Ride a Pale Horse by Helen Macinnes
The meeting was ended.
Not yet, thought Karen. “I have been doing some thinking. On disinformation. I could write two articles at least on that subject—if I had some solid facts as a basis.”
“Disinformation?” That had caught his attention. He dropped the pen back on the desk.
“It’s important—something we all ought to be aware of. Most of us don’t really know the difference between misinformation and disinformation.”
“But you know now—since Prague?” He was amused but interested. “Give me an example of that difference, Karen. No fancy language: just a simple explanation that any ignorant layman—like myself—can understand.”
He is challenging me, she told herself. All right, let’s show him this isn’t just a Prague-inspired notion. “The scene is Paris. An attempt to shoot Mitterrand as he was entering his car. The actual facts are that he wasn’t hit, his driver was wounded, and the two assailants escaped.
“An early press report of the incident said that Mitterrand was wounded and his chauffeur was killed; two, possibly three terrorists had done the shooting. That report is a case of misinformation.
“Another press report starts appearing. It says that an attack on Mitterrand took place; he wasn’t hit but his driver was wounded. The two assailants have been identified as gunmen used in previous killings by a West German intelligence agency. A reliable source states that the assassination of Mitterrand was to have been followed by a right-wing coup, establishing in power a French general favoured by fascist elements in Germany.” Karen paused. “And that report is pure disinformation.”
She knew what she was talking about. Schleeman nodded his approval. “It includes a fact or two to make a story credible, then adds the distortions.” And people fell for it: the riots in Pakistan four years ago, the burning of the American Embassy and two Americans killed—all the result of skilful disinformation. The lie that had lit the fuse? The Americans were responsible for the seizure of the Grand Mosque in Mecca, the CIA being the villains. “Yes,” he said, “that’s not a bad idea of yours. A slight change of pace, but that may be all to the good.” He looked at his watch. Almost ten to seven. “Let’s have a bite to eat. We can talk over dinner. Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve given up any idea of a week-end. This damned layout—all wrong. Not what I suggested.”
You’d think he hadn’t any editors who could take charge: nothing was ever perfect unless the boss supervised. But the Spectator was his baby. He had taken it over when it was a mewling infant that wasn’t expected to live. He had nursed it along, feeding it with money and talent, and watched it grow in the twenty years of his care to respectable strength. A rich man’s hobby had become a serious career. Karen’s fleeting thoughts ended. She concentrated on her words. She began, “Before we leave—” and stopped.
He was tidying his desk: everything in order for tomorrow’s work. “Yes?” He glanced up, noted the tension on her face.
“There’s something important—a favour I have to ask. You know Peter Bristow. I must get in touch with him. As soon as possible. Would you help me? Would you try to reach him, either at home, or perhaps in his office?”
“What? Now?”
“Yes. Now. Please.”
“What’s important about Bristow? Disinformation? Surely that can wait.” He was terse, annoyed, and hungry.
“That can wait. But what can’t wait is—” She hesitated, drew a long breath. “In Czechoslovakia, a man approached me. Secretly. He needs Bristow’s help. He wants to defect.”
“Bristow doesn’t deal with defectors—he’s an expert on tracking disinformation. Analysis and evaluation, that’s his line.”
“The man knows that. But he said he could trust Bristow.”
“Meaning?”
“Bristow is not in KGB pay, and so won’t betray him.”
“And who is this would-be defector?”
“All I know is that he plans to escape soon. He needs help. And secrecy. His life depends on it, he said.”
“You really believe—” Schleeman began incredulously.
“Yes. So many strange things happened to me in Vienna that I do believe him. Once he is safe here and been accepted, you’ll have the biggest story you’ve ever published.”
“What’s that about Vienna?”
A mistake, she thought in dismay: I should never have mentioned Vienna until later, much later, when I can tell him everything. “I was under surveillance. But first of all—please, would you try to contact Bristow? Would you, Hubert?”
He frowned, glared at the telephone, but he dialled Bristow’s number at Langley. Someone answered his query, and he listened. “Thanks. I’ll call back.” He replaced the receiver. “He has gone out for something to eat, lucky fellow. But he is expected back any minute. He’s working late. In the meantime, start explaining. What the hell have you got into? I’ve always told you not to get mixed up in politics.”
“Not even to save a man’s life?”
“What does he do—what’s his job?”
“I don’t know. But once I give Bristow the message, he will understand just what we’re dealing with. He will be able to explain to you.”
“Off the record,” grumbled Schleeman, “and not much of that.” He looked once more at his watch. “I’ll give you his number. Call him—”
“No! I’m sure he doesn’t remember me, and I can’t risk saying anything important over the telephone. He wouldn’t listen to some strange female who gave no details, only said she had to see him at once.”
That was true enough. “What do you want me to tell him?”
“No name. No mention that I write for you. Just tell him it’s urgent. Arrange a meeting with me for tomorrow morning, a quiet meeting—as if by accident. Perhaps I could drive past his house or whatever and pick him up. I’ll recognise him all right.” Her cheeks, pale today, coloured at that admission. “He knows you. If you say this is something urgent and that I’m to be trusted, he will listen. Please, Hubert!”
“You flatter me.”
“But no name. Don’t let him question you, either—not over a telephone.”
Schleeman had to smile at that. “Don’t teach this old dog how to play games. Before you were born, I was sending cryptic messages back to London from Nazi territory. Ever heard of the OSS?”
Her eyes rounded in astonishment. “You were with the OSS?” He could only have been fresh out of college, if that. His smile broadened, changing his face from its usual severity. A prominent nose, a determined chin, thin lips held tightly, made him appear more unapproachable than he actually was. At this moment, he seemed years younger as he dialled once more. This time Bristow was at his desk.
Schleeman didn’t identify himself—Pete Bristow knew his voice. He didn’t name Bristow, either. “Got a minute? I’ve just heard an interesting piece of news. Thought you’d like to hear it, too. I think you should. I’m pretty busy tonight, but what about meeting me tomorrow morning? A quiet meeting—it shouldn’t take long... Eleven o’clock? I’ll pick you up just south of your block—easier to park there if I’m early. If I’m delayed, I’ll send my secretary to drive you to my place. A reliable type. Knows you by sight. No problem.” He ended the call as abruptly as he had begun it.
How many other hidden talents does he have? Karen wondered, her amazement increasing.
“Well?” he demanded. “Did that fit your specifications?”
“You took my breath away.”
He pulled on his jacket. “Play it loose, Karen. And stop worrying. The fate of the world isn’t in your hands. He’s just another defector. This story you’ve been promised—don’t bank on getting hold of it soon. It may take weeks, months, before you can write about it.”
“I know.” Her voice, her movements, were slow. She rose to her feet, reaching for her briefcase, but Schleeman lifted it before she could. “I’m tired, I guess. I can’t really face dinner. A sandwich and instant bed is about my level tonight. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry but wise,” he said. He had hoped a good dinner with a bottle of Château Latour might induce some answers to several questions he had in mind.
“It’s been a long day.” She was still excusing herself. Up at five thirty this morning, thousands of miles away...
“I’ll see you on Monday morning. Ten o’clock sharp.”
Karen managed a small smile. “And hear how I was followed in Vienna?”
“And the reason why.” He dialled again, this time for a taxi. Then he locked his office door, and they could leave at last.
She walked quickly through the staff room, halting at her desk, where she had left the rest of her luggage. Schleeman picked up the heavy bag and typewriter, giving her the lighter load. He noticed how she seized the briefcase with relief and held it tightly. He almost said, “What have you got in there—the crown jewels?” But he restrained his sense of humour, which was always heavy-handed at best.
As they waited for the elevator in an empty corridor with only the distant clatter of a cleaning woman’s bucket to break the silence, Karen suddenly spoke. “Sam Waterman was in Vienna. He brought a couple of friends to sit at my table.”
“How was he?” Schleeman couldn’t care less.
“Outwardly friendly, but inwardly—” She shrugged. “I think he still believes I did a neat hatchet job to get what he wanted. Or did I?”
“No. He did the hatchet job himself. Where the hell is that elevator?”
“Why did you choose me and not him, Hubert?”
“That’s none of your business,” he reminded her. The elevator arrived, and he could follow her inside without the embarrassment of further questions, for there were other passengers, late leavers from the floor above, who groused about overtime on a Friday evening.
Karen’s cheeks had coloured. “Sorry. You were right. Not my business. But it was so strange—the way he seemed to—” She gave up. An elevator car was no place to give details.
Schleeman struck a bargain after they reached the hall and waited at its entrance for the cab. “You tell me all about Vienna, and I’ll tell you about Mr. Sam Waterman. Agreed?”
Tell what I can about Vienna, she amended silently. She nodded an indeterminate promise, looked wan and miserable.
“Get a good night’s sleep,” he said by way of goodbye. He’d find out from Bristow what she wouldn’t tell him. Or couldn’t?
“I will. And thank you. Thank you for everything. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t—Oh, I nearly forgot. What is Peter Bristow’s address?” It wouldn’t be in the telephone directory: an unlisted number.
He told her and watched her intent face as she repeated it. He said nothing more as he helped her into the cab. He stood there, looking thoughtful, watching the taxi disappear from view. Must be one hell of a story, he thought as he headed for his club.
6
In spite of time spent in renting a car, in spite of circling around a few blocks and driving down this narrow street to make sure of the right number on a doorway, Karen was still ten minutes early. She could have borrowed Mary Dunstan’s car for this morning, but it was a Firebird and a flaming red; safer to settle for a less obtrusive grey Plymouth from Avis. Bristow’s address might be pleasant enough, but it was nothing imposing: an apartment above a quiet bookstore, with its own separate entrance. Was it on the second or third floor? Or were there more than two apartments? These Georgetown houses were deceptive, often stretching deep into their backyard, and this street with three-storeyed buildings of white clapboard or red brick, all narrow-fronted, all closely packed, would be no exception.
There were trees in full leaf spaced along the sidewalks, and Karen had parked under a patch of green shade, natural air conditioning to bolster the car’s own system; this morning was typical August in subtropical Washington. She was about fifty feet away from the bookstore’s window—her eye always calculated short distances from the length of her New York living-room, and that was twenty-five feet—and on the opposite side of the street. Her plan was nicely worked out. She’d wait for Bristow to appear, let him start walking south. She’d follow, and stop just ahead of him, opening the passenger door as a signal. He was bound to notice—he was on the alert for a car, wasn’t he? Then all he would have to do was to cross the narrow street and get in.
If he came... She had had brief spasms of worry about that, and now this waiting brought on another attack. What if he appeared and she missed her cue because her view of his doorway was blocked by a slow-moving truck, like this one now edging past her, feeling its cautious way down a mostly residential street where it shouldn’t be allowed in the first place?
Eleven o’clock. No one at the entrance to 27A Muir. A woman at the bookstore window; two men, dark-haired but the wrong height, walking slowly past. As the woman left, Karen saw him emerge. Not from 27A but from the bookstore itself. He paused on its front step, glanced up and down the street. Peter Bristow? Definitely Bristow, although his Saturday clothes were very different from the tailored suit worn at a cocktail party. Hair dark, height almost six feet, well-proportioned body, good profile shown clearly by the quick turn of his head. Now he strolled south: a well-controlled walk—no slouching, no lumbering. (She always noted people’s movements: body language, in the way they walked or sat, was surprisingly revealing about attitudes of mind.)
“Everything according to plan,” she told the automatic shift, changing from Park into Drive, and congratulated herself. But before she could draw even with the man in the tan trousers and dark-blue sports shirt, he had crossed the street, hoisting a green cloth book bag over his shoulder, and looked squarely at the Plymouth’s driver. He’s seen me, he’s seen me all the time, she thought angrily as her stratagem crumbled. She had been so damned smart, and now she felt like a six-year-old.
She pulled up just ahead of him, noticed two automobiles about to overtake her, travelling too close to the Plymouth to let her open the passenger door. She opened hers instead, remembered to set the car at Park, scrambled over the barrier of automatic shift, hauled her precious bag with her just as he slipped into the driver’s seat, dropping his own bag behind him with one hand, closing the door with the other. Within seconds, the car was moving farther south to join a busier street and lose itself in traffic.
For a moment, he had stared at her as he entered the car. Now he looked at her again, this time concealing his surprise. “Smooth. Very smooth.” There was amusement in his eyes. “Did they teach you these little tricks at the Columbia School of Journalism, Miss Cornell?”
She recovered from her own surprise—he not only remembered her, he even knew something about her background. “All part of the curriculum—how to deal with covert assignments. And did Harvard give you your basic training, Mr. Bristow?” She glanced pointedly over her shoulder at the green book bag lying on the rear seat. An affectation, she thought, and something she hadn’t expected from him. All right, Peter Bristow, we’re even: let’s start again. “I’m thankful you came. I wasn’t sure if you would.”
“When Schleeman passes the word, I listen.”
Don’t we all? she thought. Except for last night when I evaded his questions. He will blow higher than Mount St. Helen’s when he hears the full truth. But that’s another problem for another day.
“We’ll drive around, and you can tell me whatever you told Schleeman. Sorry to take over the wheel of your car, but it might have been difficult to give your information and drive through traffic.”
She hadn’t thought of that. “Especially in a strange car.”
“You borrowed it?” She really was being security conscious, perhaps overmuch. Or did she think he’d expect it? He could only wonder at the strange notions the public could entertain about his work.
“Rented it this morning.”
“Where?”
“At the airport.”
He shook his head in amazement, repressed a smile. She’s serious, damned serious about all this, he though
“There’s a lot to tell—the way things happened, how it was done.”
“Give me the main points.”
“I’ve just come back from Czechoslovakia by way of Vienna. On my last afternoon in Prague—actually just before I left—a man contacted me.”
“And that day was?”
“Wednesday.”
A day in Vienna, a day travelling home. “You got Schleeman to ’phone me as soon as you arrived here?” She nodded. He said, “Sorry. Go on.”
“The man’s name is Josef Vasek. A Czech, an intelligence agent, high-placed. He wants to defect. He asked me to alert you.”
“Vasek... Vasek... Never heard of him.” But he knew me, Bristow thought worriedly.
“It’s a recent alias. He said it possibly wasn’t recorded—as yet—in the file you keep on him. Disinformation. That’s his special field.”
Bristow’s frown deepened. “He didn’t give you one of the other names he has used?”
“He said they were numerous, a mixture. You know him by the label you put on his file: Farrago.”
The car almost swerved. There was a long silence. And how the hell did Vasek get that information? Few know about that Farrago file: six people in my unit; the head of our section; the top brass, of course; and no one else. So how did its name get into the hands of an enemy agent? Someone planted by the KGB? A mole? But surely not one of my people—we’ve worked together for years. He stared at the traffic, both mystified and alarmed.
She had opened her shoulder bag, was drawing out an envelope. “I was to give this to you. Only to you. No one else. Urgent, he said.”