Ride a Pale Horse (28 page)

“Why worry?”

“Don’t you?”

“No, I’m not worried. I’m just damned mad. Tapes checked—what next?” Shaw’s vehemence subsided into another laugh. “Shaved heads and numbers stamped on our forearms?”

Karen came slowly out from her deep sleep. For a few minutes, she lay oblivious to everything except the comfort of this bed, the peace of this shaded room. But where? Then she remembered. The Imperial, Monday afternoon, and Peter—she raised herself on an elbow. No one beside her. But near, she thought, and relaxed as she heard faint music from the sitting-room. She rose, drawing on her dressing-gown, and crossed to the windows, pulled back the shutters to let sunshine stream in. There was none. Just a bustle of evening traffic down on Via Veneto and the sun dropping towards the west. It was still daylight, but the street lay now in the shadow of the building opposite. The neon lights were already in full brilliance to welcome the coming dusk. Late—almost six thirty—what happened to this afternoon?

She opened the sitting-room door, saying, “Darling, I—” and stopped in confusion. A dark-haired man sat on the couch with his feet propped on a table. As he turned his head, she recognised him: the young man who had run such expert interference for her as she left Armando’s on Saturday evening; the young man she had first seen with his beautiful if slightly middle-aged Contessa at Doney’s.

He was rising to his feet as he said, “Not to worry. I’m a friend of Peter’s. Left me here as your watchdog while he was away. He’ll be back soon—a bit delayed—but that happens.” He had a most engaging manner.

“I’ll dress,” she said, backing into the bedroom. “Just a few minutes. What’s your name?”

“Giovanni.”

Giovanni who? Peter had some extraordinary friends. She closed the door and dressed quickly. Her working clothes, she called the jeans and shirt she was pulling on. For tonight, there would be no partying in town. They’d be staying here, as they had done yesterday, avoiding people such as Sam Waterman. And she’d set to work, start writing an account of this morning’s bombing while the facts were fresh in her mind. Hubert Schleeman wouldn’t have the articles he expected, but he’d have at least something to fill two pages in the
Spectator.
Aliotto... She had picked up her portable typewriter, ready to carry it to the sitting-room, where there was a desk, sturdier than the thin-legged little writing table in here. Aliotto, she thought again, and wondered if she could ever write about today’s events. She was too near to them, had been a part of them. It was one thing to be a reporter arriving at a disaster scene, observing, describing the horrors of a six-car smash-up on the Long Island Expressway—she had done that for the TV cameras. But it was something else to have been trapped in noise and smoke and flames, to have heard voices screaming around her, to have felt death reaching, spreading, engulfing... She closed her eyes, set down the typewriter at her feet, and began to weep.

She forced herself to recover, wiped the tears from her cheeks; then at last she entered the sitting-room.

Giovanni was quick to notice. “Are you all right?”

She nodded. “Just beginning to remember. Odd, isn’t it? At first, I could think only that I had escaped, that Peter and I were alive. The rest was confusion in my mind. All I could feel was bewilderment—and relief. But now—” She broke off, walked over to the window, kept her back turned. “When did he leave?”

“An hour ago or so. No problem. Pete had to talk on the ’phone to Washington—in my boss’s office. He won’t be long.”

“I’m really ruining your day.” She came back to the couch, emotions under control. “But thank you for staying with me. Frankly, don’t you think Peter is worrying too much about me?”

“No.”

She looked at him in surprise. “But he has other things to think about. And I really can do my own worrying.”

Giovanni studied her face. “Didn’t you know that a bullet was intended for you?”

Her eyes widened.

“This morning?” she asked faintly.

“This morning.”

“When? When I was down on the floor? Yes—I heard two shots. Very close. At
me?
”

“One at you, the other at the man who fired.”

“Peter shot him?”

“Yes.” Giovanni hesitated. His voice softened. “I wasn’t meant to tell you. But—”

“I’m glad you did.” She was completely bewildered. “They actually tried to
kill
me?”

“Forget about it.”

“Forget!” She was indignant.

“Well, don’t think about it. Not now. Later, when it’s farther away from you—”

“It will make an amusing anecdote?” she asked coldly.

“Well—we all like to tell an interesting story when it involves ourselves.”

“We cast ourselves in the leading role, grab our moment of stardom?” She was on the defensive.

Giovanni only said equably, “We enjoy it. Don’t we?”

Her annoyance vanished. “I suppose we do,” she admitted. Listen to me, my friends, and hear how I escaped, how I felt, how I suffered. “Self-centred, all of us.”

“Not all. Not everyone,” he reminded her.

No. Not everyone. “How long have you and Peter been friends?”

“A couple of days. Since Saturday.”

She began to smile. “You waste no time—either of you.”

“Well, you can like—or dislike—at first sight. No explaining it. It happens.”

Like love, she thought.

“What d’you want to drink?” At least the tears have dried and her smile is back, Giovanni thought. But where’s Pete? That ’phone call from Washington was at five o’clock or wasn’t it? Six twenty now. Keep talking, keep her from watching the clock, keep her from thinking about that goddamned bombing.

* * *

Bristow found them both laughing over one of Giovanni’s tall tales. “Sorry, darling,” he told Karen. “There was a delay.” And a circuitous route back to the hotel. His arms went around her as she came to meet him, and they kissed.

He wastes less time than I do, Giovanni thought with amusement as he drained his glass and rose. “Time to push off. I’m meeting Maggie—” he cleared his throat—
“La Contessa
at seven.” He looked at Karen. “I think you saw us at Doney’s.”

“Yes. But you aren’t what I thought you were.”

“Were we that good?”

Bristow said, “I’d like your help, Giovanni. In fact, I need it. We’re leaving tonight. Quietly.”

“By NATO express?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you have travel orders, papers?”

“I came away from Levinson’s office in too much of a hurry. Think he’ll provide something for us?”

“Will try. When d’you fly out?”

“Midnight.”

“I can drive—”

“No. Better not. Just hire us a car, have it waiting around the corner—on Via Boncompagni. We should leave the hotel at ten, I think. But how do we get the bags down to the car? I’d like to have us walk out the front door as if we were going to dinner. I’ve paid the bills, told the cashier that we had an early start tomorrow so I’d square everything tonight. I’ll pay cash for dinner when we have it in this room. Any ideas, Giovanni?”

“I’ll get a bellhop to collect your bags at nine thirty and have them packed in the car. I’ll wait with it until you come.”

Karen said, “I’m slightly bewildered.” We don’t sleep here tonight although it’s all paid for. We don’t use our Pan Am tickets tomorrow morning. “Why the rush, Peter?”

“A change of plans. Sorry to spring it on you. There’s a small crisis at Langley. Menlo wants me back there as soon as possible.”

“Menlo,” Giovanni said, “is his boss. Never met him, but I hear that when he requests, you jump.”

“Well,” Karen said, “if we must look as if we’re only going out to dinner, then I’ll play the part. A sleeveless dress and my lace stole, I suppose.” And I’ll shiver to death on the plane, she thought.

“Night flying at thirty-five thousand feet can be chilly,” Bristow said. “You’ve nothing warmer?”

“Just summer things. I packed for late-August weather in Rome.”

“Wear what you’ve got on now. Add a sweater. We can say we’re visiting Trastevere—there are plenty of little eating places across the Tiber. I’ll look as casual as hell, too. Okay, Giovanni? You’re the expert.”

Giovanni grinned. “She might even look too chic for Trastevere—but she’ll pass. You do have a sweater?” he asked Karen. “You can’t arrive home with pneumonia.”

“A thin cardigan. One with a beaded collar.” That amused her.

“I’ll find something,” Giovanni said. “Leave it with your luggage in the car.”

“Sorry about all this, but you know women.” She began to laugh. “We never have anything to wear, do we?” She left them smiling as she went towards the bedroom. “I’ll pack before dinner, Peter.”

“Can you stay another five minutes?” Bristow asked Giovanni. “I’ll get packed, too, and bring my bag along here.” He was already at the door, opening it.

“Sure,” Giovanni said as Bristow closed the door behind him. He thought for a moment, then ’phoned down to the bar, where
la Contessa
would be holding court with two businessmen whom Levinson was investigating. “A little late,” he excused himself. “Can you find me a sweater, your size—bulky and droopy and warm? I’ll meet you at nine. Your place. Okay?”

“Of course, dear boy. Simply delighted,” Maggie said in her best Italian for the benefit of her table. “And just wait till I see you!” she added sotto voce in pure Midwest American.

It went as planned. Karen and Bristow made the midnight flight, with travel papers complete and the bulkiest of sweaters draped around her shoulders.

“How d’you like being a third-class aide’s secretary?” he asked her as they found their allotted space.

“I thought they’d have made you at least a second-class aide. Aiding what?”

“Some agriculture department. Foot-and-mouth disease.” Trust Levinson and his sense of humour, he thought as he shook his head.

She pulled on the sweater before she buckled the safety belt.
“Très
chic,
tres
snob. I’m all set for Gstaad. Did you notice
la Contessa
walking her poodle past the car as we were getting in? I suppose it was her way of saying goodbye.”

“Or of having a look at the girl who was going to wear her prize sweater.”

“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.

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.