Ride a Pale Horse by Helen MacInnes

had sat down beside her and was opening the brown paper bags. “No wonder that one was heavy! How many cans of beer?”
    “Only four. The ginger ale is for me.” How natural this all seems, she thought as she watched him unwrap the sandwiches and offer her first choice. I was scared of him—yes, scared—when we met on Muir Street. And then I forgot to be either scared or nervous, and we’ve been talking ever since as if we had known each other for years. For a moment, she allowed herself a touch of cynicism: it could all be a matter of technique. His was certainly a good one—he had put her completely at ease. Then she accepted that. Gratefully. She began to concentrate on the facts she would give, once the picnic was over and a cassette was catching every sound. Everything must be clear, unequivocal—places, times, who appeared on the scene, who said what and how it was said. All part of the picture, and no room in it for anyone to misapprehend. Even if I look stupid and ignorant, she thought, I’ll give it just as it was.
    It was almost two o’clock. “Ready?” Bristow was asking. The first cassette had been inserted, the machine waiting with the hand microphone attached. He held it out with an encouraging smile. She took the microphone, kept it at the required small distance from her lips, and began speaking. “Last Wednesday afternoon, I was waiting in my hotel room for my notes to be returned by the Czechoslovak censors. It was ten past three, and I was due to leave the hotel for the airport at half past four. The telephone rang.”
    She’s off and running, Bristow thought with sudden relief. He lay on one elbow, his eyes on her face, and listened to the calm, clear voice.
    The journey back to Washington was a silent one. Karen was more exhausted than she’d allow. Bristow had his own thoughts to mull over.
    They approached Muir Street, where he had asked to be dropped off for a quick change of clothes—he could be at Langley till midnight or later. Then he had told her he’d take the cassettes and have them locked away with the envelope. They’d be secure. Her name wouldn’t even be attached: just Prague and Vienna as identification labels. And no one would read the letters or listen to the tapes until they had been seen and heard by the Director and his second-in-command.
    That was the only available route for Bristow at this moment: Menlo, who headed the section that unravelled disinformation and oversaw its various units, such as Bristow’s, wasn’t available. Menlo had taken a ten-day leave last Wednesday and would now be angling for salmon in Nova Scotia. So Bristow was going straight to the top with this one: no intermediaries, no wading through channels. He might be sticking his neck not just out but way out. Yet this was not only an emergency but also a potential crisis. “I’ll try to see the top brass as soon as possible,” he said. It sounded simple, but it wouldn’t be. A week-end, of all times, to contact anyone... And how would he go about it? Begin by introducing himself? Peter Bristow, European Disinformation. It has come to my attention... Not bloody likely. Just say, This is something that concerns the President, and it’s urgent.
    Karen studied his face. It was tense, even if his voice had seemed normal. “And after that?” she asked quietly.
    “Possibly a select group of experts, a very small group. A lot of verification.”
    “Can you ever tell me what happens?”
    He had no answer for that, not at present. “But I’ll be in touch. I promise you that. Give me your address and ’phone number.”
    She gave him both—New York and Washington—and watched his face as he memorised them. Will I ever see him again? she wondered as he said goodbye. As he prepared to step out of the car, he said, “Get rid of this Plymouth fast. Leave it at the Statler garage and give the keys to Conrad. Got that name? He’ll have it delivered to Avis and take care of the bill. The receipt