Murder in the CIA Read online

  “I … I won’t.”

  Wayman said, “She responds only to me. What do you want her to do?”

  “Learn a phrase, and be told I’m the one she’s to repeat it to.”

  “All right. Harriet, I want you to remember what I’m about to say to you. You’ll never repeat it to anyone else except someone who says to you, ‘The fog is thick.’ All right?”

  “Yes,” she said in a dreamy voice.

  “I want you to remember, ‘There are four people. Two of them are good, and two of them are bad. The bad ones are Bill and Sally.’ Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I tell you to come out of the pleasant, relaxed state you’re enjoying now, you’ll remember that phrase and only repeat it to someone who says, ‘The fog is thick.’ ”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to count backwards from five to one. When I reach one, you’ll open your eyes and feel very good, very relaxed. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Five—four—three—two—one.”

  She blinked open her eyes and a placid smile crossed her face.

  “Feel good?” Wayman asked.

  “Yes. I feel good.”

  “You look very relaxed, at peace,” Tolker said.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  Tolker laughed. “You know who I am. I was introduced to you only a few minutes ago.”

  “Yes, I remember. You’re Dr. James.”

  “That’s right. I was wondering, Harriet, about the four people we’ve been discussing.”

  She looked at Wayman and frowned.

  “You know who I mean,” Tolker said, “the four people we’re concerned about. We want to know which ones we can trust and which ones we can’t trust.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  “Of course you don’t,” Wayman said. He looked at Tolker and said, “Go ahead.”

  Tolker said to her, “Harriet, the fog is thick.”

  She closed her eyes, opened them, and blinked rapidly.

  “Did you hear me, Harriet? I said the fog is thick.”

  Her eyes continued to flutter. They rolled up in her head, and her arm began to tremble. She said in a halting, tentative voice, “There are … four people. Some of them are good and … two of them are bad. The bad ones are … Bill … and … Sally.”

  “Excellent,” Wayman said. He sat back and looked to Tolker for approval. Tolker returned to the desk and resumed his seat on its edge.

  Wayman said to Harriet, “That was very good, Harriet. You’re not in your relaxed state anymore. You can open your eyes now. You’ve done a very good job.”

  Tolker watched her come out of her hypnotic state. She shook her head and rubbed her eyes.

  “What do you remember?” Wayman asked her.

  “I remember … I was feeling very good. Is there something else I should remember, Doctor?” It was the same angry, scornful voice she’d used earlier.

  “No,” Wayman said. He stood and held out his hand to her. “Why don’t you wait in the other room. I won’t be long. I just want to talk to my colleague for a few moments.”

  She got up and ran her hands over the front of her dress. Tolker observed that she was attractive, a little overweight but with a frank sensuality she was used to displaying. She watched him, openly inviting him as she crossed the room, opened a door, and went out.

  “Impressed?” Wayman said. He’d gone to his chair behind the desk and lighted a cigarette.

  “Yes. She’s good. I’m not sure she’s a five, though.”

  “I test her that way,” said Wayman.

  “I’d have to look again. Her upgaze is, but the eye roll might not be.”

  “Does it really matter?” Wayman asked, not bothering to mask the amusement in his voice. “This search for the perfect five is probably folly, Jason.”

  “I don’t think so. How long have you been working with her?”

  Wayman shrugged. “Six months, eight months. She’s a prostitute, or was, a good one, highly paid.”

  “A call girl.”

  “That is more genteel. We came across her by accident. One of the contacts arranged for her to bring men to the safehouse. I watched a few of the sessions and realized that what I was seeing in her was far more interesting than the way the men were behaving under drugs. I mentioned it to the contact and the next time she was up, we were introduced. I started working with her the next day.”

  “She was that willing?”

  “She’s bright, enjoys the attention.”

  “And the money?”

  “We’re paying her fairly.”

  Tolker laughed. “Is this the first time she’s been put to the test?”

  It was Wayman’s turn to laugh. “For heaven’s sake, no. I’d started planting messages with her and testing the recall process within the first month. She’s never failed.”

  “I’ll have to see more.”

  “Tonight?”

  “No.” Tolker walked to a window that was covered by heavy beige drapes. He touched the fabric, turned, and said, “There’s something wrong with using a hooker, Bill.”

  “Why?”

  “Hookers are … Christ, one thing they’re not is trustworthy.”

  Wayman came up behind and patted him on the back. “Jason, if one’s basic morality were a criterion for choosing subjects in this project, we’d all have abandoned it years ago. In fact, we’d all have been ruled out ourselves.”

  “Speak for yourself, Bill.”

  “Whatever you say. Shall I continue with her?”

  “I suppose so. See how far you can take her.”

  “I’ll do that. By the way, I was sorry to hear about Miss Mayer.”

  “I’d rather not discuss it.”

  “Fine, except it must rank as a loss, Jason. If I understood you correctly the last time we met at Langley, she represented one of your best cases.”

  “She was all right, a solid four, nothing special.”

  “I thought she was …”

  “Just a solid four, Bill. I couldn’t use her to carry mentally. She worked out as a bag carrier.”

  “Just that?”

  Tolker glared at him. “Yes, just that. Anything else for me to see while I’m out here?”

  “No. I have a young man in therapy who shows potential, but I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  Wayman showed Tolker out of the building and to his car. “You drive her home?” Tolker asked.

  “Yes.”

  “She live in San Fran?”

  “Yes.”

  “She still turn tricks?”

  “Only for us. We have a session set up for tomorrow night. Care to join us?”

  “Maybe I will. Same place?”

  “Yes. Good night, Jason.”

  “Good night, Bill.”

  Dr. William Wayman closed the door behind him and muttered “Slime” as he climbed the stairs.

  Tolker returned to the city, called his wife from the room at the Hopkins, had a brief conversation. Their marriage had deteriorated to an accommodation years ago. He called another number. A half hour later a young Oriental girl wearing a silk dress the color of tangerines knocked at the door. He greeted her, said, “It’s been too long,” and sprawled on the bed as she went into the bathroom. When she returned, she was nude. She carried a small plastic bag of white powder, which she placed on the bed next to him. He grinned and absently ran his hand over her small breast.

  “I brought the best,” she said.

  “You always do,” he said as he rolled off the bed and started to undress.

  At eleven o’clock the next night Jason Tolker stood with Dr. William Wayman and two other men in a small apartment. A video camera was positioned against an opening through the wall into the adjoining apartment. A small speaker carried audio from the other apartment.

  “Here we go,” one of them said, as what had been a static picture of the next room on the monitor suddenly came to l
ife. The door to the next room opened. Harriet, the woman from Wayman’s office the night before, led a rotund man through the door. She closed and locked it, turned, and started to undo his tie. He was drunk. A large belly hung over the front of his pants, and his suit jacket was visibly wrinkled even in the room’s dim light.

  “Drink?” she asked.

  “No, I …”

  “Oh, come on, join me in a drink. It gets me in the mood.”

  She returned from the kitchen with two glasses.

  “What’s she using?” Tolker asked.

  “That new synthetic from Bethesda,” Wayman said.

  It turned out to be a wasted evening, at least scientifically. The man Harriet had brought to the apartment was too drunk to be a valid subject, the effects of the drug she’d placed in his drink compromised by the booze. He was too drunk even to have sex with her, and fell asleep soon after they’d climbed into bed, the sound of his snoring rasping from the speakers. The men in the next room continued to watch, however, while Harriet pranced about the room. She examined her full body in a mirror, and even hammed for the camera after a cautious glance at the sleeping subject.

  “Disgusting,” Tolker muttered as he prepared to leave.

  “Harriet?” Wayman asked.

  “The fat slob. Tell her to pick better quality next time.” He returned to the hotel and watched Randolph Scott in a western on TV before falling asleep.

  9

  VIRGINIA, TWO DAYS LATER

  It was good to be home.

  Collette Cahill had slept off her jet lag in the room that had been hers as she grew up. Now she sat in the kitchen with her mother and helped prepare for a party in her honor that night, not a big affair, just neighbors and friends in for food and drinks to welcome her back.

  Mrs. Cahill, a trim and energetic woman, had gone to an imported food store and bought things she felt represented Hungarian fare. “That’s all I eat now, Mom,” Collette had said. “We get a lot of Hungarian food.”

  To which her mother replied, “But we don’t. It’s a good excuse. I’ve never had goulash.”

  “You still won’t have had it, Mom. In Hungary, goulash is a soup, not a stew.”

  “Pardon me,” her mother said. They laughed and embraced and Collette knew nothing had changed, and was thankful for it.

  Guests began to arrive at seven. There was a succession of gleeful greetings at the door: “I can’t believe it.” “My God, it’s been ages!” “You look wonderful.” “Great to see you again.” One of the last guests to arrive was, to Collette’s surprise, her high school beau, Vern Wheatley. They’d been “a number” in high school, had dated right through graduation when they promptly went their separate ways, Collette staying in the area to attend college, Wheatley to the University of Missouri to major in journalism.

  “This is … this is too much,” Cahill said as she opened the door and stared at him. Her first thought was that he’d grown more handsome over the years, but then she reminded herself that every man got better-looking after high school. His sandy hair had receded only slightly, and he wore it longer than in his yearbook photo. He’d always been slender, but now he was sinewy slim. He wore a tan safari jacket over a blue button-down shirt, jeans, and sneakers.

  “Hi,” he said. “Remember me?”

  “Vern Wheatley, what are you doing here? How did you …?”

  “Came down to Washington on assignment, called your mom, and she told me about this blast. Couldn’t resist.”

  “This is …” She hugged him and led him to the living room where everyone was gathered. After introductions, Collette led him to the bar where he poured himself a glass of Scotch. “Collette,” he said, “you look sensational. Budapest must be palatable.”

  “Yes, it is. I’ve had a very enjoyable assignment there.”

  “Is it over? You’re coming back here?”

  “No, just a leave.”

  He grinned. “You take leaves, I take vacations.”

  “What are you doing these days?”

  “I’m an editor, at least for the moment. Esquire. It’s my fifth … no, seventh job since college. Journalists have never been known for stability, have we?”

  “Judging from you, I guess not.”

  “I do some free-lancing, too.”

  “I’ve read some of your pieces.” He gave her a skeptical look. “No, I really have, Vern. You had that cover story in the Times magazine section on …”

  “On the private aviation lobby helping to keep our skies unsafe.”

  “Right. I really did read it. I said to myself, ‘I know him.’ ”

  “When.”

  “Huh?”

  “I knew him when. I’m still in my when stage.”

  “Oh. Do you like New York?”

  “Love it, although I can think of other places I’d rather live.” He sighed. “It’s been a while.”

  “It sure has. I remember when you got married.”

  “So do I.” He chuckled. “Didn’t last long.”

  “I know, Mom told me. I’m sorry.”

  “I was, too, but then I realized it was good it fell apart so soon, before there were kids. Anyway, I’m not here to talk about my ex-wife. God, I hate that term. I’m here to celebrate Collette Cahill’s triumphant return from behind the Iron Curtain.”

  She laughed. “Everybody thinks Hungary is like being in the Soviet Union. It’s really very open, Vern. I suppose that bothers the Soviets, but that’s the way it is, lots of laughter and music, restaurants and bars and … well, that’s not entirely true, but it’s not as bad as people think. The Hungarians are so used to being conquered by one country or another that they shrug and get on with things.”

  “You’re with the embassy?”

  “Yup.”

  “What do you do there?”

  “Administration, dealing with trade missions, tourists, things like that.”

  “You were with the CIA.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Didn’t like it?”

  “Too spooky for me, I guess. Just a Virginia country girl at heart.”

  His laugh indicated he didn’t buy it but wasn’t about to debate.

  Collette drifted to other people in the room. Everyone was interested in her life abroad and she did her best to give them capsule responses.

  By eleven, just about everyone had gone home, except for her Uncle Bruce who’d gotten drunk, a next-door neighbor who was helping Collette’s mother to gather up the debris, and Vern Wheatley. He sat in a chair in the living room, one long leg casually dangling over the other, a beer in his hand. Collette went to him and said, “Nice party.”

  “Sure was. Feel like escaping?”

  “Escaping? No, I …”

  “I just figured we could go somewhere, have a drink and catch up.”

  “I thought we did.”

  “No we didn’t. How about it?”

  “I don’t know, I … just a second.”

  She went to the kitchen and said she might go out for a cup of coffee with Wheatley.

  “That’s nice,” said her mother, who then whispered, “He’s divorced, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “I always liked him, and I could never understand what he saw in that other woman.”

  “He saw something—a ring, a marriage, a mate. Sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I won’t be late. And, Mom, thanks for a wonderful party. I loved seeing everyone.”

  “And they loved seeing you. The comments, how beautiful you are, what a knockout, a world traveler …”

  “Good night, Mom. You’re spoiling me.” She said goodbye to the neighbor and to her Uncle Bruce, who was hearing or feeling nothing, but would in the morning, and she and Wheatley drove off in his 1976 Buick Regal.

  They went to a neighborhood bar, settled in a corner booth, ordered beers, and looked at each other. “Fate,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Fate. Here we
are, high school sweethearts separated by fate and together again because of fate.”

  “It was a party.”

  “Fate that I was here when the party was thrown, fate that you came home at the right time, fate that I’m divorced. Fate. Pure and simple.”

  “Whatever you say, Vern.”

  They spent two hours catching up on their lives. Cahill found it awkward, as usual, that there was much she couldn’t talk about. It was one of the limitations to working for the CIA, particularly in its most clandestine division. She avoided that aspect of her recent life and told tales of Budapest, of the nights at the Miniatur and Gundel, of the Gypsy bands that seemed to be everywhere, of the friends she’d made and the memories she’d developed for life.

  “It sounds like a wonderful city,” Wheatley said. “I’d like to visit you there someday.”

  “Please do. I’ll give you a special tour.”

  “It’s a date. By the way, your former employer made a pass at me not too long ago.”

  Cahill tried to imagine someone she’d worked for doing that. A homosexual former boss?

  “The Pickle Factory.”

  “The CIA? Really?”

  “Yeah. Journalists used to be big with them. Remember? Then all the crap hit the fan back in ’77 and it was ‘cool it’ for a while. Looks like they’re back with us.”

  “What did they want you to do?”

  “I was heading off for Germany on a free-lance assignment. This guy in a cheap suit and raincoat got to me through a friend who lives in the East Village and sculpts for a living. This guy wanted me to hook up with a couple of German writers, get to know them, and see what they knew about the current situation in Germany.”

  Cahill laughed. “Why didn’t they just ask them themselves?”

  “Not enough intrigue, I guess. Besides, I figured that what they really want is to have you in their pocket. Do them one favor, then another, collect a little dough for it and start depending upon more. You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I’m glad you aren’t with them anymore. When I heard you’d taken a job with the CIA, all I could think of was what I wrote in your yearbook.”

  She smiled. “I remember it very well.”

  “Yeah. ‘To the one girl in this world who will never sell out.’ ”

  “I really didn’t understand it then. I do now.”