Ride a Pale Horse E-Book

Helen MacInnes

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

When Karen Cornell, a beautiful journalist on assignment in Czechoslovakia, agrees to help a would-be defector by carrying top-secret documents to Washington, she is pulled into an astonishing web of terrorism, political assassination, blackmail, espionage, and treason in the highest levels of both superpowers. One false move could cost Karen her life - and throw the world into a violent war.

Leseprobe

ALSO BY HELEN MacINNES

AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

Pray for a Brave Heart

Above Suspicion

Assignment in Brittany

North From Rome

Decision at Delphi

The Venetian Affair

The Salzburg Connection

Message From Malaga

While We Still Live

The Double Image

Neither Five Nor Three

Horizon

Snare of the Hunter

Agent in Place

Prelude to Terror (August 2013)

The Hidden Target (September 2013)

I and My True Love (October 2013)

Cloak of Darkness (November 2013)

Rest and Be Thankful (December 2013)

Friends and Lovers (January 2014)

Home is the Hunter (February 2014)

Ride a Pale Horse

Print edition ISBN: 9781781163382

E-book edition ISBN: 9781781164396

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

First edition: July 2013

© 1984, 2013 by the Estate of Helen MacInnes. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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In memory of Gilbert

And I looked, and behold a pale horse:

and his name that sat on him was Death,

and Hell followed with him.

REVELATION VI, 8

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

About The Author

1

The room was comfortable enough, adequate but dull, totally unimaginative, a cream-walled box with everything else coloured brown. Someone in Prague had ordered the essentials—bed, dresser, table, chairs, desk, a small state-controlled radio—straight out of a catalogue. Or perhaps this was the regulation room, repeated one hundred and ten times in this country hotel, judged suitable for foreign guests and the minor Czechoslovak officials who floated around in the background with polite advice and constant guidance.

Karen Cornell stopped pacing over the nine-by-twelve brown carpet, halted at the window. Even its view, showing her a driveway that circled a garden of scarlet geraniums and white begonias before it swept down an avenue through thick woods, did not lift her depression. It only reminded her once more of six days of helpful supervision. For there, drawn close to the hotel entrance, was a neat line of black Fiats, the cars provided for the visiting journalists to see them safely into Prague and back again. Their drivers were linguists, and escorts, too. Once in Prague, they stayed by your side. If you wanted a stroll through the streets, a look at shops and people, they went with you, friendly and obliging. After all, you couldn’t speak Czech, could you? You could get lost so easily, be late for the tight schedule of meetings, lunches, entertainments. But now the escorts, ever dutifully lined up with their cars, did not seem to have much business.

This was the sixth day, when meetings had ended and the only luncheon had been an early farewell downstairs to the eight West Europeans and one American who represented the press of the free world. The Eastern-bloc journalists, forty-eight of them, were probably sleeping off the dumplings (good) and the beer (excellent); they weren’t leaving until tomorrow or the next day. The West Europeans, like this American, were waiting for all the notes they had made to be returned from the censors, worrying while they waited and eyed their watches. Damn all censors, Karen Cornell was thinking as she left the window, didn’t they know we all have planes to catch? It was now almost three o’clock: she was to move out of the hotel by four thirty for her flight to Vienna. She’d pack her bag and stop looking at the desk, where she had expected her notes to be lying in her envelopes once she had escaped from the luncheon. There was nothing, but nothing, in her notes that could possibly rile a censor. Her system of classifying them in envelopes, each with the subject of its contents clearly marked on its top left-hand corner, was simple, time-saving, and invaluable for ready reference. So what was delaying those blasted censors? There were only two or three pages in each envelope; nothing unexpected, nothing exciting had happened at the Prague Convocation for Peace, which she had been covering for four days. (The fifth day was a country jaunt, a visit to a thriving village of farms, planned and supervised by the state, that made a vivid contrast to the inefficiency of another village, where farmers were trying to cling to their pre-1968 ideas of possession.) Convocation for Peace... the usual faces, the usual speeches. All wanted peace, all condemned the United States. A thousand strong in agreement and fervour, except for two West German women who had managed to be included with the Greens and tried to suggest that all nuclear weapons should be discarded by everyone. Their protest had been drowned out in three minutes, and they were escorted efficiently out of the hall, two small pebbles disappearing into a deep pond with only a little plop to bear witness to their existence.

But, thought Karen, I didn’t put that brief interlude into my notes. I’m carrying it out in my head. And that was the stupidity of censorship. It could black out your written lines, but what about your mind?

Convocation—an impressive word, serious, benevolent, religious almost. And there had been Christians around, mingling with the atheists, quite forgetting that they had been denounced as enemies when religion was declared the opium of the people. Short memories?

So the journalists had been convoked, too, to give their seal of approval. And they came, hoping they could talk with the representatives, but finding as usual that only a few were available for any real discussion. Specially selected, of course: a strong wall of unshakable opinion, fervent, dedicated, against which the Westerners’ arguments made not one crack. But that wasn’t her main assignment here. The special correspondent of the monthly Washington Spectator, published and owned by the Hubert Schleeman, had been invited for quite another reason. Schleeman had been given the firm impression that there was to be an interview for Karen Lee Cornell with—no less—the President of the Socialist Federated Republic himself.

Schleeman’s contact, the press aide at the Czechoslovak Embassy in Washington, had impressed on him the need for absolute discretion; no talk, no rumours to be circulated about this exceptional opportunity, or other papers and periodicals would be pestering his office. Silence had been kept, secrecy was intact, and Karen had arrived in Prague on an ego trip that floated as high as a helium balloon.

This wasn’t the first of her political interviews: Mitterand last year; Helmut Schmidt on his way out of office; Kohl on his way in. Before that giddy accumulation of names, there had been a seven-year apprenticeship in the art of interviewing. First, a monthly column in the Spectator dealing with Washington personalities, foreign as well as home-grown. Next, brief interviews with congressmen; a longer one with a governor; full-length with two congressional committee chairmen, a new justice of the Supreme Court, a top aide at the White House. She had earned her way.

Yes, she reminded herself in mounting bewilderment, dismay, frustration, anger, we kept our word, Schleeman and I. And Jimmy Black, my editor, the only other person to hear about this project, kept his lips tightly buttoned, too. Not one word or whisper from us. Yet the interview fell through. No excuse offered, either; not one word of regret. No interview was possible this week. Or next. Totally impossible at present. Schleeman must have misunderstood.

If so, this was a first for Schleeman. He had never yet misunderstood a quiet invitation from any embassy or even misinterpreted a suggestion. He will be flaming mad. As I am. And I have the additional fear that somehow, some way, the blame for the failure of this assignment will be dumped on me. A remark I made, an attitude I displayed, made them doubt I was a suitable interviewer. That could be the little sound wave travelling back to Schleeman’s quick ear. He wouldn’t believe it. Or would he?

But I’ve been so damned careful, so circumspect. Not like Tony Marcus, the London Observer’s man, whose quick tongue was irrepressible. “So,” he had said when they first met, “you’re the spectator and I’m the observer, but I rather think we’ll be only two of the sheep shepherded around.” And when she had smiled discreetly, said nothing, he had added, “Have you noticed the eminently respectable journalists gathered at the West European table? Was that why we have been invited? To legitimise all these bastards?” His amused glance swept around the clusters of the Eastern-bloc newsmen. “Dutiful lot, aren’t they? There was really no need to come here. They don’t have to write anything. They just add a phrase or two to the handouts.” She had smiled again, turned away, pretended to seek out Duvivier of Le Monde, whom she had met in Paris last year.

She snapped the locks of her bag. Packing complete. Ready to leave, except for her briefcase, open and waiting for her files to be jammed in when they came back from the censors. You’re a coward, she told herself. Tony Marcus may write an objective column, but he has the courage to be frank when he speaks. You may as well admit it: you wouldn’t be so full of small criticisms and anger today if you had been given that interview yesterday. Your ego is punctured, deflated completely, lying in shreds around your feet. And what about your career? What happens to all your plans if news of this slap-in-the-face gets around. It could, too. There would be plenty who would laugh, and some who would crow with delight. She hadn’t reached this stage in her life without making enemies. Because she was thirty-seven and left them behind, because she was a woman who got the promotions? At first they had said her husband probably wrote her stuff, a successful novelist who knew how to put words together. But she had gone on writing her own material after he had died, more and more sure of her craft. So then success was blamed on her face and figure—she knew how to use them, didn’t she? Did she? Hell, no, she thought: a face and figure added to difficulties. Some people immediately believed you were brainless.

Three o’clock. All was far from well. If she didn’t get her envelopes back—then, perhaps, she had to reconstruct most of her notes, such as they were, from memory. It was sharp enough, thank heaven. (“Ah yes,” her dear critics said, “she’s wired for sound. Must carry a recording machine wherever she goes.”)

“Stop this!” she told her reflection in the dresser’s mirror. “You’re turning paranoid. Stop it!” This gargoyle face glaring back at her would really delight her competition. So she calmed down, combed her dark hair back into proper place, added powder and lipstick, studied the neckline of her blue silk shirt, tried to take comfort in the way its colour emphasised her eyes. My notes, she thought again, if they aren’t returned, does that mean a reprimand of some kind? She didn’t even know how to reach the censors’ office to try to prod them into action. Or perhaps that wouldn’t be wise. Not wise at all. Censors might not like being prodded, even in the gentlest fashion.

Her telephone rang. It was perched on the extension of the headboard on her bed. She dropped lipstick and compact on top of her handbag and reached it on its second ring.

“Miss Cornell?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Vasek. I’m in charge of press relations.”

His English was good, his accent fair. Vasek? In charge of press relations? One of the really important guys who kept a low profile? (It was the unimportant men in this regime who were much on view.)

“Miss Cornell? Are you still there?”

“I am.”

“Have you enjoyed your visit? If you have any comments, I’d be glad to hear them. I’m sure any small difficulties could be easily explained.”

“Could they?”

“I think so. Why don’t you join me downstairs? I am telephoning from the lobby. I am sure a little talk could put your mind to rest. I am sorry you have been disappointed.”

Sorry... The first apology given. “Indeed I have been. You know about that?”

“Yes. Regrettable. But perhaps—” Vasek paused. “All is not lost yet, Miss Cornell.”

A last chance to get that interview? A change of mind in high places? Quickly, she calculated the time of her appointment in Vienna tomorrow afternoon against a morning flight from here. She could manage it. “I could stay for this evening—” she began and was interrupted.

“Why don’t we talk? Will you join me downstairs? I’ll be waiting near the elevator.”

“Give me three minutes.”

Josef Vasek replaced the receiver and turned to his assistant. “She’s coming.”

“Do you think it will do any good? She scarcely spoke a word at luncheon today. She’s a tough customer.”

And that is what I’m betting on, thought Vasek. She’s my gamble. “Well, we can’t send her away antagonised. It doesn’t pay to make enemies of the foreign press, does it? I’ll talk to her in the garden, calm her down.”

“All you’ll hear will be complaints.”

“Perhaps I should hand this job over to you, Bor.”

“No, thank you. I’ll just string along and admire your technique.”

“Fine. Or, better still, why don’t we save time? You deal with Duvivier. He’s in the bar, I think. He’s worrying about his friend—that Observer reporter who left without saying goodbye to him. Reassure him, can you?”

“I’ll manage that. Here she comes, all cream and peaches. But she’s a tough lady. I warned you.” Averting his eyes from the elevator door, Bor moved off and made his way through the crowded lobby towards the bar.

2

Karen Cornell stepped out of the elevator. Near its door there were several people grouped, and she could recognise them all. Not one was named Vasek. Then she saw a man—a stranger she had glimpsed only once or twice, usually in the distance. None of her colleagues had met him either or could give her his name. He was probably of some importance. He might be wearing an ill-fitted double-breaster, but that unctuous little squirt called Bor—always impeccably dressed—had just left him with a bow of deference which he barely acknowledged. Medium height, middle-aged, and carrying too much weight around his waistline. (A sedentary job or a bulky jacket?) He was pretending not to notice her. She halted, controlled a rising excitement. If this was Vasek, let him make the first move: he knew damned well who she was.

He began walking, but not towards her. He seemed to be heading for the side entrance to the lobby that led out onto the terrace and a flower garden. Then it appeared as if he had caught sight of her when he glanced at the group in front of the elevators. He halted, turned, came forward through the crowd of people.

“Miss Cornell. My name is Vasek. I don’t believe we have met. I am glad to have this chance to wish you a good journey. You are leaving tonight?”

“This afternoon.”

“So soon? I hope your visit was enjoyable.”

“I’d have preferred a more central hotel.”

“But why, Miss Cornell?” He was astonished. “There was always a car for your convenience.” His tone was soothing, his face a mask of politeness. “Have you any other comments?” But there was a sudden gleam of humour in his light-grey eyes.

“I was under the impression I was to be granted—”

“Didn’t you have your interview yesterday with the Minister of Agriculture?”

A five-minute lecture, she reminded herself, before we were given a tour of model farms. Her impatience grew. “Yes. But I expected—”

“A moment, please, Miss Cornell. Too much noise here. Shall we try the terrace? Then we won’t need to raise our voices.”

She had the feeling that these sentences were as much for Bor’s benefit—the man had appeared almost magically beside Vasek—as for hers.

Vasek spoke with Bor in a quick interchange of Czech, and Bor left—rather grudgingly, it seemed to Karen—with his usual bows. “Nothing important,” Vasek said to her. Just an excuse. Bor hadn’t found the French journalist in the bar. “He was looking for someone. I told him to try the man’s bedroom.” Anywhere, Vasek thought angrily, anywhere except at my elbow. “This way, Miss Cornell.” He led her towards the terrace.

“If Bor is looking for one of my colleagues, he’ll find him trying to track down the censors.” A neat way to introduce my own worry, she thought. “I should be doing that myself. I’m leaving here at four thirty. I haven’t yet received my notes, and I—”

“You’ll have them before you leave. I’m afraid the terrace is a bit crowded, too.” He looked around the array of occupied chairs and urged her towards the steps into the garden. He said clearly, “I know you’ve had certain problems. Why not tell me your complaints? I can explain anything that is puzzling you, and I am sure you will feel much better. Can’t have you leaving with unanswered questions, can we?”

But once they had reached the flower beds and were strolling leisurely on a path that took them a little distance from the terrace, his voice dropped. “Don’t show surprise or shock at anything I say. You will argue with me, and I shall appear to be explaining away your doubts. Yes, you should interrupt me naturally, but no comments on what I am telling you. No astonishment, please.” For she had turned her head to look at him with her eyes wide and her lips parted. “When we reach that patch of grass ahead of us, we’ll stop for a little. My back will be to the terrace, so you will face it. Eyes will be watching us. And there is one highly skilled lip reader among them. That is why you must stay absolutely normal. What you say will be known.” He fell silent, stopped to look at a rosebush.

She stopped, too, but kept her face averted from the terrace. “My turn to talk?” I’m on the verge of a story, she told herself, excitement once more stirring. I feel it, I sense it, I can smell it. All that playacting of his in the lobby, all that little pantomime on the terrace of attempting to pacify a complaining guest—yes, he is a man in trouble, bigger than any of those I thought I had.

“Briefly. We haven’t much time—ten minutes at most.”

“Then I’ll go on asking about my notes.” Her face turned to admire the yellow rosebush they had passed. She halted briefly. “Why the delay? My material didn’t need to be censored. It’s absolutely harmless,” she ended with considerable indignation.

He looked back, too, at the cluster of flowers, long enough to let any watcher see his lips. “Harmless? We must be the judge of that. And I assure you, we only hope to make everything easier for our guests when they pass through the airport. Let me explain.” They resumed their leisurely stroll, their faces now unseen from the terrace. “Good,” he said. “You’re very good, Miss Cornell. Now let’s get to that stretch of grass.”

“Why not the sundial in the centre of the rose bed? When I seem pacified, you could appear to be explaining its design to me.”

He smiled; not just a gleam in his eyes, this time, but a smile that freed the pale expressionless face from its controlled mask. “A pretty picture. But the dial is bugged. So are these garden benches.”

“What?”

“No astonishment, Miss Cornell!”

Is this more playacting, but now for my benefit? The sudden suspicion grew; kept her silent.

He seemed to read her thoughts. “I am being serious, Miss Cornell. Believe me. This may be the most serious decision I shall ever make. My life is in your hands.” They had reached the stretch of grass, their slow pace dwindling to a halt. They stood there, quite naturally it seemed, Karen facing him, his back to the terrace.

She recovered herself. My hands? “Thank you for explaining. But I still have some doubts. Yesterday, for instance”—Yesterday, what? “The agriculture people didn’t really answer my question about acid rain. I’ve heard much of your forest land is being killed by it. Is this true?”

The mask had been dropped; there was a tightening of worry, almost of desperation, on his lips. His eyes searched her. He drew a deep breath. “I am planning to defect. Will you help me?”

“I thought it was the other way around,” she said, then bit her lip. Nearly a mistake, she told herself, and managed to laugh. “Tell me more about this acid rain problem. It’s widespread. We have it also.”

“Will you help?” His eyes, light grey, intense, were pleading. “I am putting you in danger, I know. But you will be helping your country, too.”

She stared at him. Then she nodded.

His hand had slipped quietly into the inside pocket of his double-breasted jacket, pulled out the top of a manila envelope. He held it for a moment, just long enough for her to see Tuesday: Village Visits. Her handwriting, partly smudged by the coffee she had upset over the envelope; a proper mess that had left the envelope stained enough to be discarded into her wastepaper basket last night. She had rescued the two pages of her notes and added them to the envelope filled with official handouts from the Ministry of Agriculture. The basket had been emptied of its trash while she had breakfast on the terrace this morning. In spite of herself, her eyes widened, her mouth fell open. Quickly, she recovered. “Really?” she asked. “How—how extraordinary!”

The envelope disappeared back into Vasek’s pocket; his arms were folded as he went on talking in a low, strained voice. “You will find that envelope among the others on your desk when you return to your room. Do not open it. Just take it out—to America—among the rest of your notes. And deliver it to Peter Bristow. You know him. He will see it is given immediate attention.”

“But I hardly know—” she broke out, and stopped in time. She shrugged. “I really am ignorant. You were saying that acid rain is spreading? Into Austria? Even Switzerland?” And it’s true; I hardly know Peter Bristow—I’ve met him only once, and then briefly. Naturally enough. He’s CIA or something hush-hush, and I’m the press. As soon as he heard my name, he made a diplomatic retreat.

“You can always reach Bristow through Schleeman. They are friends.”

He is too well informed, knows everything he shouldn’t know. Warily, she looked at the white face. “An immediate problem, you say? Even Sweden and Norway are concerned. Yes, it would be a good subject to write about. If only I could learn more,” she said slowly, “make sure of the facts. Reporters should be accurate, check all references. I really do need to know more than I do.” Can you catch my meaning? she asked him silently. She needed to be told what was in that envelope. Would he get it?

He did. One hand briefly touched his jacket, just where its inside pocket was hidden. “No drugs, no currency, no diamonds. The envelope holds three letters. They are my insurance that I will be accepted by your government. I wrote these letters, taking the names of your Secretaries of State and of Defense. Also, of your President. You have heard of disinformation? These three brief documents are excellent examples—if I may say so. Of course, much praise must go to the expert forgers who could supply the signatures. It was a difficult undertaking, but it was successful. So far, the letters haven’t been given out to the press. Then I discovered that the delay is official policy: two events, only hinted at in the letters, are actually to take place. The letters will be made public, but skilfully, once the events have been attempted. They could start a major upheaval—riots, wild protests, an end to the Western alliance. Then, as I see it, war would ensue. A hideous war.”

There was silence. At last, Karen said, “What would be the cause of—of so much damage?”

“Two political assassinations, almost simultaneous.”

She felt her face go rigid and dropped her head as if she were studying the grass at her feet. “When?” she risked, lips scarcely moving.

“That is still being decided. They must be arranged carefully. All blame must fall on the Americans.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult,” she said bitterly. Not the way things were going. Can I believe him? Is this really possible—is it true?

“How long will you stay in Vienna? A few hours, I hope. That envelope is urgent.”

“I can see that.” If true, if true... “I’m a very curious person, you know. I think I must study the material on acid rain before I—before I can write about it.” I am out of my depth and sinking fast, she thought. “But I’ll start some research when I reach home—that’s on Friday. I’ll be only a day in Vienna, but I think Schleeman will expect me to get back to Washington and start explaining to him why that interview did not take place. The trouble is, I don’t know why it didn’t. Couldn’t you persuade someone at the top to let me do the interview this evening? Just one hour—that’s all I ask. I’ll stay here overnight and keep my engagement in Vienna tomorrow.”

“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.

3

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.

“Russian?”

He nodded. “Later, we have German or English—often both.”

In that case, with all those linguists walking the streets, why did I need to have an interpreter as my escort? But she was on her best behaviour, resisting all temptation, and the journey to the airport went without incident. Her passage through the checkpoints was without incident, too. Fortunate, she thought, that all these X-ray machines did not register her dry mouth and racing pulse.

4

A summer afternoon in Vienna, a successful meeting completed with a most likely candidate for high political office, and now a peaceful hour or two to sit at a café table and relax. Karen Cornell’s mood was improving. She slowed her pace to enjoy the enticing shop windows, the people strolling as leisurely as she was, listening to their voices, watching faces and gestures—no strain here, no tensions. Kärntnerstrasse was a quiet and colourful street where people talked and discussed, even disagreed openly, or read from a choice of varied newspapers (foreign as well as Austrian) as they slowly drank their coffee. No pressure, no hurry. The background to this leisure, this life-as-it-should-be, was only the soft sound of shoes on the pavement. Yet a few years ago, long-time visitors like Hubert Schleeman had told her, Kärntnerstrasse had been cobbled, had trolley-car lines and heavy traffic. But some visionary had the sense to wave a magic wand and presto! café tables with sunshades on a smoothly surfaced street, window boxes and giant planters overflowing with flowers, traffic banished, pedestrians everywhere. Yes, her mood was improving. And yet memories of last night kept edging back.

Strange it was, when she was safely in bed in a free city (no interpreters or escorts, no overscheduled programmes), that she had lain awake, too troubled to sleep. Although she ached with physical exhaustion, all her busy mind could think of was Vasek, Vasek and that envelope, Vasek and his sombre predictions of world disaster. Over and over again, she had recalled his words, his phrases, his tone of voice; and her eyes—refusing to close and let her forget—had stared at the ceiling’s shadows and seen the garden, the terrace, Vasek, as if they were all part of a staged scene and she were in a front-row seat.

Had it been a scene staged for her benefit? She no longer believed that. Until she had boarded her flight to Vienna, she had doubts mixed with fears. But no one had detained her, no one had led her away for questioning like Tony Marcus. She was free, and with her uncensored material intact. Vasek had not been trying to entrap her. Whatever he had been or had done in the past, at this moment in his life he was being honest. The garden scene was no myth; staged, perhaps, with careful planning, but real. Desperately real.

She had plunged suddenly into sleep as dawn tried to steal through the red velvet curtains in her room, and lain oblivious to everything until eleven. After coffee and a brioche, Austrian version, she had washed and begun choosing her clothes for the interview. But her thoughts were on her briefcase. Half-dressed, she pulled it out from under her bed and flicked its coded numbers to unlock it: 0615—the month and day of her wedding to Alan Fern. A safe enough sequence: who would have thought that Karen Lee Cornell, a widow of four years, would be such a sentimentalist? We all have our weaknesses, she reminded herself sadly, and Alan was mine.

What would he have been advising her now, if he were here? Probably, he’d laugh and say, “Just forget about Vasek and that damned envelope. How the hell did you get mixed up in a business like that anyway?” Yet, remembering Alan, she wondered if he wouldn’t have got mixed up in a business like that, too. Vasek had really played unfair, telling her that his life was in her hands. She wanted no more feeling of guilt over a death. Hadn’t she enough sense of remorse over Alan’s?

She had sat, without moving, looking down at the neatly taped package of manila envelopes in her briefcase, thinking of Alan’s last evening in New York. Both of them were ready to leave for a first-night play, to be followed by a party at its author’s house. Alan hadn’t wanted to go: he was tired, dispirited—he had been working too much, his third novel (after two spectacular successes) was almost half-finished, but he wasn’t happy about it, was threatening to scrap it and begin something new. A night off the chain would do him good, she had urged. And looking at her expectant face, he said, “We’ll go. You look like a million dollars, love. You’ll slay them all.” So they went. And attended the post-theatre supper; too much food, too much drink, too much talk, too much everything. At three in the morning, they returned home. At nine, awakened by the alarm clock to let her catch the New York flight to Washington for her usual three-day visit to the Spectator’s offices, she left their bed to wash and dress. Alan seemed still deep in sleep when she came to kiss him a light goodbye and found his eyes staring, his mouth fallen open, his face turning to stone.

“Oh, God,” she said now, right in the middle of Kärntnerstrasse. And damn Vasek, she added silently. She hadn’t opened that envelope as yet, had left it intact even if she had pulled the black tape off the bundle. On impulse, she had wrapped the coffee-stained envelope in some tissue paper from a folded dress, bound it into a neat parcel with the tape minus its seal. Now it was in the Sacher Hotel safe, while the rest of the envelopes lay in her unlocked briefcase. Probably an unnecessary precaution, possibly stupid. She stared at her reflection in a polished shop window, regained her composure. And then she saw the man.

He was standing across the street, not much more than thirty feet away, and he was watching her. The same man—she was almost sure of that—yes, it could be the same man she had seen as she had passed through customs at the Vienna airport yesterday evening. Then, he had followed her out to the taxis and taken the cab after hers. She had glimpsed him early this afternoon as she left the Sacher. But he could be another hotel guest, couldn’t he? Or had lunch there. Or something. Coincidences did happen.

She swung around to face the other side of the street to have a clearer look, let her eyes drift along Kärntnerstrasse as if she were undecided whether to walk to its end. Just as quickly, he turned his back on her, became absorbed in the window in front of him—ladies’ underwear, black and red lace in abundance. Without a second glance at him, she retraced her steps, keeping to her side of the street, searching for an empty table under a bright umbrella.

All were occupied. She would have to go indoors, choose a café with wide windows open to the sun-warmed air. She found a likely place, cool and dark inside, and chose a seat to one side of the central window’s frame that would half hide her from the street. She saw the man again. Yes, he had followed her; and now—at this moment—angry and uncertain as he searched through the outside tables. Her entrance into this almost empty room had been abrupt. She relaxed as he walked on slowly, trying the next café. Given up, had he? She ordered coffee with whipped cream and a slice of Linzer torte from a glass-covered counter filled with the most delectable cakes. Why not? She was celebrating.

Too soon, however. The man, middle-aged, grey-haired, dressed sedately in brown, hadn’t given up. He was just outside her window box, his pace steady. Had he noticed her blue dress before she had drawn back? She lifted her cup, sipped her coffee through its floating mound of whipped cream, kept her eyes looking straight ahead at the mirrored wall on the side of the room. It gave a clear reflection of what lay behind her back: entrance doorway, cashier’s desk, patisserie display. The man entered.

She bent her head, concentrated on the coffee, and when she risked another glance at the long mirror she saw him in front of the cakes and tarts, speaking with the white-uniformed girl who presided over them. Choosing a slice of Sacher torte? No. The girl pointed her silvered tongs, not at an eclair or napoleon, but in the direction of a side corridor near the end of the room. There, a discreet notice proclaimed TOILETTEN, and a red arrow pointed the way.

Ah well, thought Karen, and smiled. She could blame her amusement on her white moustache of cream. She wiped it off, brought out her lipstick to repair the damage.

The man reappeared. That was quick—barely two minutes by her watch. A record, surely. She watched him leave, walking briskly. Over the window box at her elbow, blue and pink and purple petunias spilling towards the sun-filled street, she saw him hurry on his way down Kärntnerstrasse, looking to neither right nor left. That’s all he had been, a man in search of a toilet. She shook her head over her suspicions. And then amusement ended. She frowned as she replaced the lipstick in her shoulder bag and slung it over the back of her chair. A moment more of disturbing thought, and she hailed her waitress. “Tell me, please—are the washrooms over there?” She pointed at the distant sign.

“Yes. Straight along the corridor, then down the staircase.”

Down a flight of stairs? Then up? That could take almost two minutes. “Is there a telephone?”

“Just around the corner.”

“In the corridor itself?”

“Jawohl,” the girl said again. And when Karen didn’t move, she asked, “The lady wishes something else?”

The lady is an idiot. She’d better straighten out her mind before she walks out into the street. “Another cup of coffee, please. No cream.”

The pink-cheeked face became rounder in astonishment. The yellow curls shook in disbelief. “The lady didn’t like the cream?”

“It defeated me. I need more practice.” More practice in everything, Karen decided as the waitress hurried off with a puzzled look in her china-blue eyes. If she didn’t understand my last remarks, she is at least sure about the coffee. My German can’t be too bad. Travel... how simple it seemed until I stepped through Vasek’s door.

She studied the street. What inconspicuous man had been summoned by telephone to wait for her out there? But if he was assigned to dogging her footsteps, how would he recognise her? According to the movies, the brown suit should have been hovering outside to identify her quietly. They’d hardly work that angle right in this room where she would notice the two of them together even if they tried to keep apart. She leaned forward to see as much of the street, of the tables outside, as possible. The brown suit had definitely left, had made no contact.

The coffee came, a pot of it no less. Perhaps her German hadn’t been so good after all. But the strong black brew was welcome. She stopped watching the street, asking herself quite another question. If I am being followed, then why? Is Vasek under suspicion? Is anyone who talked with him automatically under surveillance? Even here—in Austria? Suddenly, she felt chilled. And afraid. Thank God she had left the envelope secure in the safe of a reliable hotel. She might very well have followed her first idea: don’t leave it behind, keep it close to you, tuck it into your handbag with your passport and other valuables.

A purse snatcher? she wondered, thinking once more about the brown suit. A foreigner, a woman by herself, a bag slung over her shoulder—if she had walked into a quiet lane or been jammed by a crowd, would he or an accomplice have attempted a snatch? It was a common practice for women travelling alone to carry jewellery in their handbags. She relaxed slightly, sipped the coffee. Perhaps that was all the little man thought of her—a likely quarry who wore good clothes and could afford the Sacher Hotel. (He wouldn’t know about expense accounts or that her gold necklace, bracelet, earrings, and wedding ring were all she ever travelled with.)

A movement and laughter at the entrance caught her attention. She looked at the mirrored wall: three people—two men and a girl. “Well, look who’s here!” one of the men called out and left the table he had almost chosen to come forward to hers. She set down her cup in astonishment.

The last time she had seen Sam Waterman was in Hubert Schleeman’s office at the Spectator. Five years ago? Yes, almost five, and Waterman hadn’t been in such an amiable mood then; he had just resigned on the spot. She had been given the job he had expected to have—he had been two years writing about Washington personalities for Schleeman; she had been working only a year on that column. He had stormed into the office to say he was quitting. It was an embarrassing moment for her, a nasty one on all counts. But at this moment, with his smile and friendly voice as he shook her hand, he seemed to have dropped any grudge against her, any feeling of bitterness and anger. His violent interruption of Schleeman’s discussion with her about her new responsibilities was obviously something he wished forgotten. She would be glad to comply. She always felt a twinge of guilt whenever she thought of him; not guilt, exactly—something more like regret. He had been good at his job, certainly as good as she had been. He could have done VIP interviews with considerable success. He was a most personable man—as long as he didn’t rage into an office—tall, a rugged face that other men seemed to trust and women liked, frank brown eyes, a firm handshake.

Introductions were being made: Andreas Kellner, most serious and proper; Rita, his girl, definitely adoring and slightly in awe. Very pretty, of course, and casually dressed in tight jeans and an oversized shirt. Kellner, by contrast, wore a prim outfit—a three-piece navy blue suit that seemed inappropriate for an afternoon of café hopping in Vienna. It was also a tight fit, but he showed no sign of acknowledging its heat, didn’t even loosen his collar and closely knotted tie, although his round face was pink and his broad brow damp. Sam Waterman was a compromise in his dress: blue jeans, too, but with tie and white shirt (a drip-dry that had been wrung out too tightly and left with creases) and a wrinkled seersucker jacket slung over his shoulders. Possibly he had been travelling. As for Kellner, perhaps he was travelling, too—he was a journalist from Bonn, she was told—and living out of a suitcase, as most of us do, with little choice in clothes. As for Rita—all giggles and gurgles, and not one show of intelligence so far.

“Now you can start your interviews on us,” Waterman told her. “That’s the way she works,” he explained to a round-eyed Rita. “First, she surveys the field; then she reaches for her notebook. Right, Karen?” His voice was disarming, his lips smiled. “Hey, you need something better than that to drink. Scotch?”

“Too early for me.” Instead, she lit a cigarette.

He ordered for the others and himself: beer, beer, and vodka for Rita. And went on talking. Rita had her little interruptions, all of them nitwitted. Kellner kept silent, simply sat like a red-faced Buddha with a benign smile hovering around his lips. Karen, wondering how soon she could leave without obviously taking flight, answered the questions that came her way. Yes, she had been in Prague at the Convocation for Peace. No, nothing new had been decided—just what could be expected. Yes, the usual crowd was there: World Peace Council, World Federation of Trade Unions, World Federation of Democratic Youth, and of course the World Council of Churches.

“You must have met so many interesting people!” Rita exclaimed. “Oh, how I envy you.”

“The most interesting among them were two women.”

“Who?” asked Rita. She pushed a strand of her blonde shoulder-length hair back from her cheek.

“I never met them. They were ejected from the hall when they suggested adding a criticism of the Soviet nuclear—”

“Booted out?” interjected Waterman with a wide grin. “Just like Tony Marcus?”

“My, my—news does get around.” Karen stubbed out her cigarette. Like the other two in the ashtray before her, it was half-finished. “Somehow American cigarettes never taste the same when you buy them abroad.” And my turn to ask some questions, she thought. “I wonder you weren’t at the Convocation in Prague, Sam. Or were you there and avoided the crowd?”