Ride a Pale Horse by Helen Macinnes
She almost laughed. A week ago, she would have gone downstairs, picked up the telephone on the hall table, and without hesitation made several calls. But if last night’s terror had taught her anything, it was caution. Imminent danger seemed to be over, but Doyle had left two of his men stationed here when he went off with Peter this early morning—Doyle to visit Hansen’s wife and two children before he filed his report to—to whom? To the Powers That Be, she called them. Peter was with them, too—had been since eight o’clock—would he be free by six, as he had hoped, to collect her and take her—where? She had learned more than caution in this last week. She had learned trust. Trust and reliance on someone else, a strange right-about-face for an independent woman who had taken pride in being self-sufficient. Now she was entrusting her whole future to someone she had known for only twelve days. But Peter had not only saved her life; he had given it new meaning, new hope.
She heard a telephone ring, then footsteps running upstairs. Taylor’s voice came with his knock on her door. “A call for you, Miss Cornell.” And when she opened the door, startled, half-afraid, he reassured her by adding, “The alert must be over. Mr. Doyle told him he could call you here.”
“Mr. Bristow?”
“No. He has gone back to the apartment to collect his car. The call’s from a Mr. Schleeman. His secretary is on the line. Do you want to talk?”
“He’s my boss. I’d better, don’t you think?” She hurried towards the stairs. The emergency must really be over. “So they arrested Coulton?” His name had been mentioned in a cryptic exchange between Peter and Doyle at breakfast. Coulton, whoever he was, seemed to be the last loose string that needed to be snipped off.
Taylor—and it was a mark of his new acceptance of her—replied frankly, “As far as I could make out from the reports coming in, he didn’t stay around to be arrested.”
Karen halted at the foot of the staircase. “You lost him?”
“Not us,” Taylor said quickly. “He skipped before State’s Security called on him this morning. Well, I’ll be pushing off now. We are packing up our gear. So goodbye, Miss Cornell. Good luck to you.”
They shook hands solemnly. “And to you,” Karen said. She picked up the receiver. Schleeman’s secretary was efficient as ever, but even more long-suffering. “At last,” she commented before she brought Schleeman on the line.
“Ah,” he said, “the elusive Miss Cornell. And where the dickens have you been?”
“Lying low in Washington. Didn’t Mr. Doyle tell you?”
“Apart from the fact that you were well and safe, as little as possible. What’s been going on, Karen?”
“Too much to tell you now.”
“Yes, that’s what Bristow said.”
“He called you?”
“At lunchtime. Seemed busy.”
“He was.”
“And you?”
“I finished an article for you. About Rome. It’s in the mail.”
“The mail? Why don’t you hand it in to me? I’d like to hear—”
“I’m taking ten days off, Hubert. I do need some rest and recreation, you know.”
There was a brief silence. “I guess you do. Sorry about Rome. My fault, I admit. Shouldn’t have sent you—”
“It worked out well. In a way, I have to thank you for that.” She couldn’t resist dropping her small bombshell. “I’m getting married.”
“Well, now—” Schleeman was startled. “My guess is Bristow. Right?”
“Right.”
Then Schleeman sounded worried. “Are you sure, Karen? Really sure?”
“Yes. I’m not backing out this time.”
Again a small silence.
“I mean it, Hubert. Stop worrying about Peter. I’d never do anything to hurt him.” She had been on target about Schleeman’s reaction: he was definitely relieved as he now gave his warm congratulations. You men, she thought—but with affection—and listened to his next query. “We’ll live in Washington,” she answered. “I’m selling the New York house—”
“Thank heaven.” A memory trap, he thought. Best that she was free of it. “Commuting’s no way to live—a few days here, a few days there.”
“I’ve found that out.”
“You’ll be staying in Georgetown?”
“I don’t know... Not in Peter’s apartment, I think.” She remembered the expression on his face this morning when he had taken one last look at the hall just as they were leaving. There had been no need for words.
“You can’t live on cloud nine,” Schleeman reminded her.
“Well, we can always buy a tent and camp out in Langley Forest.” She had him laughing, a good moment to say, “I’ll keep in touch. Stop worrying about either of us, Hubert. My love.” And she ended the call before he could start asking questions about the defector.
As for Schleeman, the defector was much on his mind. Arrived and in good hands, was all that Bristow had said; and then had added an apparent afterthought which was probably the main purpose of his ’phone call. “You can pass the word—discreetly. You’re the first to hear of it, Hubert.” So, thought Schleeman as he prepared to leave for a dinner with friends of the press, I’ve been authorised to spread an unauthorised leak. And I’ll do it. Just following a hunch that it is somehow important that a message should reach those who are interested in this defector. Schleeman left his office in high good humour, astonishing those he greeted, his irritability and short temper of the past few days completely banished. The office relaxed, made its own speculations about this change, and all of them wrong.
By half past four that afternoon, Bristow was free to leave. Doyle himself elected to give him a lift to Muir Street to pick up his car. It was a good opportunity, the last they would have, to compare notes on the day’s meetings.
“Thanks for backing me up,” Bristow said as they cleared the gates of Langley.
“You didn’t need much corroboration.”
“Didn’t I?” Bristow shook his head. “I overstepped a few boundary lines. Beyond my authority. You heard that remark, didn’t you?”
“What time did you have to alert other sections? Don’t expect a medal. All you’ll ever get is your name carved in a plaque on the wall with dates of birth and death—if killed in action. You nearly made it, too.”
“I made one thing definitely.” Bristow was suddenly angry. “A mistake. A big one. I didn’t examine that damned fountain pen.”
“Taylor said it looked normal—not the usual thick, heavy article. But he should have checked it. He’ll get a reprimand for that.”
“Keep him out of it. I didn’t mention his name.”
“Then I’ll reprimand him.”
“Why? He was working at high speed—no time at all—Vasek was about to wake up and take notice. Anyway, what could Taylor have done? Remove that cyanide pen? Warn Vasek that we were onto his game? And what kind of performance would he have put on then at his interrogation? Taylor isn’t to blame. I’m taking responsibility.”
“You did that,” Doyle said dryly. “And without any explanations, either.”
“They always sound too damn much like excuses.”
“And that would never do, would it now?”
“I was there. I should have tried to disarm it and replace it. Then—”
“Disarm it? How? You’re no expert in that. And that little pen is the latest model, trust Vasek to have one. All you’d have had was an ejection of cyanide gas right in your face. You’d have got your name on the Honour Roll; that’s for sure.”
“Death from heart failure doesn’t count.”
They both smiled at that. The tension eased. Doyle said, “When Vasek was asleep, they found the pen in his bag. They had time to disarm and replace it. He’ll never know until he tries to use it. Anyway, the big consolation for you is that your report was accepted and action is being taken. That’s something. Everything’s under control.”
“Except for Coulton.”
Doyle tapped his tw
“But he got away.”
“We’ll see.”
“How the hell did he get a Top Security rating? A week ago last Monday he attended a special session along with people from the White House, State, Defense, National Security. Was even asked for his expert opinion on forged signatures. State must be—”
“Not their fault. His security clearance was already established before he ever joined the Bureau of Public Affairs—was passed on to them by the Treasury. Before his time there, he had been issued Top Security clearance by the Oval Office. Fifteen years ago.”
“What?”
“We had a President who was suspicious about forged cheques. Coulton was brought in to solve the problem. And that made him.”
“It was roses, roses all the way,” Bristow said.
Doyle looked at him sharply.
“But who,” Bristow went on, still thinking of Browning’s verse, “cast the myrtle in Coulton’s path right into the White House?”
What the hell had myrtle or roses to do with anything? Doyle concentrated on entering Georgetown. Cross Key Bridge, short distance on M, a left into 33 and up to O Street. Then right into Dumbarton and another left. “Look,” he said at last, “if you’re worrying who made things easy for Coulton, drop it. Not your business or mine. That’s for State’s Security office and the FBI to uncover. They’ll be concentrating on his track record right now; you can bet your last dollar on that.”
“Okay, okay. I heard you.” As they turned another corner, Bristow said, “My car’s along here. I parked last night a little distance away—”
“I know.” Roses and myrtle were still rankling. “I had it checked over this morning after you left the apartment.”
“Keys?” Bristow asked with a smile.
“Who needs them nowadays? There isn’t a car that’s lock-proof.” The radio signalled, and Doyle slowed up to answer. He drew to one side of the pavement on the quiet little street. The report was on Coulton. His Mercedes had been found near the docks in Baltimore. “Got that?” he asked Bristow as he switched off the radio.
“Coulton is home free.”
“Could be. One thing about the KGB—they take care of their own.”
“Hey—what’s going on?” Bristow was looking straight ahead. Last night, there had been a line of parked cars fore and aft of his. Now, the cars were gone, leaving the Camaro in lonely state. And three tall youths, hands in the pockets of their tight jeans, sneakers on their feet, were circling it closely, peering through its closed windows, then straightening up to glance along the street. One drew his hands out of his pockets, his head swivelling as he made a last quick check on the nearest pedestrian and found none close enough to stop him. His thin arm reached for the car door.
Bristow was out and running as the Camaro’s door was opened. It had been left unlocked. No key had been used. He yelled a warning. “Beat it!”
The youth froze, with one long leg already stepping inside. He pulled it out, slammed the door, and bolted. His two friends raced ahead of him.
Nothing happened.
Bristow halted, felt foolish, returned to Doyle. “Damn me for an idiot. Thought it might be booby-trapped. The door was un—”
At that moment, the bomb exploded. A small one, neat, nicely aimed at the driver. No pillar of fire, no spreading flames. Merely a black and twisted wreck of the Camaro’s front seat and windshield.
Bristow stared at it bleakly. At least, there had been no people passing close, not much damage to the wall beside which he had parked—no houses there, just a garden. One small tree seemed to be the only casualty.
“Get in!” Doyle ordered. “Do you want to spend the evening making statements at some police station?”
Bristow recovered, stepped into the car.
“I’ll take you back to Langley. You can use one of our cars meanwhile. You know, those kids would have been DOA without benefit of heroin—if we had arrived five minutes later.”
“And five minutes earlier?” Bristow gave one last glance at his Camaro as they passed it. Hell, he thought, I liked that car. “Guess I wouldn’t have been keeping my six o’clock date.” Then his control broke, and he said savagely, “Coulton’s last word?”
“He didn’t have much time to plan anything. Let’s see—” Doyle calculated. “Your Camaro was checked and found clean around five o’clock this morning. Coulton left his house in a taxi at six, evaded surveillance when he reached the airport, disappeared. Someone had his Mercedes waiting for him. That’s certain, at least.” Doyle pursed his lips. “Not much time,” he repeated. “Of course there are KGB operatives in Washington. Could have used one of them.”
“Could use them again.” Bristow was thoroughly depressed. “How long will this go on?” He was thinking of Karen. He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, drag her into any more danger. So what did he do—tell her they had to separate? “For how many weeks? Even months?”
“Not long,” Doyle said encouragingly. “Just until Coulton’s safe in Moscow. Then their interest in you could be over. They might have been worried about what you would do to upset his plans. Take that as a compliment.”
Bristow said nothing.
“I was dropping the guards watching over you and Miss Cornell. I think I’ll countermand that order. For a couple of days?”
Bristow was grim-faced. “Or a couple of weeks.”
“My guess is that he’s half-way to Cuba by this time.”
Bristow was silent.
Doyle pulled the only rank he could. “I’ve been around longer than you have—been on this job for near thirty years. So believe what I’m telling you.”
There was still no comment from Bristow. His silence lasted across the Potomac into Arlington. Then, as he became aware of green meadows and trees, he roused himself from a strange mixture of thoughts: ideas, doubts, and plain anxiety. He glanced at his watch.
“You’ll make your six o’clock date,” Doyle told him.
“I’ve a couple of ’phone calls to make.”
“Want me to let Miss Cornell know you’ll be late?”
“But don’t mention the bomb. Just tell her—tell her I’ve a load of work ahead of me. Will you?”
Doyle didn’t like it, but he nodded.
“Thanks. Thanks for all you’ve done. I’ve given you a lot of trouble in these last two days.”
“That’s my business,” Doyle said and then reached to turn on his radio as it signalled. It gave the final report on Coulton. He had boarded a Mexican freighter at nine that morning. Identified from his photograph by three dockworkers. Sailed at ten o’clock. First stop, Havana.
“What did I tell you?” Doyle was elated. His guesses, he could now admit, were sometimes wrong. This time, on target. “You’re off that hook, Bristow! When he reaches Cuba, he’ll fly off to Moscow. First plane available, I’d say. A slick escape—he had help, of course; must be valuable to them. But he won’t be operating around here any more. He’ll probably be given some desk job in Moscow for the rest of his life. It’s the pattern.” He looked at Bristow, saw no answering smile. “So what? We didn’t catch him, but we spiked his guns. He’s a marked man outside of the Iron Curtain. No more infiltration into high places for him. No more bomb threats, either.”
“It wasn’t Coulton who ordered my death.”
Doyle’s flood of words ended. He could only stare at Bristow.
“If you had about two hours’ notice to clean out your desk, destroy anything incriminating, reach Baltimore, would you worry about anything else?”
He had a point there, thought Doyle. “Then who—”
“Vasek. Prearranged. Once he made contact with me and was accepted as a bona-fide defector, he didn’t need me any more. In fact, he’d see me as an obstacle to any new scenario he was planning to create. So eliminate me; silence any testimony I could give that would contradict his story.”
“He’d make a damned good try. Such as—he came to America as a defector, telephoned me, suggested a quiet place where we could meet along with one or two of my colleagues. But I refused, insisted he must come to my apartment. I was alone, no other representatives from Central Intelligence—only a couple of guards who didn’t know who he was and a girl who’d say anything I told her to say. We were lovers, weren’t we? So I trapped him, invented lies to end his credibility, and made him a prisoner. Why? For my own benefit—Bristow’s ambition wanted full credit for the capture of a KGB agent: promotion, more power.” Bristow’s laugh was short and bitter. “I know his technique, Doyle, I’ve studied it for years.”
“I believe you,” Doyle said. “I heard what he had to tell about Menlo in that talk you had over dinner.” The sound-recorder’s tape had been played at the final meeting that afternoon. “So did your friend Holvec.” He would be heading the team of Vasek’s interrogators—had known Menlo, worked with him at times, respected him. “Did you notice Holvec’s face? Hear his four-letter descriptions of Vasek?” Then Doyle’s amusement at that recollection faded. “When d’you think the bastard will go into his new act?”
“As soon as he senses he’s a prisoner. He’ll try to prove he’s an honest-to-goodness defector. And if I’m not around—” Bristow shrugged.
“It’s still hard to believe. I mean, character assassination is his line.”
“And twisting facts and manipulating history.”