Ride a Pale Horse (3 page)

“Couldn’t you cancel it? Every day counts.”

“It’s another interview, with someone who isn’t yet elected to the top job in Austria. But I’m betting on him. He will expect me to be there. And I do keep my commitments.”

“I’m glad of that,” Vasek told her grimly. He became thoughtful. “Yes, you must appear to act normally. A rush to Washington might be—” He shrugged. “Remember, attract no attention; draw no suspicion. Someday we’ll meet again, and you can have full rights to this story. When? I don’t know. Soon, I hope. And don’t misunderstand me: I am still a Communist, but not one who believes he will advance our cause by forcing a world war. Tell Peter Bristow that. He may not yet know my present name, but he has quite a file on my past history.” There was a fleeting smile. “I hear that Bristow has labelled it ‘Farrago.’ Don’t forget: Farrago.” He paused, and it seemed as if that reminded him of something else, for he spoke urgently. “Talk only to Peter Bristow. He, alone, receives the envelope. No one else.”

“Really?” she asked, and pretended boredom. Fully twelve minutes had passed since they had entered the rose garden, and that worried her.

“No one.” The words were snapped out. “There is a man in Bristow’s unit—” he hesitated—“but I’ll name him, among others, when I reach safety. My second insurance,” he explained, and smiled broadly. “Now it’s time to return. After we say goodbye in the lobby, delay for twenty minutes before you reach your room. Your envelopes, all of them, will be waiting for you. You are ready to leave?”

She nodded. She felt numb, so many conflicting emotions surging through her that rational thought had become a jumble. They walked back to the terrace, past two of the bugged benches. He was asking if her stay at the hotel had been comfortable, and she seized that topic like a lifeline. He had sensed she needed one, perhaps. Very pleasant place, she said, but she still wished she could have been somewhere in Prague itself, could have wandered through the city, attended a theatre, visited a café, just watched the world stroll by. (Yes, there was a woman, centre front row of the terrace, binoculars quickly lowered as Karen glanced in her direction. And a man at a side table, with a telescopic-lens camera, seemingly entranced with the rose bed.)

“Next visit,” Vasek promised her as they passed through the terrace, “I’ll see that you have a room in the most central hotel.” They reached the lobby, some people standing and talking, fat armchairs stuffed with other guests who had become exhausted with conversation. He halted near one of the smoothly polished red-granite pillars, pressed her hand in a tight grip. “Thank you,” he said almost inaudibly. She left him quickly; Bor was approaching. Now for a natural-looking delay. The bar seemed the logical place, where she’d find Tony Marcus and let him do the talking for the next twenty minutes.

The bar was small, with tables closely packed, but at this time of the day only half-filled. As always, its heavy draperies on the windows were closed and the electric lights brilliant. Not a secretive place where people could be lost in the shadows or feel like making romantic assignations. She found Duvivier and Engel facing each other at a corner table. “Where’s Tony Marcus?” she asked. “I hoped he’d give me a quip or two to cheer me on my way.” The two men, pulling out a chair for her, looked as if they could use some cheering up, too.

“He’s detained,” Engel said.

“What?” She looked at Duvivier.

“For questioning,” he said.

“When?” she asked, and waved aside the offer of a drink.

Engel said, “I saw him leaving with a plainclothesman on either side. Around eleven last night.”

Duvivier was more pessimistic than usual. “Idiot! They searched his room while we were at dinner and found some papers—some material, anyway—that he hadn’t turned in to the censors.”

“What kind of material?” Karen asked. Oh, Lord, she thought, what have I got myself into?

“Could have been a case of forgetfulness,” Engel suggested.

“Could have been something no censor would let him take out of the country.” Duvivier shook his head. “Let us hope not.”

“When I reach Hamburg, I had better notify the British Consulate,” Engel said.

“I’ll contact their embassy in Paris,” Duvivier agreed. “Officials here have attacks of forgetfulness, too.”

“Perhaps,” said Karen uncertainly, “perhaps Tony will walk into the lobby before we leave.”

The two men looked at her and then exchanged glances. Out of kindness to this sweet innocent, they made no comment. “Have that drink,” Duvivier said, and began to talk about the Convocation for Peace as he signed to a waiter. Engel joined in the conversation. Karen kept silent.

Suddenly, she interrupted. “What makes me really mad is that none of us needs holier-than-thou talk about peace. We all want it—except the crazies. I
want
a Convocation for Peace, a real one, with every government that has nuclear weapons making an honest agreement to scrap every rocket and missile they possess.”

“Every government?” Duvivier smiled at Engel. “White wine for the lady,” he told the waiter.

“Yes. Yours, too, Yves. And England, India, Israel, Pakistan, South Africa, China—even the ones just at the planning stage, like Argentina—every single one of them, along with Russia and the United States.”

“And supervision?” Engel asked.

“Of course. Just stop the power plays, the fears, the stupidity.”

“A wonderful world,” Duvivier said.

“Why not? Let the United Nations put some muscle into their fat. It would give them more to do than listen to speeches and debates. What’s the use of all their projects if the world goes up in flames?”

“True, true,” murmured Duvivier, and wished he still held such a hopeful view of mankind’s reasonable attitudes. Again he changed the subject. “What do you think of friend Bor? I see him hovering at the door.”

Bor had watched Karen Cornell depart in the direction of the bar. To Vasek, who seemed about to leave the lobby, too, he said, “Thirsty lot, these journalists. But you seemed to have unruffled her feathers. How did you manage it?”

“Not difficult.” Vasek looked at his watch. “I’m expecting a call—”

“What did you talk about?”

“Acid rain. And a room with a view of Wenceslaus Square. Censors, too—she objects to them as a matter of principle.”

“Acid rain?” Bor stared at Vasek. The other two complaints had been expected.

“Yesterday she asked questions at the Agriculture Ministry and got few answers.”

“So you supplied them?” Bor’s grin was wide.

“I did my best. Now, I do have to get to my office before four o’clock—there’s a call coming in. I think you’d better deal with that Hamburg fellow.”

“Engel?”

“He’s leaving around five, I believe. So send him away in a good mood.”

“What about Rome?”

“I’ll see Aliotto if I have time.”

“He could be useful if you are still making that visit to Italy next week,” Bor suggested, watching Vasek. “Are you?”

“That depends on my schedule here,” Vasek said crisply, and walked away.

Never relaxes, Bor thought angrily; everyone kept running at his command. Seems to have settled down, though. How did he really feel about being sent to Prague? Was it a demotion from Moscow? Can’t tell from that fellow—but he’s more than a press aide or public-relations man. What’s his real job? KGB? In what department? Never a hint—he’s too important, is he, to talk to me? Well, I’ve done my duty and watched him and there’s nothing out of the ordinary to report. He has a reason for everything. It’s curious, though. My orders were only passed through Prague—didn’t originate here. In Moscow? Curious... He was sent here to inspect our work. So I thought. Does the inspector need inspection, too? That’s Moscow’s style, all right: always looking over each other’s shoulder. What can you expect when they don’t trust themselves? Oh, well—now it’s time to find Engel and give him the kid-glove treatment. Why the devil can’t Vasek find the time himself to deal with those damned journalists? It was his idea to send them away happy; I’d let them go with a handshake. They’ll only insult us when they get home—capitalist lies, that’s all they’ll write.

Bor looked at his watch, wished he could delay some more, but headed for the likeliest spot to find Engel. These Western journalists avoided the public lounge like the plague. His annoyance evaporated when he reached the bar. The American was sitting with the Frenchman and the German. She looked tired and nervous, had scarcely touched the drink before her. This could be an excellent moment, most opportune. “May I have the pleasure of joining you?” He smiled and bowed, and sat down before anyone invited him. He concentrated on the American. “You had a pleasant talk in the garden?”

She stared at him, said, “Quite pleasant, thank you.”

“Talk with whom?” Duvivier asked.

“With Mr. Vasek.”

“Really?” Engel was suddenly amused. “You didn’t tell us about that. Holding out on us, Karen?”

She shook her head. “He was just being polite to me.”

Duvivier said, “I’ve been trying to corner him for three days. How did you manage it?” He, too, was much amused.

“We just met. By chance.”

That’s her first little lie, Bor thought. This might indeed be the moment. “What did you talk about?” he asked most innocently, curious but friendly.

“Acid rain.” It seemed to Karen that there could be disappointment in his eyes, but he joined in the laughter around the table. “It’s true,” she told Duvivier and Engel.

“Ah, yes,” Engel remembered, “you didn’t get much of an answer on that subject yesterday. Better luck today?”

“Well, he did listen to my questions and gave me a long description of acid rain’s effect. He didn’t do too well on its cause, though.” Yes, Bor was definitely disappointed. She glanced at her watch. Still five minutes to wait, heaven help her.

“Of course,” Duvivier said, “miningis one of Czechoslovakia’s chief money-makers. Their heavy industries burn a lot of coal. Don’t they?” he prodded Bor.

“No more than French or American factories use,” Bor said.

He was helped, inadvertently, by Engel’s natural curiosity. “Anything else you picked up that was interesting?” he was asking Karen.

“Nothing for any headlines. But I did get a promise that he’d make sure I stayed at a central hotel on my next visit here.”

“Next visit?” Duvivier shook his head. “Yes, there are advantages to being a woman.”

“Chauvinist,” Karen told him lightly.

“No ‘male’ attached?”

“Always unnecessary. Redundant.” She looked at her watch, rose abruptly. “I’ll be late,” she said in consternation. “I’m being collected at the front door in twenty minutes. Goodbye, all.” The men were on their feet, shaking hands. Bor’s bow was brief.

“My card,” Engel said, producing it. “Look me up in Hamburg if you are ever there.”

“You still have my telephone number?” Duvivier asked.

“Most definitely.” A warm smile for him. She liked this middle-aged, saturnine Frenchman. And he had helped her out on acid rain: Bor had been put on the defensive; no more questions. None of his business anyway, she thought as she hurried towards the lobby. Or was it?

The elevator was slow. It was quarter past four by the time she reached her room. Her envelopes lay on the desk, neatly tied into a bundle with heavy black tape. And a seal to declare it inviolate.

She could riffle through the corners of the envelopes, though, and check their numbers. All present. Including
Tuesday: Village Visits,
coffee stains and all. She hesitated. She couldn’t extract that envelope without risking a loosening of the tape, even a break in its seal. Better leave it virgin-pure until she reached Vienna; it looked a nicely official package as it was. Censors’ approval had even been stamped on the lower left-hand corner of each envelope.

She still hesitated.
Don’t look inside that envelope.
Why? The less she knew, the safer she would be? And yet—she ought to know what she was carrying out of this country, she ought to know, even for the sake of a possible story. She was torn three ways: responsibility as a journalist; responsibility as a citizen
(You will be helping your country, too);
responsibility to a human being
(My life is in your hands).

But was all that really true? How would she
know
if it was? Only a quick reading of the letters—and were they letters?—could tell her the real facts.

She didn’t have time to find out. A knock at the door, a maid waiting to take down her luggage, ended all temptation. For the time being, certainly. Hurriedly, she locked the envelopes into her briefcase, reached for her white tweed jacket in the wardrobe, shouldered her purse. “One bag, one typewriter,” she told the woman. “No, not the briefcase! I carry that myself.”

With a sigh, she inspected herself in the mirror. She looked perfectly normal. A good thing that the beating of her heart didn’t show through her Chanel-type suit. You’ll do, she told herself. She wished at this moment that she hadn’t thought, quite suddenly, of Tony Marcus. Her hand tightened on her briefcase. Inwardly, she flinched as she entered the crowded elevator and found two uniformed officials jammed close to her. Outwardly, she seemed oblivious to any attention paid to her profile by the men, to her clothes by the women, accepting their stares as she always did.

She saw Vasek in the distance, pretending not to notice her safe departure. It was exactly half past four and the car waiting.

“What’s the difference between Switzerland and Czechoslovakia?” she asked its driver, who would no doubt see her loaded right onto the plane, making sure she had no quiet conversation with any stranger or accepted any package.

He shook his head, looked blankly at her as if he were lost in the woods they had now left behind.

“There, the trains run on time. Here, the people run on schedule.”

It took him almost a minute before he said stiffly. “We are efficient. You have noticed?”

How could I help it? “Most efficient,” she assured him. And what about Switzerland?

He relaxed into a smile. Lucky I had the sense, she thought, not to say “people are made to run on schedule.” I nearly did: it was tempting. And now, on the straight highway, she was being given an explanation of such efficiency. It was because of their education, the best there was. No illiteracy, here. In his third year of elementary school, he had even started a foreign language—obligatory.