Ride a Pale Horse (25 page)

“I’ll be here.” Giovanni laid Bristow’s room key on the desk. “Do you mind if I keep this near me?” he asked, picking up the Beretta. “Don’t worry about the bullet they found in the Bulgarian. Levinson went over to the hospital to see Tasso. He’ll get you off that hook.” But there were others, he thought, watching Bristow’s set face. “I’ll guard her well,” he said very quietly.

* * *

Near the small gate at the side of the embassy’s grounds the Contessa and her midget French poodle were having their usual battle of wills. She won. She coaxed it as far as the gate just as Bristow reached her, and had it open to let him step inside. “They know you by this time,” she murmured, smiled sweetly as he closed the gate, and walked on with the poodle now straining towards the kerb.

She was right. The gardeners let him pass with a friendly nod. He reached Levinson’s office without any delay. That came at five o’clock: Menlo had to postpone his call, they were told. He was in conference. Sorry. Six o’clock, he would be on the ’phone. Definitely.

“So we wait,” Levinson said. Bristow’s face was unreadable. “Something unexpected must have hit Menlo. The conference wasn’t scheduled when I talked with him this afternoon. I told him what I had learned about today’s bomb and bullet attack, which wasn’t too much. Why don’t you fill me in now, Pete? A useful way to spend the next hour.”

For you, not for me. But I owe you. And blast Menlo, why couldn’t he have ’phoned one sentence to me at the Imperial, said, There will be an hour’s delay—just one small sentence, no security broken, and I could have waited at the hotel, kept watch? Menlo, Menlo... whatever your reason, it had better be good. “Okay,” Bristow said and began his account of that morning.

At its end, Levinson asked the same question as Giovanni: “Why Karen Cornell?”

“That’s plagued me all afternoon.”

“The Bulgarian thug definitely aimed at her?”

“Yes.”

Both were silent. “There’s
got
to be a reason,” Levinson said at last. “It was all too well planned.”

Another silence. Suddenly, there was a glimmering of an idea in Bristow’s mind. The Vienna cassettes—stolen from the Farrago file? “God,” he said softly and prayed he was wrong.

“Yes?” asked the quick-eyed Levinson.

Bristow shook his head. “Probably nothing. I’m edgy, I guess. Always a bad time to make judgments.” He looked at his watch, then across the office to Levinson’s priority ’phone. Another five minutes to wait.

Levinson said, “Don’t worry about your girl. She’s in good hands.”

“I know. Giovanni’s efficient.”

“Quite a surprise package?” Levinson asked with a grin.

Bristow nodded. “And useful. Are all your agents so cosy with the Rome police?”

“None of the others have Tasso for an uncle.” Levinson enjoyed the momentary astonishment on Bristow’s face. “And what’s your impression of our Contessa?”

“She’s trained her dog pretty well to fake disobedience on command.”

Levinson’s smile burst into a laugh.

“Why did she enlist with you, Mike? Or perhaps you co-opted her—useful connections like Giovanni. What motivates her, anyway? Must be something deeper than a widow consoling herself with fun and games.”

“Much deeper.” Levinson had turned serious. He hesitated. “Off the record, Pete—”

“Sure.”

“I told you her husband was a racing-car driver killed in an accident. True. What I didn’t say was how his car went out of control. It exploded. He was with Italian Intelligence. A Marxist-Leninist group got at him before he could nail them. The Contessa spent two years grieving and then enlisted with us. That’s her motivation—the Irish have long memories and don’t forgive in a hurry. But that’s off the record, Pete,” Levinson reminded him. “And so is the fact that Giovanni had a second uncle—a journalist in Milan. He was shot in the back as he left his home one morning by another far-left group. Italians have long memories, too.” Levinson watched Bristow closely. “Does that reassure you? They have a lot in common, those two; they make one helluva good team. Last month they—”

The telephone rang. It was six o’clock. Bristow was on his feet, the receiver in his hand, gesturing to Levinson to stay in the room. This could be a crisis call.

Menlo’s voice said, “Peter? Listen—I want you back here. As soon as possible. Bring Miss Cornell with you.”

No more talk of Junior? Bristow spoke quickly. “She’s leaving tomorrow. The one daily flight to New York. I’ll take it, too.”

“No. Neither of you. They’ll know her time of departure from Rome, arrival in New York. We’ve arranged other transportation—the same way you went in. Be at the airfield before midnight.”

“What about travel papers? Permission?”

“You’ll both be expected. Space is available. You’ll be met at this end.”

“So you know they tried to kill her today?”

“We heard about the explosion and Aliotto. Was there another attempt?” Menlo’s voice had quickened.

“There was.” Bristow’s voice was hard. “So someone broke into the files, got away with that—that special material.”

“You’ll hear the details on your return and some—”

“How did it happen?” Bristow cut in.

“You’ll hear. And there are some leads, too—could be good.”

Nothing at this moment seemed good to Bristow. Controlling anger and frustration, he said, “We’ll make that flight.”

“And leave the hotel quietly,” Menlo warned him.

“No need to tell me that,” Bristow said savagely. Not with the Vienna cassettes gone. “When was the break-in?”

“You’ll hear,” Menlo said for the third time.

“When was it? I need to know.”

“Saturday evening. Now, can you get hold of Levinson? I’ll meet you at the—”

“He’s here.” And end of conversation as far as I’m concerned, thought Bristow, his anger mounting. He was out of the door before a startled Levinson could even begin speaking to Menlo.

Ever since Saturday evening and the discovery that the Vienna cassettes had been stolen, Menlo had been a driven man. It was now Sunday afternoon, and he had many of the pieces of the puzzle fitted together. Not all. Just enough to give him an understanding of what had happened and how. But not even the fact that some important leads had been discovered could sweeten the taste of defeat. He had taken full precautions. He had been outwitted. He had failed.

Deeply depressed, he faced his desk, pulled the notes he had made in front of him, picked up a pencil. At hand were the recorders to play back the tapes he had made of today’s interviews. He could recall much of them without benefit of machine—his anger had sharpened his memory—but a total review of events was needed, item by item, and in sequence. His notes required editing, must be ready for typing into a report which he’d deliver by Wednesday. He’d get them into good order, add some flesh to their bare bones, make the story as complete as possible. And it was quite a story, he thought grimly as he began reading.

It had begun late Friday evening, just after Bristow left for Rome. Menlo called Doyle of Security, reached him at his home, requested an early meeting—most urgent—for next morning.

On Saturday, at seven
A.M.,
Doyle met with Menlo. The two Vienna cassettes were marked, treated for electronic response, placed beside the Farrago file in its locked cabinet, on which a notice was posted:
OUT OF COMMISSION.
Round-the-clock guards were arranged.

At ten o’clock, the first man on duty was installed outside the entrance to the file room. A small table and chair, a detection machine for any electronic signals, a telephone—and the guard, with notebook and pen and a thermos of coffee, was all set for his eight-hour shift. Adequate precautions, Menlo judged. No cassette could be carried past the detector without the alarm sounding. But it was with some misgivings that he had used the original tapes instead of substitutions. If he were dealing with the Prague cassettes, he wouldn’t even have considered the idea of using them as bait—they were Top Security. The Vienna tapes contained useful information, but of a lower grade. If stolen, they might put a young woman at risk but they wouldn’t endanger the United States. The clinching argument in Menlo’s mind was of less importance except to himself—a vision of a thief being caught with only worthless cassettes in his pocket. The man would maintain he had taken nothing of value, and claim that blank tapes amounted to blatant entrapment. We’ll give him something to steal, Menlo decided grimly, and he will be stopped dead in his tracks. The Vienna cassettes won’t fall into enemy hands. No thief can pass the guard’s table undetected.

Ten fifteen. Menlo asked everyone in the European unit in his Section of Counterdisinformation to step into his office. Susan Attley, Denis Shaw, Manuel Domingus, Jan van Trompf arrived. Robert Reid did not work on Saturdays. Wallace Fairbairn was due—so Denis Shaw reported—at noon. Menlo reassured them that they had no cause for alarm. Some precautions were being taken, a nuisance but necessary. What were they working on?

Each gave a brief answer. Except Shaw, who could never be brief, in either his questions or his explanations. He and Fairbairn were having difficulties in tracing the route of a lie, first published in India, then broadcast from Iran, next appearing in Lebanon, and making its European entry in Athens. From Athens it must have travelled through Central Europe—newspapers there yet to be identified—and arrived via Paris in London. (From the initial “It is reported,” it had graduated into “It now has been confirmed.”) It was the mid-European newspapers that Shaw and Fairbairn were busy trying to track down. “A long job,” Shaw predicted.

Menlo had let him run on, even if the rest of the group were clearly bored. (Anything that Shaw or Fairbairn said was worth noting.) Then he cut short any more explanation from Shaw by saying that—judging from their stated projects today—they would not be inconvenienced by the precautions taken. None of them needed to use the fifth cabinet in the file room, which had been posted
Out of Commission.

“That’s one of the Eastern European cabinets,” Shaw said. He looked astonished. The others were curious, too.

“Before Bristow left, some highly sensitive material was placed in that cabinet. Two cassettes, actually. I am making sure they will still be there when he returns. The precautions are an insurance against any unauthorised entry. So is the guard on duty.”

“But none of us—” Attley began, highly indignant.

“None of you,” Menlo agreed. “But there may be others who seek entry to the file room. So wear your identifications. That is all. I hope I have explained the situation and calmed any fears.”

“There has already been some talk about the guard,” Attley said. “Everyone’s a bit upset.”

“There was, is, and always will be talk. Speculation is part of your job. But keep it focused on your work. And”—he looked pointedly at the clock—“it is time to get back to it.” As they trooped out, Menlo said, “Susan, will you tell Bob Reid about our security arrangements on Monday? And Shaw—you’ll see Fairbairn. When?”

“At noon. We’re lunching together, and then we’ll—”

“Good. You inform him, will you?” And I bet you will—in full detail, thought Menlo as the door closed.

It was now ten forty-five. Menlo began reading, for the third time, the dossiers on Shaw and Fairbairn. Nothing there that was derogatory. Perhaps he was following the wrong trail. Both men had good records. Well-adjusted, no family problems, no indications of financial troubles, no drugs, no public drunkenness, no exceptional sex patterns. Work was good. Just two normal citizens devoting their careers to public service and getting more criticism than thanks for it, too. Which made Menlo’s task all the more distasteful.

Hard to believe that either of them was the mole that Vasek had mentioned. Yet, there
had
been someone who had dug into the Farrago file and sent information to the KGB. Someone who had known Bristow was responsible for that file. How else could Farrago, a colonel in the KGB, have learned of Bristow’s interest or been so certain that Bristow would recognise his name and value? An inside job obviously, someone working in Bristow’s unit: the others in the section did not know about his interest in Farrago. If Fairbairn and Shaw had come under suspicion, it was for two valid reasons: they were the only ones in the European unit who knew that an envelope, with a Czech’s censor’s seal, had been delivered by Bristow; they were the only ones who had seen Bristow when he was with Karen Cornell.

One of them could be the mole and the other innocent. A dupe. Who was directing the mole, controlling him? That was another question. First things first: the mole was the objective at present. Damned if I’ll let one hide in my section, thought Menlo as he rose stiffly and paced around his room to get the circulation flowing. He could use his good standing here to make valuable contacts in other departments. I’ll be twice damned if I let him tunnel his way into dangerously sensitive areas with my people as his cover.

The back pain had eased—either his walk around the room or three minutes of solid cussing had relieved the strain—and he could sit down in time for his prearranged call from Bristow, who had arrived in Italy. Bristow’s news was definitely unexpected. Josef Vasek was in Rome, had contacted Karen Cornell. Vasek’s estimate of safe arrival in the United States was two weeks. Two weeks for a mole to continue uncaught? That justified all Menlo’s precautions. Relieved, he went to lunch.

And met Shaw leaving the cafeteria.

“No Fairbairn?” Menlo asked.

“He’s here. Arrived at noon. Had some ’phone calls to make. We’ll be nosing the grindstone for the rest of the day. Probably into the night.”

“It’s a hard life,” Menlo said and watched Shaw hurry off. Some ’phone calls? To whom?

At two o’clock, Menlo checked with the guard on duty at the file room. His notes logged several visitors. Shaw had visited the room. But no Fairbairn.

Menlo wondered about that. Fairbairn had been here since noon. Wasn’t he curious about the setup at the file room door? “Is this complete?” Menlo asked as he returned the guard’s logbook.