Murder in the CIA Page 17
“Jesus.”
“They say robbery was the motive because his wallet and credit cards were missing, but that doesn’t prove anything to me.”
“No, I guess not. What irony, the two of them dying so close together.”
Collette nodded.
He looked directly at her and said, “I miss Barrie. We were getting close to making it official.”
Cahill was surprised. “You were planning marriage?”
“Maybe ‘planning’ isn’t the word, but we were headed in that general direction.” He smiled. It was a charming, engaging, little boy’s smile. “You must have thought I was some college sophomore with that message I left on your answering machine. It took me forever to get a line to Budapest. When I did and was faced with that infernal machine, I just started babbling. I was very upset. Very upset.”
“I can imagine,” said Cahill. “When had you last seen her?”
“A week or so before. Frankly, we’d been having a few problems and were looking forward to getting away for a few days to straighten things out. She was planning a trip to the BVI when she got back from Hungary. She’ll never make that trip now, will she?”
Cahill reacted by filling up. She took a deep breath and forced a smile. Her thoughts were on the situation that existed at the moment, the same old one that characterized every meeting she’d had during the past few days. Did he know she worked for the CIA? She reminded herself that she’d decided the answer to that earlier in the day. He knew. Still, should she bring everything up, Barrie’s courier life, Jason Tolker, her job in Budapest, and her knowledge of his job in the British Virgins?
Not yet, she decided. The wrong time.
“So, to get onto a lighter note,” Edwards said, “you’re coming to my little part of the world for a rest.”
“Yes, that’s right.” She’d forgotten that aspect of her visit.
“Made any plans yet?”
“Not really. It’s a last-minute decision. I thought I’d go to a travel agent but then I remembered you. Barrie said you know the BVI better than anyone.”
“That’s not true, but I have learned a lot sailing those islands. Want to go posh? Peter Island, Little Dix, Biras Creek. Want a little more action? The Tradewinds, Bitter End. Looking for a real native feel? Andy Flax’s Fischer’s Cove, Drake’s Anchorage on Mosquito Island. Lots of choices, with even more in between.”
Mosquito Island, she thought, the site of Banana Quick’s highest-level meetings. “What would you recommend?”
“There’s always my place.”
Would it be this easy?
“Or,” he said, “one of my yachts, if one is available. I promised you a day’s sailing. Might as well stay on board and save yourself some money.”
“That’s much too generous.”
“I wouldn’t be offering it to just anyone. Barrie stayed with me so many times, at my house and on the yachts. I’d really be privileged to have you, Collette. I can’t promise I’ll be around much. It depends on bookings, but we’re still out of season down there and, at least when I left, things were slow.” He stood and refilled his glass. “Another?”
She checked her watch. “You have to leave,” she said, “and I have things to do. I feel as though I should be doing something to repay your generosity.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said, walking her to the door.
“If you weren’t going back tomorrow, I’d invite you to join me at the Kennedy Center. I ended up with two tickets to a marvelous performance and there’s just me to use them.”
“Damn, I wish I could,” he said, “but it’s impossible. I have appointments back home in the afternoon. You’ll find somebody else.”
She was glad he turned her down. It had been an impetuous offer, one she thought might help bring them closer together in a hurry. But then, she realized, it would be awkward, if not impossible, to meet with Joe Breslin at intermission. Did Edwards know Breslin, and Hank Fox? Probably by name, not by sight. Agents like Edwards operated as rogues, seldom coming into contact with administrative types. They had their single contact in Langley, some operatives in place, and that was it. The nature of the beast. Whether he knew about her was another matter, a bridge to be crossed when …
“How’s things at the embassy?” he asked as they stood at the door.
“Fine, last I heard.”
“You still with the same division?”
What division was that? She said, “Yes.”
“When are you planning to come to the BVI?”
“I thought maybe … maybe Saturday.” It was Wednesday.
“Great. Pan Am goes into San Juan and you can catch an Air BVI flight from there. There’s a new direct service out of Miami, too.”
“I’d rather leave from New York.” She made a mental note to check out the Miami flight. “Thanks for the offer.”
“I look forward to it. You have my phone number. Let me know when you’re due to arrive and I’ll have you picked up.”
“This is all overwhelming.”
“It’s for Barrie. See you in the sun in a couple of days.”
18
The Dance Theatre of Harlem ended its first act to thunderous applause from twenty-five hundred people in Kennedy Center’s concert hall. Cahill joined in enthusiastically from her twelfth-row-center seat. She picked up her raincoat from the empty seat next to her and moved with the crowd as it spilled out into the Grand Foyer, the Hall of States, and the Hall of Nations. It had been raining when the audience arrived, but had stopped during the first act.
She went to one of the doors leading to the broad terrace on the Potomac and looked out. A few people had gone outside and stood in small groups separated by puddles. She looked toward the railing on the river side and saw Joe Breslin. His back was to her. Blue smoke from his pipe drifted up into the damp night air.
She came up behind him. “Hello, Joe.”
He didn’t turn as he said, “Nice night. I like it just after it rains.”
She joined him at the railing and they looked out over the river and toward National Airport. A jet screamed over them as it sought the solid safety of the runway, its landing gear extended like a large bird’s talons reaching for a tree branch. After its engine noise had faded, Breslin asked, “Enjoying the performance?”
“Very much. You?”
“It’s not my favorite entertainment but I suppose it has its place.”
She started to discuss the dance troupe but knew it wasn’t why they were standing there. “I made contact with Eric Edwards,” she said.
“And?”
“I’m joining him in the BVI on Saturday.”
He swiveled his head and stared at her, smiled, raised his eyebrows, and returned his gaze to the river. “That was fast,” he said, sounding disapproving.
“It was easy,” she said. “Barrie paved the way.”
“Barrie?”
“The common bond between us. I didn’t have to do any seducing. We’re a couple of friends because of her.”
“I see. Are you staying with him?”
“Yes, either at his home or on one of his yachts.”
“Good. How did you meet up with him?”
“I called. He invited me for a drink at his suite at the Watergate. Actually, I invited myself. I told him I was planning a vacation in the BVI and asked for recommendations.”
“Good tactic.”
“I thought so. Anyway, it worked. Now, what’s the next step?”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning, what are you looking for while I’m there?”
Breslin shrugged and drew on his pipe. “I don’t know, anything that looks interesting.”
“It can’t be that vague, Joe.”
“I don’t mean it to be.” His sigh was deep and prolonged. He looked around at others on the terrace. The nearest people were fifteen feet away—two couples who’d come to the railing to see the river. Breslin positioned his body so that he leaned on the rail with
his back to them, and was facing Cahill. “Why are you staying with your former boyfriend?”
His directness took her aback. “Vern Wheatley? How do you know about him?”
“It’s not so much knowing about him, Collette, it’s knowing about you.”
“I’m being followed?”
“You’re being protected.”
“From what?”
“From harm.”
“I resent this, Joe.”
“Be grateful. What about Wheatley?”
“What about him? We went together in high school, that’s all. When I came home, my mom threw a party and he showed up. He’s down here on assignment for Esquire magazine.”
“I know that. Why are you staying with him?”
“Because … Christ, Joe, what business is it of yours?”
“You’re right, Collette, it’s not my business. It’s the Company’s business.”
“I’d debate that.”
“Don’t bother.”
He looked at her and said nothing. She said, “Vern was the one who told me about David Hubler being killed.”
“And he convinced you to leave the hotel and move in with him for … for your own safety?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, that’s exactly what happened.” She shook her head and made a sound by blowing air past her lips. “Boy, I am some protected girl, huh, Joe? What are you doing now, trying to get me to distrust Vern, too? Trust nobody, right? Everybody’s a spy or a double agent or a …”
Breslin ignored her rising emotions and said flatly, “You do know that your high school beau is in Washington researching a story on us?”
It hit her in the chest like a fist. “No, I did not know that,” she said in a controlled voice.
“Hank Fox’s unit has been tracking your friend.”
“So?”
“Maybe he wants you close to him for information.”
“I doubt that.”
“Why?”
“Because …”
“I think you should be aware of the possibility.”
“Thank you.” She wasn’t proud of the snippy way she answered, but it was the best she could manage.
“About Edwards. There’s a possibility that he’s the leak in Banana Quick.”
“So I heard.”
“If so, he’s potentially dangerous.”
“In what way?”
“Physically. To you. It’s something else I thought you’d appreciate knowing.”
“Of course I do.”
“It’s possible he’s been turned.”
Another fist in the chest. “I thought it was just a matter of drinking too much and a loose tongue.”
“Could be those things, too, but the possibility of a turn can never be overlooked. It isn’t prudent to overlook such possibilities.”
“I certainly won’t. Anything else you think I should know?”
“Lots of things. Your man, Árpád Hegedüs, is on his way to Russia.”
“He is? They did it?”
“Yes. We had one final meeting with him before he left. It wasn’t easy. He wouldn’t talk to anyone except ‘His Miss Cahill.’ We managed to convince him that it was in his interest to talk with somebody else.”
“How is he?”
“Frazzled, afraid of what’s in store for him once he’s back in Mother Russia. He almost bolted, came over to us.”
“He wanted that.”
“I know, I went over the transcript of the session with Stan. The woman he’s met complicated things for him. He was ready to defect and bring her with him.”
“He didn’t.”
“We dissuaded him.”
“Because we need him.” Now it was scorn she didn’t intend to come from her mouth.
“We suspect he’ll be all right. There’s nothing to indicate he’s in trouble.”
“The woman?”
“She’s a clerk in a Hungarian food-processing plant. No use to us.”
“I don’t think we’ll ever see Hegedüs again.”
“We’ll see. What’s really important is that casual, last-minute comment he made at the end of your session with him about Dr. Tolker.”
“I know. I never had a chance to discuss it with anyone before I left. I figured the transcript would tell the tale.”
“We think Tolker’s okay.”
“Why?”
“Because … because he’s never done anything to raise anyone’s doubts. Still …”
“Still, he was Barrie Mayer’s contact, and she was intimate with Eric Edwards which, according to Logic 101, means a link with Banana Quick. Maybe Tolker’s the leak.”
“Maybe, maybe not. We’re watching him. What concerns us more at the moment is his link with your former beau, Mr. Wheatley.”
The fists to the breastbone were beginning to hurt. “What link?” she asked.
“Wheatley is digging into a program that we abandoned years ago. Project Bluebird? MK-ULTRA?”
“Means nothing to me.”
“It was covered in your training. Mind control. Drug experimentation.”
“Okay, I remember vaguely. Why would Vern be interested if it’s past tense?”
Breslin hunched his shoulders beneath his raincoat against a sudden cool breeze that whipped in from the river. “That’s what we’d like to know. Maybe you could …?”
“Nope.”
“Why not? He’s using you as a source of information for his ends.”
“That’s your interpretation, not mine.”
“Do him a favor, Collette, and ask some questions. He’s swimming in deep water.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Look at Mr. Hubler.”
Cahill started to respond, pushed away from the railing, and took steps toward the door leading back into the Kennedy Center. Breslin said, “Collette, come here.”
She stopped; lights flashed indicating the second act was about to begin. She turned, hands in her blazer pockets, head cocked, eyes narrowed.
Breslin smiled and made a small motion with his index finger for her to return to him. She looked down into a wavy reflection of herself in a large puddle on the terrace, brought her eyes back up to him, and retraced her steps. Another jet, this time taking off from National, shattered the moment with its crescendo of full throttle.
Breslin said once she was again at his side, “David Hubler came over to Rosslyn because he’d been told there was a book to be offered on an inside story about us.” She started to say something but he raised his finger to silence her. “He was to meet someone on the corner where we have a facility. This unnamed person was to talk to him about selling inside information which, in turn, would be turned into a book, a best seller no doubt.”
Cahill just stared at him and blinked.
“This facility in Rosslyn is the one Hank Fox directs.”
Another blink. Then, the question, “And David was killed by this person who was going to sell him information?”
“David was killed by … we don’t know.”
“Not robbery?”
“Not likely.”
“Us? Someone from … us?”
“I don’t know. Your friend, Vern Wheatley, was there when it happened.”
“He was with the Rosslyn police looking for information on a story he’s doing about Washington and …”
“He was there.” His words were stone-hard.
“Good God, Joe, you’re not suggesting that Vern had anything to do with David’s murder?”
“I stopped suggesting things a long time ago, Collette. I just raise possibilities these days.”
“You’re damn good at it.”
“Thanks. By the way, one of Barrie Mayer’s clients, Zoltán Réti, was in to see us.” He laughed. “Talk about a poor choice of words. He contacted Ruth Lazara from Cultural Exchange at a party, said he had to talk to someone. We arranged a meet.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that he was convinced that he’d
been sent to London for a conference because they knew he was supposed to meet Barrie Mayer when she arrived in Budapest.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning … that the Soviets evidently knew not only that she was carrying something important, but that they wanted her point man out of the way.”
“You think the Soviets killed her?”
“No idea.”
“Joe.”
“What?”
“What was Barrie carrying?”
“As far as I can ascertain, nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“She was killed for nothing?”
“Looks like it.”
“Great. That gives real value to her life.”
He re-ignited his pipe.
“We have to go in,” Cahill said. “It’s starting again.”
“Okay. One more thing, Collette. Keep these things in mind. One, choosing you to follow up on the Banana Quick leak isn’t a frivolous choice. You have the perfect reasons for asking questions, and now you’ve got an invitation from one of our primary people. You’ve met Tolker. Don’t drop that contact. You’re living with someone who’s poking his nose into our affairs, which means you have as much access to him as he has with you. Be a pro, Collette. Drop all the personal reactions and do the job. You’ll be rewarded.”
“How?”
He grunted. “You want figures?”
“No, I want some sense of being able to return to a routine life.”
“Meeting Hungarian turncoats in secret safehouses?”
“Right now, Joe, that’s like working nine to five as a switchboard operator.”
“Do the job and you can have what you want. They told me.”
“Who?”
“The brain trust.”
“Joe.”
“What?”
“I don’t know you.”
“Sure you do. When this whole thing settles, it’ll be like old times, dinners at Gundel, the Miniatur, heartburn, out-of-tune violins. Trust me.”
“They say that in L.A.”
“Trust me. I’m a fan.”
“I’ll try.”
Cahill skipped the second act and returned to the apartment where Vern Wheatley was waiting. He was in his shorts, a can of beer in his hand, his bare feet propped up on the coffee table. “Where’ve you been?” he asked.