Murder in the CIA Page 15

  The story went on to provide sketchy details about Hubler. Barrie Mayer’s death was mentioned in the final paragraph: “The agency for which Hubler worked suffered another recent loss when its founder and president, Barrie Mayer, died in London of a coronary.”

  Collette sat on a couch in the living room. She wore Wheatley’s robe. Her eyes were focused on the newspaper. Wheatley paced the room.

  “It could be a coincidence,” Cahill said in a monotone.

  Wheatley stopped at the window, looked out, rolled his fingertips on the pane, turned, and said, “Be reasonable, Collette. It can’t be. Both of them within such a short period of time?”

  A local news cutaway came on TV and they turned their attention to it. It was the second lead story. Nothing new. Just the facts of Hubler’s death—apparent robbery—a thin, sharp object the weapon. No suspects. “Back to Charles Gibson in New York and his guest, a former rock star who’s found religion.”

  Collette clicked off the set. They’d been up all night, first in her room at the hotel, then to the apartment at 4:00 A.M. where Wheatley made coffee. She’d cried, much of it out of sympathy for David Hubler, some of it because she was frightened. Now her tear tank, she thought, was empty. All that was left was a dry throat, stinging eyes, and a hollow feeling in her stomach.

  “Tell me again how you found out David was dead.”

  “That’s a real coincidence, Collette. I happened to be over at Rosslyn police headquarters trying to run down some leads for this assignment I’m on. I was there when the report came in about Hubler. Because of you, I knew right away who he was. You talked a lot about him the night of your party, how that guy Hotchkiss claims he ended up owning the agency and what it would mean to Hubler.”

  “You just happened to be there?” There was disbelief in her voice.

  “Yeah. The minute I heard, I came looking for you at the hotel.”

  She blew a stream of breath through her lips and pulled on a clump of her hair. “It’s scary, Vern, so scary.”

  “You bet it is, which is why you can’t go around viewing it as some dumb coincidence. Look, Collette, you don’t buy the fact that your friend Barrie dropped dead of a heart attack. Right?”

  “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to. The way you talked about it said it all. If you’re right—if she was killed by someone—Hubler’s death means a hell of a lot more. Right?”

  “I don’t know how Barrie died. The autopsy said …”

  “What autopsy? Who did it, some London doctor, you said? Who’s he? Did anybody back here connected with her family confirm it?”

  “No, but …”

  “If Barrie Mayer didn’t die of natural causes, who do you think might have killed her?”

  “Damn it, Vern, I don’t know! I don’t know anything anymore.”

  “More coffee?” Wheatley asked.

  “No.”

  “Let’s view it rationally,” Wheatley said. “Whoever killed Hubler might have killed Barrie, right? The motive could have to do with the agency, with a client, a publisher, or with this character Hotchkiss. What do you know about him?”

  “That I didn’t particularly like him, that he had dinner with Barrie in London the night before she died, and that he claims to have entered into a partnership agreement with her.”

  “Did he show you papers?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know where he lives, where his office is in London?”

  “I have it written down. He’s not there, though. He’s in Washington.”

  Wheatley’s eyes widened. “He’s here.”

  “Yes. He left a message for me. He’s at the Willard.”

  “You talked to him?”

  “No. He wasn’t there when I returned his call.”

  Wheatley started pacing again. He paused at the window. “Let me talk to Hotchkiss,” he said.

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “I’m interested.”

  “Why? You didn’t know any of these people.”

  “I feel like I did because of you.” He sat next to her and put his hand on her arm. “Look, Collette, you check out of the hotel and come stay here with me. My brother won’t be back for another couple of weeks.”

  “I thought …”

  “So did I, but he called from Africa yesterday. He finished the photo assignment but he wants to do some shooting for himself.”

  She pondered his suggestion. “You seem to think I might be in danger,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not, but you’re a link, too, to both of them. You’ve met Hotchkiss. He knows you were close to Barrie and that you know about Barrie’s will that sets Hubler up to run the agency. I don’t know, Collette, I just think being safe is better than being sorry.”

  “This is all silly, Vern. I could go back to Mom’s house.”

  “No, I want you here.”

  She looked up into his slender, chiseled face and realized he was giving an order, wasn’t suggesting anything. She got up, went to the window, and watched people on the street below scurrying to work, briefcases and brown paper bags of coffee and Danish in their hands. There was something comforting about seeing them. It was normal. What was happening to her wasn’t.

  Wheatley said, “I’m going to take a shower. I have some appointments this morning. What are you up to?”

  “I don’t have any definite plans. I have some calls to make and …”

  “And we check you out of the hotel. Right?”

  “Okay. Can I use the phone?”

  “Use anything you want. And let’s get something straight right now, up front. You stay here, but it doesn’t mean you have to sleep with me.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “Did you really think I’d assume that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but I just want it understood.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Don’t be a wise guy.”

  “And don’t you be a male chauvinist.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll do my best.”

  She heard the shower come on, picked up the phone in the living room and called her mother.

  “Collette, where have you been? I tried you many times at the hotel and …”

  “I’m okay, Mom, just a change of plans. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. Is anything wrong with you?”

  “No, but Mr. Fox called. He was the one you liked so much, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. What did he want?”

  “He said it was very important that you call him. I promised I’d get the message to you but I couldn’t reach you.”

  “That’s okay, Mom. I’ll call him this morning. Anything else new?”

  “No. Your Uncle Bruce fell last night. He broke his arm.”

  “That’s terrible. Is he in the hospital?”

  “He should be but he wouldn’t stay. That’s the problem with drinking like he does. He can’t go to the hospital because he can’t drink there. They set his arm and sent him home.”

  “I’ll call.”

  “That would be nice. He’s such a good man except for all the drinking. It’s a curse.”

  “I have to go, Mom. I’ll call you later in the day. By the way, I’ll be staying at Vern’s brother’s apartment for a few days.”

  “With him?”

  “Vern? Well …”

  “His brother.”

  “Oh, no. He’s in Africa on a photo assignment. Vern will be here but …”

  “You be careful.”

  “Of Vern?”

  “I don’t mean that, I just …”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Give him my best. He’s a nice boy.”

  “I will.” She gave her the apartment phone number.

  Wheatley came from the shower wearing a big, fluffy red towel around his waist. His hair was wet and fell over his forehead. “Who’d you call?” he asked.

  “My mother. She says hello.”

  “The bat
hroom’s all yours.”

  “Thanks.”

  She closed the bathroom door, hung the robe on the back of it, and turned on the shower. A radio inside the stall was tuned to a light rock station. She reached through the water and steam and found WGMS-FM, where Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings was being performed by the New York Philharmonic. She turned up the volume, withdrew her hand, stood in front of the mirror, wiped condensation from it with her palm, and peered at herself.

  “Out of control,” she said. “Everything’s out of control.”

  The poignancy of the music drew her into the shower, where she eased herself under the torrent of hot water until her body had acclimated, then thrust her face beneath it. As fatigue was driven from her by the pulsating stream, she thought of her decision—his decision—to stay with him. Maybe she shouldn’t. There was no need. She wasn’t in any danger.

  She absently wondered why Wheatley was so interested? Of course … how stupid not to realize it immediately. There’s a story in it, possibly a big one. He wanted her close in case she could contribute to it by knowing Mayer and Hubler. She’d undoubtedly be finding out more about their deaths, and he could use that knowledge. It didn’t anger her that she might be used by him. In fact, it set her mind at ease.

  She took a plastic bottle of shampoo from a white wire rack, poured some into her hand, and vigorously worked it into her hair. It relaxed her; she felt ready to start the day. She’d call Hank Fox, then go to Barrie Mayer’s agency where she’d find out what she could from her associates. There was Mark Hotchkiss to call, and Eric Edwards. It would be a busy day but she welcomed it. She’d been floundering too long, flopping between the role of concerned, grieving friend and unofficial investigator. It was time to pull everything together, accomplish what she could, grab a legitimate week’s vacation and get back to Budapest where, no matter how much intrigue existed, there was a sense of order and structure.

  She didn’t hear the door open. It was only an inch at first, then wider. Wheatley stuck his head inside the bathroom and said softly, “Collette.”

  The water and music blotted out everything for her.

  “Collette,” he said louder.

  She sensed rather than heard him, looked through the glass door and saw him standing there. She gasped; hot water instantly filled her throat and caused her to gag.

  “Collette, I have some clean Jockey shorts if you want a pair. Socks, too.”

  “What? Shorts?”

  “Yeah. Sorry to barge in.” He backed out and closed the door.

  She quickly finished showering, stepped out and stood immobile, her heart pounding, her lips quivering. “Shorts,” she said. “Jockey shorts.” She began to calm down and started to laugh as she dried her hair. He’d left a clean pair of shorts and white athletic socks on a hamper. She put them on, slipped the dress she’d worn the night before over her head, and went to the bedroom where he was finishing dressing in jeans, a turtleneck, and a corduroy sport jacket.

  “Thanks for the shorts and socks,” she said. “They don’t exactly go with the dress, but they’ll do until I can get back to the hotel.”

  “We’ll go right now,” he said. “Hope I didn’t scare you?”

  “Scare me? Of course not. I thought you were making a move.”

  “I promised, remember?”

  She thought of Jason Tolker’s similar promise. She tried to slip her pumps over the heavy socks, gave up, and slipped bare feet into them. “Can’t use these,” she said, tossing the socks on the bed.

  They drove to the hotel in her rented car, checked out, and an hour later were back in the apartment. “Got to go,” Wheatley said. “Here’s an extra key to the place. Catch up later?”

  “Sure.”

  “Who are you seeing today?”

  “I’m going over to Barrie’s agency.”

  “Good idea. By the way, who was that guy you were with last night?”

  “Just a friend. A doctor, friend of the family.”

  “Oh. We’re on for dinner tonight, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Take care. Maybe I’m being paranoid but I’d move easy,” he said. “Don’t take chances.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Not worth it. After all, murder isn’t your business. You help stranded tourists, right?”

  “Right.” There was a playful, disbelieving tone in his voice, and it irked her.

  After he’d gone, she picked up the phone and called Hank Fox in Langley.

  “You took your time,” he said.

  “I just got the message. My mother couldn’t track me last night.”

  “One of those nights, huh?”

  “Not in the least. Why did you call me?”

  “A need to talk. Free now?”

  “Well, I …”

  “Be free. It’s important. You have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Meet me in an hour at the scenic overlook off the G.W. Parkway, the one near the Roosevelt Bridge. Know it?”

  “No, but I’ll find it.”

  “An hour.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  15

  Collette dressed in a gray skirt, low shoes, red-and-white striped button-down shirt and blue blazer. She went to a coffee shop around the corner from the apartment and had bacon and eggs, then got in her car and headed for her rendezvous with Hank Fox.

  She kept to the speed limit on the George Washington Memorial Parkway, but her mind was going faster. Had Fox found a link between Barrie Mayer’s and David Hubler’s deaths? That possibility opened up another avenue of thought—David Hubler might have been involved with the CIA, too. That hadn’t occurred to her before but, now that it had, it didn’t seem far-fetched. Hubler and Mayer worked closely together at the agency. Mayer’s frequent trips to Budapest, and the constant contact with authors like Zoltán Réti, could easily have opened up areas of discussion between them. Even if it hadn’t, there had to be some tangible vestige of Mayer’s part-time work for the CIA kicking around the office. Maybe she’d actually recruited Hubler into her second life. If that were the case, Cahill hoped she’d done it with agency blessing. Taking others into the fold without being ordered to do so was bound to cause major trouble, big enough, she realized, to have caused their deaths. She’d heard of agents who’d been “terminated” by the CIA itself, not for revenge or punishment as with the Mafia, but as an expedient means of closing leaks on a permanent basis.

  Traffic was light this morning, so light that she noticed a green sedan that had fallen in behind her as soon as she turned onto the parkway. It stayed a considerable distance from her, but occasional glances in the rearview mirror confirmed that it was still there. She decided not to proceed to the location given her by Hank Fox until the green sedan was no longer an issue. She reached the scenic overlook Hank Fox had mentioned but passed it, her eyes quickly surveying the area. There were two cars, one a four-door pale blue Chevrolet Caprice, the other a white station wagon with paneling. A young woman holding a baby on her hip walked a dalmatian on a leash. A pit stop for the dog, Cahill thought, as she got off at the next exit and made a series of sharp turns on local streets until finding her way back onto the parkway. She checked her watch; she was ten minutes early but that time would be eaten by having to exit the parkway again and circling back. She checked behind her in the mirror. No green sedan. So much for that.

  Precisely an hour after she’d talked to Fox she turned into the parking area. The woman, baby, and dog were gone, leaving the Caprice sitting by itself. Cahill pulled up next to it, put her car into PARK, turned, and peered into the Caprice. Hank Fox looked back at her through the glass. She noticed there was someone else in the car. She stiffened; why would he bring someone else? Who was it? She tried to see, but glare on the window left only a vague image in the passenger seat.

  Both doors on the Caprice opened. Hank Fox stepped out of the driver’s side, Joe Breslin the other. Collette breathed a sigh of relief, a
nd surprise. What was Breslin doing there?

  Fox slid in next to her and Breslin got in the rear.

  “Joe, what a surprise,” Cahill said, turning and smiling.

  “Yes, for me, too,” Breslin said, slamming the door.

  “Let’s go,” Fox said.

  “Where?” asked Cahill.

  “For a ride, that’s all. Head out toward the airport.”

  Cahill did her turnaround again and headed south on the parkway, along the Potomac, until reaching National Airport. Fox told her to pull into the metered parking area. When she was at a meter and had turned off the engine, he said, “You two go inside. I’ll stay with the car.”

  They entered the terminal and Breslin led the way to the observation deck entrance. They paid, went through the door, and stood at a railing. Below them was the aircraft ramp area and active runways. A brisk wind whipped Collette’s hair. She gently pressed her middle fingers against her ears to muffle the whine of jet engines.

  “Just right,” Breslin said.

  “What?”

  “Just the right amount of ambient noise.” He moved closer to her, turned, and said inches from her ear, “Plans have changed.”

  Cahill looked quizzically at him.

  “How would you like a little time in the sun?” he asked.

  “Sounds nice. I was going to ask about a vacation.”

  “It’s not a vacation. It’s an assignment.”

  When he didn’t say more, she asked.

  “They want you in the BVI.”

  “Why?”

  “To get to know Eric Edwards. They want you to get close to him, see what he’s up to.”

  Cahill looked to the runway where a Boeing 737 was slicing into a gray sky. Breslin, his hands shoved into his raincoat pockets, a dead pipe clenched in his teeth, paused for what he’d said to sink in, then removed the pipe and leaned toward her. “Banana Quick has been badly compromised, Collette. We have to know how and why.”

  “Edwards is in Washington, not the BVI,” she said.

  “We know that, but he’ll be returning there in a couple of days. They want you to make contact with him here and do whatever you have to do to … to get inside him. See if you can wangle an invitation from him to go down there.”