Murder in the CIA Page 11

  “Did she really say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m flattered.” She sensed that a tear might erupt and swallowed against it.

  “Want my honest opinion about how and why she died?”

  “Please.”

  “I buy the official autopsy verdict of a coronary. If that isn’t why she died, I’d assume that our friends on the other side decided to terminate her.”

  “The Russians.”

  “Or some variation thereof.”

  “I can’t accept that, not today. We’re not at war. Besides, what could Barrie have been carrying that would prompt such a drastic action?”

  He shrugged.

  “What was she carrying?”

  “How would I know?”

  “I thought you were her contact.”

  “I was, but I never knew what was in her briefcase. It was given to me sealed, and I would give it to her.”

  “I understand that but …”

  He leaned forward. “Look, Miss Cahill, I think we’ve gotten off onto a tangent that goes far beyond the reality of the situation. I know that you’re a full-time employee of the CIA, but I’m not. I’m a psychiatrist. That’s what I do for a living. It’s my profession. A colleague suggested to me years ago that I might be interested in becoming a CIA-approved physician. All that means is that when someone from the agency needs medical help in my specialty, they’re free to come to me. There are surgeons and OB-GYN men and heart specialists and many others who’ve been given clearance by the agency.”

  She cocked her head and asked, “But what about being a contact for a courier like Barrie? That isn’t within your specialty.”

  His smile was friendly and reassuring. “They asked me somewhere along the line to keep my eye out for anyone who might fit their profile of a suitable courier. Barrie fit it. She traveled often to foreign countries, particularly Hungary, wasn’t married, didn’t have any deep, dark secrets that would jeopardize her clearance, and she enjoyed adventure. She also appreciated the money, off-the-books money, fun money for clothes and furniture and other frills. It was a lark for her.”

  His final words hit Cahill hard, caused her to draw a deep breath.

  “Something wrong?” Tolker asked, observing the pain on her face.

  “Barrie’s dead. ‘Just a lark.’ ”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you feel any … any guilt about having recruited her into a situation that resulted in her death?”

  For a moment, she thought his eyes might mist. They didn’t, but his voice had a ring of pathos. “I think about it often. I wish I could go back to that day when I suggested she carry for your employer and withdraw my offer.” He sighed and stood, stretched, and broke his knuckles. “But that’s not possible, and I tell my patients that to play the what-if game is stupid. It happened, she’s dead, I’m sorry, and I must leave.”

  He walked her to the office door. They paused and looked at each other. “Barrie was right,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “About her friend being beautiful.”

  She lowered her eyes.

  “I hope I’ve been helpful.”

  “Yes, you have, and I’m appreciative.”

  “Will you have dinner with me?”

  “I …”

  “Please. There’s probably more ground we could cover about Barrie. I feel comfortable with you now. I didn’t when you first arrived, thought you were just snooping around for gossip. I shouldn’t have felt that way. Barrie wouldn’t have a very close friend who’d do that.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “Yes, that would be fine.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Ah, yes, fine.”

  “Would you mind coming by here at seven? I have a six o’clock group. Once they’re gone, I’m free.”

  “Seven. I’ll be here.”

  She drove home realizing two things. One, he’d told her everything that she would have known anyway. Two, she was anxious to see him again. That second thought bothered her because she couldn’t effectively separate her continuing curiosity about Barrie Mayer’s death from a personal fascination with him as a man.

  “Have a nice night?” her mother asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re staying in the city tomorrow night?”

  “For the next few nights, Mom. It’ll be easier to get things done. I’m seeing Barrie’s mother tomorrow for lunch.”

  “Poor woman. Please give her my sympathy.”

  “I will.”

  “Will you be seeing Vern?”

  “I don’t know. Probably.”

  “It was fun having him at dinner last night, like when you were in high school and he used to hang around hoping to be invited.”

  Cahill laughed. “He’s nice. I’d forgotten how nice.”

  “Well,” said her mother, “the problem with pretty girls like you is having to pick and choose among all the young men who chase you.”

  Cahill hugged her mother and said, “Mom, I’m not a girl anymore, and there isn’t a battalion of men chasing me.”

  Her mother stepped back, smiled, and held her daughter at arm’s length. “Don’t kid me, Collette Cahill. I’m your mother.”

  “I know that, and I’m very grateful that you are. Got any ice cream?”

  “Bought it today for you. Rum raisin. They were out of Hungarian flavors.”

  11

  Cahill drove a rented car into the city the next morning and checked into the Hotel Washington at 15th and Pennsylvania. It wasn’t Washington’s finest, but it was nice. Besides, it had a sentimental value. Its rooftop terrace restaurant and bar offered as fine a view of Washington as any place in the capitol. Cahill had spent four glorious Fourth of Julys there with friends who, through connections, had been able to wangle reservations on the terrace’s busiest night of the year, and were able to view the spectacular festivities that only Washington can provide on the nation’s birthday.

  She went to her room, hung up the few items of clothing she’d brought with her, freshened up, and headed for her first appointment of the day: CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia.

  The person she was seeing had been a mentor of sorts during her training days. Hank Fox was a grizzled, haggard, wayworn agency veteran who had five daughters, and who took a special interest in the increasing number of women recruited by the CIA. His position was Coordinator: Training Policy and Procedures. New recruits often joked that his title should be “Priest.” He had that way about him—ignoring his five issue, of course.

  She whizzed along the George Washington Memorial Parkway until reaching a sign that read CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY. It hadn’t always been marked that way. In the years following its construction in the late 1950s, a single sign on the highway read BUREAU OF PUBLIC ROADS. Frequent congressional calls for the agency to be more open and accountable brought about the new sign. Behind it, little had changed.

  She turned off the highway and onto a road leading to the 125-acre tract on which the Central Intelligence Agency stood. Ahead, through dense woods, stood the modernistic, fortress-like building surrounded by a high and heavy chain-link fence. She stopped, presented her credentials to two uniformed guards, and explained the purpose of her visit. One of them placed a call, then informed her that she could pass through to the next checkpoint. She did, submitted her identity again to scrutiny, and was allowed to proceed to a small parking area near the main entrance.

  Two athletic young men wearing blue suits and with revolvers beneath their jackets waited for her to approach the entrance. She noticed how short their hair was, how placid the expression on their faces. Again, a show of credentials, a nod, and she was escorted through the door by one of them. He walked slightly in front of her at a steady pace until coming to the beginning of a long, straight white tunnel that was arched at the top. Royal blue industrial-grade carpeting lined the floor. There was nothing in the tunnel except for recessed lights that created odd shadows al
ong its length. At the far end was an illuminated area where two stainless-steel elevator doors caught the light and hurled it back into the tunnel.

  “Straight ahead, ma’am.”

  Cahill entered the tunnel and walked slowly, her thoughts drifting back to when she was a new recruit and had first seen this building, had first walked this tunnel. It had been part of an introductory tour and she’d been struck by the casualness of the tour guide, a young man who demonstrated what Cahill, and others in her class, considered strangely irreverent behavior considering the ominous image of the CIA. He’d talked about how the contractor who’d built the building wasn’t allowed to know how many people would occupy it, and was forced to guess at the size and capacity of the heating and air-conditioning system. The system turned out to be inadequate, and the CIA took him to court. He won, his logic making more sense to the judge than the “national security” argument presented by the agency’s counsel.

  The guide had also said that the $46-million building had been approved in order to bring all agency headquarters personnel under one roof. Until that time, the CIA’s divisions had been spread out all over Washington and surrounding communities, and Congress had been sold on the consolidation because of problems this created. But, according to this talkative, glib young man, whole divisions began moving out shortly after moving in when construction was completed. When this came to the attention in 1968 of then director Richard Helms, he was furious and decreed that no one was to make a move without his personal approval. Somehow, that didn’t deter division chiefs who found being under one roof to be stifling and, if nothing else, boring. The exodus continued.

  Cahill often wondered how you ran an organization with that kind of discipline, and whether the young tour guide’s loose tongue had cut short his agency career. It wasn’t like the FBI, where public relations and public tours were routine, conducted by attractive young men and women hired solely for that purpose. The CIA did not give tours to outsiders; the guide was obviously a full-fledged employee.

  She reached the end of the tunnel where two other young men awaited her. “Miss Cahill?” one asked.

  “Yes.”

  “May I see your pass?”

  She showed him.

  “Please take the elevator. Mr. Fox is expecting you.” He pushed a button and a set of the stainless-steel doors slid open quickly and silently. She stepped into the elevator and waited for them to close. She knew better than to look for a button to push. There weren’t any. This elevator knew its destination.

  Hank Fox was waiting for her when the doors opened a floor above. He hadn’t changed. Though older, he’d always looked old, and the changes weren’t quickly discernible. His craggy face broke into a smile and he extended two large, red, and callused hands. “Collette Cahill. Good to see you again.”

  “Same here, Hank. You look terrific.”

  “I feel terrific. At my age you might as well or, at least, lie. Come on, Fox’s special blend of coffee awaits you.” She smiled and fell in step with him down a wide hallway carpeted in red, its white walls providing a backdrop for large, framed maps.

  Fox, Cahill noticed, had put on weight and walked with a slower, heavier gait than the last time she’d seen him. His gray suit, its shape and material testifying to its origins in a Tall and Big (read Fat) Man’s clothing shop, hung gracelessly from him.

  He stopped, opened a door, and allowed her to enter. The corner office’s large windows looked out over the woods. His desk was as cluttered as it had always been. The walls were covered with framed photos of him with political heavyweights spanning many administrations, the largest one of him shaking hands with a smiling Harry S. Truman a few years before the President’s death. A cluster of color photographs of his wife and children stood on his desk. A pipe rack was full; little metal soldiers stood at attention along the air-conditioning and heating duct behind the desk.

  “Coffee?” he asked.

  “If it’s as good as it used to be.”

  “Sure it is. The only difference is that they told me I have a fast and irregular pulse. The doc thought I was drinking too much coffee and said I should use de-caf. I compromised. I mix it half and half now, half the amaretto from that fancy coffee and tea shop in Georgetown, the other half de-caf. Never know the difference.” Hank Fox’s special blends of coffee were well known throughout the agency, and being invited to share a pot carried with it the symbolism of acceptance and friendship.

  “Sensational,” Cahill exclaimed after her first sip. “You haven’t lost your touch, Hank.”

  “Not with coffee. Other things, well …”

  “They moved you.”

  “Yeah. That’s right, the last time I saw you was when I had that office in with Personnel. I liked it better there. Being up here in Miscellaneous Projects is another world. The director said it was a promotion, but I know better. I’m being eased out, which is okay with me. Hell, I’m sixty.”

  “Young.”

  “Bull! All this crap about being only as old as you think is babble from people who are afraid of getting old. You may feel young, but cut you open and the bones and arteries don’t lie.” He sat in a scarred leather swivel chair, propped his feet on the desk, and reached for a pipe, leaving Cahill staring at the soles of his shoes, both of which sported sizable holes. “So one of my prize pupils has returned to see the aging prof. How’ve you been?”

  “Fine.”

  “I got a BIGOT from Joe Breslin saying you were coming home.” Fox often used intelligence terms from his early days, even though they’d passed out of common usage over the years. “BIGOT” stemmed from secret plans to invade France during World War II. Gibraltar had been established as a planning center, and orders for officers being sent there were rubber-stamped “TO GIB.” BIGOT was the reverse, and the term came into being: Sensitive operations were known to be bigoted, and personnel given knowledge of them were on the bigot list.

  “Any reason for him doing that?” she asked.

  “Just an advisory. I was going to call but you beat me to it. This your first leave from Budapest?”

  “No. I took a few short ones to Europe, and got back home once about a year ago for a favorite uncle’s funeral.”

  “The boozer?”

  She laughed. “Oh, God, what a memory. No, my hard-drinking Uncle Bruce is still very much with us, rotted liver and all. Having him in the family almost blew my chances here, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah. That prissy little security guy raised it during your clearance investigation.” He belched and excused himself, then said, “If having an alky in the family ruled you out for duty around here, there’d only be a dozen temperance-league types running intelligence for the good ol’ U.S. of A.” He shook his head, “Hell, half the staff drinks too much.”

  She laughed and sipped more coffee.

  “Let me ask you a question,” he said in a serious tone. She looked up and raised her eyebrows. “You here strictly for R & R?”

  “Sure.”

  “The reason I ask is that I thought it was strange … well, maybe not strange, but unusual for Joe to bother using a BIGOT to tell me you were coming.”

  She shrugged. “Oh, you know Joe, Hank, the perpetual father figure. It was nice of him. He knows how fond I am of you.”

  “ ‘Fond.’ Pleasant term to use on an old man.”

  “Older man.”

  “Thank you. Well, I’m fond of you, too, and I just thought I’d raise the question in case you were involved in something official and needed an inside rabbi.”

  “Rabbi Henry Fox. Somehow, Hank, it doesn’t go with you. Priest, yes. They still call you that?”

  “Not so much anymore since they shifted me.”

  His comment surprised Cahill. She’d assumed he’d only been physically moved, but that his job had remained the same. She asked.

  “Well, Collette, I still keep a hand in training, but they’ve got me running an operation to keep track of the Termites and Maggots. It’s an
Octopus project.”

  Cahill smiled, said, “I never could keep it straight, the difference between Termites and Maggots.”

  “It really doesn’t matter,” Fox said. “The Termites are media types who don’t carry a brief for the Communists, but who always find something wrong with us. The Maggots follow the termites and do whatever’s popular which, as you know, means taking daily shots at us and the FBI and any other organization they see as being a threat to their First Amendment rights. Between you and me, I think it’s a waste of time. Take away their freedom to write what they want and there goes what the country’s all about in the first place. Anyway, we’ve got them on the computer and we plug in everything they write, pro or con.” He yawned and sat back in his chair, his arms behind his head.

  Cahill knew what he’d meant by it being an “Octopus project.” A worldwide computer system to track potential terrorists had been termed Project Octopus, and had become a generic label for similar computer-rooted projects. She also thought of Vern Wheatley. Was he a Maggot or a Termite? It caused her to smile. Obviously, he was neither, nor were most of the journalists she knew. It was a tendency of too many people within the CIA to apply negative terms to anyone who didn’t see things their way, a tendency that had always bothered her.

  She’d debated on her way to Langley whether to open up a little to Fox and to bring up Barrie Mayer. She knew it wasn’t the most prudent thing to do—need-to-know coming to the fore—but the temptation was there, and the fact that Joe Breslin had alerted Fox to her arrival gave a certain credence to the notion. There were few people within the Pickle Factory that she trusted. Breslin was one; Fox was another. Mistake! Trust no one, was the rule. Still … how could you go through life viewing everyone with whom you worked as a potential enemy? Not a good way to live. Not healthy. In Barrie Mayer’s case, it had worked the other way around. Whose confidence had she trusted that turned against her? Had Tolker been right, that her death might have been at the hand of a Soviet agent? It was so difficult to accept, but that was another rule that her employer instilled in every employee: “It’s easy to forget that we are at war every day with the Communists. It is their aim to destroy our system and our country, and a day must never pass when that reality isn’t at the forefront of your thinking.”