Ride a Pale Horse (23 page)

The janitor’s helper obeyed, carrying his chairs back into the hall, standing aside as two latecomers entered—young, dark-haired, of medium height, and dressed in faded US Army field jackets. They sat down in the nearest available space, which was logical enough. The janitor shrugged his shoulders—the extra chairs were now occupied—and left. The young men seemed to realise they were not in the section that had been allocated to them. The one beside Aliotto rose, stared down at the journalist and then at the empty seat on Aliotto’s left, frowned as he retreated to the third row. The other had bent down to pick up something he had dropped; then, straightening his back, with his hands deep in his pockets, he followed his friend. They paused before they sat down on the chairs next to the lawyers, surveyed the curious journalists with a truculent scowl. The frown was still deep on the first man’s face; it cleared as his eyes rested on Karen. Bristow, studying them covertly, felt his spine stiffen. They both took their seats with a quiet phrase exchanged, and the second man turned his head slowly to glance over his shoulder. He looked at Karen, only shifted his gaze when Bristow returned his stare. What had caught their interest—a pretty face, or a woman journalist? Or what? Bristow’s tension grew.

“The girl’s relatives, I suppose,” Karen was saying. “Why the glowers and the hard looks? They seem to be prepared to dislike everyone. But they’d better take off those heavy jackets—it’s warm in here.” She removed hers and wondered why Peter, who helped her ease her arm from its sleeve, made no comment. Today, he was strangely silent; quite unlike yesterday, when they had stayed in her room most of the time and worked and talked and laughed together. A good day, she thought, a wonderful day. And tomorrow, she thought, we’ll be separating. I will go back to Washington, and he will start his vacation. And I’ll hate that, she admitted, and felt suddenly desolate. She busied herself with her notebook, propped it on top of her bag on her knees. With pencil in hand, she said, “Well, I’m ready for Martita and Giorgio. She’s the meek one, Schleeman told me. Just follows Giorgio in everything he does. And did.” Their past record was appalling. Yesterday, when she had studied the detailed accounts of their exploits, she had been horrified. Brazen cruelty, senseless violence, obscene delight in destruction; and all to be forgotten, a thing of the past. Repentance and forgiveness instead of hate and vengeance.

“Here they come,” Bristow said as voices and footsteps mingled in the hall. He grasped Karen’s hand for a moment, gave her a smile that reassured her: not her fault if he had seemed so buried in his thoughts. He worries too much about me, she decided, and was both pleased and distressed by the idea.

All heads had turned towards the entrance. First, two uniformed guards appeared, armed with machine pistols, and halted at each side of the doorway. Then came a young girl—slender, with long brown hair falling straight over her shoulders—flanked by two middle-aged women in uniforms as solemn as their faces. The trio walked past Aliotto, mounted the narrow steps that led up to the platform. White blouse and wide grey skirt, Karen noted; hair held in place by a red band worn low on her forehead; a pretty girl, looking even younger than her nineteen years, fragile and helpless, almost angelic as she sat down and clasped her hands on her lap. So this was Martita, who had shot a Milanese newspaperman in both knees after he had fallen helpless to the pavement with a chest wound. Her two guards, tall and heavy by comparison, took their posts against the wall. And, thought Karen, there wasn’t a man in this room who didn’t notice the contrast and feel his sympathies tilt away from law and order. Except for Inspector Tasso and those few who had read the detailed facts of Martita’s past achievements. If I hadn’t, she reminded herself, my sympathies would have tilted completely.

Giorgio and his two guards, capable-looking males in uniform, had entered almost unnoticed. He was tall and thin, with closely cut brown hair and a neat beard. A handsome young man, erect and smart in his walk; a decided young man, Karen thought as she watched his brusque movements; and confident. He sat down, reached over the small table to touch Martita’s hair and smile encouragement. As his guards assumed their positions against the wall, Giorgio straightened his shoulders, began speaking. For both of them, it seemed.

He gave their names, their occupations (Martita had been a movie extra; he had been a philosophy student), and outlined their association with a group of five other dedicated revolutionaries—a section of the Red Brigade. He spoke of their beliefs, their hopes; even listed some of their deeds. But now he admitted they had been wrong in such action. In prison he had come to the conviction that violence was no solution, would not further the cause of justice for the poor. When released, he and Martita would marry and return to a normal life. They still believed in their opinions. It was the methods they had used, along with their comrades, that were wrong. He was convinced that only peaceful means could bring a better future for everyone.

“Do you need translation?” Bristow had asked as this speech began, and Karen had shaken her head. Giorgio spoke clearly, at a measured rate, easily understandable even for her Italian. Besides, she thought, how can Peter translate when he keeps watching the relatives—not the brother and sister directly in front of him, but the two cousins at the other end of the row? “I’ll have the transcript,” she whispered back, and bless Inspector Tasso for that privilege.

Giorgio’s speech was ended. Martita sat without moving, her Mona Lisa smile in place. The questions began, and chaos broke loose. Tasso, over by the door, shouted, “Gentlemen, gentlemen! One question at a time! Each of you in turn—and keep your questions to three minutes. We begin with the front row.” He pointed to Aliotto. Sanity having been established, he ascended the steps and stood behind the lectern to survey the room.

So now, thought Bristow, we have Tasso and the recording expert at the lectern, a couple of male guards within reach of Giorgio, two female guards to the rear of sweet Miss Silence, two men with machine pistols at the door, the door itself safely closed, and God knows how many men in the hall and the street—not to mention the two armed men in the corridor outside the fire exit. No one can say Tasso didn’t take precautions—he worries more than I do. Strange, though, the difference in the reactions of the two pairs of relatives.

Giorgio’s brother and sister listened intently. The girl needed comforting, wept, was quieted by her brother even if he seemed about to give way to tears himself. Martita’s cousins were bored; they sat slouched and unmoving, eyes straight ahead and unseeing, kept a stolid silence. The one who had frowned was now expressionless, held with obvious disinterest a small cassette recorder that he probably realised was useless to catch any words beyond twelve feet away. He ought to have stayed in that front-row seat beside Aliotto. The other had both hands deep in his pockets, ignoring the heat of the room as well as its voices. With their family connections, Bristow would have expected these two to be the more emotional pair: Martita came originally from south of Naples—an Italian father, a Spanish mother. Giorgio was from the north—his people lived in Turin.

Yes, thought Bristow, a strange contrast in their reactions. And his sense of unease deepened. There was some peculiar logic in the behaviour of Martita’s cousins. They had entered this room quick and alert, their eyes interested in every detail. For a brief minute they sat on the two extra chairs at the front and then, still observant, moved back. Too observant, he was convinced. He glanced around the room—everything was normal, everyone was engrossed by the questions and answers that were calmly spoken—and felt his uneasiness growing.

Suddenly, in the street outside, there was an explosion. The room shook, the ceiling lights trembled. All heads turned in alarm, all voices silenced. From the street again—staccato bursts of rapid fire.

It has begun, thought Bristow. Not here, out there. Quickly he grasped Karen and looked towards Martita’s cousins. The man with the small recorder no longer slouched—he sat erect, the cassette recorder held in both hands, his thumb raised, his eyes on the platform. The second man was rising. Martita’s arm shot straight up, her fist clenched.

At once, the man brought his hand out of his pocket, aiming his pistol at Giorgio, and fired. Giorgio fell as Martita leaped sideways, leaving a clear field for the second and third bullets to strike her two guards, and jumped down from the platform. The extra chair beside Aliotto exploded violently.

Flames and smoke, a shaft of fire along the front row of seats, shouts changing to screams. In a matter of seconds, hell had broken loose.

As Giorgio fell, Bristow shoved Karen face down on the floor, dropped on one knee. His Beretta was out as the assassin swung around to take aim at Karen. Bristow fired first, caught the man’s chest, sent him staggering back, his wild fourth bullet buried in the ceiling. His companion hurled his only weapon at Bristow—a bogus recorder with its remote control—and made a bolt for the entrance, was lost in a spreading cloud of black smoke. Bristow dodged—a bad moment when he thought it could be a grenade—and hauled Karen to her feet, pulling her towards the fire exit. Martita was already there, thrusting the door open, the hem of her skirt lifted to cover her mouth.

Screams were mixed with moans, shouts with yells of command. The foul-smelling smoke that engulfed half the room was spreading. So were the flames from the front row of chairs. Bristow, gripping Karen’s wrist, saw Martita disappear into the corridor. Two armed policemen out there, Tasso had said. Martita would have the shortest escape on record, he thought grimly, and shouldered the door open.

In the corridor there was another kind of smoke, a haze: gas of some kind. Two policemen lay motionless on the floor, weapons gone. Bristow, shoving his pistol into his pocket, clamped a hand over Karen’s mouth. “Hold your breath!” He held his own as he urged her at a run towards the street’s exit. No door was left, just a gaping hole where the first explosion had taken place. Shots were still being fired out there in heavy bursts. So he halted just inside the demolished doorway, removed his hand from Karen’s face. “We can breathe,” he told her. And choke and cough, as the fresh air cleared their lungs.

The firing ceased. They could step out into another small scene of bedlam. He looked around. No sign of Martita, but two young men in jeans and loose shirts were stretched at the doorstep of a
trattoria
across the street. Like most restaurants in this quarter, the
trattoria
had its
CLOSED MONDAY
notice displayed, now dangling from a shattered window. It had been the way of retreat for two of Martita’s comrades, the unlucky ones abandoned to die on the sidewalk—perhaps the place where they had gathered to set off the first explosion and then attack the corridor with gas grenades. On the street itself, three men—probably detectives—were scattered over the pavement, wounded and bloody, moving feebly. A fourth lay as dead as the two terrorists who had covered Martita’s escape. Sweet, helpless Martita had managed it. Managed it in more senses than one, Karen thought.

Karen took a few unsteady steps and slumped against him. He caught her, held her, looked for a place to let her rest. The kerb and sidewalk were littered with shattered glass and splintered wood; jagged fragments lay on a paneless window sill behind them. But there he could sweep the shards aside with his sad-looking jacket. With his arm supporting her, they sat on the edge of the sill. Her face, like his, was smoke-streaked. She had lost her jacket. Her shoulder bag had twisted its strap around her bare arm, cut into it painfully, making her wince as he freed her. Tightly held in her other hand was her notebook. She raised it, said in a small voice, “I can’t let go. Peter—” He eased her fingers loose. That’s the wrist I gripped, he thought. He rubbed it gently, wondering when the bruises would start showing.

“Sorry,” he said. “I guess I was desperate.” He looked up from the wrist to find her watching him. He tightened his hold of her waist, his other arm went around her. He kissed her gently. She didn’t draw back, didn’t resist. He kissed her again, long and hard.

Other survivors were stumbling out from the hallway’s entrance. The first ambulances and a fire truck arrived; police swarmed around, cleared the street of people who were now venturing out, sent them back inside their houses and shops. Karen’s head rested against his shoulder, his arms still enfolding her.

For almost half an hour they watched the turmoil as it gradually decreased into business-like movements, commands, trained efficiency. “We’ll soon be out of here,” he told Karen. And he thought, as he looked at the smudges on her cheek and felt the grime streaking his own face, it was one helluva place to give your first kiss to the girl you damn well intended to marry. Then his lips tightened. I nearly lost her, he thought, I nearly lost her.

A voice said, “Thank God, you’re safe! Should have known.” It was Giovanni, elegant as ever, relaxing into a wide grin. “Levinson sent a car. Come on—can you walk?” he asked a startled Karen. “If not, we’ll carry you. The car’s just beyond the roadblock.” He gestured to the end of the street, where the curious were already gathering behind a barricade.

“News does get around,” Bristow said, eyeing the crowd. He handed his jacket and Karen’s bag and notebook to Giovanni, renewed his firm support of Karen. “We’ll make it.”

You certainly have, thought Giovanni. A hundred questions he’d like to ask. Later, later... He began clearing a path for them through the groups of worried officials, of journalists still in shock, dodging the hurrying stretcher-bearers, steering clear of the injured, avoiding the fire hoses, and hoped that Karen hadn’t noticed the burned remains being carried in body bags out of the hall.

They entered the Imperial by a rear door, Giovanni guiding them through a labyrinth of corridors. “Levinson suggested this,” he told them. “Thought you could do without a grand entrance through the lobby.” Karen nodded gratefully. She hadn’t spoken on the journey back to the hotel—none of them had. She was in shock, Bristow was buried in thought, Giovanni was tactful. She felt chilled, even in the midday heat with the warmth of Peter’s arm around her.