Ride a Pale Horse (5 page)

“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?”

“I’ve been on holiday for a change.”

“A European jaunt? How nice.” He was now a freelance journalist, with articles and reports occasionally appearing in the major papers in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles. He also had a steady job, news gathering for UPI. He hadn’t done so badly, she thought thankfully.

“Poor old Tony Marcus—he’d have fared better to take a holiday, too. Did you hear the details about him?”

“Just that he forgot to submit all of his material to the censors.”

“Forgot? That’s a laugh.” Waterman’s voice lowered as he glanced around the room and saw that a neighbouring table was now occupied. “He was trying to smuggle out a document. A complete no-no.” He studied Karen’s face. She looked at him blankly. “A manuscript by a Czech writer.”

“How on earth did he get hold of it? We were thoroughly supervised.”

“The Czech passed it to him in some café. All prearranged. But stupid.”

She calmed a sudden fear. She kept her voice normal. “Planted material, do you think?”

“No. It was a real effort to circumvent the law.”

“Oh—a banned book by a banned writer? Have you got his name?”

Waterman laughed. “You do your own research, Miss Karen.” He shook his head. “But it just goes to prove that newspaper guys—and dolls—have got to be damned careful. Can’t go smuggling out sensitive material even if we’re tempted. Sure, it would make a good story but—” He shrugged to complete the sentence.

Her alarm was growing. How did Waterman on holiday pick up such information? It was little more than one day old. And not even known in detail by journalists like Duvivier and Engel who were right on the scene. She had a feeling that this whole conversation was being aimed at her. She mastered her nervousness. “Too bad about Tony. Will this compromise his work? Where is he now—in London?”

Kellner broke his silence. His English was halting. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t spoken so far, Karen thought. Embarrassed at his difficulty with accent and words? Kellner was saying, “He will be soon. A few days. Do not worry. He will not suffer.”

But the Czechoslovak writer would. “I hope not.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Not exactly. I smiled at his jokes, though. He had a nice turn of phrase.”

Rita said, “Why—I thought all you journalists would be so close together—really friends. Of course, perhaps you were too busy talking with other people. Didn’t you meet any Czechoslovaks who were interesting?”

Karen looked at the large inquiring eyes, so appealing, so innocent. “There were only officials of one kind or another at our hotel. They were polite and very efficient.”

“But weren’t they interesting? I would love to talk with some of them—really talk and find out what makes them tick. Isn’t that what a reporter does?”

She’s not such a nitwit after all, Karen thought. She may be American, but even that is deceptive: something about her accent that is just a touch foreign. “Are you a reporter?” she asked. If so, she works outdoors. That perfect tan wasn’t acquired in an office.

“I’d
love
to be one. Travel—meet important people.”

“Seldom, I’m afraid. Certainly not when you’re starting your career.”

“That’s right,” Waterman said. “Listen to the successful journalist, Rita. You fight every inch of the way, aim for the jugular. But then you get a town house in New York and an apartment in Washington.”

Karen’s eyes blazed in anger. “Not true, and you know it!” A house that Alan had bought when he was affluent—years before he had married her—and converted into three apartments as his writing dried up and his money melted. She still lived in the top flat and leased the others to cover the house and caretaking expenses. The apartment in Washington was the spare bedroom off the living-room in a friend’s place.

“Now, now,” Waterman said. “Just kidding, Karen. But you haven’t done so badly, have you?”

He had managed to rattle her, put her completely off balance, damn his eyes. She looked at her watch. “I think I must—”

“Let me order a drink, no?” Kellner interrupted with a smile for Karen and a sharp look at Waterman. “You must forgive Sam. He has been—been on a journey all night. His jokes are not so good as your Tony Marcus makes them. I do want your—how you say?—your view on foreign news.”

“I’m not an expert on that.” And where can this be leading? “No drink, thank you.”

“I have read your writing. I think you know much of the—He looked at Rita. “How do you say it?” he asked in fluent German.

“Much of the background.”

“Much of the background to what happens in the news. You pick it up as you visit, no? You must. But difficult, I think. I, too, am journalist. Today, everything is mixed up. A real farrago, would you not say?” The bland eyes watched her. “Excuse my English—did I not pronounce it in the right way?”

“Farrago?” she heard herself repeating. How did anyone who spoke English with difficulty ever use such an uncommon word as that? “That’s new to me. What does it mean, do you know?” she asked Waterman.

“A mix, a lot of bits and pieces.”

“Then I don’t think farrago is a strong enough word. I’d say that the international scene is a mess.” Lord, I’m well out of that trap, she thought. But they interest me, these people. I’ll stay for five minutes. Then I’d better get out of here before I meet more trip wires. “A complete mess,” she added decidedly, and pulled a cigarette out of her pack.

Kellner held out his hand with his lighter ready. Either he had a painful muscle in his arm or his sleeve was too tight. She had to bend over the tabletop to reach the extended lighter. It flicked and failed. He tried again. This time there was a brief flame. Once more, and he produced an adequate light as a woman leaving the neighbouring table walked past. She stumbled slightly as she reached Karen, regained her balance, excused herself, walked on.

Karen’s cigarette was lit at last. What we have to suffer for politeness’ sake, she told herself as she sank back in her seat. She could have lit that cigarette herself in half the time. Suddenly, she was aware that her shoulder blade didn’t feel the customary bulge of leather straps against her spine. Quickly, she looked down at her side. Her handbag was no longer anchored to her chair. In panic, she raised her eyes to the mirrored wall and saw the woman reaching the entrance. “My bag!” She rose to her feet, dropped her cigarette.

Kellner was quick, moving rapidly to the door, saying, “I catch her.”

“He will, too,” Waterman said reassuringly as he gripped Karen’s arm.

She wrenched it away from his grasp. “It’s
my
bag!”

“Didn’t you notice that woman?” he was asking Rita, whose mouth was open in astonishment. “Nor did I. Pretty damned quick, wasn’t she?” But Karen was already at the door.

She paused outside, looking wildly around her at tables and umbrellas. “It’s gone,” she said aloud in despair. “We’ll never find her in this crowd.”

“I found it,” Kellner said behind her. “But not the woman. She dropped it on a chair when she saw me. She ran.” He handed her the bag. “It is yours?”

She nodded thankfully. “I’m very grateful. Very grateful.”

“Come inside,” he said. “People are too curious. They stare. And you must examine your purse. She may have stolen something. They are cunning and quick, these thieves.”

Karen let herself be persuaded. Her gratitude was tinged with suspicion. Do they want to see the contents of my bag? she wondered as Kellner guided her so politely back to their table. Let them: nothing inside that shouldn’t be there, no coffee-stained envelope stamped with a Czechoslovak censor’s mark of approval. Or was she being too ungrateful?

Waterman and Rita were visibly relieved to see her, handbag clutched in both hands. “Good for you,” Waterman told Kellner. “All safe and sound?” he asked Karen.

“We’ll see. The fastener was undone.” She lifted the flap of the bag, pulled it wide open, then shook its contents onto the table. “Passport, thank heaven. And wallet, with money and charge plates intact. Driver’s licence, too. A book of traveller’s cheques. Room key. Cosmetic purse. And my notebook—
am
I glad to see that!” It was small and black, could conceal nothing. She picked up her pen, pencil, eraser, package of Kleenex, all the small items that didn’t need to be enumerated, and returned them safely to her bag with her cigarettes and matches. “Everything is here,” she said and began replacing the other items.

“What about the zippered pocket inside?” Rita asked. “Was there anything valuable there?”

“Emergency cash—dollar bills. And my airplane ticket home.” She unzipped the pocket and emptied it, too. “Okay,” she said as she checked and found everything as it should be. The notebook was the last to be returned to her bag. “Today’s work,” she told Waterman, who had been eyeing it with interest.

“An interview?”

“Really an informal meeting, but he allowed me to jot down some notes.” The small book dropped into the bag. “Read all about it in next month’s issue,” she said and gave him a very sweet smile. She snapped the bag’s fastener and hoisted its straps over her shoulder. “Must go. Tomorrow, I have an early start.”

As she rose, Waterman said, “I was surprised to hear you were in Prague. Lectures and speeches aren’t in your line.” He grinned, added teasingly, “Sure you didn’t get any interview, too?”

She didn’t have to act out any disappointment. Her lips tightened. “No interview. Oh, I thought there was one arranged, but it didn’t work out. Some snag or other. Never put your trust in a wink and a nod from any embassy, Sam.”

“Never did,” he told her with an easy salute. Rita beamed her goodbye. Kellner got to his feet and shook hands. “A pleasure, Miss Cornell.”

“Goodbye, and thank you once more.” She could feel three pairs of eyes watching her progress to the door. The air outside was warm, but she took a deep breath and rejoiced in its sweet smell of safety.

Tonight, she decided, she would open that envelope. She must. Because if it had been stolen from her handbag today, who in Washington could ever have learned what threats it contained? Yes, Josef Vasek, clever, clever man, you didn’t think of that, did you?

* * *

She entered the Sacher with her confidence restored. Tomorrow at 7:10
A.M.
she’d take the TWA flight (the only one) for New York. No direct route to Washington, alas. But she’d do the next best thing—a TWA flight from Kennedy at 3:59
P.M.
, arriving at National by 5:04. Between planes she’d be able to get through customs, grab a sandwich, telephone Hubert Schleeman to expect her that evening in his office around six. Expedite was one of his words. Okay, Hubie, I’m expediting. I will have to delete any mention of Vasek’s letters meanwhile—even his name, and that may be tricky in every sense—but in the end you’ll have such a story, Hubie, that all will be forgiven. I hope.

The
Washington Spectator
had taken off for the week-end. Only Hubert Schleeman was still in his office, its door open and waiting for her. Karen walked through the large empty room with its cubicles silenced—no night desks needed there; no hectic last-minute rush of a daily newspaper. A monthly periodical was a fairly peaceful place until the week before publication, when hell, in the best traditions of the press, could break loose.

Schleeman, in shirt-sleeves, was marking a copy of the proposed layout for next month’s issue with scores and arrows and question marks in thick red ink. He glanced up as she entered, waved her to the chair in front of his desk, put down his pen, removed his heavy glasses. Sitting, he seemed big: broad shoulders, burly, large head, formidable brow heightened still more by increasing baldness and the close cut of what remained of his greying hair. On his feet, he was five feet five and quick-moving. His eyes, brown and sharp, studied Karen. He said nothing.

“I’m sorry I’m late. Friday traffic. Also,” she admitted, “I miscalculated—it took ten minutes to ’phone from the airport and make sure I had a bed for tonight and a quiet place to work on my notes this week-end.” Mary Dunstan’s apartment could be a swinging place on Friday nights. Karen rushed on. “I’ll have everything in shape and on Jim Black’s desk by Tuesday.” That would give Jim time to edit and argue with her over a fine point or two; her typescript (with some sentences deleted or added) must be ready for Schleeman’s inspection on Thursday. She would just make that deadline. If she hadn’t opened Vasek’s envelope last night, hadn’t been thoroughly shaken by three sheets of paper that she had read with growing apprehension and dismay, she could have blocked out the Vienna interview on the plane. It would almost write itself.