Ride a Pale Horse (18 page)

With me, she thought. “But it’s senseless. If they wanted to kidnap me—as perhaps they’ve kidnapped Aliotto—why go to the trouble of bugging my room?”

“To have a record of anything you said over a telephone or to a visitor in your room.” Before they snatched you, he thought.

“Was that tiny gadget powerful enough to reach in here?”

“If you left the door open and didn’t have a radio playing and the television going. Look, Karen—I hate to do this. But I have a ’phone call to make and a man to see. The sooner I do that, the better.”

“I’m all right. Really. How long will you be away?”

“With luck—if my friend is in his office—about an hour.”

“Then the very best of luck.” He was looking at her with such real anxiety in his eyes that she gave him the most reassuring smile she could produce. It had some effect.

“Just stay here. Don’t go sightseeing. We’ll do that together. Right?” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll see you by five—or five thirty at latest.”

“Peter, stop worrying about me. I’ll be—”

The telephone rang. She reached for its receiver on the night table. “Who?” She sat up erect, stared over at Bristow. “Sorry, I didn’t quite recognise your voice. This
is
Luigi Aliotto? How glad I am to hear from you! How is your cold? Delighted you are better... Dinner tonight?”

Bristow shook his head.

“No. I’m sorry. I’ve already accepted an invitation. I thought you couldn’t meet me until tomorrow evening... No, I can’t change my plans. He’s a very dear friend who is visiting Rome.” She listened as Aliotto talked on about the many things they had to discuss. “Meet you for a drink before dinner? Well—”

Bristow nodded.

“At half past five?” She kept her eyes on Bristow. He shook his head, held up six fingers. “Half past five is a little early. I could manage six, I think.” Bristow pointed in the direction of downstairs. “Why don’t we meet here, at the Imperial? I could easily manage that by six. My friend will expect me by seven, though. You do understand, Luigi?... Yes, he is most attractive... All right, I’ll meet you in the lobby. Six o’clock.”

Slowly, she replaced the receiver. “So he wasn’t kidnapped,” she said. “Lord, what idiotic notions I sometimes have!” She dropped back on the bed, drew a deep breath. Those two sneak thieves had been after only her typewriter or watch as Peter had said. “At least, I hope so,” she added uncertainly.

He was still watching her and concealing his own doubts. “I’ll be in the bar, too. Or near there. Not far away, I promise.” Suddenly, he knew of one piece of news to leave her smiling. “We can relax about Vasek’s letters. They’ve been dealt with.”

“The letters?” She sat up, eyes wide with surprise. “So soon?”

“A confrontation in Moscow. A joint agreement signed by both. No use of letters by either party.” Unless Vasek was caught; or dead. Then our case would seem one big bluff, and God only knows what Soviet reaction would be. It wasn’t the first time they had disregarded a signed agreement.

“And no assassinations.” She was smiling, her relief increasing. “Incredible how quickly an agreement was signed—usually it takes weeks of argument, doesn’t it?”

“We threatened to publish.” That was the limit of what he could tell her. He had gone beyond Menlo’s one sentence, but the results were good: she had put aside her fears. “Get rid of that basket, Karen.”

She nodded, followed him into the sitting-room, thinking of the letters. “We really must have sounded as if we meant it,” she said.

That had been Menlo’s explanation. Bristow hadn’t quite believed it then, and it still puzzled him. Too easy, too simple. To sound as if we meant it—was that really enough? “See you later.” He opened the door to the hall to face a startled boy with a laden tray. The goddamn drinks, he thought, and more minutes passing. Levinson could be leaving his office before I even telephone him.

“I’ll sign,” Karen said. “This is on Schleeman.” And now she wasn’t just smiling, she had begun to laugh.

Bristow called Michael Levinson from a public ’phone in the hotel lobby, relaxed when he heard that husky baritone he remembered too well. As usual, Levinson was nonchalant. “Heard you were around. I’m stuck here at the office, but drop over and see me. Use the short-cut. I’ll have Giovanni meet you. When?”

“Soon. And Mike—I need to make a call to my boss; there’s a business deal he’s considering, and I think he’d better have another look at it. Can I use your ’phone? It could be a long chat.” And a nicely scrambled one.

“Okay. Always liked the old geezer. Can’t have him losing his shirt on a bad investment. I’ll let him know you’re calling.”

“Be seeing you.”

Satisfactory, Bristow thought as he left the lobby and had the doorman call a taxi. He could have walked the short distance to Levinson’s domain in five minutes, but caution was needed. The brief interchange between them had been discreet enough to please Levinson and fit his present assignment, too: he was specialising in tracing the clandestine purchases of American classified technology by so-called friendly foreigners who then resold them at a handsome profit to the Soviet Union. Old geezer... Menlo might not appreciate the description, but it suited his eccentricities admirably.

The cab arrived. Bristow directed it up Via Veneto, then right; then after a short distance, right again until they had circled a few blocks. No one followed. Bristow dismissed the cab a little distance from the street which led—if he walked its full length—back to the Imperial and Via Veneto. But Levinson’s doorway would be reached just before Bristow approached that end of the street. Circuitous, careful, and probably necessary, even if the roundabout journey irked him. He set out at a leisurely pace. Nothing urgent ahead of him, it must seem.

As for what he would tell Levinson, he’d leave most of that to Menlo’s discretion. Levinson would probably know about the defection of a KGB colonel called Josef Vasek, but he might not be involved in the actual search here in Italy. He certainly didn’t know about the three letters. No one knew except the people who had been involved with them: seven men at last Monday’s meeting, two Secretaries, a Director, the President, the KGB of course, and Karen herself.

Karen... She had been as surprised as he had been at the speed of the Moscow agreement. “We threatened to publish,” he had told her. “We really must have sounded as if we meant it,” she had replied. But, he kept thinking, was that really enough? And he kept saying, “No. It damned sure wasn’t.” So what else could have made the Kremlin listen? Not have the suspicion that it was mostly bluff? Unless—unless the KGB had discovered that there were two small pieces of evidence: the date of the Secretary of State’s visit to Saudi Arabia; the sworn statement of three typists that their initials had been used on letters they had never typed. Still not enough. The Soviets would rely on the secrecy of that Saudi visit to prevent the Americans from using it publicly; and the typists, of course, they would dismiss as paid lackeys.

So what the hell prodded the Soviets into an agreement? What if—what if the KGB had uncovered more than the two small pieces of evidence we had? The contents of the Prague cassettes? Vasek’s words relayed by Karen, an admission of his authorship of the letters, of their future use, of his intention to defect. Yes, that was something that wasn’t any American bluff. The KGB would be the first to sense the full weight of evidence against them—one of their own, able to verify Karen’s account of that Prague meeting. But how, Bristow wondered, had the KGB been able to discover the contents of the cassettes so damned quickly? Only a matter of days. Not even long enough for whispers to start or the inevitable guesses that were endemic in Washington.

His thoughts ended abruptly. Ahead of him was the door to Levinson’s short-cut set into the high wall that encircled the embassy grounds, a door that was narrow and heavy and no doubt guarded inside. The street was quiet. A few parked cars, apparently empty; no traffic now; only one pedestrian—a good-looking blonde, elegantly dressed, walking a white French poodle not far from the door. On the opposite side of the street, an imposing row of houses, and a black Ferrari standing before one of their entrances. Yes, it all seemed safe enough, except for that blonde. She was dawdling, letting the poodle take charge of her; she looked at Bristow as he passed her, appeared to be amused—perhaps an apology for her pet’s whims. He decided to walk on and reach Via Veneto before he turned back. At that moment, a quick movement from the Ferrari caught his eye. A young man had slipped out and was already half-way across the street, heading for the door. Bristow was ready to enter as the stranger—tall, dark, and definitely vigorous—turned his key in the lock. The blonde paid no attention.

“Bristow? I’m Giovanni.” He closed the door behind him, nodded to a couple of gardeners who were studying Bristow from the shade of the nearest tree.

“How did you recognise me?” Bristow asked.

“Saw you check into the Imperial.” Giovanni’s voice was pure American; in looks and dress, he was completely the well-heeled Roman. “You know the way from here?”

“I can make it.”

“
Ciao
,” Giovanni said in his nonchalant way. He gestured to the door. “You just pull it hard when you go. Self-locking.” He left with a cheerful wave and an exchange of quick and authentic Italian with the gardeners. They were able-looking types and still watching Bristow carefully as he followed the path to a small annexe. The guard inside its door was equally capable, even if he was dressed like a janitor. Bristow was expected but had to show his CIA identification and wait until a ’phone call to the second floor let him pass.

Levinson’s office, unlike the man, was understated. Barely comfortable but with all the necessary furniture and its walls placarded with maps. The desk was near the single window, allowing Levinson to have a clear view of the entrance from the street. He had probably seen Bristow being ushered through by Giovanni.

Bristow looked out at the garden, said, “Don’t tell me a bell sounds here when that door is opened.”

“Why not? Here and downstairs, too. Lots of surprises if you had been trying an unauthorised entry.”

“There was a blonde outside, attached to a poodle, who paid me too much damned attention.”

“La Contessa?”
Levinson laughed. “She wanted to put a face to a name. You’ll find her around with Giovanni—her present escort. A good team.”

“Italian?”

“She was Maggie O’Brian from Milwaukee, with a fortune made by her father in beer. She married an Italian. She had the cash, he had the title, but they were happy. Until he got killed in a racing-car smash-up. That was five years ago. Since then—” Levinson hesitated briefly—”he has dedicated herself to good deeds. As for Giovanni, he’s a Brooklyn boy, studying music now and again at the American Academy. On his off-duty days, you’ll find him in blue jeans and tee shirt over in Trastevere, where he has a pad and a wild collection of young friends. Okay?”

“Untrained agents? How do you get away with it. Mike?” Bristow shook his head.

“Giovanni is well trained, believe me. One of us. As for
la Contessa
—well, it seems to me most women don’t need much training—just comes naturally. All the world’s a stage.”

“Okay,” Bristow agreed reluctantly. “And they’ll be our watchdogs?”

“None better.” Levinson had turned abrupt.

“Okay,” Bristow said again and soothed some of Levinson’s annoyance. He was a man in his early fifties, solidly built and adding extra weight from good Italian dinners; outwardly full of self-confidence, inwardly watchful for any criticism of his team, which meant—in his judgment—a reflection on himself. But he was first-rate at his job, and Bristow only hoped a countess and her escort in his silk shirt and carefully tailored suit were as adequate watchdogs as Levinson believed. “Sorry to press the matter, but there’s a sticky situation that could develop. Miss Cornell seems to be a target.”

“Oh?” Levinson was fishing. “Anything to do with that meeting of journalists with terrorists on Monday? I heard she was invited—”

“Is it still on schedule? Where, when? Can she find out? She needs your help on that one.”

“I’ll make an effort. What’s going down, Pete?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. I’d better call Menlo. Where do I ’phone?”

“Feel free.” Levinson rose from his desk, pointing to a telephone on a small corner table, and lifted his sand-coloured jacket from a peg on the wall. It matched his sand-coloured hair now receding from a bold brow and his sand-coloured complexion in process of losing its holiday tan. “Just pick up, identify, and you’ll be through.”

“Efficiency.”

Levinson ignored the compliment. “How long will it take?”

“Ten minutes or so.” And you’ll know damned well when the call ends, Bristow told him silently.

“I’ll see you then.” Tactfully, Levinson left, his amber eyes—completing his natural colour scheme—without the smile that appeared briefly on his lips.

I know, thought Bristow as he picked up the receiver and identified himself, I’m just another pain in the butt that Menlo has added to his aching back. Levinson never had much use for—how did he use to put it?—for “the boys who sit in offices, poring over documents and blue-pencilling newspapers like a bunch of college professors.”

Menlo’s voice was at Bristow’s ear. “Well?” he demanded. So Bristow told of Farrago’s appearance, his contacts with Karen, and the messages he had sent.

Menlo cursed, paused briefly, recovered himself. “So he means to go it alone,” he said with resignation. “Hell, doesn’t he trust us?”

“He doesn’t trust the man who has stepped in as a substitute for a chauffeur or as replacement for the fourth gardener who has suddenly been taken ill or for a mechanic at the airstrip.”

“Got you, got you,” said Menlo impatiently. “I’ll figure out the details for myself.” He relented. “How’s Junior?”

“Shaken, but she has got a lot of grit. There have been other things to alarm her, too.” Then followed bare details about Aliotto, the room with a broken lock, the basket of flowers.

“Not good. Get help from Levinson, I think.”