Ride a Pale Horse (43 page)

Doyle tapped his two-way radio. “I keep hoping. Strange. We went after a mole and unearthed another one—the big one, too.”

“But he got away.”

“We’ll see.”

“How the hell did he get a Top Security rating? A week ago last Monday he attended a special session along with people from the White House, State, Defense, National Security. Was even asked for his expert opinion on forged signatures. State must be—”

“Not their fault. His security clearance was already established before he ever joined the Bureau of Public Affairs—was passed on to them by the Treasury. Before his time there, he had been issued Top Security clearance by the Oval Office. Fifteen years ago.”

“What?”

“We had a President who was suspicious about forged cheques. Coulton was brought in to solve the problem. And that made him.”

“It was roses, roses all the way,” Bristow said.

Doyle looked at him sharply.

“But who,” Bristow went on, still thinking of Browning’s verse, “cast the myrtle in Coulton’s path right into the White House?”

What the hell had myrtle or roses to do with anything? Doyle concentrated on entering Georgetown. Cross Key Bridge, short distance on M, a left into 33 and up to O Street. Then right into Dumbarton and another left. “Look,” he said at last, “if you’re worrying who made things easy for Coulton, drop it. Not your business or mine. That’s for State’s Security office and the FBI to uncover. They’ll be concentrating on his track record right now; you can bet your last dollar on that.”

“Okay, okay. I heard you.” As they turned another corner, Bristow said, “My car’s along here. I parked last night a little distance away—”

“I know.” Roses and myrtle were still rankling. “I had it checked over this morning after you left the apartment.”

“Keys?” Bristow asked with a smile.

“Who needs them nowadays? There isn’t a car that’s lock-proof.” The radio signalled, and Doyle slowed up to answer. He drew to one side of the pavement on the quiet little street. The report was on Coulton. His Mercedes had been found near the docks in Baltimore. “Got that?” he asked Bristow as he switched off the radio.

“Coulton is home free.”

“Could be. One thing about the KGB—they take care of their own.”

“Hey—what’s going on?” Bristow was looking straight ahead. Last night, there had been a line of parked cars fore and aft of his. Now, the cars were gone, leaving the Camaro in lonely state. And three tall youths, hands in the pockets of their tight jeans, sneakers on their feet, were circling it closely, peering through its closed windows, then straightening up to glance along the street. One drew his hands out of his pockets, his head swivelling as he made a last quick check on the nearest pedestrian and found none close enough to stop him. His thin arm reached for the car door.

Bristow was out and running as the Camaro’s door was opened. It had been left unlocked. No key had been used. He yelled a warning. “Beat it!”

The youth froze, with one long leg already stepping inside. He pulled it out, slammed the door, and bolted. His two friends raced ahead of him.

Nothing happened.

Bristow halted, felt foolish, returned to Doyle. “Damn me for an idiot. Thought it might be booby-trapped. The door was un—”

At that moment, the bomb exploded. A small one, neat, nicely aimed at the driver. No pillar of fire, no spreading flames. Merely a black and twisted wreck of the Camaro’s front seat and windshield.

Bristow stared at it bleakly. At least, there had been no people passing close, not much damage to the wall beside which he had parked—no houses there, just a garden. One small tree seemed to be the only casualty.

“Get in!” Doyle ordered. “Do you want to spend the evening making statements at some police station?”

Bristow recovered, stepped into the car.

“I’ll take you back to Langley. You can use one of our cars meanwhile. You know, those kids would have been DOA without benefit of heroin—if we had arrived five minutes later.”

“And five minutes earlier?” Bristow gave one last glance at his Camaro as they passed it. Hell, he thought, I liked that car. “Guess I wouldn’t have been keeping my six o’clock date.” Then his control broke, and he said savagely, “Coulton’s last word?”

“He didn’t have much time to plan anything. Let’s see—” Doyle calculated. “Your Camaro was checked and found clean around five o’clock this morning. Coulton left his house in a taxi at six, evaded surveillance when he reached the airport, disappeared. Someone had his Mercedes waiting for him. That’s certain, at least.” Doyle pursed his lips. “Not much time,” he repeated. “Of course there are KGB operatives in Washington. Could have used one of them.”

“Could use them again.” Bristow was thoroughly depressed. “How long will this go on?” He was thinking of Karen. He couldn’t, and wouldn’t, drag her into any more danger. So what did he do—tell her they had to separate? “For how many weeks? Even months?”

“Not long,” Doyle said encouragingly. “Just until Coulton’s safe in Moscow. Then their interest in you could be over. They might have been worried about what you would do to upset his plans. Take that as a compliment.”

Bristow said nothing.

“I was dropping the guards watching over you and Miss Cornell. I think I’ll countermand that order. For a couple of days?”

Bristow was grim-faced. “Or a couple of weeks.”

“My guess is that he’s half-way to Cuba by this time.”

Bristow was silent.

Doyle pulled the only rank he could. “I’ve been around longer than you have—been on this job for near thirty years. So believe what I’m telling you.”

There was still no comment from Bristow. His silence lasted across the Potomac into Arlington. Then, as he became aware of green meadows and trees, he roused himself from a strange mixture of thoughts: ideas, doubts, and plain anxiety. He glanced at his watch.

“You’ll make your six o’clock date,” Doyle told him.

“I’ve a couple of ’phone calls to make.”

“Want me to let Miss Cornell know you’ll be late?”

“But don’t mention the bomb. Just tell her—tell her I’ve a load of work ahead of me. Will you?”

Doyle didn’t like it, but he nodded.

“Thanks. Thanks for all you’ve done. I’ve given you a lot of trouble in these last two days.”

“That’s my business,” Doyle said and then reached to turn on his radio as it signalled. It gave the final report on Coulton. He had boarded a Mexican freighter at nine that morning. Identified from his photograph by three dockworkers. Sailed at ten o’clock. First stop, Havana.

“What did I tell you?” Doyle was elated. His guesses, he could now admit, were sometimes wrong. This time, on target. “You’re off that hook, Bristow! When he reaches Cuba, he’ll fly off to Moscow. First plane available, I’d say. A slick escape—he had help, of course; must be valuable to them. But he won’t be operating around here any more. He’ll probably be given some desk job in Moscow for the rest of his life. It’s the pattern.” He looked at Bristow, saw no answering smile. “So what? We didn’t catch him, but we spiked his guns. He’s a marked man outside of the Iron Curtain. No more infiltration into high places for him. No more bomb threats, either.”

“It wasn’t Coulton who ordered my death.”

Doyle’s flood of words ended. He could only stare at Bristow.

“If you had about two hours’ notice to clean out your desk, destroy anything incriminating, reach Baltimore, would you worry about anything else?”

He had a point there, thought Doyle. “Then who—”

“Vasek. Prearranged. Once he made contact with me and was accepted as a bona-fide defector, he didn’t need me any more. In fact, he’d see me as an obstacle to any new scenario he was planning to create. So eliminate me; silence any testimony I could give that would contradict his story.”

“He’d never get away with that.”

“He’d make a damned good try. Such as—he came to America as a defector, telephoned me, suggested a quiet place where we could meet along with one or two of my colleagues. But I refused, insisted he must come to my apartment. I was alone, no other representatives from Central Intelligence—only a couple of guards who didn’t know who he was and a girl who’d say anything I told her to say. We were lovers, weren’t we? So I trapped him, invented lies to end his credibility, and made him a prisoner. Why? For my own benefit—Bristow’s ambition wanted full credit for the capture of a KGB agent: promotion, more power.” Bristow’s laugh was short and bitter. “I know his technique, Doyle, I’ve studied it for years.”

“I believe you,” Doyle said. “I heard what he had to tell about Menlo in that talk you had over dinner.” The sound-recorder’s tape had been played at the final meeting that afternoon. “So did your friend Holvec.” He would be heading the team of Vasek’s interrogators—had known Menlo, worked with him at times, respected him. “Did you notice Holvec’s face? Hear his four-letter descriptions of Vasek?” Then Doyle’s amusement at that recollection faded. “When d’you think the bastard will go into his new act?”

“As soon as he senses he’s a prisoner. He’ll try to prove he’s an honest-to-goodness defector. And if I’m not around—” Bristow shrugged.

“It’s still hard to believe. I mean, character assassination is his line.”

“And twisting facts and manipulating history.”

“But—having someone terminated?”

“All for the good of his cause, Doyle. And if I’m right, that answers another question: why he had the tapes of his ’phone calls to me removed from my answering service. They’ll be obliterated by this time.”

“Waterman did that!” Doyle reminded him sharply. “Waterman was no ally of Vasek, either.”

“Who ordered Waterman to do it? He didn’t need the tapes. He already knew what they contained. He had the telephone in my answering service bugged.”

“Someone—not Vasek but a friend of Vasek—ordered him to get these tapes? Someone with clout—” Doyle was now thinking aloud. “Had to be. Waterman wouldn’t have obeyed him otherwise—taken the risk of stealing something he didn’t need.”

“What about clout at the embassy level—someone who knew Vasek’s real mission?”

“By God—the man who waited outside your apartment, claimed he was a chauffeur and then switched to diplomatic immunity at the police station! Although, mark you, his car hadn’t any diplomatic plates. But if he arranged for the bombing, how the hell did he know you drove a Camaro? He’s new here, arrived on Saturday, a press attaché, so-called.”

“Vasek knew my car by sight—let that slip—a small remark to make me rattled.”

Doyle shook his head. “You don’t rattle so easily.”

“I am now. If I wasn’t eliminated in the first attempt, what follows? A second try?”

Doyle took a full minute to answer. “I think I’d call Holvec.”

“I’m doing that.” Chris Holvec had asked to be updated on any further developments. An attempt on Bristow’s life certainly qualified. “I’m also calling Maynard Drayton. He’s with the State Department.”

“Using diplomatic channels? Might be your best bet, if Drayton comes through. Do you know him well?”

“We’re old friends.” And Drayton’s anger over Coulton must have lit Drayton’s slow-burning but powerful fuse. Not only over Coulton’s infiltration and escape—his very presence at an upper-level meeting to discuss the problem of three letters of disinformation would be a rank offence that smelled to heaven.

Well now, thought Doyle as they were passed through the gates at Langley, if Drayton had enough guts to summon that Soviet so-called press aide, tell him he was in danger of being booted out of the country for conduct unbecoming a diplomat and gentleman, that could crimp the little bastard’s style. Vasek’s friend would get the message: no more car bombings, no apparent accidents to anyone who had talked with Vasek on his arrival. Anyone... “Did Miss Cornell hear any part of Vasek’s conversation with you?” Doyle asked suddenly.

“No.”

“Then she’s not in danger, thank God.”

No longer in danger from the Vienna cassettes and their revelation of Waterman, Kellner, and Rita. No danger from Coulton, either: his ring was smashed. Bristow drew a deep breath. “Only,” he said, “when she’s with me.”

Doyle glanced at him quickly as he drew the car to a halt in front of Bristow’s office building. Bristow was out at once, hurrying towards the steps. Doyle raised his voice. “I’ll have a car waiting for you here.”

Bristow waved back, entered the doorway.

Good luck with your telephone calls, thought Doyle as he turned, reversed his car and headed for home. Arrange Bristow’s transport, give Karen the message, supper, and twelve hours of blessed sleep.

* * *

There was one benefit of talking things out with Doyle. Bristow had the basic points in order and could telephone an adequate but short report to Chris Holvec. Holvec, interrupted in the replaying of Vasek’s sound-recorded conversation, was relieved the call wasn’t a talkative rehash of today’s meetings—he had a lot of work ahead of him. He had managed to procure the Prague cassettes and intended to study them thoroughly. “Just wanted to learn about our boy from the moment he contacted Miss Cornell,” he explained. “Now, about your problem, Pete. You’ll have to stay alert for the next two or three weeks. Sorry about that, but we need the time. As long as he thinks he’s establishing his credibility with us, he may feed us an item or two of real information. We can’t let that slip. You agree?”

Unwillingly, Bristow agreed. Three weeks were more likely than two, could even stretch to four if Vasek furnished any interesting leads.

“What we could attempt—and this is stealing your credit, Pete—we could drop a hint now and again, convince him you had little to do with his case. Your only job was to alert us and steer him into our safekeeping. We investigated, we uncovered. The credit goes to us. Not you. Sorry. But it could end any future interest in you. You agree?”

“Yes. It’s a safeguard.” Vasek would be given a long stretch in prison—illegal entry, false passport, concealed weapons, conspiracy—but he could be released in less than a year; it had happened before, an exchange for some hapless American arrested in Moscow.

“Our boy has too much pride in his talents. He wouldn’t feel so hurt if he thought it took ten men to unearth him. But one man alone—I ask you, Pete!”