Ride a Pale Horse Read Free Page B

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