Murder in the CIA (19 page)

“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 bathroom’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.”

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, and 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.”

“Wait a minute,” she said, her face reflecting her anger, “you want me to sleep with him?”

“The orders don’t stipulate that. They just say …”

“To do anything I have to do to ‘get inside him.’ No dice, Joe. Hire a hooker. The Pickle Factory’s ripe with them.”

“You’re overreacting.”

“I’m underreacting,” she said sharply.

“Call it what you will, the order has come down and you’re it. You don’t have a choice.”

“Ever hear of quitting?”

“Sure, but you won’t. I don’t want you to. You don’t have to sleep with anybody, just get to know a little about his operation and tell us about it. He’s too independent, not enough controls.”

“What if he doesn’t invite me to the BVI?”

“Then you will have failed. Try not to let that happen.”

“Where are you getting your information about the leak?”

Breslin glanced around before saying, “From your man in Budapest, Árpád Hegedüs.”

“It’s definitely Edwards?”

“We don’t know, but he’s a logical place to start. He’s our eyes and ears down there. We know he’s a drinker and a talker. Maybe he’s been drinking and talking with the wrong people.”

“The Russians know everything?”

Breslin shrugged. “They know too much, that’s for sure.” Some other people came onto the observation deck and stood close to them. “There are two tickets at the Concert Theater box office for some dance recital tomorrow night at the Kennedy Center,” Breslin told her. “Go to it. I’ll be on the terrace at intermission. Check in with me then.”

Collette let out a deep sigh and placed her hands on the railing. “Why did they send you all the way from Budapest to tell me this?” she asked.

“Why do they do anything, Collette? Besides, sending me indicates how important the project is. When the stakes are big, they care enough to send their very best.” He smiled.

She couldn’t help but smile, too. “They sent you because they knew you could get me to do it.”

“Did I?”

“I’ll do my best, no promises.”

“Can’t ask for more than that,” he said, touching her arm and turning.

A half hour later they were back at the overlook. Before Fox and Breslin got out of her car, Fox asked, “How was your evening with Jason Tolker?”

“You know about that?”