Ride a Pale Horse (44 page)

“Okay. He’s all yours, Chris. From the beginning.” The ’phone call ended, and not one mention of Vasek’s name. Bristow’s amusement over that was brief. Three or four weeks... How did he break the news to Karen? We were talking about a wedding in ten days. Thoroughly discouraged, he dialled Maynard Drayton’s number.

But this call, lasting much longer, was something of a surprise. Drayton was overflowing with unusual excitement. He had a story to tell and plunged into it without waiting to hear why Bristow had called him. It was a word-by-word account of an FBI report made today, after two agents had visited the garage that had sheltered Coulton’s Mercedes for the past five days. The owner needed some prodding, but eventually admitted the Mercedes had been there last night.

When had it left?—This morning.

When?—Pretty early.

How early?—Around six maybe.

Who had driven it away?—No idea.

A man or a woman?—A man.

How had he arrived at the garage?—In his car.

Where was it now?—Not here. The man had returned for it.

How did he get back to the garage?—By taxi.

When?—Just before eight.

What kind of car?—Dark-brown, two-door Fiat.

Its number?—Didn’t notice.

“But,” said Drayton, “a young mechanic did notice. And it’s the same car the police picked up last night outside your apartment. The driver’s name is Dmitri Suslov—
no
relation to the Suslov we all knew once—he owns the car, actually. He claims diplomatic immunity, of course.”

“So I heard.”

“How?”

“We’re interested in Suslov, too. A recent arrival in Washington, I understand. Just in time for our defector’s appearance here.”

“Defector? Oh—yes. Prague—”

“He surfaced yesterday.”

“Good!” But Drayton was more engrossed by the connection between Coulton and Suslov. “We obtained a photograph of Suslov, sent it to the garage immediately. Two mechanics identified it—the owner was absent. And it
was
Suslov who left the brown two-door Fiat for a couple of hours this morning while he drove the Mercedes away. Next time it was identified, it was near the docks in Baltimore. So now we have enough cause to take the necessary steps. We are requesting Suslov’s immediate departure from Washington.”

“How soon?” asked Bristow quickly.

“By the end of the week.”

“Friday? Saturday?”

Drayton was mystified. “Does one day matter, Peter?”

“Yes. We think Suslov arranged a car bombing today. He could be planning another unpleasant surprise.”

“Whose car?”

“Mine.”

“Badly damaged?”

“Front seat was totally wrecked.”

“My God!” A brief silence. “A lucky escape.”

“There might not be a second one.”

“I see.” Another pause. “I’ll press for Friday at latest.”

“My thanks for that, Maynard.”

“Not at all. Don’t want to lose a good tennis partner. When do we have our next game?”

“When you finish all that paperwork on Suslov.”

Drayton laughed. “It’s been quite a day.”

“That it has,” Bristow said. Thoughtfully, he replaced the receiver. Two days—with Suslov now conscious of watchful eyes even from his own embassy: it wouldn’t like us to go public with the proof that has turned up. Two days were a damned sight easier to excuse to Karen than three or four weeks. Easier for me to handle, too, he thought as he left for Doyle’s promised car. Perhaps I’m chicken, but I don’t enjoy living with a perpetual glance over my shoulder.

The evening light still held, casting a golden glow over the fall and rise of meadow and woodland. “I think I know where we’re going,” Karen said, breaking the awkward silence. Or do I? she wondered. She glanced at Peter, who seemed to be intent on driving. Not that the traffic was as heavy now as it had been on that Saturday when they had first met. Nor were they being followed, except by two security agents who were keeping a tactful but definite eye on Peter’s car. A borrowed car. Had he been so pressed for time that he hadn’t picked up his Camaro? And wasn’t the emergency over? So why were Doyle’s watchdogs back on duty? No explanations offered by Peter, either. He seemed to have retreated into another world. No easy talk, no banter, no teasing, no smiles, no laughter... Something has happened, she thought, something has gone wrong. Between us?

She had a sudden fear, tried to find an answer that would divert it. “Did they accept your report—all the evidence?”

“They listened. And Doyle’s own report was pretty conclusive.”

So it wasn’t today’s business that had gone wrong. They were leaving the highway now, entering a lane darkened by the trees that lined its ditches. “I do know this road,” she said and felt cold with its deep shadows. She made an effort, said lightly, “What’s its name?”

“Cedarhill.”

“Where are the cedars?”

“They died off one summer. Had to be replaced by maple trees.”

“Must have been years ago.” The maples were full-grown. “How large is the house, actually?”

“Not as large as it looks. Can’t be more than eight or nine rooms. But there will be enough space for the security men over the garage. They won’t be in your way.”

My way? What about our way? “Are we expected there? I thought you could use it only on week-ends.”

“I ’phoned Madrid this morning. Everything’s all right.”

But this stilted kind of talk isn’t. “Who is the owner, anyway?”

“John Fitch—we’re old friends. School and college.”

“An enormous upkeep—gardeners and housekeeper even when he isn’t here.”

Bristow gave his first smile since he had collected Karen at the Doyle house. “Fishing trip?” he asked her. “No, he doesn’t make any more money than I do. He inherited this place from his uncle, who was also his guardian, along with a trust that pays for the upkeep. He can’t use it much—that’s the big snag. Foreign Service.”

“I thought he planned to come for Labour Day. That’s this week-end.” Which didn’t give them much time here. Another move? She was tired of living out of a suitcase.

“Well, the best-laid plans can go haywire.” Then he said almost to himself, “They certainly do.”

A change in plans? Ours? she wondered and felt a sudden depression grip her.

“He’s being transferred to Morocco. May be home for a week at Christmas.” Bristow became aware of her silence. “He’s glad to have you around. Lights, people moving about.”

“A glorified house sitter?” Her voice had sharpened.

Bristow looked at her in surprise. “As his guest, Karen. And the house doesn’t need anyone to discourage burglars—just needs some life in it. It’s well protected with every alarm system available. Uncle Fitch saw to that. I’d never have brought you here unless I felt it was safe.”

As if to support that truth, they arrived at gates that were firmly closed. “That’s the way they’ll be until you leave,” Bristow said and stepped out of the car to use the intercom that connected with the house. He waited there until the car that had followed them from Doyle’s house appeared. He spoke into the ’phone, the gates swung open, and both cars could enter before the gates closed again. “There’s a high wall of steel mesh all around the place,” he said as he drove up the short curve of driveway.

“I never noticed it before.” And the gates hadn’t been closed, either. Why now? The emergency was over.

“Trees and bushes are a nice disguise. But I wouldn’t try to scale its top. Uncle Fitch valued privacy if not his possessions.”

“Electric shock? Isn’t that illegal?”

“Noise isn’t. There are enough alarms to bring out the local police, if not the fire brigade and the Boy Scouts, too. We used to test it every Fourth of July.”

The driveway straightened, ended in a circle before the red-brick house. Set on a gentle rise of ground, it dominated the long stretch of grass that Karen well remembered—a green slope ending in a boundary of trees; and beyond, a small pond where two people had sat, relaxed, talking easily. Why so easily then? Why so self-consciously now? They had been circling around everything important, talking about anything and anyone except themselves. Something is wrong, she thought again and looked blankly at the two-storeyed house with white pillared doorway and window frames contrasting with black shutters. She scarcely noticed the rose-coloured welcome it gave her as it lay bathed in the warm rays of sunset.

Their car stopped before the shallow steps of the entrance. Bristow reached into the back seat for her suitcase, bag, typewriter, and briefcase, carried them in two loads up to the front door. The car behind them had turned into the garage adjoining the house, where a gardener waited to direct the two security guards to their quarters. All well arranged, everyone knows what to do except me, Karen thought as a middle-aged couple—no doubt bequeathed with the house—took her luggage into the hall. She made no move.

Bristow returned, opened the car door for her.

“What about your bag, Peter?” It still lay on the back seat.

“Come on, honey.” Slowly she got out of the car. “I’ll see you into the house—”

“Peter! Am I staying here alone?”

“For a few days. It’s better that—”

“Why?”

“I’ve a lot of work to finish. I left some papers at the apartment, and I’d better look over them. Thought I’d stay there tonight—I’ll be at my desk until twelve or later.”

This can’t be happening: the same kind of excuses she once had made when she was backing away from someone she had imagined she loved and found she didn’t. But it could be happening: too short a time, too quick a decision, too rushed. They had been thrown together by a crisis, shared all its tensions and emotions. Now the danger was over, and they had come to their senses. Oh, no! she thought, and she stopped and faced him.

“Karen,” he said, taking her arm to accompany her up the steps.

“Oh, no!” she said aloud and drew free. “Why bring me here—
here
—to tell me—” She felt hot tears stinging her eyes. She turned blindly and ran over the grass, away from the lighted doorway. She stumbled on the uneven ground. He caught her before she fell, held her.

“Karen!”

“Why didn’t you tell me, straight out? I can face truth, even when it hurts. But not evasions, not—”

He kissed her violently, a long searing kiss, his arms tightening around her. Then he looked at her, brushed the tears from her cheeks, pulled her close to him. “I love you, Karen. I love you. And you know it.” He felt her relax against him. Gently he asked, “What was that all about?”

She shook her head. “Something—something from the past. It seems I never forgot it.” Or forgave myself.

“Forget it now. This is the present. This is me—no one else.” He kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her lips.

“But why were you going to leave me?” Her voice was small, the words almost inaudible.

“For your safety,” he was forced to admit.

“Waterman is caught—there’s no danger now.”

“A bomb went off. In my car. This afternoon.” She stared at him, couldn’t speak. “It was timed to explode two or three minutes after the driver closed the door. And all I could see as I looked at the front seat—a black, twisted wreck—was you sitting beside me, both of us buckling up, preparing to drive off.” He paused. “As we might have done. I nearly ’phoned you to ask you to meet me at Muir Street, drive here with me.”

Her eyes still looked at him with horror.

“Not to worry,” he told her, easing his voice. “No one was hurt. The bomb was triggered by a boy who was about to steal the car. He saw me, swung the door shut, and ran.”

“But if you had arrived before the boy—” She couldn’t finish. “Oh, Peter! Who set the bomb?”

“We’ll probably never know. But we think we do know who arranged it.”

“Who?”

“His name—at present—is Suslov. In a couple of days, he’ll be gone. Booted out of the country.”

“Not arrested?” Her indignation and anger had overcome fear.

Bristow was smiling as he slipped his arm around her waist and began leading her to the house. “Diplomatic immunity.”

“You take it so lightly.”

“Do I? When I was willing to ruin our arrival here?” Might have ruined more than that, he thought. I handled this badly. “Just bear with me, Karen. Stay here for two or three days. That’s all I was asking.”

“If you are going back to your apartment, I’m coming with you.”

“No!”

“But yes!” She looked at him, touched his cheek. “When I was in danger, what did you do? You flew to Rome, stayed beside me. So either I’m coming with you or you remain here. Why not, darling?”

“If a second attempt is made—”

“This place is safe, or you wouldn’t leave me here. And we are safe—no Suslov followed us. Your work is over, the job’s done. You’re still on leave anyway, aren’t you?”

“I am not dragging you into any more danger, Karen.”

“So you think that if you are a marked man for the next two or three days, you ought to keep far away from me? That’s crazy, completely mad.”

“Crazy?” He was angry.

“You alone in the apartment, ready to face Suslov and let your Beretta shorten two days to two minutes—was that the idea, Peter? But how can anyone face a bomb hurled through a window?”

That stopped further argument cold. “Pretty far out,” he said. “Where did you pick up such wild notions?”

“In Rome.” She shivered. Dusk had fallen, and with it the dew. “Let’s go in. At least, have dinner with me. If you must leave, then I leave, too.” She looked up at him. He had taken off his jacket, draped it around her bare shoulders. “I mean that.”

Yes, she meant it. He gave up. Not entirely against his own judgment, either. For the first time this evening, he was admitting he was exhausted, in no shape to travel or stay alert. It might not be a bomb hurled through his window—that was unlikely. But it could be a fire started in a ground-floor bookstore, and Mrs. Abel above it, deeply asleep. “You’re a powerful arguer,” he said as they reached the car. He hesitated, still debating with himself.

“Only when I’m desperate.” She looked back at the deep shadows spreading over the stretch of grass, at the blackened outlines of trees that sheltered the pond. It all began there, she thought. “I really believed Vasek’s story.” She could smile at herself now. “The eager little reporter, so earnest about it all.”