Ride a Pale Horse (2 page)

Three o’clock. All was far from well. If she didn’t get her envelopes back—then, perhaps, she had to reconstruct most of her notes, such as they were, from memory. It was sharp enough, thank heaven. (“Ah yes,” her dear critics said, “she’s wired for sound. Must carry a recording machine wherever she goes.”)

“Stop this!” she told her reflection in the dresser’s mirror. “You’re turning paranoid. Stop it!” This gargoyle face glaring back at her would really delight her competition. So she calmed down, combed her dark hair back into proper place, added powder and lipstick, studied the neckline of her blue silk shirt, tried to take comfort in the way its colour emphasised her eyes. My notes, she thought again, if they aren’t returned, does that mean a reprimand of some kind? She didn’t even know how to reach the censors’ office to try to prod them into action. Or perhaps that wouldn’t be wise. Not wise at all. Censors might not like being prodded, even in the gentlest fashion.

Her telephone rang. It was perched on the extension of the headboard on her bed. She dropped lipstick and compact on top of her handbag and reached it on its second ring.

“Miss Cornell?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Vasek. I’m in charge of press relations.”

His English was good, his accent fair. Vasek? In charge of press relations? One of the really important guys who kept a low profile? (It was the unimportant men in this regime who were much on view.)

“Miss Cornell? Are you still there?”

“I am.”

“Have you enjoyed your visit? If you have any comments, I’d be glad to hear them. I’m sure any small difficulties could be easily explained.”

“Could they?”

“I think so. Why don’t you join me downstairs? I am telephoning from the lobby. I am sure a little talk could put your mind to rest. I am sorry you have been disappointed.”

Sorry... The first apology given. “Indeed I have been. You know about that?”

“Yes. Regrettable. But perhaps—” Vasek paused. “All is not lost yet, Miss Cornell.”

A last chance to get that interview? A change of mind in high places? Quickly, she calculated the time of her appointment in Vienna tomorrow afternoon against a morning flight from here. She could manage it. “I could stay for this evening—” she began and was interrupted.

“Why don’t we talk? Will you join me downstairs? I’ll be waiting near the elevator.”

“Give me three minutes.”

Josef Vasek replaced the receiver and turned to his assistant. “She’s coming.”

“Do you think it will do any good? She scarcely spoke a word at luncheon today. She’s a tough customer.”

And that is what I’m betting on, thought Vasek. She’s my gamble. “Well, we can’t send her away antagonised. It doesn’t pay to make enemies of the foreign press, does it? I’ll talk to her in the garden, calm her down.”

“All you’ll hear will be complaints.”

“Perhaps I should hand this job over to you, Bor.”

“No, thank you. I’ll just string along and admire your technique.”

“Fine. Or, better still, why don’t we save time? You deal with Duvivier. He’s in the bar, I think. He’s worrying about his friend—that
Observer
reporter who left without saying goodbye to him. Reassure him, can you?”

“I’ll manage that. Here she comes, all cream and peaches. But she’s a tough lady. I warned you.” Averting his eyes from the elevator door, Bor moved off and made his way through the crowded lobby towards the bar.

Karen Cornell stepped out of the elevator. Near its door there were several people grouped, and she could recognise them all. Not one was named Vasek. Then she saw a man—a stranger she had glimpsed only once or twice, usually in the distance. None of her colleagues had met him either or could give her his name. He was probably of some importance. He might be wearing an ill-fitted double-breaster, but that unctuous little squirt called Bor—always impeccably dressed—had just left him with a bow of deference which he barely acknowledged. Medium height, middle-aged, and carrying too much weight around his waistline. (A sedentary job or a bulky jacket?) He was pretending not to notice her. She halted, controlled a rising excitement. If this was Vasek, let him make the first move: he knew damned well who she was.

He began walking, but not towards her. He seemed to be heading for the side entrance to the lobby that led out onto the terrace and a flower garden. Then it appeared as if he had caught sight of her when he glanced at the group in front of the elevators. He halted, turned, came forward through the crowd of people.

“Miss Cornell. My name is Vasek. I don’t believe we have met. I am glad to have this chance to wish you a good journey. You are leaving tonight?”

“This afternoon.”

“So soon? I hope your visit was enjoyable.”

“I’d have preferred a more central hotel.”

“But why, Miss Cornell?” He was astonished. “There was always a car for your convenience.” His tone was soothing, his face a mask of politeness. “Have you any other comments?” But there was a sudden gleam of humour in his light-grey eyes.

“I was under the impression I was to be granted—”

“Didn’t you have your interview yesterday with the Minister of Agriculture?”

A five-minute lecture, she reminded herself, before we were given a tour of model farms. Her impatience grew. “Yes. But I expected—”

“A moment, please, Miss Cornell. Too much noise here. Shall we try the terrace? Then we won’t need to raise our voices.”

She had the feeling that these sentences were as much for Bor’s benefit—the man had appeared almost magically beside Vasek—as for hers.

Vasek spoke with Bor in a quick interchange of Czech, and Bor left—rather grudgingly, it seemed to Karen—with his usual bows. “Nothing important,” Vasek said to her. Just an excuse. Bor hadn’t found the French journalist in the bar. “He was looking for someone. I told him to try the man’s bedroom.” Anywhere, Vasek thought angrily, anywhere except at my elbow. “This way, Miss Cornell.” He led her towards the terrace.

“If Bor is looking for one of my colleagues, he’ll find him trying to track down the censors.” A neat way to introduce my own worry, she thought. “I should be doing that myself. I’m leaving here at four thirty. I haven’t yet received my notes, and I—”

“You’ll have them before you leave. I’m afraid the terrace is a bit crowded, too.” He looked around the array of occupied chairs and urged her towards the steps into the garden. He said clearly, “I know you’ve had certain problems. Why not tell me your complaints? I can explain anything that is puzzling you, and I am sure you will feel much better. Can’t have you leaving with unanswered questions, can we?”

But once they had reached the flower beds and were strolling leisurely on a path that took them a little distance from the terrace, his voice dropped. “Don’t show surprise or shock at anything I say. You will argue with me, and I shall appear to be explaining away your doubts. Yes, you should interrupt me naturally, but
no
comments on what I am telling you. No astonishment, please.” For she had turned her head to look at him with her eyes wide and her lips parted. “When we reach that patch of grass ahead of us, we’ll stop for a little. My back will be to the terrace, so you will face it. Eyes will be watching us. And there is one highly skilled lip reader among them. That is why you must stay absolutely normal. What you say will be known.” He fell silent, stopped to look at a rosebush.

She stopped, too, but kept her face averted from the terrace. “My turn to talk?” I’m on the verge of a story, she told herself, excitement once more stirring. I feel it, I sense it, I can smell it. All that playacting of his in the lobby, all that little pantomime on the terrace of attempting to pacify a complaining guest—yes, he is a man in trouble, bigger than any of those I thought I had.

“Briefly. We haven’t much time—ten minutes at most.”

“Then I’ll go on asking about my notes.” Her face turned to admire the yellow rosebush they had passed. She halted briefly. “Why the delay? My material didn’t need to be censored. It’s absolutely harmless,” she ended with considerable indignation.

He looked back, too, at the cluster of flowers, long enough to let any watcher see his lips. “Harmless? We must be the judge of that. And I assure you, we only hope to make everything easier for our guests when they pass through the airport. Let me explain.” They resumed their leisurely stroll, their faces now unseen from the terrace. “Good,” he said. “You’re very good, Miss Cornell. Now let’s get to that stretch of grass.”

“Why not the sundial in the centre of the rose bed? When I seem pacified, you could appear to be explaining its design to me.”

He smiled; not just a gleam in his eyes, this time, but a smile that freed the pale expressionless face from its controlled mask. “A pretty picture. But the dial is bugged. So are these garden benches.”

“What?”

“No astonishment, Miss Cornell!”

Is this more playacting, but now for my benefit? The sudden suspicion grew; kept her silent.

He seemed to read her thoughts. “I am being serious, Miss Cornell. Believe me. This may be the most serious decision I shall ever make. My life is in your hands.” They had reached the stretch of grass, their slow pace dwindling to a halt. They stood there, quite naturally it seemed, Karen facing him, his back to the terrace.

She recovered herself.
My
hands? “Thank you for explaining. But I still have some doubts. Yesterday, for instance”—Yesterday, what? “The agriculture people didn’t really answer my question about acid rain. I’ve heard much of your forest land is being killed by it. Is this true?”

The mask had been dropped; there was a tightening of worry, almost of desperation, on his lips. His eyes searched her. He drew a deep breath. “I am planning to defect. Will you help me?”

“I thought it was the other way around,” she said, then bit her lip. Nearly a mistake, she told herself, and managed to laugh. “Tell me more about this acid rain problem. It’s widespread. We have it also.”

“Will you help?” His eyes, light grey, intense, were pleading. “I am putting you in danger, I know. But you will be helping your country, too.”

She stared at him. Then she nodded.

His hand had slipped quietly into the inside pocket of his double-breasted jacket, pulled out the top of a manila envelope. He held it for a moment, just long enough for her to see
Tuesday: Village Visits.
Her handwriting, partly smudged by the coffee she had upset over the envelope; a proper mess that had left the envelope stained enough to be discarded into her wastepaper basket last night. She had rescued the two pages of her notes and added them to the envelope filled with official handouts from the Ministry of Agriculture. The basket had been emptied of its trash while she had breakfast on the terrace this morning. In spite of herself, her eyes widened, her mouth fell open. Quickly, she recovered. “Really?” she asked. “How—how extraordinary!”

The envelope disappeared back into Vasek’s pocket; his arms were folded as he went on talking in a low, strained voice. “You will find that envelope among the others on your desk when you return to your room. Do not open it. Just take it out—to America—among the rest of your notes. And deliver it to Peter Bristow. You know him. He will see it is given immediate attention.”

“But I hardly know—” she broke out, and stopped in time. She shrugged. “I really
am
ignorant. You were saying that acid rain is spreading? Into Austria? Even Switzerland?” And it’s true; I hardly know Peter Bristow—I’ve met him only once, and then briefly. Naturally enough. He’s CIA or something hush-hush, and I’m the press. As soon as he heard my name, he made a diplomatic retreat.

“You can always reach Bristow through Schleeman. They are friends.”

He is too well informed, knows everything he shouldn’t know. Warily, she looked at the white face. “An immediate problem, you say? Even Sweden and Norway are concerned. Yes, it would be a good subject to write about. If only I could learn more,” she said slowly, “make sure of the facts. Reporters should be accurate, check all references. I really do need to know more than I do.” Can you catch my meaning? she asked him silently. She needed to be told what was in that envelope. Would he get it?

He did. One hand briefly touched his jacket, just where its inside pocket was hidden. “No drugs, no currency, no diamonds. The envelope holds three letters. They are my insurance that I will be accepted by your government. I wrote these letters, taking the names of your Secretaries of State and of Defense. Also, of your President. You have heard of disinformation? These three brief documents are excellent examples—if I may say so. Of course, much praise must go to the expert forgers who could supply the signatures. It was a difficult undertaking, but it was successful. So far, the letters haven’t been given out to the press. Then I discovered that the delay is official policy: two events, only hinted at in the letters, are actually to take place. The letters will be made public, but skilfully, once the events have been attempted. They could start a major upheaval—riots, wild protests, an end to the Western alliance. Then, as I see it, war would ensue. A hideous war.”

There was silence. At last, Karen said, “What would be the cause of—of so much damage?”

“Two political assassinations, almost simultaneous.”

She felt her face go rigid and dropped her head as if she were studying the grass at her feet. “When?” she risked, lips scarcely moving.

“That is still being decided. They must be arranged carefully. All blame must fall on the Americans.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult,” she said bitterly. Not the way things were going. Can I believe him? Is this really possible—is it true?

“How long will you stay in Vienna? A few hours, I hope. That envelope is urgent.”

“I can see that.” If true, if true... “I’m a very curious person, you know. I think I must study the material on acid rain before I—before I can write about it.” I am out of my depth and sinking fast, she thought. “But I’ll start some research when I reach home—that’s on Friday. I’ll be only a day in Vienna, but I think Schleeman will expect me to get back to Washington and start explaining to him why that interview did not take place. The trouble is, I don’t know why it didn’t. Couldn’t you persuade someone at the top to let me do the interview this evening? Just one hour—that’s all I ask. I’ll stay here overnight and keep my engagement in Vienna tomorrow.”