and time. Right recognition signals—page five of today’s Washington Post for me, page nine for him. Right exchange of fake names, too. Doesn’t this guy trust anyone? “Okay, okay. Sweat away. I wouldn’t wear one of those damn things in this kind of weather. Washington!” He spat in disgust.
The masked man had examined a briefcase and was now opening desk drawers, his hands protected by surgical gloves. “Start searching,” he said.
“The name is Barney for the next hour or so of your company. And you’re Connie, I was told, for the next hour or so of mine. Easy, Connie, easy. There’s no rush.”
Connie pointed to the hi-fi player and the collection of records that lay on open shelves. “You know what to look for. Start there!”
“Not rigged for playing tapes,” Barney said of the hi-fi set.
“Search!” Barney talks too much, the masked man was thinking. A sign he’s nervous? Or he thinks he speaks the language so well that he wants me to believe he is actually American? “Wear the gloves!”
Barney drew them on reluctantly. “Too hot in here. I’m opening a window.”