Ride a Pale Horse (27 page)

“His family might not agree with you. They’ve a stake in his choice, too.”

Fairbairn shook his head. “You amaze me, Menlo. You’ve really thought it all through. What choice would you make?”

“Whatever I chose, I hope I’d feel some remorse. But I suppose an enemy agent never would. You remember where Dante placed traitors in his Inferno? In the lowest depths—the ninth circle of hell. Encased them in ice.”

Fairbairn’s astonishment grew.

“Symbolic. As deep frozen as their hearts when alive.”

“You really do amaze me,” Fairbairn said slowly. Menlo and Dante—what next? He smiled. “There could be a fifth choice. Suicide.”

“For an agent who has been trapped, that’s a matter of sheer necessity, a spur-of-the-moment reaction. No choice.”

“I guess so.” Fairbairn was no longer smiling. “Those who think long about suicide rarely commit it. Do they?” He nodded, opened the door, slowly closed it.

* * *

Menlo’s notes were completed as far as Sunday had brought them. Tomorrow, Monday, he’d probably have additions to make before he typed them on Tuesday. By Wednesday, as arranged with the Director, his report would be ready. He slipped the four closely written sheets into a heavy envelope, sealed it, and locked it into his safe along with the tapes of three interviews.

There was still some business to settle before he left for home: arrange for Justice to secure a search warrant for a complete sweep of Fairbairn’s house; of Shaw’s apartment, too. (Doyle’s men in their quick search had found no Vienna cassettes in either place, but there had been a lot of electronic equipment. Shaw’s had been considerable; an unmarried man could perhaps afford expensive hobbies.) Then there would have to be some diplomatic prodding of Coulton’s bosses. Today, no one at the Bureau of Public Affairs seemed to be available, Coulton included. But suddenly, Menlo felt his fatigue mounting. He would deal with these problems later.

He set out on the long walk to his car. Whatever I’ve accomplished this Sunday, he was thinking, I’ve brought the simmering pot to a bubbling boil. But better concentrate on a long hot tub, a change of clothes, a real dinner, my own bed, and time to think things through.

Monday dawned and found Menlo wide awake, eyes staring up at his bedroom’s ceiling. Time to think things through, he had promised himself. But a hot and sleepless night had simply created more conflict in his mind. By half past five, he gave up. He left the disarray of crumpled, damp sheets and took a cold shower. A mistake: its coolness only stirred up his back pain. My God, he thought in disgust, do I have to live like a bloody orchid? He shaved, dressed slowly, ate a quick breakfast. He was in his office before seven.

Just as he was settling at his desk, a call came in from Rome. It was Levinson, speaking rapidly. A bombing had occurred an hour ago in the old police station on Via Borgognona. He had only the barest details—he was interrupting a lunch with a Swiss suspected of illegal trading and was calling without benefit of scrambler from a restaurant. Four dead inside the building; three in the street; some injured; some survivors, Karen Cornell and Bristow among them. No exact accounting, as yet. But he had sent one of his boys to the scene, would be able to give a fuller report around three this afternoon. Rome time.

That’s nine
A.M.
over here, Menlo thought as the speedy call ended. A new possibility raised its ugly head. Worriedly, he began comparing the differences in time between Rome and Washington.

The cassettes had been stolen shortly after ten o’clock on Saturday evening. They could have been played, their contents digested and radioed from Washington by midnight. Which was six
A.M.
Sunday in Rome. And who, over there, could have received that message? Unanswerable as of now. But one thing was certain. There was time enough to plant a bomb by Monday morning. And yet—a bombing might have been arranged long before the Vienna information reached Rome. No link between the two, perhaps. Not unless Karen Cornell had been killed by the explosion. But she was alive. So possibly no connection, Menlo decided with considerable relief.

Still, that was the crux of the matter. She had tied Sam Waterman closely together with Andreas Kellner and Rita, two known Communist agents. If Waterman knew about that, he’d have that evidence destroyed—tapes and girl. That son of a bitch had most to lose if the Vienna cassettes were publicised. Until now he had been accepted at face value: a left-wing writer who had been unfairly ousted by the
Washington Spectator
(whispers had circulated about Karen Cornell and Hubert Schleeman) and now worked freelance. His hidden name of Steven Winter might be known by some intelligence officers, but their suspicions couldn’t be circulated; another case, Waterman would say, of paranoia and harassment. Yes, he had the most to lose—he and the KGB, who had recruited him, aided him, cosied him, and made his cover story credible. Until Vienna.

Waterman was now in Rome, Menlo reminded himself—last seen here on Friday evening waiting for Coulton. Waterman and Coulton... A case of who whom. Was Coulton merely an agent, recruited through either blackmail or money or politics? The real control was Waterman, both of Coulton and the mole—was that it? And that bloody mole—Fairbairn or Shaw? The evidence seemed to point Fairbairn’s way. Seemed... Not good enough. We have to be damned sure, Menlo told himself, and opened his safe for a further reading of the notes he had completed yesterday.

They were intact inside the envelope. But he could swear it had been opened and resealed. One small corner of its flap wasn’t properly adhered. It had loosened its grip. He opened the entire flap of the envelope—it felt sticky, as if glue had been used. Imagination, perhaps. Two sleepless nights in a row played havoc with the mind. He did, however, inquire who had been working in the European unit on Sunday afternoon. Both Fairbairn and Shaw had still been on duty when he had left for home.

Promptly at nine, the call from Rome came in. Levinson was back in his office and gave a fuller account of the bombing. Bristow and Cornell were slightly the worse for wear but unharmed. “An interesting note: a Bulgarian arrived in Rome on Saturday with a false passport. He was at the meeting this morning as a ‘cousin’ of the terrorist Martita. The police think that he and the Czech who accompanied him replaced the real relatives and used their passes to enter the hall. Looks as if the Bulgarians have an interest in Bristow’s girl. One tried to meet her when she arrived Friday, and he was keeping watch on her on Saturday evening at Armando’s—along with an American called Waterman.”

“Sam Waterman with the Bulgarian!”

“Identified by Bristow. My boy was at Armando’s, too. He identified the Bulgarian. Interesting combination, wouldn’t you say?”

“Where’s Bristow now?”

“At the Imperial, recovering and keeping close watch on the girl. She’s an attractive piece, I hear.”

“I’ll talk with Bristow at—” Menlo paused, calculated. First, he must see what arrangements could be made to get Bristow and the girl out of Rome. Immediately.

“At when?”

“Give me a couple of hours. I’ll call at five.
Your
time.”

“Suits me,” said Levinson cheerfully as Menlo ended the call and reached for pad and pencil.

Quickly, he scrawled a memorandum, heading it with a large question mark.
Waterman or Coulton as control? The mole
—
Fairbairn? Or Shaw? Incentives blackmail, money, ideology? Check.
Then he selected a fresh envelope, sealed the four pages of notes and the memorandum inside, and signed it Frank Menlo. As an afterthought, he wrote on its face, “To be collected only by me—or Peter Bristow.” The addition of Bristow was instinctive, yet reasonable enough: he needed Bristow’s quick eye to review these notes, and by tomorrow at that. And if it was yet another day to entangle him in ’phone calls, Bristow could collect the envelope and set to work without delay.

This time, he’d make sure of the notes. And the tapes of Sunday’s interviews, too. He tied them into one package, the envelope on top, and placed it in his safe temporarily, after he had altered the combination lock. When he left for the day, he would leave the package with Miriam Blau, give her the instructions about Bristow. He was taking no more chances with a mole who seemed to have had some expert training in opening an office safe.

Before eleven o’clock and the scheduled call to Bristow in Rome, he was summoned upstairs for the conference he had requested. He had just time to postpone his call for an hour (the conference would be brief, mostly a matter of impressing the need for Bristow’s and Cornell’s safety; they must be found space for tonight’s flight) and install a secretary in his office to type out some written letters while he was absent. “Stay here. Wait until I get back,” he told the girl, whom he knew well. She knew his ways, too, and showed no surprise.

The conference was satisfactory. Menlo returned to his office within the hour. “Have something to eat now,” he suggested to the secretary. “Come back at one thirty. I’ll need you until three.” That, he reflected, would let him have lunch with Doyle as arranged.

At noon, his delayed call to Rome took place. The talk with Bristow was more difficult than he had expected, and abrupt. But Levinson gave him the details of the bombing. It was then he learned that a definite bullet had been intended for Karen Cornell. And the man who had fired it was a Bulgarian.

In black depression, he left his office in the secretary’s charge and met Doyle. They talked over a small table in a large room that was now almost empty. The white-haired Irishman, neat and compact in his light summer suit, studied his old friend as he emphasised the need for extra precautions tonight on Karen Cornell’s arrival. They had worked here a long time, Doyle thought, were due to retire in the same month three years from now, had shared many an emergency before this, but he had never seen Menlo so much on edge.

“She worries me,” Menlo was admitting, the food on his plate scarcely touched. “Bristow can take his chances like the rest of us, but she’s vulnerable. We’ll have to find her a safe house for the next few days, but some place that no one in my section has heard about. No one at all, if possible. The less she can be connected with us, the safer she’ll be.”

“A tall order—we haven’t much time before she arrives. Two
A.M.
?”

“Pretty close to it—if I’ve calculated correctly. Damn those time zones.”

Doyle agreed completely. “Last June, my daughter had to make a quick trip back from Paris. Took the Concorde. Left at eleven in the morning, arrived at eight forty-five
A.M.
—almost two hours earlier than her departure.”

But Menlo wasn’t even listening. He was saying, “We’ll need two cars at the airfield: mine and one of yours. Bristow will leave with me. Your men can escort Miss Cornell to the safe house and stay on guard. Can’t have her using her address in Washington—or in New York. Nor can she check into a hotel without being noticeable at that early hour.”

“Surely you don’t mean to be at the airfield yourself. At two in the morning, for God’s sake.” And the man doesn’t like night driving anyway. “You’d be better in bed, see Bristow on Tuesday.”

“I’ve a lot to discuss with him. I’m leaving an envelope and three tapes with Miriam Blau. He’s authorised to take them out, work over them. But before he does—well, I’d like to give him some extra background. And admit,” Menlo added slowly, “that I was wrong and he was right about using the cassettes as bait.”

“How else get any leads?” And that was the truth, Doyle thought. No answer from Menlo, either. “Not easy to watch your suspects,” he went on. “Fairbairn sometimes uses his Buick, sometimes his wife’s station wagon. But Shaw’s the bigger problem: that apartment house of his, six floors spreading out like a pancake mix. Four separate entrances and eighty families as tenants. It’s one of those modern-style rabbit warrens. He uses his own car, but it’s parked all around the place—often blocks away.”

Menlo’s frown deepened.

“Look—” Doyle said, “I’ll meet Bristow and Miss Cornell this morning.”

“I’m meeting Bristow.” Menlo was determined.

“Then,” said Doyle, equally determined, “I’ll send a car and a driver for you. Pick you up at your place and get you to the airfield in plenty of time. I’ll be in the other car with a couple of good men—they’ll be assigned to look after Miss Cornell wherever she’s staying. Agreed?”

“Unmarked cars.”

“We’ll rent them, if necessary,” Doyle said with a wide grin. “We’ll collect you at one
A.M.
”

“Make that twelve thirty.”

“You’ll have to wait at the—”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. There may be a tailwind.”

From east to west? Doyle didn’t argue that point. Menlo was already on his feet and talking about the prospects of Australia in the America’s Cup races as they left their table.

* * *

Menlo took Doyle’s parting advice to shut up shop and leave for home. He locked his office at four o’clock.

Fairbairn and Shaw saw him passing their open door. He halted, nodded, and went on his way.

Shaw said, “He’s early. A record.” Fairbairn didn’t share his amusement. “Briefcase as usual tucked under his arm,” Shaw went on. “Probably sleeps with it. That package—did you notice? What’s your guess, Wallace? Special homework for tonight?” Shaw laughed. “Could be that envelope holds all the notes he was taking down yesterday.”

“Don’t forget the tapes,” Fairbairn said sourly.

“Why would he need them?” Shaw was astounded.

“To go over what we said. Word by word.”

Shaw stared. “Why should he—”

“Why not? Someone got into the file room and stole Bristow’s cassettes.”

“We weren’t told about that. How the hell do you know?”

“Why else were we questioned?”

“Then he does suspect us,” Shaw said. His jaw tightened. “You or me?”

“I’ll toss you for the honour,” Fairbairn said bitterly and went back to work. That lasted only ten minutes. “I’m leaving, too. Can’t get my mind settled.”