Ride a Pale Horse (6 page)

Schleeman poured a glass of water, pushed it towards her. “Take it easy.” She was flustered and nervous, talking too much about small details he didn’t need to hear. Not Karen’s usual style. What put her so much on edge? “About Prague—what happened to that interview? You didn’t give the details when you ’phoned from Vienna.” He watched her take a long drink.

“There were none to give. It just didn’t take place.” Her voice was almost normal again.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I did nothing to antagonise anyone. I was on my best behaviour. Truly.” She drained the glass and put it back on the desk.

“I believe you,” he said. She relaxed visibly. “We were never meant to have that interview. Why did they want us there?”

“Us and eight other Western newspapers. All pro-NATO. I don’t know whether we were being softened in our views or whether they wanted to use us.”

“What about the far-left press?”

“The Eastern bloc was in our hotel, but it seemed to be avoiding us. There were several of the anti-American Germans—
Der Spiegel, Stern, Rundschau
among them—staying at another hotel. They sought us out at the meetings, lectured us. Germans do that a lot, I think. But why they, of all people, should believe the Soviets are blameless and we are responsible for everything that’s wrong in the world—that really is a bitter laugh. Don’t worry: I restrained myself. I didn’t even say, ‘So helping you recover from a war
you
started, was that wrong? Or the Berlin airlift?’ I just kept telling myself that most Germans don’t think like their newspapers. Not yet, at least. But how long can you read papers and magazines and listen to broadcasts without having the anti-American bias affect you? I think that’s what bothered me the most about that week: the power of the press and what it can do to ordinary citizens.”

She has recovered, Schleeman thought; that’s more like the Karen I know. “Now you see why I’ve always warned all of you working here to keep your political opinions out of your writing. Sounded dull advice, but let the readers make up their own minds about events as they are reported fully and honestly.” Time to probe a little deeper, he decided. “You had quite an education in Prague, I think. What about Vienna?”

“Good. I hope you’ll like my piece.”

Was that all she had to say? “We’ll run it in the space we held open for the Prague interview. What about your week there? You gathered some material, didn’t you?”

“I’ll describe it as it was.” She gave her first smile as she added, “No cover-ups, but no slanting, either.” It was a direct quotation from him, presiding at the last staff meeting. “I’ll get a column out of it, at least.”

“More than that goddamned monkey at their embassy deserves.” Suddenly, his usually quiet voice rose. He cursed himself for being fooled, he cursed the press aide. Then his anger subsided. He noticed Karen’s startled face, said grimly, “You should have heard me Wednesday night after you called from the Sacher. Well, now—” He looked down at the layout and picked up his pen. “If we advance the Vienna interview to next month, we’ll have to come up with something to fill the gap in the following issue. Do some thinking, will you? Give me your ideas on Monday.”

The meeting was ended.

Not yet, thought Karen. “I
have
been doing some thinking. On disinformation. I could write two articles at least on that subject—if I had some solid facts as a basis.”

“Disinformation?” That had caught his attention. He dropped the pen back on the desk.

“It’s important—something we all ought to be aware of. Most of us don’t really know the difference between misinformation and disinformation.”

“But you know now—since Prague?” He was amused but interested. “Give me an example of that difference, Karen. No fancy language: just a simple explanation that any ignorant layman—like myself—can understand.”

He is challenging me, she told herself. All right, let’s show him this isn’t just a Prague-inspired notion. “The scene is Paris. An attempt to shoot Mitterrand as he was entering his car. The actual facts are that he wasn’t hit, his driver was wounded, and the two assailants escaped.

“An early press report of the incident said that Mitterrand was wounded and his chauffeur was killed; two, possibly three terrorists had done the shooting. That report is a case of misinformation.

“Another press report starts appearing. It says that an attack on Mitterrand took place; he wasn’t hit but his driver was wounded. The two assailants have been identified as gunmen used in previous killings by a West German intelligence agency. A reliable source states that the assassination of Mitterrand was to have been followed by a right-wing coup, establishing in power a French general favoured by fascist elements in Germany.” Karen paused. “And that report is pure disinformation.”

She knew what she was talking about. Schleeman nodded his approval. “It includes a fact or two to make a story credible, then adds the distortions.” And people fell for it: the riots in Pakistan four years ago, the burning of the American Embassy and two Americans killed—all the result of skilful disinformation. The lie that had lit the fuse? The Americans were responsible for the seizure of the Grand Mosque in Mecca, the CIA being the villains. “Yes,” he said, “that’s not a bad idea of yours. A slight change of pace, but that may be all to the good.” He looked at his watch. Almost ten to seven. “Let’s have a bite to eat. We can talk over dinner. Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ve given up any idea of a week-end. This damned layout—all wrong. Not what I suggested.”

You’d think he hadn’t any editors who could take charge: nothing was ever perfect unless the boss supervised. But the
Spectator
was his baby. He had taken it over when it was a mewling infant that wasn’t expected to live. He had nursed it along, feeding it with money and talent, and watched it grow in the twenty years of his care to respectable strength. A rich man’s hobby had become a serious career. Karen’s fleeting thoughts ended. She concentrated on her words. She began, “Before we leave—” and stopped.

He was tidying his desk: everything in order for tomorrow’s work. “Yes?” He glanced up, noted the tension on her face.

“There’s something important—a favour I have to ask. You know Peter Bristow. I must get in touch with him. As soon as possible. Would you help me? Would you try to reach him, either at home, or perhaps in his office?”

“What? Now?”

“Yes. Now. Please.”

“What’s important about Bristow? Disinformation? Surely that can wait.” He was terse, annoyed, and hungry.

“That can wait. But what can’t wait is—” She hesitated, drew a long breath. “In Czechoslovakia, a man approached me. Secretly. He needs Bristow’s help. He wants to defect.”

“Bristow doesn’t deal with defectors—he’s an expert on tracking disinformation. Analysis and evaluation, that’s his line.”

“The man knows that. But he said he could trust Bristow.”

“Meaning?”

“Bristow is not in KGB pay, and so won’t betray him.”

“And who is this would-be defector?”

“All I know is that he plans to escape soon. He needs help. And secrecy. His life depends on it, he said.”

“You really believe—” Schleeman began incredulously.

“Yes. So many strange things happened to me in Vienna that I do believe him. Once he is safe here and been accepted, you’ll have the biggest story you’ve ever published.”

“What’s that about Vienna?”

A mistake, she thought in dismay: I should never have mentioned Vienna until later, much later, when I can tell him everything. “I was under surveillance. But first of all—please, would you try to contact Bristow? Would you, Hubert?”

He frowned, glared at the telephone, but he dialled Bristow’s number at Langley. Someone answered his query, and he listened. “Thanks. I’ll call back.” He replaced the receiver. “He has gone out for something to eat, lucky fellow. But he is expected back any minute. He’s working late. In the meantime, start explaining. What the hell have you got into? I’ve always told you not to get mixed up in politics.”

“Not even to save a man’s life?”

“What does he do—what’s his job?”

“I don’t know. But once I give Bristow the message, he will understand just what we’re dealing with. He will be able to explain to you.”

“Off the record,” grumbled Schleeman, “and not much of that.” He looked once more at his watch. “I’ll give you his number. Call him—”

“No! I’m sure he doesn’t remember me, and I can’t risk saying anything important over the telephone. He wouldn’t listen to some strange female who gave no details, only said she had to see him at once.”

That was true enough. “What do you want me to tell him?”

“No name. No mention that I write for you. Just tell him it’s urgent. Arrange a meeting with me for tomorrow morning, a quiet meeting—as if by accident. Perhaps I could drive past his house or whatever and pick him up. I’ll recognise him all right.” Her cheeks, pale today, coloured at that admission. “He knows you. If you say this is something urgent and that I’m to be trusted, he will listen. Please, Hubert!”

“You flatter me.”

“But no name. Don’t let him question you, either—not over a telephone.”

Schleeman had to smile at that. “Don’t teach this old dog how to play games. Before you were born, I was sending cryptic messages back to London from Nazi territory. Ever heard of the OSS?”

Her eyes rounded in astonishment. “You were with the OSS?” He could only have been fresh out of college, if that. His smile broadened, changing his face from its usual severity. A prominent nose, a determined chin, thin lips held tightly, made him appear more unapproachable than he actually was. At this moment, he seemed years younger as he dialled once more. This time Bristow was at his desk.

Schleeman didn’t identify himself—Pete Bristow knew his voice. He didn’t name Bristow, either. “Got a minute? I’ve just heard an interesting piece of news. Thought you’d like to hear it, too. I think you should. I’m pretty busy tonight, but what about meeting me tomorrow morning? A quiet meeting—it shouldn’t take long... Eleven o’clock? I’ll pick you up just south of your block—easier to park there if I’m early. If I’m delayed, I’ll send my secretary to drive you to my place. A reliable type. Knows you by sight. No problem.” He ended the call as abruptly as he had begun it.

How many other hidden talents does he have? Karen wondered, her amazement increasing.

“Well?” he demanded. “Did that fit your specifications?”

“You took my breath away.”

He pulled on his jacket. “Play it loose, Karen. And stop worrying. The fate of the world isn’t in your hands. He’s just another defector. This story you’ve been promised—don’t bank on getting hold of it soon. It may take weeks, months, before you can write about it.”

“I know.” Her voice, her movements, were slow. She rose to her feet, reaching for her briefcase, but Schleeman lifted it before she could. “I’m tired, I guess. I can’t really face dinner. A sandwich and instant bed is about my level tonight. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry but wise,” he said. He had hoped a good dinner with a bottle of Château Latour might induce some answers to several questions he had in mind.

“It’s been a long day.” She was still excusing herself. Up at five thirty this morning, thousands of miles away...

“I’ll see you on Monday morning. Ten o’clock sharp.”

Karen managed a small smile. “And hear how I was followed in Vienna?”

“And the reason why.” He dialled again, this time for a taxi. Then he locked his office door, and they could leave at last.

She walked quickly through the staff room, halting at her desk, where she had left the rest of her luggage. Schleeman picked up the heavy bag and typewriter, giving her the lighter load. He noticed how she seized the briefcase with relief and held it tightly. He almost said, “What have you got in there—the crown jewels?” But he restrained his sense of humour, which was always heavy-handed at best.

As they waited for the elevator in an empty corridor with only the distant clatter of a cleaning woman’s bucket to break the silence, Karen suddenly spoke. “Sam Waterman was in Vienna. He brought a couple of friends to sit at my table.”

“How was he?” Schleeman couldn’t care less.

“Outwardly friendly, but inwardly—” She shrugged. “I think he still believes I did a neat hatchet job to get what he wanted. Or did I?”

“No. He did the hatchet job himself. Where the hell is that elevator?”

“Why did you choose me and not him, Hubert?”

“That’s none of your business,” he reminded her. The elevator arrived, and he could follow her inside without the embarrassment of further questions, for there were other passengers, late leavers from the floor above, who groused about overtime on a Friday evening.

Karen’s cheeks had coloured. “Sorry. You were right. Not my business. But it was so strange—the way he seemed to—” She gave up. An elevator car was no place to give details.

Schleeman struck a bargain after they reached the hall and waited at its entrance for the cab. “You tell me all about Vienna, and I’ll tell you about Mr. Sam Waterman. Agreed?”

Tell what I can about Vienna, she amended silently. She nodded an indeterminate promise, looked wan and miserable.

“Get a good night’s sleep,” he said by way of goodbye. He’d find out from Bristow what she wouldn’t tell him. Or couldn’t?

“I will. And thank you. Thank you for everything. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t—Oh, I nearly forgot. What is Peter Bristow’s address?” It wouldn’t be in the telephone directory: an unlisted number.

He told her and watched her intent face as she repeated it. He said nothing more as he helped her into the cab. He stood there, looking thoughtful, watching the taxi disappear from view. Must be one hell of a story, he thought as he headed for his club.

In spite of time spent in renting a car, in spite of circling around a few blocks and driving down this narrow street to make sure of the right number on a doorway, Karen was still ten minutes early. She could have borrowed Mary Dunstan’s car for this morning, but it was a Firebird and a flaming red; safer to settle for a less obtrusive grey Plymouth from Avis. Bristow’s address might be pleasant enough, but it was nothing imposing: an apartment above a quiet bookstore, with its own separate entrance. Was it on the second or third floor? Or were there more than two apartments? These Georgetown houses were deceptive, often stretching deep into their backyard, and this street with three-storeyed buildings of white clapboard or red brick, all narrow-fronted, all closely packed, would be no exception.