Ride a Pale Horse by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online Page B

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.