Ride a Pale Horse by Helen MacInnes Page A

is in the glove compartment?” The book bag was over his shoulder, the car door half-open.
    “Yes. Are you trying to keep me out of sight?” she asked lightly.
    His first smile since they had started the journey back came to his lips, softened his eyes. “That would be hard to do. But if anything worries you, however small it seems, call this number.” He gave it to her, watched her jot it down in her notebook. “It’s an answering service, very reliable. Just say you can’t lunch with me—if you need to talk to me. If we need to meet, say you can’t have dinner. No name. I’ll know who it is. And I’ll be in touch. At once.” He held her hand for a few moments longer than necessary. “Thank you,” he said, and left.
    She took the wheel, watching him start the walk up Muir Street towards his apartment. He’s back in his own world, she thought, and no room for me.

7
    It had been forty-eight hours of intense activity since Saturday evening when Peter Bristow had reached Langley. There, to his great relief, was the Director on a quick visit before a dinner engagement. Bristow delivered letters and cassettes; the quick visit became hours long, and dinner was a sandwich on a tray. What happened after that, through Sunday and well into Monday, was only Bristow’s guess. Telephone calls, scrambled; discreet visits to high places? Careful selection of experts to examine paper, type, ink, and study the forged signatures?
    Now, at five fifteen on Monday afternoon, six men were about to gather at a semicircular table in a room that was soundproof and bug-free. Windows were closed, shades drawn, lights on, and air conditioning almost noiseless. No paper or pens in front of each chair; only ashtrays, carafes of iced water, and tumblers. So, Bristow thought as he surveyed the scene prepared for a very select committee, before this meeting was over a decision would be made: how to deal with three calumnies and two assassinations. A tall order, but an urgent one. Their discussion would be reported back to their chiefs by tonight, and their recommendations either accepted or rejected. Accepted, Bristow hoped; delays were becoming dangerous. The men who had been chosen to come here were capable and responsible, quite aware they were representing high offices. (It was obvious that the heads of State, Defense, Intelligence could not risk meeting in the Oval Office themselves. Such a conference—and it would have been a lengthy one—would have sparked rumours and the inevitable speculations, mostly wild, some disastrous.)
    Time they started arriving, Bristow thought as he stood at one side of the small room. They had all read Vasek’s three letters; now, they would listen to the Prague cassettes—the background information on how the letters reached Washington in the first place. And then he’d have to explain Farrago—and answer some questions. But that was why he was here, to be seated at a separate table which—to his embarrassment—was centred to face the semicircle of chairs. He supposed it was the logical place—the table held cassettes and player. Surely, time wouldn’t be wasted on questioning the cassettes?
    The room door opened. Menlo, his ten-day leave interrupted, was the first arrival; a tall, spare man of sixty-odd years, more grim-faced than ever, preoccupied with nightmare thoughts—he had studied the letters that morning and was still in shock. He nodded to Bristow, took a chair at one end of the crescent, and was lost in a cloud of depression.
    Martin Kirby, National Security Agency, entered next. He was an affable man with a ready smile, effective disguises for a steel-trap mind. Today he looked wan and worried, and older than his sixty-two years. A polite look was cast at Bristow; a friendly nod to Menlo although he chose a seat at the other end of the table. His modest manner was disarming: few who met him guessed he belonged to an agency that was the biggest, and most secret, of all branches of