Murder in the CIA Read online

  “I’m glad.” He sat up, rubbed his hand to signal that that phase of the conversation was over, and asked, “How long will you be home?”

  “I don’t know. I have …” She had to think. “I have two weeks’ leave, but I’m spending a lot of it trying to run down what happened to a very dear friend of mine.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “No, just a good friend who died suddenly a week or so ago. She was in her mid-thirties and had a heart attack.”

  He made a face. “That’s rough.”

  “Yes, I’m still trying to deal with it, I guess. She was a literary agent in Washington.”

  “Barrie Mayer? I didn’t know you were friendly.”

  “You know about it?”

  “Sure. It made the New York papers.”

  “I didn’t read anything about it,” Cahill said with a sigh. “I know her mother real well and promised her I’d try to find out as much as I could about what Barrie was doing right up until she died.”

  “Not a great way to spend a vacation. Leave. I forgot.”

  “Holiday. I like the British approach.”

  “So do I, in a lot of things. I’m sorry about what happened to your friend. Having friends die is for … for older people. I haven’t started reading the obits yet.”

  “Don’t. You know, Vern, this was great but I’m pooped. I thought I was slept out but my circadian rhythms are still in chaos.”

  “Is that like menopause?”

  “Vaguely.” She laughed. “I should get home.”

  “Sure.”

  They pulled up in front of her mother’s house. Wheatley turned off the engine and they both looked straight ahead. Cahill glanced over and saw that he was grinning. She thought she knew what he was thinking, and a grin broke out on her face, too, which quickly turned into stifled laughter.

  “Remember?” he said.

  She couldn’t respond because now laughter took all her breath. She tried. “I … I remember that you …”

  “It was you,” he said with equal difficulty. “You missed.”

  “I did not. You had your coat collar turned up because you thought it was cool and when I went to kiss you good night, all I hit was … the … coat collar.”

  “You ruined the coat. I never could get the lipstick off.”

  They stopped talking until they’d gotten themselves under control. She then said to him, “Vern, it was great seeing you again. Thanks for coming to my party.”

  “My pleasure. I’d like to see you again.”

  “I don’t know if …”

  “If we should, or if you’ll have time while you’re home?” She started to reply but he placed his finger on her lips. “I’ve never forgotten you, Collette. I mean … I’d like to see you again, go out, have dinner, talk, just that.”

  “That’d be nice,” she said. “I just don’t know how much time I’ll have.”

  “Give me whatever you can spare. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Vern.”

  “Are you staying here?”

  “At the house? Another night, I think. Then I’m going to stay in the city. I really should have dinner with Mom tomorrow.”

  “Absolutely. I remember what a hell of a cook she is. Am I invited?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call you during the day. Good night, Collette.”

  He made a deliberate gesture to flatten his jacket collar. She laughed and kissed him lightly on the lips. He tried to intensify the kiss. She resisted, gave in, resisted again, and opened the door. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

  10

  Jason Tolker’s Washington office was located in a three-story detached house in Foggy Bottom, next to the George Washington University campus and with a view of the Kennedy Center from the third floor.

  Cahill arrived precisely at 6:00 P.M. Tolker’s secretary had told Cahill that he would see her after his last patient.

  She rang, identified herself through an intercom, and was buzzed through. The reception area was awash in yellows and reds, and dominated by pieces of pre-Columbian and Peruvian art. Her first thought was to wonder whatever happened to the notion of decorating therapists’ offices in soothing pastels. Her second thought was that Dr. Tolker was a pretentious man, not the first time she’d come to that conclusion. Her only other meeting with him, which occurred at the scientific conference in Budapest a week after she’d arrived there, had left her with the distinct impression that his ego was in direct proportion to the outward manifestations of his personality—movie-star handsome (Tyrone Power?), expensive clothing on a six-foot frame built for designer suits, money (it was as if he wore a sandwich board with a large green dollar sign on it). But, and probably more important, there was a self-assuredness that many physicians seemed to carry with them out of medical school but that was particularly prevalent with those who dealt with a patient’s emotions and behavior, a godlike view of the world and fellowmen, knowing more, seeing through, inwardly chuckling at how the “others” live their lives, scornful and bemused and willing to tolerate the daily brush with the human dilemma in fifty-minute segments only, payment due at conclusion of visit.

  The receptionist, a pleasant, middle-aged woman with a round face, thinning hair, her coat and hat on, ready to leave, told Cahill to be seated: “Doctor will be with you in a few minutes.” She left, and Cahill browsed a copy of Architectural Digest until Tolker came through a door. “Miss Cahill, hello, Jason Tolker.” He came to where she was sitting, smiled, and offered his hand. Somehow, his gregarious greeting didn’t match up with what she’d remembered of him from Budapest. She stood and said, “I appreciate you taking time to see me, Doctor.”

  “Happy to. Come in, we’ll be more comfortable in my office.”

  His office was markedly subdued compared to the waiting room. The walls were the color of talcum; a soothing pastel, she thought. One wall was devoted to framed awards, degrees, and photographs with people Cahill didn’t recognize at first glance. There was no desk; his wine leather swivel chair was behind a round glass coffee table. There were two matching leather chairs on the other side of the table. A black leather couch that gracefully curved up to form a headrest was against another wall. A small chair was positioned behind where the patient’s head would lie.

  “Please, sit down,” he said, indicating one of the chairs. “Coffee? I think there’s some left. Or maybe you’d prefer a drink?”

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  “Do you mind if I do? It’s been an …” A smile. “An interesting day.”

  “Please. Do you have wine?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Red or white?”

  “White, please.”

  She watched him open a cabinet, behind which was a bar lighted from within. Her reaction to him was different than it had been in Budapest. She began to like him, finding his demeanor courteous, friendly, open. She also knew she was responding to his good looks. For a tall man, he moved fluidly. He was in shirtsleeves; white shirt, muted red tie, charcoal gray suit trousers, and black Gucci loafers. His dark hair was thick and curly, his facial features sharp. It was his eyes, however, that defined him: large, saccadic raven eyes that were at once soothing and probing.

  He placed two glasses of wine on the coffee table, sat in his chair, lifted his glass, and said, “Health.”

  She returned the salute and took a sip. “Very good,” she said.

  “I keep the better vintages at home.”

  She wished he hadn’t said it. There was no need to say it. She realized he was staring at her. She met his gaze and smiled. “You know why I’m here.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Wedgemann, my secretary, told me the nature of your visit. You were a close friend of Barrie Mayer.”

  “Yes, that’s right. To say I was shocked at what happened to her is one of those classic understatements, I suppose. I’ve been in touch with her mother who, as you can imagine, is devastated, losing
her only daughter. I decided to take … to take a vacation and see what I could find out about things leading up to Barrie’s death. I promised her mother I’d do that but, to be honest, I would have done it for myself anyway. We were close.”

  He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes. “The question, of course, is why come to me?”

  “I know that Barrie was in therapy with you, at least for a while, and I thought you might be able to give me some hint of what frame of mind she was in before she died, whether there was any indication that she wasn’t feeling well.”

  Tolker rubbed his nose in a gesture of thoughtfulness before saying, “Obviously, Miss Cahill, I wouldn’t be free to discuss anything that went on between Barrie and me. That falls under doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “I realize that, Dr. Tolker, but it seems to me that a general observation wouldn’t necessarily violate that principle.”

  “When did you meet Barrie?”

  The sudden shift in questioning stopped her for a moment. She said, “In college. We stayed close until we each went our separate ways for a number of years. Then, as often happens, we got back in touch and renewed the friendship.”

  “You say you were close to Barrie. How close?”

  “Close.” She thought of Mark Hotchkiss, who’d exhibited a similar skepticism of the depth of her relationship with Mayer. “Is there some element of doubt about my friendship with Barrie or, for that matter, my reason for being here?”

  He smiled and shook his head. “No, not at all. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. Do you work and live in the Washington area?”

  “No, I … I work for the United States Embassy in Budapest, Hungary.”

  “That’s fascinating,” said Tolker. “I’ve spent some time there. Charming city. A shame the Soviets came in as they did. It certainly has put a lid on things.”

  “Not as much as people think,” Cahill said. “It’s got to be the most open of Soviet satellite countries.”

  “Perhaps.”

  It dawned on Cahill that he was playing a game with her, asking questions for which he already had answers. She decided to be more forthright. “We’ve met before, Dr. Tolker.”

  He squinted and leaned forward. “I thought we had the minute I saw you. Was it in Budapest?”

  “Yes. You were attending a conference and I’d just arrived.”

  “Yes, it comes back to me now, some reception, wasn’t it? One of those abominable get-togethers. You’re wearing your hair different, shorter, aren’t you?”

  Cahill laughed. “Yes, and I’m impressed with your memory.”

  “Frankly, Miss Cahill, when more than a year has passed since meeting a woman, it’s always safe to assume she’s changed her hair. Usually, it involves the color, too, but that isn’t the case with you.”

  “No, it isn’t. Somehow, I don’t think I was born to be a blonde.”

  “No, I suppose not,” he said. “What do you do at the embassy?”

  “Administration, trade missions, helping stranded tourists, run-of-the-mill.”

  He smiled and said, “It can’t be as dull as you make it sound.”

  “Oh, it’s never dull.”

  “I have a good friend in Budapest.”

  “Really? Who is that?”

  “A colleague. His name is Árpád Hegedüs. Do you know him?”

  “He’s … he’s a colleague, you say, a psychiatrist?”

  “Yes, and a very good one. His talent is wasted having to apply it under a Socialist regime, but he seems to find room for a certain amount of individuality.”

  “Like most Hungarians,” she said.

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true, just as you must find room for other activities within the confines of your run-of-the-mill job. How much time do you devote to helping stranded tourists as opposed to …?”

  When he didn’t finish, she said, “As opposed to what?”

  “As opposed to your duties for the CIA.”

  His question startled her. Early in her career with Central Intelligence, it would have thrown her, perhaps even generated a nervous giggle as she collected her thoughts. That wasn’t the case any longer. She looked him in the eye and said, “That’s an interesting comment.”

  “More wine?” he asked, standing and going to the bar.

  “No, thank you, I have plenty.” She looked at her glass on the table and thought of the comment Árpád Hegedüs had made to her during their last meet in Budapest: “Jason Tolker might be friendly to the Soviets.”

  Tolker returned, took his seat, sipped his wine. “Miss Cahill, I think you might accomplish a lot more, and we might get along much better, if you practiced a little more candor.”

  “What makes you think I haven’t been candid?”

  “It isn’t a matter of thinking, Miss Cahill. I know you haven’t been.” Before she could respond he said, “Collette E. Cahill, graduated cum laude from George Washington University Law School, a year or so with a legal trade journal, then a stint in England for the CIA and a transfer to Budapest. Accurate? Candid?”

  “Am I supposed to be impressed?” she asked.

  “Only if your life to date impresses you. It does me. You’re obviously bright, talented, and ambitious.”

  “Thank you. Time for me to ask you a question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Assuming the things you’ve said about me were correct, particularly my supposed continuing employment with the CIA, how would you know about that?”

  He smiled, and it quickly turned into a laugh. “No argument, then?”

  “Is that Shrink School 101, answer a question with a question?”

  “It goes back further than that, Miss Cahill. The Greeks were good at it. Socrates taught the technique.”

  “Yes, that’s true, and Jesus, too. As a learning tool for students, not to evade a reasonable question.”

  Tolker shook his head and said, “You’re still not being candid, are you?”

  “No?”

  “No. You know, either through Barrie or someone else in your organization, that I have, on occasion, provided certain services to your employer.”

  Cahill smiled. “This conversation has turned into one with so much candor that it would probably be upsetting to … to our employers, if we worked for them.”

  “No, Miss Cahill, your employer. I simply have acted as a consultant on a project or two.”

  She knew that everything he’d said up to that moment was literally true, and decided it was silly to continue playing the game. She said, “I’d love another glass of wine.”

  He got it for her. When they were both seated again, he looked at his watch and said, “Let me try to tell you what it is you want to know without you having to ask the questions. Barrie Mayer was a lovely and successful woman, as you’re well aware. She came to me because there were certain aspects of her life with which she was unhappy, that she was having trouble negotiating. That, of course, is a sign of sanity in itself.”

  “Seeking help?”

  “Of course, recognizing a problem and taking action. She was like most people who end up in some form of therapy, bright and rational and put together in most aspects of her life, just stumbling now and then over some ghosts from the past. We worked things out very nicely for her.”

  “Did you maintain a relationship after therapy was finished?”

  “Miss Cahill, you know we did.”

  “I don’t mean about what she might have done as a courier. I mean a personal relationship.”

  “What a discreet term. Do you mean did we sleep together?”

  “It would be indiscreet for me to ask that.”

  “But you already have, and I prefer not to answer an indiscretion with an indiscretion. Next question.”

  “You were telling me everything I need to know without questions, remember?”

  “Yes, that’s right. You’ll want to know whether I have any information bearing upon her death.”

  “Do yo
u?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have any idea who killed her?”

  “Why do you assume someone killed her? My understanding is that it was an unfortunate, premature heart attack.”

  “I don’t think that’s really what happened. Do you?”

  “I wouldn’t know more about that than what I’ve read in the papers.”

  Cahill sipped her wine, not because she wanted it but because she needed a little time to process what had transpired. She’d assumed when she called and asked for an appointment with Tolker that she would be summarily turned down. She’d even considered seeking an appointment as a patient but realized that was too roundabout an approach.

  It had all been so easy. A phone call, a brief explanation to the secretary that she was Barrie Mayer’s friend—instant appointment with him. He’d obviously worked fast in finding out who she was. Why? What source had he turned to to come up with information on her? Langley and its central personnel files? Possible, but not likely. That sort of information would never be given out to a contract physician who was only tangentially associated with the CIA.

  “Miss Cahill, I’ve been preaching candor to you without practicing it myself.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I’m assuming that you’re sitting here wondering how I came up with information about you.”

  “As a matter of fact, that’s right.”

  “Barrie was … well, let’s just say she didn’t define close-mouthed.”

  Cahill couldn’t help but laugh. She remembered her dismay at her friend’s casual mention of her new, part-time job as courier.

  “You agree,” Tolker said.

  “Well, I …”

  “Once Barrie agreed to carry some materials for the CIA, she became talkative. She said it was ironic because she had this friend, Collette Cahill, who worked for the CIA at the American Embassy in Budapest. I found that interesting and asked questions. She answered them all. Don’t misunderstand. She didn’t babble about it. If she had, I would have ended the relationship, at least that aspect of it.”

  “I understand what you’re saying. What else did she say about me?”

  “That you were beautiful and bright and the best female friend she’d ever had.”