Ride a Pale Horse (8 page)

“Vienna?”

“I think I was under surveillance there, even more than in Prague. A very odd thing happened—” She broke off. “Well?” she demanded. “Was I right to open the envelope?”

“You have a point there,” he conceded. “I’m sorry I needled you. I had to make sure that no one else had tampered with it.” Doesn’t she realise that, if all this is true, she may have put herself in jeopardy? “Vasek warned you not to open the envelope. Did he give you a reason?”

“He said it could be dangerous to me.”

And how right he was. But why hadn’t he given her a concrete example of the risk she would run? Or at least explained that the less she knew, the safer she was. “It could very well be.”

“Why? The dangerous time for me was between picking up that envelope from my desk in a Prague hotel and reaching the Austrian frontier. Which I did with no trouble at all.”

“That was the first hazard you faced. The second was in Vienna, wasn’t it?”

“And the third? Any prediction on that one?” She was half-serious, half-mocking.

It all depended on whether she had indeed come under suspicion. But he wasn’t going to add to the sudden fears that she was trying to hide. “I’m no oracle,” he said with an encouraging smile. “How could I make even a guess until I hear the full story? Do you remember the details, what was said and how it was said?”

“I remember,” she said tensely. “Couldn’t forget them. Thanks to a sleepless night,” she added, lightening her voice.

“Can you give them to me in sequence? From the moment Vasek met you?”

“From the moment I was waiting in my hotel room for my envelopes to be returned by the censors, and the telephone rang.”

“By ’phone—he made the first contact by your room telephone?” My God, thought Bristow, she could be in danger. “Okay, okay,” he added, easing his voice, trying to allay any alarm his startled question might have aroused, “I’ll be patient. Just don’t forget a thing, Karen. Thank heaven we have a trained ear and eye to give us the particulars.”

“Can that actually be praise for journalists?”

“Actually, yes.” Ahead of them, on a stretch of land that had flattened out and been robbed of its trees, he could see two square shapes of whitened concrete huddled together. The gas station was the nearer building, drawn off the highway, its red pumps standing at attention under a string of stiff bright-coloured pennants. Beyond it were the blue and yellow neon lights of the café.

Bristow lessened his speed as they passed the side road on his left that slanted into the highway. What he could see of it, for trees still lined its narrow curve, gave no glimpse of Fairbairn’s green Buick heading for their rendezvous. Not to worry, he told himself. Fairbairn won’t be late; we are early.

They reached the gas station and parked on its free side in a small one-time field, now bare of grass, partly filled with two old trucks and three cars in need of repairs. “We still have seven minutes to wait,” Bristow said. “Sorry about the view.” They were facing a blank wall.

“Better than gas pumps and stiff little flags. Is that where you’ll meet your friend?”

“Just around the corner. He’ll probably be buying some gas.”

“And then,” she guessed, “you’ll wander into the washroom, and he will follow, and you’ll give him this.” She presented the envelope.

“Perfect,” he said as he noted the elaborate crisscross of tape on its flap. No one could risk opening it without pulling away some of the envelope, too.

“A nice tangled mess,” she agreed. “But how will you keep the envelope out of sight?”

He had foreseen that small problem and had already opened his book bag. He was now lifting a dictating machine and some cassettes out of its depths. “Much too heavy,” he told her with a grin. “We can’t have them bruising and crumpling those nice flat sheets inside the envelope. How did you manage to keep them without a fold or wrinkle?” Karen just kept staring at the machine.

“Well, you know now... Do you mind?”

She shook her head, tried to look nonchalant. She could see the good sense of having her story on tape. “Recorded for posterity—I’m flattered. Do you always come prepared?”

Not prepared to meet anyone like you, he thought. Beauty and brains—it was a devastating mixture. “I use these gadgets for accuracy.” His voice was stilted, embarrassed, and he knew it. “My memory isn’t as good as yours.”

“I wouldn’t like to bet on that.”

“What about this?” He was looking at the book bag critically. “Too noticeable?”

“Eccentric—for a gas station.”

He replaced the machine and its cassettes in the bag. “In your care,” he told her.

“Why don’t I get the sandwiches and something to drink? It would save time.”

He hesitated for a moment, looked at his watch. It would take them at least half an hour to reach the place he had decided to tape her story: a secluded spot, no one to wonder at them—or intrude—and a spreading tree for cool shade. Time wasn’t for wasting this afternoon. “Okay. Beer for me—doesn’t matter what kind. Anything liquid. Here’s your expense account.” He found a ten-dollar bill in his pocket, tucked it under the strap of her handbag. “Better leave now. And stay inside the café until I pick you up. Okay?”

She nodded, and then broke into a laugh as he pulled up his shirt and flattened the envelope against his diaphragm, anchored it there by tucking his shirt back into his trousers.

“All set,” he said as calmly as if he did this every day before breakfast. “Let’s go.”

She glanced back when she reached the corner of the gas station: he was locking the car’s trunk, presumably with his book bag stowed inside. Why not use the
Washington Post,
lying beside two candy bars, to cover the envelope? Ah, yes, she realised suddenly as she saw a station wagon at one of the gas pumps: man enters washroom, newspaper under arm, second man follows; first man exits with no newspaper, second man comes out holding it. That old bromide, she thought; too obvious. But she was wondering, as she took a short-cut behind the gas pumps to reach the circular driveway in front of the café, why so much security? Then she smiled at herself. After all the precautions she had taken, who was she to cavil at his? And it was proof, perhaps, that he was taking her seriously. Or the envelope. Or the Farrago name.

Unexpectedly, a brown Honda left its parking space in front of the café and—taking its own short-cut—skimmed past her to reach the gas station. She flashed the driver and his companion an angry glare, but it had little effect. Manners, she thought bitterly, whatever became of good manners? Or perhaps some men just liked to see the ladies jump, an old tradition—hadn’t Papa Haydn used that phrase with glee when he inserted a loud bang in the middle of a placid sonata? But before the driver glanced away as if nothing had happened, he had a damned good look at me. Somehow, that troubled her.

Bristow was later than she expected. It was with relief that Karen saw him driving up to the café. She was out of its door, a bundle in each arm, as he halted the car.

“Sorry,” he said, his face tight, his dark eyes angry. “Ten minutes wasted.” He lifted the packages into the car as she climbed on board. She was barely settled before they had reached the highway and swung round to follow the direction they had taken earlier.

“Your friend was late?” she asked.

“No. My fault.” And blast me for an idiot. There I was, leaning against the Plymouth’s trunk, congratulating myself that I’d have a clear view of Fairbairn’s Buick tooling along the highway, then suddenly wondering if he had misheard me over the ’phone and chosen another route to reach the gas station. And when I walked to the corner of the building just to check, there he was, gas already pumping into his car. Not the Buick. He had been given a lift in Shaw’s little number when his own car developed a flat tyre, and Shaw was there, too. Shaw, the perpetually curious.

“Your fault?” she asked disbelievingly.

“He arrived on time, but he took another road—one I hadn’t expected. Just a misunderstanding. No harm done. Envelope safely transferred and now about to be stashed in the safest of safes.” But not in our file room. I made that clear. It raised a smile from Fairbairn, as if my supercaution was a touch comical, but he said nothing. Nothing, too, when I specified its destination—in Blau’s special security vault, but accessible for immediate consultation. Which meant a record of delivery, time of deposit indicated. Miriam Blau was meticulous about that. Anyway, I’ve made sure it won’t lie on a desk for some unauthorised eyes to note the Czech censor’s mark. The stamp itself caused a tightening around Fairbairn’s lips for a moment, but he will hear the details tomorrow or the next day, once the top brass decides how we handle them.

“Well, you took every care,” Karen said. Why blame himself for someone taking the wrong route? She smiled, remembering the envelope safely hidden under a sports shirt. “Did your friend have to hide it your way?” Or perhaps he had carried a useful newspaper.

“No need.” Bristow’s voice had dropped its worry. “His idea of dressing for summer is a seersucker suit. The jacket hid the envelope nicely.” We’re making good time, he thought, even if I’m keeping to the speed limit. No risk of being stopped by a traffic cop, no more delays.

Something jolted Karen’s memory. “Was he in that Honda? A brown Honda? It nearly sideswiped me on my way to the café. Who was the driver—is he usually so wild?”

“Erratic sometimes. But why say ‘usually’—he didn’t do it on purpose, did he?” That wasn’t Shaw’s style. He was eager, yes, but never aggressive.

She shrugged, didn’t mention that the driver had stared at her; the other man, too, but less obviously. Instead, she said, “They must have arrived too early and parked, and then suddenly noticed the time and came rushing out.”

“Early?” Bristow fastened on the word. Fairbairn had been on time; no mention of having to wait.

“They were in that parking space when we pulled off the highway. I noticed the Honda because it was the only car with two people just sitting in it and going nowhere.”

“I didn’t see—”

“You were busy navigating,” she reminded him.

Yes, the approach to the field at the side of the gas station had been full of ruts and
bumps. Bristow looked at her and smiled. If he had needed corroboration that her testimony this afternoon would be accurate enough to be trusted, he had been given a small demonstration. “Acute,” he said. “You really notice.”

Is he making fun of me? “Not always. It is just that today I’m slightly—well, on edge. That envelope really has a powerful effect. At least,” she added, “I’m rid of it.”

But I won’t be rid of it, he thought, not for a week—two weeks—three—how many?

She misjudged his silence. “It wouldn’t matter if your friends did add up two and two and put us together, would it? Or didn’t you want to be seen with me?” she added as a small joke.

He didn’t share it. “The other way around. I didn’t want you to be connected with me.” Or connected in any way with the delivery of those letters.

They had left the highway and were now following a narrow road, tree-lined, almost a country lane. Then they passed a gate to enter a curving driveway. Bristow stopped there. Ahead of them, through a screen of bushes, Karen could see a house; not large, but two-storeyed, with a steep slope of roof.

“Yours?” she asked. And why not drive up to its door?

“A friend’s. He’s in Spain right now. I have the use of the house on week-ends. So don’t worry. No trespassing charges will be lodged against us. Either we can go inside and have a comfortable chair in a hot room, or we can sit on the grass under a tree. Your choice.”

“Grass.”

“Good.”

He led the way across the lawn, carrying the green bag and the packages. It was a short distance through a screen of trees to a half-acre field with a large maple at the edge of a small pond. On its other side, more trees. “Seclusion complete,” Karen said with approval as she sat down in the maple’s shade.

“No mosquitoes until five o’clock, no bullfrogs until dark,” he promised her.

“Birds?”

“I’ve never seen or heard any around here at this time of day. I guess they’ve had lunch and are now resting. They do that at three-hour intervals, I’ve heard. So what about
our
lunch?” He had sat down beside her and was opening the brown paper bags. “No wonder that one was heavy! How many cans of beer?”

“Only four. The ginger ale is for me.” How natural this all seems, she thought as she watched him unwrap the sandwiches and offer her first choice. I was scared of him—yes, scared—when we met on Muir Street. And then I forgot to be either scared or nervous, and we’ve been talking ever since as if we had known each other for years. For a moment, she allowed herself a touch of cynicism: it could all be a matter of technique. His was certainly a good one—he had put her completely at ease. Then she accepted that. Gratefully. She began to concentrate on the facts she would give, once the picnic was over and a cassette was catching every sound. Everything must be clear, unequivocal—places, times, who appeared on the scene, who said what and how it was said. All part of the picture, and no room in it for anyone to misapprehend. Even if I look stupid and ignorant, she thought, I’ll give it just as it was.

It was almost two o’clock. “Ready?” Bristow was asking. The first cassette had been inserted, the machine waiting with the hand microphone attached. He held it out with an encouraging smile. She took the microphone, kept it at the required small distance from her lips, and began speaking. “Last Wednesday afternoon, I was waiting in my hotel room for my notes to be returned by the Czechoslovak censors. It was ten past three, and I was due to leave the hotel for the airport at half past four. The telephone rang.”

She’s off and running, Bristow thought with sudden relief. He lay on one elbow, his eyes on her face, and listened to the calm, clear voice.

The journey back to Washington was a silent one. Karen was more exhausted than she’d allow. Bristow had his own thoughts to mull over.

They approached Muir Street, where he had asked to be dropped off for a quick change of clothes—he could be at Langley till midnight or later. Then he had told her he’d take the cassettes and have them locked away with the envelope. They’d be secure. Her name wouldn’t even be attached: just Prague and Vienna as identification labels. And no one would read the letters or listen to the tapes until they had been seen and heard by the Director and his second-in-command.