Murder in the CIA (2 page)

Timing had been on the side of Réti and Mayer. The Soviets had recently loosened restrictions on Hungarian writers and artists, including travel. While Réti’s manuscript had gone through a review by officials of the Hungarian Socialist Workers’ Party under the leadership of János Kádár, it had emerged relatively unscathed. Réti had skillfully wrapped criticism of Hungary since its “liberation” in 1945 by the Soviet Union into innocuous passages, and reading between the lines said more than his Socialist readers had caught.

Monument
was snapped up by publishers around the world and sat on best-seller lists for weeks. It was gratifying to Barrie Mayer because she’d put her all into the book. Now the major dilemma was what to do with the large sums of money Réti was earning from its success. That problem was still being addressed, and one of the reasons for Mayer’s
trip to Budapest was to confer with Réti and with a ranking member of the Hungarian Presidium who, according to Réti, “could be persuaded” to bend some rules.

Barrie had to smile when she thought of what “could be persuaded” meant. It translated into graft, pure and simple, money under the table to the right Hungarian officials, New York City style, a capitalist solution to a Socialist problem.

On a previous trip to Budapest, Barrie had been introduced to the Presidium member with whom she would meet again this time. He’d sustained a hard, incorruptible façade throughout most of that initial confab, referring to Réti as “a writer for the Hungarian people, not motivated by commercial success.” To which Barrie had responded, “If that’s the case, sir, we’ll keep his millions in our account until there is a shift in policy.”

“We have restrictions on foreign currency entering Hungary,” said the official.

“A shame,” said Mayer. “We’re potentially talking millions of U.S. dollars. That would be good for your economy—
any
economy.”

“Yes, a good point, Miss Mayer. Perhaps …”

“Perhaps we can pursue this another time.” She got up to leave.

“I might be able to think of a way to create an exception in this case.”

Barrie smiled. What did he want for himself, one of the new condos going up in the Buda hills that only went to Hungarians with a fistful of hard currency, a new car in months instead of the usual four-year wait, a bank account of his own in Switzerland?

“When will you return to Budapest?” he asked.

“Whenever you’ve … ‘created your exception.’ ”

That meeting had taken place a month ago. The official had informed Réti that he’d “smoothed the way for Réti’s funds to reach him in Budapest.” He’d added, “But, of course, Mr. Réti, there must be some consideration for the time and effort I have expended in your behalf, to say nothing of the risk in which I place myself.”

“Of course,” Réti said.

“Of course,” Barrie Mayer said to Réti when he relayed the official’s message.

“Of course,” she said to herself, grinning, as she sipped the hot, black coffee in her Washington office and allowed her eyes to wander to other books on the shelves written by foreign authors. Funny, she thought, how things in life take their own natural course. She’d never intended to become a literary agent specializing in foreign writers, but that’s what had happened. First one, then another, and soon a blossoming reputation as an agent especially sensitive to the needs of such artists. She enjoyed the status it gave her within the publishing industry and in Washington, where she’d become a “hot name” on party invitation lists, including foreign embassies. There was the extensive travel, which, at times, was fatiguing but stimulating as well. She seemed to live out of suitcases these days, which displeased people like her mother who made no effort to conceal her disappointment at seeing so little of her only child.

Barrie’s mother lived in a town house in Rosslyn, far enough away for Barrie’s sanity, but close enough to see each other occasionally. Mayer had stayed at her mother’s last night, an accommodation because of the trip she was about to begin that morning. They’d had a pleasant dinner at Le Lion d’Or, then sat up talking at her mother’s house until almost 2:00
A
.
M
. Barrie was tired; it would be good to get on the Pan Am flight from New York to London, sink into a first-class seat, and nap.

She pulled a box of scented pink notepaper from her desk and wrote quickly in broad, bold strokes:

Hubler came in again. “Got everything?”

“I think so,” Mayer said, putting the pages in an envelope, sealing and addressing it, and slipping it into her purse. “Thanks to you.”

“You’ll be gone a week?”

“A day shy. I’ll be at Eleven, Cadogan Gardens in London, and the Hilton in Budapest.”

Hubler laughed. “So, what else is new?”

Mayer smiled and stood, stretched, blinked green eyes against sleepiness. “Is the car here?”

“Yeah.” The agency had a corporate account with Butler’s Limousine, and a stretch was waiting downstairs. “Barrie, a question.”

“What?”

“You uncomfortable with this meeting with the Commie big shot in Budapest?”

“A little, but Zoltán says ‘Not to worry.’ ” They both laughed. “He’s been talking to you too much, David.”

“Maybe he has. Look, I know
you
know your business, but greasing palms in a Socialist country might not be the smartest thing to do. You could be set up. They do it all the time.”

Mayer grinned, then picked up her attaché case from the couch, came to where Hubler stood, and kissed him on the cheek. “You, David, are a dear. You also worry more than my mother does, which puts you in the Guinness class. Not to worry, David. Call me if you need me. I’ll check in with you a couple of times. By the way, where’s Carol?” Carol Geffin was one of two secretaries at the agency. The other, Marcia St. John, was on vacation. The only other two people on Mayer’s staff were away on business, one in Hollywood following through on film rights to Réti’s novel, the other in New York attending a conference.

“Must have been another heavy night at the Buck Stops Here,” Hubler said. Carol Geffin’s favorite disco closed at 6:00
A
.
M
., sometimes.

Mayer shook her head. “You tell Carol that she’s got to
make a choice between working and dancing. One more late morning and she can dance all day on her money, not mine. Give me a hand, huh?”

Hubler carried her briefcase and a suitcase Mayer had dropped off in the reception area to the waiting limo. “See you in a week,” she said as she climbed inside the back of the Fleetwood Brougham. The driver closed the door, got behind the wheel, and headed for National Airport and the shuttle to New York. She glanced back through the tinted glass and saw Hubler standing at the curb, his hand half raised in a farewell. One of many things Mayer liked about him was his disposition. He was always smiling, and his laugh was of the infectious variety. Not this day, however. His face, as he stood and watched the limo become smaller, was grim. It bothered her for a moment but quickly was displaced by thoughts of the day ahead. She stretched her legs out in front of her, closed her eyes, and said to herself, “Here we go again.”

Her suitcase had been checked through to London, leaving her free to grab a cab from La Guardia into the city, where she was let off at the corner of Second Avenue and 30th Street. She walked toward the East River on 30th until she reached a brownstone with a series of physicians’ names in black-on-white plaques.

JASON TOLKER
—
PSYCHIATRIST
. She went down the steps and rang the bell. A female voice asked through an intercom, “Who is it?”

“Barrie Mayer.”

A buzzer sounded and Barrie opened the door, stepped into a small carpeted reception area, and closed the door behind her. She was the only person there except for a young woman who came from an office in the rear and said, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Mayer said.

“He’s not here, you know,” the nurse said.

“I know, a conference in London. He told me to …”

“I know. It’s here.” The nurse, whose face was severely chiseled and whose skin bore the scars of childhood acne, reached behind a desk and came up with a black briefcase of the sort used by attorneys to carry briefs. Two straps
came over the top, and a tiny lock secured the flap to the case itself.

“He said you’d been told about this,” the nurse said.

“That’s right. Thank you.”

The nurse’s smile was a slash across her lower face. “See you again,” she said.

“Yes, you will.”

Mayer left, carrying the new briefcase as well as her attaché case, one in each hand. She checked into a room at the Plaza that David had reserved from Washington, had lunch sent up, and perused papers from her attaché case until three, when she placed a wake-up call for five, stripped naked, and took a nap. She got up at five, showered, dressed again, took a cab to Kennedy Airport, and checked in at the Clipper Club, where she had a martini and read a magazine before boarding Pan Am’s seven o’clock 747 to London.

“Can I take those for you?” a flight attendant asked, indicating the two briefcases.

“No, thank you. Lots of work to do,” Mayer said pleasantly.

She slid both cases under the seat in front of her and settled in for the flight. It left on time. She had another martini, and then caviar and smoked salmon, rare beef carved at her seat, and blueberry cheesecake; cognac to top it off. The movie came on, which she ignored. She put on slippers provided by the flight attendant and a pair of blue eyeshades from a toiletry kit given to each first-class passenger, positioned a pillow behind her head, covered herself with a blue blanket, and promptly fell asleep, the toes of her left foot wedged into the handle of the briefcase she’d picked up at Dr. Jason Tolker’s office.

The cabbie from Heathrow Airport to her hotel was an older man who took more delight in chatting than in driving. Mayer would have preferred silence but he was a charming man, as all the older London cab drivers seemed to be, and she thought of the difference between him and certain New York cabbies, who not only were rude and uncaring but malicious, nervous, opinionated, hyperactive, and who curbed any tendency toward humanity by driving insanely.

“Here we are, ma’am,” the driver said as he pulled up in front of a row of brick houses on Cadogan Gardens. There was no indication of a hotel on the block. Only the number 11 appeared above a polished wooden door that Mayer went to. She rang a bell. Moments later a hall porter in a white jacket opened the door and said, “Welcome, Miss Mayer. Splendid to see you again. Your room is ready.”

She signed the guest book and was led to the suite she usually reserved—Number 27. It consisted of a living room, bedroom, and bath. The white ceilings were high, the walls of the living room bloodred. Victorian furniture was everywhere, including a glass-fronted bookcase, an armoire, a dressing table in front of French windows in the bedroom that overlooked a private park across the street, and a gracefully curved chaise and chairs upholstered in gold.

“Would you like anything, ma’am?” the porter asked.

“Not this minute, thank you,” Barrie said. “Perhaps tea at three?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be leaving tomorrow for a few days,” she said, “but I’ll be keeping the room for my return.”

“Yes, ma’am. Tea at three.”

She slept, and later watched BBC-TV while enjoying scones with clotted cream and jam with her tea. She had dinner at seven at the Dorchester with a British agent, Mark Hotchkiss, with whom she’d been exploring a business link for the past few months, and was back in bed at the Cadogan by ten.

She arose at seven, had breakfast sent up to the room, dressed and left the hotel at eight. She arrived at Heathrow’s Terminal Number 2 and joined a long line of people waiting to go through a security section leading to a vast array of flights by smaller foreign airlines, including Malev, the Hungarian National Airline.

She’d been through this before. How many trips had she taken to Budapest in the two or three years? Fifteen, twenty? She’d lost track. Only her accountant knew for certain. The line at Terminal 2 was always impossibly long and slow, and she’d learned to be patient.

She glanced up at a TV departure monitor. Plenty of time.
An older man in front of her asked if she’d “protect” his place while he went to buy a pack of cigarettes. “Of course,” she said. A woman behind her ran the wheel of a suitcase caddy into Mayer’s heel. Mayer turned. The woman raised her eyebrows and looked away.

The line moved in spurts. Mayer carried her briefcases, and pushed her suitcase along the ground with her foot.

A loud voice to her right caused Barrie, and everyone else in the line, to turn in its direction. A young black man wearing an open white shirt, black trousers, and leather sandals had gotten up on a trash container and began screaming a protest against British policy in South Africa. Everyone’s attention remained on him as two uniformed airport-security officers pushed through crowds of people in his direction.

“Barrie.”

She didn’t immediately react. Because she, and everyone else in the line, had turned to her right, her back was to a row of counters. The mention of her name had come from behind her.

She turned. Her eyebrows went up. She started to say something, a name, a greeting, when the hand came up beneath her nose. In it was a metal tube that might have held a cigar. The thumb on the hand flicked a switch on the tube and a glass ampule inside it shattered, its contents blown into Mayer’s face.