Ride a Pale Horse

  O’Donnell began drinking his coffee before it cooled off completely. After that, he’d call Maintenance and start bringing his notes up to the minute. It was now seven minutes past ten. He was also intending to ’phone Menlo’s office once the lock was repaired so that the files could be safely placed in their cabinet. He did none of those things except drink that cup of coffee.

  An hour and fifteen minutes later, a team of cleaners arrived and saw O’Donnell slumped over his table at the far end of the corridor. One joked about it, but another thought it strange. He walked down the corridor, shook the guard. No response. Dead? The cleaner shouted the alarm.

  Menlo had wakened at the shout. He reached O’Donnell, stayed with the man—and heard the cleaner’s story—until Security arrived to take charge. Then he could enter the file room, cursing himself for having fallen asleep. He should never have dropped onto his cot, never taken those damned aspirin, never let his eyes close.

  The cabinet was locked. He opened it and his heart missed a beat. The Vienna cassettes were gone.

  Sunday morning’s hospital visit ended with a few clarifications about the previous evening. They were taped, of course, like O’Donnell’s previous statements. He had no objections to being recorded. “Some additional questions,” Menlo explained. And they were vital. “Do you always have coffee at ten o’clock?”

  “Yes, it’s midway through the shift. Coffee keeps me awake.”

  “You were drinking it when the three men arrived?”

  “No, just poured the first cup.”

  “Had anyone remarked on that thermos? Earlier?”

  “Miss Attley made a joke, asked if I could spare a cup—she said it as she left. Mr. Fairbairn also joked. Said a coffee break was the right idea, thought he’d join me. I told him he’d have to wait until ten. He said he’d be having his own coffee break by that time.”

  “When was this?”

  “Nine twenty. At the end of his visit to the file room.”

  A twenty-minute visit. Twenty minutes to make sure the lock would jam later? Excessive, though. A few minutes was all it needed. “No complaint from Mr. Fairbairn about the lock on the Greek cabinet?”

  “Not until they called on me to help.”

  “Did your coffee have any strange taste?”

  “Needed more sugar. I thought the cafeteria had forgotten to add enough. The thermos comes all ready.”

  Needed more sugar... “Bitter?” We’ll have to check on the cafeteria handler who filled that thermos, Menlo thought, but the man who had only twelve feet to cross, four strides would do it, and add knockout drops to a cup of coffee—that’s the guy who really needs checking.

  “Bitter?” O’Donnell was uncertain. “I thought it only wanted some sweetening. Could have been something I ate—I had my supper just before I came on duty. The nurses say it might have been food poisoning.”

  A reassuring euphemism for knockout drops, strong enough to have killed anyone with a weaker heart than O’Donnell’s. But he preferred the idea of food poisoning: it seemed less his fault than letting his coffee cup be doctored. But it had to be the coffee. That lethal dose, if administered in O’Donnell’s supper, would have felled him long before he reached his post. The cup was no help at all: rinsed and carted off by one of the cleaners. “What was the man like—the one who waited in the corridor? I know you couldn’t see his face much. He was too busy sneezing and blowing his nose, you said. What about height, weight, hair?”

  “Five feet nine or ten. A hundred and seventy pounds, I’d say. Hair was straight, brown—like Mr. Shaw’s, but thinner. Needed a cut.” O’Donnell was beginning to worry again. “Sorry, sir. I should have asked his name.”

  “Not necessary. Your description is enough.” Menlo switched off the tape recorder. “What happened was no fault of yours. Get well. See you back on duty.” Menlo left O’Donnell then. He looked relieved but was still a ghastly colour. Who wouldn’t be, after stomach pumping and injections and blood tests and analyses and X-rays and all the other miracles of modern medicine?

  * * *

  By nine o’clock on Sunday, Menlo had returned from the hospital and was eating a doughnut in his office with his breakfast coffee as he requested the State Department to locate Mr. Frederick Coulton and have him visit Menlo as soon as possible. Yes, he had to repeat, Frederick Coulton. Attached to Public Affairs. No, not regular Foreign Service: attached. Simpler by far, he thought, if two of Doyle’s agents could have brought Coulton here. No go, however. A matter of protocol.

  He corralled Shaw, however, pulled him out of bed to be at Langley by ten o’clock. Urgent business, was all Menlo said over the ’phone.

  He had less luck with Fairbairn. His wife answered, seemed vague and harried. Wallace had left early to go sailing with some friends. She had no idea when he would return, but it would be late, very late—he always was when he spent a day on Chesapeake Bay. She was just about to drive the children to visit their grandparents—would Mr. Menlo excuse her? “Tell him I’d like to see him tomorrow at nine o’clock,” Menlo said and had to be content with that.

  He contacted Doyle once more. A quiet search should be made of Fairbairn’s house when Mrs. Fairbairn and the children had left. An equally quiet search of Shaw’s apartment was needed at ten o’clock. Also, ’phone taps should be installed and surveillance on both places around the clock. Doyle knew what to look for. Not that Menlo had much hope that the cassettes would be discovered in either place. They had been passed to Coulton, most probably, before he left the building last night. Yet everything had to be checked and checked and checked.

  Or am I jumping the gun? Menlo wondered. He began playing over his recorded talk with O’Donnell once more. Then, just before ten, he had a surprise interruption. Fairbairn called; his sailing date had been cancelled, he had ’phoned his wife and got Menlo’s message. “Something urgent?” he asked.

  “Yes. When can you reach here?”

  There was silence.

  Consulting with someone? “Fairbairn—where are you? At home?”

  “No. At the marina. I’ll try for noon, if Sunday traffic allows.”

  “See you then.” Menlo’s voice was definite.

  At ten o’clock, Shaw arrived. At ten past twelve, Fairbairn. And Menlo learned that one of them was an expert liar.

  One thirty, and Menlo was still in his office, brooding over a sandwich and lukewarm coffee, while he jotted down estimations of this morning’s interviews. First, of course, he had given Shaw and Fairbairn the reason why he had called them so early: the guard’s seizure; concern over a possible security lapse; a report that he must make on the events of last evening. It would be easier for him, he had said casually, if the conversations were taped—just in case his notes were vague on some small point.

  Suspicion, Menlo had told Bristow last Friday, was an ugly business. How ugly, he was now finding out on a bright and peaceful Sunday. He sighed, switched on his two recorders, played their tapes, changing from one to the other as he compared Shaw’s answers with Fairbairn’s.

  Why had Coulton been here last night?

  Both men gave similar explanations. Coulton had been visiting Langley to consult one of its forgery specialists. Nothing unusual about that: Coulton had visited here before. He had dropped in to see them on his way home and needed a lift—his Mercedes was garaged until a spare part arrived.

  Whom did Coulton ask for a lift?

  Shaw: Coulton had asked him. After all, Coulton was one of his friends. (Shaw was proud of that, definitely honoured.) As to how and when they had met—Fairbairn had introduced them at a Georgetown cocktail party several weeks ago. Yes, he found Coulton interesting and informative.

  Fairbairn: Coulton didn’t ask, just said he would be grateful for a lift. Shaw had offered. It was only natural he should. They had been seeing a lot of each other recently, both interested in those fake Hitler diaries. How had they first met? Fairbairn had no idea. To Fairbairn, Coulton was only an acquaintan
ce and a bit of a bore like his subject. Shop talk was not exactly Fairbairn’s notion of conversation.

  Did they leave the corridor together?

  Shaw: No. Coulton said he’d use the washroom, so why didn’t Shaw find his car in its parking space and drive around to the front entrance? Coulton would meet him there. Made sense—time saved for everyone. So Shaw left at once. He had looked back along the corridor as he entered the elevator. Coulton and Fairbairn were already in the washroom, and the guard was drinking his coffee. Shaw checked out at the front door at ten twelve, took about six or seven minutes to reach his car, found its door ajar and its interior lights on, so that the battery seemed weakened and gave him some trouble in starting the engine. He arrived at the front door to find Coulton waiting. Fairbairn had already left for home.

  Fairbairn: They didn’t leave together. Shaw suggested he would pick up his car and save time, meet them at the entrance. When Coulton and Fairbairn arrived there (after Coulton had surrendered his identification and they had been checked out), they could see no sign of Shaw. So Fairbairn left. It was almost ten thirty when he reached his car. What about the guard upstairs? He looked pretty fit to Fairbairn. He had put down his cup, was reaching for the ’phone—no doubt to call Maintenance—as Coulton and Fairbairn entered the elevator at the other end of the corridor. “Too bad about the guard,” Fairbairn added. “What caused that attack? Food poisoning? That’s the rumour downstairs. True?”

  Menlo made a decision. “False. Someone tampered with his coffee. Could have killed him. Then we wouldn’t have only an investigation into a breach of security. We’d have the FBI dealing with a case of murder.”

  Fairbairn stared at Menlo. “But how—” He paused, frowning. “How long before the guard was found?”

  “More than an hour.”

  “Plenty of time for anyone to enter the file room.”

  “Plenty.” But it needed only a few minutes for someone who knew our system of locking to open the Farrago cabinet.

  “You know who it is?” Fairbairn asked. And as Menlo said nothing, “Sorry. Not my business. But this is a bad show. Can’t help feeling concerned.”

  “We are all concerned. Thanks for coming in, Fairbairn. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Fairbairn nodded, rose to leave, said slowly, “If it’s one of us—then what?”

  “I’d say he would have four choices. Either get out of the country and end his life bumming around South America or the Far East. Or head for Moscow and permanent exile. Or brazen it out, play innocent, until it’s too late for anything except prison. Of course, if his usefulness is over to the comrades and he’s a danger to those who are conspiring with him—well, his future will be decided for him. It will be terminated. There will be no choice for him.”

  “Not a bright prospect any way you look at it.”

  “He could make it brighter if he set the record straight. That’s his fourth choice.”

  “A turncoat? Not much future in that, either.”

  “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.

  18

  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 a
n 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.”