Murder in the CIA Page 13

  Melissa Mayer interrupted Cahill’s thoughts. “Barrie’s father left on her ninth birthday. We had no idea where he went, didn’t hear from him again until Barrie was ten and we received a call from the police in Florida. They told me that he’d died of a stroke. There wasn’t even a funeral because I didn’t want one. He was buried in Florida. I have no idea where.” She sighed. “He certainly lived on in Barrie, though. I’ve carried the guilt and shame of what I allowed to be done to my daughter all these years.” Her eyes filled up and she dabbed at them with a lace handkerchief.

  Collette felt a twinge of anger at the woman across from her, not only because of her admission that she did nothing to help her daughter, but because she seemed to be looking for sympathy.

  She quickly told herself that wasn’t fair and motioned for a waiter. They both ordered lobster bisque and Caesar salads.

  The conversation took a decided upturn in mood. Melissa wanted Cahill to talk about experiences she’d had with Barrie, and Collette obliged her, some of the stories making Melissa laugh heartily, aided, in Cahill’s mind, by the second drink.

  When lunch was over, Cahill brought up the subject of the men in Barrie’s life. Her question caused Barrie’s mother to smile. She said, “Thank God the experience with her father didn’t sour her on men for the rest of her life. She had a very active love life. But you must know more about that than I do. It’s not the sort of thing daughters routinely share with their mothers.”

  Cahill shook her head. “No, Barrie didn’t tell me about her male friends in great detail, although there was one, a yacht charter captain from the British Virgin Islands.” She waited for a response from the mother but got none. “Eric Edwards. You didn’t know about him?”

  “No. Was it a recent relationship?”

  Cahill nodded. “Yes, I think she was seeing him right up until the day she died. She shared her feelings about him with me. She was madly in love with him.”

  “No, I didn’t know about him. There was that psychiatrist she was seeing.”

  Cahill almost said the name but held herself in check. “Seeing professionally?” she asked.

  The mother made a sour face. “Yes, for a while. I was very much against it, her going into therapy where she’d have to bear her soul to a stranger.”

  Cahill said, “But, considering Barrie’s childhood, that might have been the best thing she could do. Hadn’t she had any professional help up until seeing this psychiatrist? You said his name was …?”

  “Tolker, Jason Tolker. No, I never saw the need for it. I think I was the one who should have had therapy, considering the grief it caused me all these years, but I don’t believe in it. People should be able to handle their own emotional lives. Don’t you agree?”

  “Well, I suppose … I gather from what you’ve said that Barrie saw him socially as well.”

  “Yes, and I found that appalling. Imagine going to someone like that for more than a year and telling your most intimate secrets and then going out with him. He must have considered her a fool.”

  Cahill thought for a moment, then said, “Was Barrie in love with this psychiatrist?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did you meet him?”

  “No. Barrie kept her personal life very separate from me. I suppose that goes back to her childhood needs to escape her father.”

  “I really don’t know of any other men in Barrie’s life,” Cahill said, “except for fellows she dated in college. We fell out of touch for a while, as you know.”

  “Yes. There is that fellow at the office, David Hubler, who I think she was interested in.”

  That was news to Cahill, and she wondered whether the mother had it straight. She asked whether Barrie had actually dated Hubler.

  “Not that I know of, and I suppose the fact that she freely introduced him to me means there was not romantic interest.” She suddenly looked older than she had at the beginning of lunch. She said, “It’s all water over the dam, isn’t it, now that she’s dead? All so wasted.” She sat up straight, as though she’d suddenly realized something. She looked Cahill in the eye. “You really don’t believe Barrie died of a heart attack, do you?”

  Cahill slowly shook her head.

  “What, then? Are you saying someone killed her?”

  “I don’t know, Melissa, I just know that I can’t accept the fact that she died the way they say she did.”

  “I hope you’re wrong, Collette. I know you’re wrong.”

  “I hope so. I’m glad we could get together for this lunch. I’d like to keep in touch with you while I’m back here in Washington.”

  “Yes, of course, that would be lovely. Would you come for dinner?”

  “I’d like that.”

  They went to the basement parking garage and stood next to Melissa Mayer’s Cadillac. Cahill asked, “When was the last time you saw Barrie?”

  “The night before it happened. She stayed with me.”

  “She did?”

  “Yes, we had a nice quiet dinner together before she took off on another journey. She traveled so much. I don’t know how she managed to keep her sanity with all the trips.”

  “It was a hectic schedule. Did she have her luggage with her at your house?”

  “Her luggage? Yes, she did, as a matter of fact. She was going to go directly to the airport but decided to stop at the office first to take care of some things.”

  “What kind of luggage did Barrie have?”

  “Regular luggage, one of those hang-up garment bags and a nice leather carry-on. Of course, there were always the briefcases.”

  “Two of them?”

  “No, only the one that she always used. I bought it for her birthday a few years ago.”

  “I see. Did she act different that night at your house? Did she complain about feeling ill, display any symptoms?”

  “Goodness, no, we had a delightful evening. She seemed in very good spirits.”

  They shook hands and drove off in their respective automobiles. A third car left the garage at the same time and fell in behind Cahill.

  She returned to the hotel and called David Hubler. They made a date for drinks at the Four Seasons at four. She then called the British Virgin Islands, got the number of the Edwards Yacht Charter Company, and reached a secretary who informed her that Mr. Edwards was away for a few days.

  “I see,” Cahill said. “Do you have any idea when he’ll be back? I’m calling from Washington and …”

  “Mr. Edwards is in Washington,” said the young woman, whose voice had an island lilt.

  “That’s wonderful. Where is he staying?”

  “At the Watergate.”

  “Thank you, thank you very much.”

  “What did you say your name was, ma’am?”

  “Collette Cahill. I was a friend of Barrie Mayer.” She waited; the name didn’t trigger a response from the girl.

  She hung up, called the Watergate Hotel, and asked for Mr. Edwards’s room. There was no answer. “Would you like to leave a message?”

  “No, thank you, I’ll call again.”

  13

  Cahill sat in the lavish lobby of Georgetown’s Four Seasons Hotel waiting for David Hubler. A pianist played light classics, the delicate notes as muted as the conversations at widely spaced tables.

  Cahill took in the faces of the well-dressed men and women. They were the faces of power and money, cause and effect, probably in reverse order. Dark suits, furs, highly polished shoes, minimal gestures, and comfortable posture. They belonged. Some people did and others didn’t, and nowhere was the distinction more obvious than in Washington.

  Were the people around her involved in politics and government? It was always assumed that everyone in Washington worked in its basic industry, government, but that had changed, Cahill knew, and for the better.

  It had seemed to her during her college days that every eligible young man worked for some agency or congressman or political action committee, and that all convers
ation gravitated toward politics. It had become boring for her at one point, and she’d seriously considered transferring to another college in a different part of the country to avoid becoming too insular. She didn’t, and ended up in government herself. What if? A silly game. What was reality for her was that she worked for the Central Intelligence Agency, had lost a friend, and was now in Washington trying to find out what had happened to that friend, for herself and for her employer.

  She realized as she waited for Hubler that she’d been forgetting or, at least, ignoring that second reason for being there.

  Her official assignment to take “leave” and to use it “unofficially” to find out more about Barrie Mayer’s death had been handed her so casually, as though it really didn’t matter what she discovered. But she knew better. Whatever underlying factors contributed to Mayer’s death, they had to do with Banana Quick, perhaps the most important and ambitious clandestine operation the Company had ever undertaken. The fact that it had been compromised in some way by Mayer’s death, and its implementation had been accelerated, added urgency—an urgency that Cahill now felt.

  She lost track of time, and of the Four Seasons as she reflected on what had transpired over the past few weeks, especially what had been said to her by her Hungarian agent, Árpád, and what Hank Fox had said that morning about a leak in Banana Quick.

  Tolker? Hegedüs had hinted that he might be “friendly” to the other side. But, she wondered, what information could he have on Banana Quick that would threaten the project and, if he did, where did he get it?

  Barrie Mayer? It was the only source that made any sense to her, but that raised its own question—where would Mayer have learned enough about the project?

  Eric Edwards? Possible. They were lovers, he was CIA, and he lived in the British Virgins.

  If Mayer was killed because of what she was carrying that pertained to Banana Quick, who had the most to gain, the Soviets, or someone working with or within the CIA with something to hide?

  She checked her watch. Hubler was a half hour late. She ordered a white wine and told the waitress she had to make a phone call. At Barrie’s agency, Marcia St. John answered. “I was supposed to meet David at the Four Seasons a half hour ago,” Collette said.

  “I don’t know where he is,” St. John said. “I know he planned to meet you but right after you called, he got another call and tore out of here like an Olympic sprinter.”

  “He didn’t say where he was going?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Well, I’ll wait another half hour. If he doesn’t show and checks in with you, ask him to call me at the Hotel Washington.”

  “Shall do.”

  As Collette resumed her seat in the Four Seasons and quietly sipped her wine, David Hubler parked his car in front of a hydrant in Rosslyn, got out, locked the door, and looked up the street. He had to squint, finally to shield his eyes with his hand from the harsh, direct rays of a blazing setting sun that was anchored at the far end of the busy road. There was a heavy, dirty haze in the air that compounded the blinding effect.

  He said aloud the address he’d been given by the caller who’d prompted him to run from the office, and to break his date with Collette. He checked his watch; he was ten minutes early. Street signs at the corner told him he was within half a block of his destination, an alley between two nondescript commercial buildings.

  A group of teenagers passed, one carrying a large portable radio and cassette player from which loud rock ’n’ roll blared. Hubler watched them pass, turned, and started for the corner. The sidewalk was busy with men and women leaving their jobs and heading home. He bumped into a woman and apologized, circumvented a young couple embracing, and reached the corner. “What the hell,” he said as he turned left and walked halfway down the block until reaching the entrance to the alley. He peered down it; the sun was anchored at its end, too. He cocked his head, focused his eyes on the ground, and took a few steps into the narrow passageway. It was empty, or appeared to be. Steel doors that were rear entrances to businesses were closed. Occasional piles of neatly bagged garbage jutted out into the alley; two motorcycles and a bicycle were securely chained to a ventilation pipe.

  Hubler continued, his eyes now searching walls on his left for a large red sign that would say NO PARKING. He found it halfway into the alley, above a bay of sorts. A narrow loading dock with a roll-down corrugated door was below the sign. Large drums, probably having contained chemicals or some other industrial product, were stacked three high and five deep, creating a pocket invisible to people on the streets at either end.

  He looked at his watch again. It was time. He skirted the drums and went to the loading dock, placed his hands on it, and listened. The alley was a silent refuge from the distant horns of the streets, the boom boxes, and the animated conversations of people happily escaping nine-to-five.

  “On time,” a male voice said.

  Hubler, hands still on the loading dock, raised his head and turned in the direction of the voice. His pupils shut down as his eyes tried to adjust from shadows to the stream of sunlight pouring into the alley. The man to whom the voice belonged took three steps forward and thrust his right hand at Hubler’s chest. A six-inch, needle-thin point of an ice pick slid easily through skin and muscle and reached Hubler’s heart, the handle keeping it from going through to his back.

  Hubler’s mouth opened wide. So did his eyes. A red stain bloomed on the front of his shirt. The man withdrew the pick, leaned his head closer to Hubler, and watched the result of his action, like a painter evaluating an impetuous stroke of red paint on his canvas. Hubler’s knees sagged and led his body down to the cement. His assailant quickly knelt and pulled Hubler’s wallet from his pants pocket and shoved it into his tan rain jacket. He stood, checked both ends of the alley, and walked toward the sun, now in the final stage of its descent.

  When Hubler didn’t arrive, Cahill paid for her drink and returned to her hotel. There were two messages, one from Vern Wheatley, the other from the British literary agent, Mark Hotchkiss. She tried Dave Hubler at home. No answer. Hotchkiss, the message said, was staying at the newly renovated Willard. She called; no answer in his room. Vern Wheatley was staying in his brother’s apartment on Dupont Circle. She reached him.

  “What’s up?” she asked.

  “Nothing much. I just thought you might be free for dinner.”

  “I’m not, Vern, wish I were. Rain check?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Sounds good. How’s the assignment going?”

  “Slow, but what else is new? Trying to pin down bureaucrats is like trying to slam a revolving door. I’ll give you a call tomorrow afternoon and set things up.”

  “Great.”

  “Hey, Collette?”

  “Huh?”

  “You have a date tonight?”

  “I wouldn’t call it that unless the fact that I’m having dinner with a man makes it so. Business.”

  “I thought you were home to relax.”

  “A little relaxation, a little business. Nothing heavy. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  She hung up and chided herself for the slip. As she took off her clothes and stepped into the shower, she found herself wishing she were on a vacation. Maybe she could tack on a week of leave when she was done snooping into Barrie Mayer’s death. That would be nice.

  After her shower, she stood naked in front of a full-length mirror and looked herself over from head to toe. “Strictly a salad, no bread,” she said to her reflection as she pinched the flesh at her waist. She certainly wasn’t overweight, but knew the possibility was always there should she neglect her sensible eating habits and go on a binge.

  She chose one of two dresses she’d brought with her from home, a mauve wool knit she’d had made for her in Budapest. Her hair had grown longer and she debated with herself whether she liked it that way. It didn’t matter at the moment. She wasn’t about to get a haircut that evening. She completed her ensemble with tan pumps, a simple
, single-strand gold necklace, and tiny gold pierced earrings, a gift to her from Joe Breslin on the first anniversary of her assignment to Budapest. She grabbed her purse and raincoat, went to the lobby, and told the doorman she needed a cab. She wasn’t in the mood to drive and have to search for parking spaces.

  It had started to rain, and the air had picked up a chill from a front that was passing through Washington. The doorman held a large golf umbrella over her as he opened the door to a taxi that pulled up. She gave the driver Jason Tolker’s address and, a few minutes later, was seated in his reception area. It was six forty-five; Tolker’s group session was still in progress.

  Fifteen minutes later, the participants in the group filed past her. Tolker emerged moments later, smiling. “Spirited group tonight. You watch them argue with each other over trivialities and understand why they don’t get along with colleagues and spouses.”

  “Do they know you’re that cynical?”

  “I hope not. Hungry?”

  “Not especially. Besides, I’ve put on a few pounds and would just as soon not compound it tonight.”

  He looked her up and down. “You look perfect to me.”

  “Thank you.” He didn’t waste time, she thought. She’d never responded to men who came up with lines like that, found them generally to be insecure and immature. Vern Wheatley flashed through her mind, and she wished she hadn’t accepted Tolker’s dinner invitation. Duty! she told herself, smiled, and asked what restaurant he had in mind.

  “The best in town, my house.”

  “Oh, wait a minute, Doctor, I …”

  He cocked his head and said in serious tones, “You’re stereotyping me, Miss Cahill, aren’t you, assuming that because I suggest dinner at my place the seduction scene is sure to follow?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “Mine, too, frankly, but if you’ll come to dinner at my house, I promise you that even if you change your mind, you’ll get no moves by me. I’ll throw you out right after coffee and cognac. Fair enough?”