Ride a Pale Horse (39 page)

“It would also be the quickest way in.”

“Too direct. Therefore dangerous. Approach his backyard from its side.”

His... he... his. “What’s this guy’s name?”

“All you need to know is his height—five feet ten, if he’s on his feet. And the colour of his hair—fair—if he’s sitting.”

“
If
he’s there,” Barney added to that.

“He will be. Night is clear, stars are out—”

“You know one hell of a lot about him. But he might change his routine and stay indoors. What then?”

“We try again tomorrow.”

“I won’t be here tomorrow night. I’m flying out in the morning.”

“You’ll be here if you’re needed.”

Barney pulled on a pair of light surgical gloves. “Where’s his pistol?”

Shaw drew it out of his jacket pocket, handling it carefully with a handkerchief. “Here! Remember, we need to keep his prints on it.”

“I’ll have to get pretty close to him if you want a suicide. That’s taking a chance.”

“Call it a challenge.” Shaw took something small and folded from his other pocket and handed it over. “Stocking,” he said curtly.

“I wear no damn mask.”

“Don’t wear it. Drop it. Behind the garbage cans at the kitchen door.”

Barney stared at him. “You really know the layout.”

“That,” Shaw said, “is the only reason I’m here.”

Barney looked at the stocking. His lips tightened. “Like hell I will. No time. Once you hear the shot, move up that street.” He pointed to Sussex on their left. “I’ll come straight out the direct way. Pick me up there. No delay. Got that?”

“Before you fire, you could drop—”

“You do it!” Barney tossed the stocking back. “I have my own orders.” He stepped out, swearing under his breath. “Didn’t have to give me such a walk.”

“Not far. There’s enough light.” The stars were bright, the waning moon still full enough.

Barney left, slipping into the shadows, merging with the night’s darkened colours in his black shirt and black trousers. He began following the line of sparse hedges and young trees at the back of the newly built houses.

No dogs at this end of Sussex Street, thought Shaw. Barney had it easy. I did all the scouting for him on Sunday evening—a good time to call on Fairbairn and commiserate with each other on Menlo’s interviews that morning. No wife or kids to bother us, either—still visiting dear old Grandmama. Yes, Barney had it easy: if I had brought him here blindly, parked at the other end of Sussex, he’d have two large shepherds to worry about. They were penned, of course, but they had powerful barks, could waken the whole neighbourhood.

Shaw picked up the stocking, folded it neatly to replace in his pocket. He wiped the steering wheel clean and drew on his own pair of transparent gloves. He disliked driving with them, but he’d ditch the car, and Barney, once this job was over—Coulton would meet him near Friendship Heights. He settled to wait, wondering how he had ever been drawn into this circle of violence. All he had done was to follow the normal course of duty: report a large envelope, stamped by a Czech censor, delivered secretly at a gas station by Bristow to Fairbairn. And Coulton had passed on the report as usual. Since then, deeper and deeper into something they didn’t understand. At least he didn’t. Coulton? Never could tell about Coulton. He seemed to take orders, but he certainly avoided situations like this one, didn’t have to sweat it out while an imported thug—A pistol shot cut through the night’s silence.

Shaw switched on engine and headlights, made a quick left turn into Sussex. Three houses to pass before he’d reach the one under construction behind Fairbairn’s place. Its garden lights were suddenly ablaze, dogs had begun barking. A second shot rang out.

Shaw, nerves tightening, increased speed, reached the half-built house as a man stumbled through Fairbairn’s line of bushes. A black figure—could be Barney. A second figure, a third. Shaw jabbed the accelerator to the floor, drove past Barney, who was half-way to the street, raced its length, speeded around its curve that would bring him to the highway and safety.

But beyond that curve, at the first sound of firing, a light van had been drawn athwart the road. Shaw swerved and crashed over the sidewalk into a tree.

They pulled him out of the mangled car, stretched his body on the grass. One of the men pointed to the surgical gloves and shook his head. The other quickly searched Shaw’s pockets. “No weapon.” Then he directed his flashlight onto a small folded piece of nylon. “Well, what do you know!” he said in amazement as a dark-grey stocking unrolled and dangled from his hand. “I’ll call in our report.” He rose, gloves and stocking safely in his pocket, and left for the van.

His partner waited for the irate householder to arrive on the scene. She was an elderly lady who had delayed in order to take the curlers out of her hair and pull on some clothes less revealing than a nightgown and robe. She was more scared than angry. “I was asleep—Oh, the poor young man. Is he dead?”

“Looks like it. Head went through the windshield. Just call the police, ma’am. Tell them a driver took the curve too fast and went off the road.”

“Oh, dear! He looks dreadful.” She shuddered in sympathy.

“Please—just call the police. Stay inside. They’ll handle everything.” As she hurried indoors, he made for the van. Quietly, it turned and headed towards Cherry Lane. “Jesus, he almost hit us. Must have been travelling at sixty, the damned fool.” He turned to the man at the radio. “What’s the news?”

“The police shot an intruder, caught him as he tried to reach the car. He had dropped the revolver, but he was wearing gloves.”

“So his fingerprints aren’t on the gun. Hell, there goes direct evidence.”

“Except for the police bullet. He’s got their slug in his shoulder.”

“Saying anything?”

“Cursed everything and everyone in sight. Then he clammed up.”

“That figures.”

“Calm the children,” Fairbairn told his wife. “And keep upstairs, all of you.” And Emma—who had been complaining all evening about the invasion of their house and garden by strangely dressed men, and what silly nonsense was this, danger of what?—was now subdued enough by the sound of two shots that she only nodded agreement as she hugged him in relief. He really had been in danger, she thought as she coaxed the children back into bed. A burglar, she was explaining, but he had been chased away.

Fairbairn stepped onto the terrace, watched a stranger clothed in black being taken around the side of the house towards Cherry Lane.

“Do you know him?” Jim asked.

“I’ve never seen him in my life.”

“This way.” Jim led him to his favourite chair. The seated figure, wearing one of his old blazers, had the remains of its head mixed with shreds of its blond wig.

Fairbairn flinched. It could have been me, he thought. He said awkwardly, “Sorry about the argument I gave you when you first arrived.”

“Well—it was all arranged at short notice. Didn’t give us much time to brief you at length.” Jim signed to one of the undercover policemen, who had charge of the revolver. “Don’t touch it, just have a close look,” he advised Fairbairn as he beamed a flashlight on a neat .22. “The assailant fired from about three feet away, reached for the dummy’s hand, then saw the head was in smithereens. He dropped the pistol and bolted. But not before this detective caught him one on the shoulder. Neat job—we wanted him alive,” he told that young man as he moved off to join his team. “Did you recognise the revolver?” he asked Fairbairn, who seemed frozen to the ground.

“It looked similar—to one I have—” Fairbairn broke off, staring at the smashed head of the wax figure.

“We’ll never be able to use him again,” Jim said lightly. “Poor old dummy.”

“Symbolic.” Fairbairn’s voice was bitter. He came to life, moved quickly back towards the house.

Jim followed, found him unlocking a drawer in the study’s desk. “I was out of this room for only five—six—minutes on Sunday—getting us some ice for our drinks.” Fairbairn pulled the drawer open. He stared unbelievingly. “Yes,” he said at last, “that was my revolver.”

All was quiet in the apartment. Bristow reached his study, nodded to Taylor, who stood at the door. Doyle was now available and waiting at the other end of the two-way radio. Okay, Bristow signed, and Taylor left. He adjusted the headphones, kept his own voice low even if Vasek’s room was half-way down the hall, and made his report on tonight’s developments. Doyle listened intently, accepted all of Bristow’s suggestions and requests. And then, once that business was completed, burst out with his own news: an attack on Fairbairn had failed; Shaw dead.

The stocking had been found on Shaw’s body, an exact match, one of a pair. Fingerprints of the man arrested for attempted murder were the same as those found in Menlo’s house. The label of a Zurich department store, concealed within the broad fold of the tie dropped on Menlo’s floor, was identical with the one attached to the inside seam of the man’s shirt-sleeve. “Careless bastard,” Doyle said jubilantly. “Too many successes in the past. That goes to a man’s head. A failure or two keeps him cautious. He isn’t talking, of course. And I’ll bet he isn’t Swiss. But we’ll keep digging—Interpol or Interintell may supply a useful tip.”

“Fairbairn?”

“He’s safe. Reported to be a touch depressed. But he’ll recover.”

Fairbairn would. He was the type who always recovered. Next month, thought Bristow, he’ll make a comic anecdote out of the whole incident.

“One last thing,” Doyle said. “You’d better stop using your own car until this emergency is over. You can borrow one from us.”

A neat reminder, thought Bristow, that a feeling of success could make a man careless. “I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Meanwhile, you pass on my report. You know whom to contact.”

“The sooner, the better. Take care.”

Another neat reminder: to be the sole possessor of vital information was not exactly an enviable position. “I’ll do that,” Bristow promised. He left the study and found Taylor standing guard outside the door. “Ambulance comes at one thirty. We wake him at one fifteen. Okay?” Judging from Taylor’s face, it was very much okay.

With extreme care, Bristow eased past Vasek’s room, halted by Hansen’s chair to whisper the same instructions, and at last could knock gently on his own door.

“A horrible way to live,” he said as he dropped on the bed beside Karen. “A darkened house, tiptoeing around, whispering.”

“I don’t object to this part of it,” she said as they lay with their cheeks touching and his arms around her.

“I’m getting rid of him tonight.”

“How?” she asked in alarm. “Violence?”

“I hope not. With a little diplomacy, perhaps. Don’t let me fall asleep. I’ll have to rouse him at one fifteen.”

“Will he leave peacefully?”

“I think he will. He’s probably calculating now that his chances are better elsewhere.”

“Are they?”

“No.” He kissed her. “Question time over. Tomorrow, ask all you want.” In a house far removed from this apartment... He must make arrangements in the morning for that, before he picked up his report from the vault, added two more pieces of evidence to bolster his findings, and presented the whole package to the Director’s office.

“You’re worrying again,” she told him gently.

He reached out to the flashlight and turned it off. “So let’s do a little unworrying.” He tightened his arms around her and smothered her laughter with kisses.

At one fifteen, there was a soft tapping on the bedroom door. Good God, I’m late, thought Bristow as he swung his legs onto the floor, turned on the flashlight, drew on shirt and trousers, slipped his feet into his loafers. “Just stay there,” he told Karen. “And once he has left, start packing.” Then he was out in the hall to join Taylor and Hansen.

Packing? Am I being moved out, too? Not without you, Peter Bristow, she told him silently. But she stretched, prepared to rise and find her suitcase. She listened. No loud voices. No anger. No refusal from Vasek. Peter’s diplomacy must be working well. Reassured, she got out of bed and began gathering dresses from the closet with the help of the flashlight.

But diplomacy had its limits. Vasek, dozing in an armchair, awakened the moment that Bristow entered the living-room. At once, he was alert. And suspicious, although he made no comment as he picked up his shopping bag and followed Bristow into the kitchen with Taylor close on his heels.

Bristow turned on the meagre light. “I thought it would be more comfortable to wait here.”

“For what?”

“An ambulance.”

“A car would be sufficient.”

“But less safe.”

“I do not wish to be strapped into any stretcher.”

“Then you can walk and be an open target.”

“You think the house is being watched? By whom?”

Not by your buddy from the embassy, buster. Bristow dropped the soft approach, decided on some plain talk. “By the people who removed two tapes from my answering service yesterday afternoon—tapes that contained your telephone calls to me.”

There was only silence. Then Vasek said with some contempt, “So you had me recorded.”

He knows damn well that all answering-service calls are taped, thought Bristow. “Standard procedure.”

“Who were the thieves? Anonymous, I presume.”

“No. Actually, they were two of your comrades, imported from Central Europe to help hunt you down. You know Kellner and Rita, don’t you? And they know you. Don’t forget Waterman, either. He’s leading the chase, and you trained him pretty well. He first surfaced in Vienna on the day after you spoke with Miss Cornell in Prague. Quick, wasn’t he? He now apparently believes you are in Washington. He’s zeroing in on you, Josef.”

Vasek’s face was unreadable. He changed the subject, looking over at Taylor. “Where is the other guard?”

“Downstairs, waiting to unlock the door as soon as the ambulance arrives. He will let no one enter unless he can identify them.”

“How many men will come with it? For my safety, of course,” Vasek said with a heavy touch of sarcasm.

“Not counting the driver with his assistant—they’ll stay with the ambulance and watch the street—there are four. Necessary for a patient who has just had a severe heart attack.”