Riders of the Pale Horse Read Free

her, “point to Aqaba.”
    Judith Armstead leaned across the table. “We need to identify the shipping point and close it down. The Jordanians are absolutely no help whatsoever. They’re so determined to smooth out relations with the West that any new problem is simply ignored.” She stopped, then asked, “We were wondering if you had any people in place.”
    It came as no surprise to either that the Americans would request such help. Fiascos on the ground, such as the most recent scandal in France over economic espionage, continued to tie the CIA’s hands. The British operated under no such restrictions. Since they had never possessed the cash required for spy satellites, they continued to focus their attention on live agents, as they had ever since the days of the Great Game.
    Regretfully, Cyril shook his head. “I am afraid not. The extremist cells have proven almost impossible to infiltrate.”
    â€œThat’s what I told Washington to expect,” Judith said, leaning back, and failing to fully mask her disappointment. Placing an agent into a sensitive field position was extremely difficult. The Americans had spent twenty years trying to place an agent within the Chinese Communist hierarchy, and in the end they still failed. Establishing an agent is normally considered to be a ten-year project. In a region dominated by unstable regimes and fledgling terrorist movements, setting up agents was deadly work. “Then we’re stuck.”
    â€œNot necessarily.” Cyril covered his momentary hesitation by smoothing a nonexistent crease to his trousers. He then raised his eyes, and continued, “I might have an ally to our cause. An American, actually. An old friend.”
    A spark of renewed interest brightened Judith’s gaze. “In Aqaba?”
    â€œOperates all over southern Jordan, actually. Runs a clinic for the poorest of the poor. He allowed us to use his infirmaryas a base of operations. We set an agent there, one of our local operatives. Awful choice.”
    Judith was glad for a reason to smile. “Not Smathers.”
    â€œYou’ve met him, I see.” Cyril sighed. “Almost ruined us before we had a chance to start. Ben Shannon, that’s my friend, has reluctantly agreed to speak with me again. Don’t know what I’m going to suggest, to be perfectly frank. Starting from scratch with a new operative and simply searching for clues would be hopeless at this point.”
    â€œTime is beyond critical,” Judith Armstead agreed.
    â€œMmmm. We must draw them out. Force their hand, as it were.” He rose to his feet. “I must be off.”
    â€œWhere to?”
    â€œFirst to Aqaba, then to London.” He hesitated at the door, turned back, and remarked, “You know, what we really require is someone Ben already trusts. Someone to act as liaison... or a lure.”

1
    He stepped onto the runway of the Chechen-Ingush airport and paused to sniff the steamy September air. A swarthy soldier in a decrepit uniform watched him with eyes as dark as his moustache. The new arrival smiled blandly, took in the well-oiled machine gun, and announced to no one in particular, “There’s money in the air and riches in the wind.”
    The soldier barked a guttural command and swung his weapon toward the arrivals hall. Robards replied with a full-fledged grin, shouldered his battered satchel, and sauntered off.
    In his thirty-seven years, Barton Jameson Robards had won and lost more fortunes than many small countries. In a barroom confession to a buddy too drunk to remember, he had once said, “Finding it isn’t near as much trouble as making it mine. Losing it isn’t any trouble at all.”
    Robards stood a hair over six foot six and sported a jaw like the front fender of a Mack truck. His hair was black, his eyes steel-gray, his way with women indifferent or demanding, depending on his mood of the moment. His