Murder in the CIA (10 page)

Brewster chewed his cheek and said, “I don’t want to be the rude guest, Eric, but you’d better listen to what I have to say. There is considerable concern that Banana Quick might have been compromised by Barrie Mayer, with your help.”

“That’s crap.” Edwards pointed toward the private island on which the Russians had established their supposed R & R facility. “Want to stop in and ask them what’s going on?”

Brewster moved to the side of the yacht and peered at the island. Edwards handed him a pair of binoculars. “Don’t worry,” he said, “they’re used to me looking down their throats. See all that rigging on the roof? They can probably hear us better than we can hear each other.” He laughed. “This game gets more ridiculous every day.”

“Only for people like you, Eric.” Brewster held up the binoculars and watched the island slip past. He lowered
them, turned, and said, “They want you back in Washington.”

“What for?”

“For … conversation.”

“Can’t do it. This is the busy season down here, Bob. How would it look if I …?”

“The end of the week, and don’t give me ‘busy season’ dialogue, Eric. You’re here because you were put here. This wonderful boat of yours, and the others, are all compliments of your employer. You’re to be back by the end of the week. In the meantime, they want us … you and I … to spend a little time together going over things.”

“What things?”

“What’s been going on in your life lately, the status of your mission here, the people you’ve been seeing …”

“Like Barrie Mayer?”

“Among others.”

“How come they sent you down, Bob? You’re a desk jockey … what’s it called, employee evaluation or some nonsense like that?”

“Helen and I decided to come here on vacation and they thought—”

“No, they thought you and Helen should come here on vacation and, while you’re here, have these little talks. More accurate?”

“It doesn’t matter. The fact is that I’m here, they want, and you are expected to give. What do you think, Eric—that the Company set you up here in the British Virgin Islands because it likes you, felt it owed you something? You pulled off what I consider the biggest coup … no, let’s call it what it is, the biggest scam anyone has ever pulled on the agency.”

Edwards’s laugh was more forced this time.

“What did they put up to get you started, Eric, a half a million, three quarters of a million?”

“Somewhere around there.”

“It hasn’t been cost-effective.”

“Cost-effective?” Edwards guffawed. “Name me one agency front that’s cost-effective. Besides, how do you measure the return?”

Brewster stared straight ahead.

“Whose idea was it to use the BVI as headquarters for Banana Quick?” He didn’t wait for Brewster’s reply. “Some genius up there at Langley decides to direct an Eastern European operation from down here. Talk to me about cost-effective. The point is that once that decision was made, there had to be a surveillance unit in place, and that’s me.”

“You were here before Banana Quick.”

“Sure, but I have to figure it was already in the planning stages when the deal was made to send me here. What was the original reason, to make sure that these idyllic islands weren’t infiltrated by the bad guys? I had to laugh at that, Bob. What they really wanted was to keep tabs on our British cousins.”

“You talk too much, Eric. That’s something else that has them worried. You operate too loose, get close to too many people, drink too much.…”

“What the hell have they appointed you, Company cleric? I do my job and I do it well. I did twelve years of dirty work while you guys basked in air conditioning at Langley, and I keep doing my job. Tell them that.”

“Tell them yourself at the end of the week.”

Edwards looked up into a scrim of pristine blue sky, against which puffs of white clouds quickly moved across their bow. “You had enough?” he asked.

“I was just beginning to enjoy it,” Brewster answered.

“I’m getting seasick,” Edwards said.

“Want a Dramamine? I took one at breakfast.”

“You’re getting sunburned, Bob.”

“Look at you, a prime candidate for skin cancer.” The two men stared at each other before Edwards said, “Tell me about Barrie Mayer.”

“What’s to tell? She’s dead.”

“Who?”

“Mother Nature. A clogged artery to the heart, blood flow ceases, the heart cries out for help, doesn’t get it, and stops pumping.”

Edwards smiled. Jackie came up from the galley and gestured. Did they need anything? Edwards said to Brewster, “You hungry? I stocked a few things.”

“Sure. Whatever you have.”

“Lunch,” Edwards said to the slender native girl, using his hands. “And bring the Thermos.” He said to Brewster, “It’s full of rum punch. We can get drunk together and get candid.”

“Too early for me.”

“I’ve been up a while. Barrie Mayer, Bob. Why did you ask me what she was carrying? Her principal’s the one to ask. It’s still that shrink, Tolker.”

“That bothers me.”

“What bothers you?”

“That you know who her principal was. What else did she tell you?”

“Damn little. She never said a word about signing on as a courier until …”

“Until what?”

“Until somebody told her about me.”

“That you’re Company?”

“Yeah.”

“Who was that?”

He shrugged.

Edwards thought back to the night Barrie Mayer told him she was aware that he was more than just a struggling charter boat owner and captain.

She’d come to the BVI for a week’s vacation. Their affair had been in progress for a little more than a year and they’d managed to cram in a considerable amount of time together, considering the physical distance that separated them. Mayer flew to the BVI at every opportunity, and Edwards made a few trips to Washington to see her. They’d also met once in New York, and had spent an extended weekend together in Atlanta.

Seeing her get off the plane that day jolted him with the same intense feelings she always raised in him. There had been many women in his life, but few had the impact on him she did. His first wife had had that effect. So did his second, come to think of it, but none since … until Barrie Mayer.

He recalled that Barrie was in a particularly giddy mood that day. He asked her about it in his car on their way to his villa. She’d said, “I have a secret to share with you.” When he asked what it was, she said it would have to wait for a “very special moment.”

The moment occurred that night. They’d gone out on one of his yachts and anchored in a cove where they stripped off their clothes and dove into the clear, tepid water. After their swim—more aquatic embracing than swimming—they returned to the yacht and made love. After that he cooked island lobsters and they sat naked on the bleached deck, legs crossed, knees touching, fingers dripping with melted butter, a strong rum swizzle burning their bellies and tripping the switches that cause incessant laughter.

They decided to spend the night on the yacht. After they’d made love again and lay side by side on a bundle of folded sails, he said, “Okay, what’s this big, dark secret you have to share with me?”

She’d dozed off. His words startled her awake. She purred and touched his thigh. “Eurosky,” she said, or something so softly that he couldn’t catch it. When he didn’t respond, she turned on her side, propped her head on her elbow, looked down into his face, and said, “You’re a spy.”

His eyes narrowed. Still, he said nothing.

“You’re with the CIA. That’s why you’re here in the BVI.”

He asked quietly, “Who told you that?”

“A friend.”

“What friend?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Why would anyone tell you that?”

“Because … well, I told … this person … about you and me and …”

“What about you and me?”

“That we’ve been seeing each other, that I … really want to hear?”

“Yes.”

“That I’d fallen in love with you.”

“Oh.”

“That seems to upset you more than my knowing about what you do for a living.”

“Maybe it does. Why would this
friend
even bring it up? Does he know me?”

“Yes. Well, not personally, but knows of you.”

“Who does your friend work for?”

She started to feel uncomfortable, hadn’t expected the intense questioning from him. She tried to lighten the moment by saying with a laugh, “I think it’s wonderful. I think it’s silly and wonderful and fun.”

“What’s fun about it?”

“That we have a mutual interest now. You don’t care about my literary agency, and I don’t care about your boats, except for enjoying being on them with you.”

His raised eyebrows asked the next question. Mutual?

“I work for the CIA, too.”

His eyebrows lowered. He sat up and looked at her until she said, “I’m a courier, just part time, but it’s for the Company.” She giggled. “I like the Pickle Factory better. It’s …” She realized he was not sharing her frivolity. She changed her tone and said, “I can talk about it to you because …”

“You can talk about it to nobody.”

“Eric, I …”

“What the hell do you think this is, Barrie, a game, cops and robbers, an exercise to inject more excitement into your life?”

“No, Eric, I don’t think that. Why are you so angry? I thought I was doing something worthwhile for my country. I’m proud of it and I haven’t told anyone except you and …”

“And your friend.”

“Yes.”

“And your friend told you about me.”

“Only because she knew I was seeing you.”

“It’s a woman?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t matter.”

“What’s her name?”

“I think under the circumstances that …”

“Who is she, Barrie? She’s breached a very important confidence.”

“Forget it, Eric. Forget I even mentioned it.”

He got up and sat on the cabin roof. They said nothing to each other. The yacht swayed in the soft evening breeze. The sky above was dark, the stars pinpoints of white light through tiny holes in black canvas. “Tell me all about it,” Edwards said.

“I don’t think I should,” she said, “not after that reaction.”

“I was surprised, that’s all,” he said, smiling. “You told me you had a big surprise to share with me at an appropriate time and you weren’t kidding.” She stood next to him. He looked into her eyes and said, “I’m sorry I sounded angry.” He put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. “How the hell did you end up working for the CIA?”

She told him.

SAN FRANCISCO

Dr. Jason Tolker sat in his suite at the Mark Hopkins and dialed his Washington office. “Anything urgent?” he asked his receptionist.

“Nothing that can’t wait.” She read him a list of people who’d called, which included Collette Cahill.

“Where did she call from?” he asked.

“She left a number in Virginia.”

“All right. I’ll be back on schedule. I’ll call again.”

“Fine. How’s the weather there?”

“Lovely.”

It was two in the afternoon. Tolker had until six before his meeting in Sausalito. He put on a white cable-knit sweater, comfortable walking shoes, tossed his raincoat over his arm, posed for an admiring moment before a full-length mirror, then strolled down California Street to Chinatown, where he stopped in a dozen small food shops to peruse the vast array of foodstuffs. Among many of his interests was Chinese cooking. He considered himself a world-class Chinese chef, which wasn’t far from true, although, as with many of his
hobbies, he tended to over-value his accomplishments. He also boasted a large collection of vintage jazz recordings. But, as a friend and devoted jazz buff often said, “The collection means more to Jason than the music.”

He bought Chinese herbs that he knew he’d have trouble finding in Washington, or even in New York’s Chinatown, and returned to the hotel. He showered, changed into one of many suits he had tailored by London’s Tommy Nutter, went to the Top of the Mark, sat at a window table with a glass of club soda, and watched the fog roll in over the Golden Gate Bridge on its way to obscuring the city itself. Nice, he thought; appropriate. He checked his watch, paid, got into his rented Jaguar, and headed for the bridge and his appointment on the other side.

He drove through the streets of Sausalito, the lights of San Francisco across the bay appearing, then disappearing through the fog, and turned into a street that began as a residential area, then slowly changed to light industry. He pulled into a three-car paved parking lot next to a two-story white stucco building, turned off his engine and lights, and sat for a moment before getting out and approaching a side door that was painted red. He knocked, heard footsteps on an iron stairway, and stood back as the door was opened by an older man wearing a gray cardigan sweater over a maroon turtleneck. His pants were baggy and his shoes scuffed. His face was a mosaic of lumps and crevices. His hair was gray and uncombed. “Hello, Jason,” he said.

“Bill,” Tolker said as he stepped past him. The door closed with a thud. The two men walked up a staircase to the second floor. Dr. William Wayman opened a door to his large, cluttered office. Seated in it was a woman who Tolker judged to be in her mid-thirties. She was in a shadowed corner of the room, the only light on her face coming through a dirty window at the rear of the building.

“Harriet, this is the doctor I told you about,” Wayman said.

“Hello,” she said from the corner, her voice small and conveying her nervousness.

“Hello, Harriet,” Tolker said. He didn’t approach her.
Instead, he went to Wayman’s desk and perched on its edge, his fingers affirming the crease in his trousers.

“Harriet is the person I told you about on the phone,” Wayman said, sitting in a chair next to her. He looked at Tolker, who was illuminated by a gooseneck lamp.

“Yes, I was impressed,” Tolker said. “Perhaps you’ll tell me a little about yourself, Harriet.”

She started to talk, then stopped as though the tone arm on a turntable had been lifted from a record. “Who are you?” she asked.

Wayman answered her in a calm, patient, fatherly voice. “He’s from Washington, and is very much involved in our work.”

Tolker got up from the desk and approached them. He stood over her and said pleasantly, “I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing, Harriet, very courageous and very patriotic. You should be extremely proud of yourself.”