Ride a Pale Horse (42 page)

“Turn around!”

Slowly, Waterman obeyed. Another half hour and he might manage it; but now the knot still held, even if it was eased slightly, and he could feel Bristow’s eyes on his back. There must be some way, something that he could do. He tightened the muscles of his wrist, slackened them, tightened, slackened. Little by little, painful as it was. Then he heard the other man coming along the hall, saying, “Ten minutes and they’ll be here. Driving at ninety—no traffic problems this time in the morning.” Ten minutes. Waterman’s hope began to fade.

Bristow said, “Handcuffs, Taylor. This one”—he indicated Waterman—“thinks he’s Houdini. And that one on the floor has stirred twice, probably faking a concussion.”

“Won’t be a minute.” Taylor was as good as his word. He was back with two sets of handcuffs, his own and Hansen’s. He snapped them in place—Waterman first, Kellner next. Waterman felt the cold bite of the metal added to the pain encircling his wrists, and his vague hope turned to despair. Coulton got me into this, he thought, Coulton will get me out. Or is Coulton trapped, too? His depression plunged into the depths of failure complete.

Taylor had examined Rita’s wrists and tightened the wire around them. She was still totally unconscious—a powerful drug, whatever she had used. Lying there, with a face so sweet and innocent, she was unrecognisable from the girl with the grimacing mouth and wild eyes who had fired to kill. That Magnum she had chosen to use, far too heavy for her; her aim would have been surer with a lighter pistol. She couldn’t always depend on a man’s broad back as her target from ten feet away. Hansen, blasted open—Taylor was gripped by a rush of deep anger. She’s the new breed of women, is she? Terrorist-trained, no doubt about that. Something rotten has been added to this world of ours. Next time I come up against one of them, I’ll not aim for a shoulder. That, I promise.

Taylor moved towards the study, controlled his emotion enough to be able to speak. “I’d better keep in contact. As soon as they enter this street, I’ll get downstairs and let them in.”

“Okay,” said Bristow. Waterman has given up, he thought, noting the slackened hands, the drooping head. Unless he decides he’d rather be dead than face his future. One lunge towards us, and I’d have to shoot him. I’ll be damned if I’ll help him commit suicide.

“It sounds,” said Karen, watching Taylor enter the study, “as if the emergency is over. Really over.”

“Yes.” But I’ll believe it, thought Bristow, when I see Doyle and his men come through that front door.

“Then I don’t need this,” she said with relief and handed the Beretta over to him. He took it, slipped it into his belt, kept his eyes on Waterman and the revolver ready. “My aim,” she admitted, “was awful.”

“Where did the bullet go?” He dropped a kiss on her head as he pulled her close to his side.

“Into the ceiling, I’m afraid. A panic shot. I forgot the safety catch.” She shuddered. She would remember that moment forever. Even now, it reached out and laid an icy finger on her heart. “I was almost too late.”

“But you weren’t.” His eyes left Waterman to linger on her face. “You weren’t, my love.” Without that warning, we would all be scattered on the floor, shot in cold blood as Hansen had been.

Suddenly, she threw her arms around him, kissed him fiercely. “You could have been killed. You might have been dead. I thought—I thought I had lost you—” She broke off, kissed him again and again.

Taylor ran past them, tapping Bristow on the shoulder. “They’re here!” he said, left the door open as he reached the landing and raced down the stairs.

Waterman came to life. “Time for my exit, I see.” He started walking to the door.

“Waterman—stop!”

Waterman laughed, increased his pace. “Shoot a handcuffed man in the back? Let Karen do that job—she’s always been good at it!”

Karen flinched, then shook her head.

Bristow’s jaw was set, his eyes hard. “He won’t get far, and he knows it. A cheap shot, Karen. His specialty.” He’s lucky I wasn’t facing him with his hands uncuffed, but he knows that, too.

Waterman reached the door as a group of men entered. He kicked the first man hard in the groin, shouldered Doyle heavily aside. The third man wasn’t caught by surprise; he was Taylor. He drew and fired as Waterman lunged at him. He didn’t aim at the shoulder, either. He aimed for the hip bone and gave Waterman something to curse for the rest of his life.

After Wednesday’s pre-dawn assault, the peace and quiet of morning in the Doyle house seemed incredible to Karen. And miraculous. And normal, she kept reminding herself—a word rarely appreciated until you found yourself facing hideous danger. But it was over; and she completed her readjustment from last night’s fears by setting to work. It was always the great pacifier.

By mid-afternoon, her article on the terrorists—their background and history, the bombing and Martita’s planned escape, the cost in human lives, the scenes of destruction both inside the hall and outside in the street—was completed and corrected, typed into presentable copy, ready for mailing to the
Spectator
by an obliging Mrs. Doyle when that unflappable lady went marketing. Not even a six o’clock breakfast in her kitchen for four strangers, with herself presiding in blue dressing-gown and pink curlers, had dented Mrs. Doyle’s equanimity. It was the antidote they all had needed, including a grim-faced Doyle: something simple and true, honest and kindly—the reverse of what they had seen and sensed since Vasek appeared at Peter Bristow’s door. Tonight, thought Karen, we’ll all sleep.

With thanks in her heart, she spent the next half hour daydreaming on the chaise in Mrs. Doyle’s guest room, which had been her working space today. From downstairs came the distant sounds of voices and a drift of music, even once a burst of laughter—not from Taylor; it must have come from Hansen’s replacement, as young and cheerful as he had been. That thought put her on her feet, made her start rearranging the clothes in a suitcase that had been packed for her Rome visit. So many new memories gathered in the last six days, putting the old ones to rest in the past. Where they belonged. Carefully, she refolded
la Contessa’s
elegant sweater. I
will
invite her to dinner, Karen decided; and Giovanni, too. I’ll send him a copy of my article on terrorism and write “Thank you” across its by-line. Schleeman will be astonished by it—not quite what he intended when he sent me to Italy. Schleeman... I should call him. But from here? Will that endanger the Doyle house?

She almost laughed. A week ago, she would have gone downstairs, picked up the telephone on the hall table, and without hesitation made several calls. But if last night’s terror had taught her anything, it was caution. Imminent danger seemed to be over, but Doyle had left two of his men stationed here when he went off with Peter this early morning—Doyle to visit Hansen’s wife and two children before he filed his report to—to whom? To the Powers That Be, she called them. Peter was with them, too—had been since eight o’clock—would he be free by six, as he had hoped, to collect her and take her—where? She had learned more than caution in this last week. She had learned trust. Trust and reliance on someone else, a strange right-about-face for an independent woman who had taken pride in being self-sufficient. Now she was entrusting her whole future to someone she had known for only twelve days. But Peter had not only saved her life; he had given it new meaning, new hope.

She heard a telephone ring, then footsteps running upstairs. Taylor’s voice came with his knock on her door. “A call for you, Miss Cornell.” And when she opened the door, startled, half-afraid, he reassured her by adding, “The alert must be over. Mr. Doyle told him he could call you here.”

“Mr. Bristow?”

“No. He has gone back to the apartment to collect his car. The call’s from a Mr. Schleeman. His secretary is on the line. Do you want to talk?”

“He’s my boss. I’d better, don’t you think?” She hurried towards the stairs. The emergency must really be over. “So they arrested Coulton?” His name had been mentioned in a cryptic exchange between Peter and Doyle at breakfast. Coulton, whoever he was, seemed to be the last loose string that needed to be snipped off.

Taylor—and it was a mark of his new acceptance of her—replied frankly, “As far as I could make out from the reports coming in, he didn’t stay around to be arrested.”

Karen halted at the foot of the staircase. “You lost him?”

“Not us,” Taylor said quickly. “He skipped before State’s Security called on him this morning. Well, I’ll be pushing off now. We are packing up our gear. So goodbye, Miss Cornell. Good luck to you.”

They shook hands solemnly. “And to you,” Karen said. She picked up the receiver. Schleeman’s secretary was efficient as ever, but even more long-suffering. “At last,” she commented before she brought Schleeman on the line.

“Ah,” he said, “the elusive Miss Cornell. And where the dickens have you been?”

“Lying low in Washington. Didn’t Mr. Doyle tell you?”

“Apart from the fact that you were well and safe, as little as possible. What’s been going on, Karen?”

“Too much to tell you now.”

“Yes, that’s what Bristow said.”

“He called you?”

“At lunchtime. Seemed busy.”

“He was.”

“And you?”

“I finished an article for you. About Rome. It’s in the mail.”

“The mail? Why don’t you hand it in to me? I’d like to hear—”

“I’m taking ten days off, Hubert. I do need some rest and recreation, you know.”

There was a brief silence. “I guess you do. Sorry about Rome. My fault, I admit. Shouldn’t have sent you—”

“It worked out well. In a way, I have to thank you for that.” She couldn’t resist dropping her small bombshell. “I’m getting married.”

“Well, now—” Schleeman was startled. “My guess is Bristow. Right?”

“Right.”

Then Schleeman sounded worried. “Are you sure, Karen? Really sure?”

“Yes. I’m not backing out this time.”

Again a small silence.

“I mean it, Hubert. Stop worrying about Peter. I’d never do anything to hurt him.” She had been on target about Schleeman’s reaction: he was definitely relieved as he now gave his warm congratulations. You men, she thought—but with affection—and listened to his next query. “We’ll live in Washington,” she answered. “I’m selling the New York house—”

“Thank heaven.” A memory trap, he thought. Best that she was free of it. “Commuting’s no way to live—a few days here, a few days there.”

“I’ve found that out.”

“You’ll be staying in Georgetown?”

“I don’t know... Not in Peter’s apartment, I think.” She remembered the expression on his face this morning when he had taken one last look at the hall just as they were leaving. There had been no need for words.

“You can’t live on cloud nine,” Schleeman reminded her.

“Well, we can always buy a tent and camp out in Langley Forest.” She had him laughing, a good moment to say, “I’ll keep in touch. Stop worrying about either of us, Hubert. My love.” And she ended the call before he could start asking questions about the defector.

As for Schleeman, the defector was much on his mind. Arrived and in good hands, was all that Bristow had said; and then had added an apparent afterthought which was probably the main purpose of his ’phone call. “You can pass the word—discreetly. You’re the first to hear of it, Hubert.” So, thought Schleeman as he prepared to leave for a dinner with friends of the press, I’ve been authorised to spread an unauthorised leak. And I’ll do it. Just following a hunch that it is somehow important that a message should reach those who are interested in this defector. Schleeman left his office in high good humour, astonishing those he greeted, his irritability and short temper of the past few days completely banished. The office relaxed, made its own speculations about this change, and all of them wrong.

By half past four that afternoon, Bristow was free to leave. Doyle himself elected to give him a lift to Muir Street to pick up his car. It was a good opportunity, the last they would have, to compare notes on the day’s meetings.

“Thanks for backing me up,” Bristow said as they cleared the gates of Langley.

“You didn’t need much corroboration.”

“Didn’t I?” Bristow shook his head. “I overstepped a few boundary lines. Beyond my authority. You heard that remark, didn’t you?”

“What time did you have to alert other sections? Don’t expect a medal. All you’ll ever get is your name carved in a plaque on the wall with dates of birth and death—if killed in action. You nearly made it, too.”

“I made one thing definitely.” Bristow was suddenly angry. “A mistake. A big one. I didn’t examine that damned fountain pen.”

“Taylor said it looked normal—not the usual thick, heavy article. But he should have checked it. He’ll get a reprimand for that.”

“Keep him out of it. I didn’t mention his name.”

“Then I’ll reprimand him.”

“Why? He was working at high speed—no time at all—Vasek was about to wake up and take notice. Anyway, what could Taylor have done? Remove that cyanide pen? Warn Vasek that we were onto his game? And what kind of performance would he have put on then at his interrogation? Taylor isn’t to blame. I’m taking responsibility.”

“You did that,” Doyle said dryly. “And without any explanations, either.”

“They always sound too damn much like excuses.”

“And that would never do, would it now?”

“I was there. I should have tried to disarm it and replace it. Then—”

“Disarm it? How? You’re no expert in that. And that little pen is the latest model, trust Vasek to have one. All you’d have had was an ejection of cyanide gas right in your face. You’d have got your name on the Honour Roll; that’s for sure.”

“Death from heart failure doesn’t count.”

They both smiled at that. The tension eased. Doyle said, “When Vasek was asleep, they found the pen in his bag. They had time to disarm and replace it. He’ll never know until he tries to use it. Anyway, the big consolation for you is that your report was accepted and action is being taken. That’s something. Everything’s under control.”

“Except for Coulton.”