Murder in the CIA (27 page)

He answered, “My assumption was that she’d tell somebody back in Washington. But it didn’t take me long to realize that that didn’t make any sense. She didn’t know anybody at Langley. Her only contact with the CIA
was
Jason Tolker.…”

“And whoever her contact was in Budapest.”

Edwards nodded and joined her at the edge of the terrace. The strains of a fungee band, with its incessant island rhythms, drifted up to them.

They stood close together, their hips touching, both lost for a time in their individual thoughts. Then Edwards said in a monotone, “I’m getting out. I don’t need boats blown out from under me.”

She turned and looked into his face. Lines that had always been there now seemed more pronounced. “Was the yacht insured?” she asked.

His face broke into a wide smile. “Insured by the richest insurance company in the world, Collette, the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“That’s something to be thankful for,” she said, not meaning it. It was something to say. Money meant nothing in this scenario.

He turned grim again. “The CIA is run by evil men. I never wanted to accept that fact. I never even acknowledged it until recently. I was filled with the sort of patriotism that leads people into working for an intelligence agency. I believed in it and its people,
really
believed in what the CIA stood for and what I was doing.” He shook his head. “No more. It’s filled with the Jason Tolkers of this world, people who only care about themselves and who don’t give a damn who gets trampled in the process. I …” He placed his hand on her shoulders and drew her to him. “You and I have lost something very special in Barrie Mayer because of these people. I didn’t know David Hubler, but he just joins the
list of people who’ve had to pay with their lives because of them.”

She started to say something but he cut her off. “I told Barrie to stay away from Tolker. The projects that he’s involved in are at the root of what’s rotten about the Company and the government. It uses innocent citizens as guinea pigs without any regard for their fate. They’ve lied to everyone, including Congress, about how they abandoned Operation Bluebird and
MK
-
ULTRA
. Those projects never missed a beat. They’re more active today than they ever were.”

Cahill was legitimately confused. “But what about funding? Projects like that cost money.”

“That’s the beauty of an organization like the CIA, Collette. There’s no accountability. That’s the way it was set up in the beginning. That was one of the reasons Truman had serious thoughts about establishing a national intelligence-gathering organization. The money is given to individuals and they’re free to spend it any way they want, no matter who it hurts. There’s got to be a thousand front groups like mine, shipping companies and personnel agencies, little airlines and weapons brokers, university labs and small banks that do nothing but launder Company money. It stinks. I never thought I’d get to this point but it
does
stink, Collette, and I’ve had it.”

She stared at him for a long time before saying, “I understand, Eric, I really do. If you’re right, that whoever blew up the yacht today did it on orders from people in my own government, I don’t know how I can keep working for it, even in State.”

“Of course you can’t. That’s the whole point. I’m glad to be an American, always have been, always considered it a rare privilege to have been born American, but when I end up as part of a series of systematic abuses that result in the murder of a woman I loved very much, it’s time to draw the line.”

The band down the hill began a slow, sensuous rendition of an island song. Edwards and Cahill looked at each other until he said, “Care to dance?”

Again, the absurdity of the request, considering the circumstances, caused her to burst out laughing. He joined
her, slipped his right arm around her waist, took her left hand in his, and began leading her across the terrace.

“Eric, this is ridiculous.”

“You’re right, it is so ridiculous there is only one thing left to do—dance.”

She stopped protesting and gracefully followed his lead, thinking all the while of how ludicrous it was yet at the same time how romantic and beautiful. The feel of his hardness against her sent a succession of tiny sexual electric bursts through her body. He kissed her, tentatively at first, then with more force, and she returned his hunger.

As they danced by the table, he deftly took the wine, led her through the open doors and into the bedroom. There, he released her and his fingers began opening the buttons on the front of her blouse. She knew it was the last opportunity to protest, or to step away, but she moved closer. They made love, and soon her intensely pleasurable response merged with his, and with visions of the fireball in the blue skies of the British Virgin Islands.

The next day, Edwards was out early. He said he had a number of officials on the island with whom he had to speak about the explosion.

After he was gone, Cahill grappled with conflicting thoughts. What he’d said last night had caused her to rethink everything she’d done since coming to work for Central Intelligence. She certainly didn’t share his passionate disgust with the CIA. She wasn’t even sure that what he’d said was true. All she knew was that it was time to do some serious thinking, not only about this assignment, but about who she was.

She considered placing a call to Hank Fox in Washington but was afraid of breaching security. Phone calls from the islands went to the United States via satellite; conversations were open to the world, including the Russians on their small, private island.

Pusser’s Landing.

She drove Edwards’s Mercedes there at noon, took a table, ordered a sandwich and a Coke, then went to the
birdcage where she fed the parrot. She’d noticed the big man from the day before. He was down on the dock repairing an outboard engine on a small runabout. Soon, he had casually made his way to her side.

“I thought I’d come back for lunch again,” she said. “It was so pleasant last time.”

“It is a pleasant place, miss,” he said. He looked about to ensure no one was near them before adding, “It is even nicer in Budapest. You should go there immediately.”

“Budapest? Who …?”

“As quickly as possible, miss. Today.”

Cahill asked, “Does my travel agent know about this?”

The big man smiled and said, “Ask him yourself. You are to go to Washington first.”

She left Pusser’s Landing, telling the waiter that an emergency had arisen, found her way back to Edwards’s house, quickly packed, and left him a note.

Cahill got off the plane at Dulles Airport, rented a car, and drove directly to her mother’s house where she was met with a barrage of questions about where she’d been and why she was running off again in such a rush. Cahill explained, “They’re having some kind of a budget crisis at the embassy at Budapest and I have to get back right away.”

“What a shame,” her mother said. “I thought I might get to see you for at least a day.”

Collette stopped rushing for a moment, hugged her, said she loved her and yes, she would have coffee, and ran upstairs to pack.

She shared the next hour with her mother in the kitchen and felt a desperate yearning to stay, to retreat into childhood where the world was wondrous and the future bright when viewed from the protective custody of family and home. She had to force herself to say goodbye, leaving her mother standing at the front door with a poignant expression on her face. “I’ll be back soon,” Cahill yelled through the open car window. She knew her mother’s smile was forced but she appreciated the effort.

She drove back to Washington, went to a phone booth,
and dialed the special number Hank Fox had given her. When a young woman answered, Cahill said, “This is Dr. Jayne’s office calling for Mr. Fox.” The woman told her to hold. A minute later Fox came on the line and said, “I heard about the accident. I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Yes, I’m fine. I made friends with someone at Pusser’s Landing. He told me …”

Fox said sharply, “I know what he told you. The Fisherman is restless in Budapest.”

“The Fisherman?” Then, it dawned on her. Code name Horgász—Árpád Hegedüs. She said, “I thought he went to …?”

“He didn’t, and he wants to talk to his friend. It’s important that he see her as soon as possible.”

“I understand,” she said.

“How is your boyfriend in the British Virgin Islands?”

“He’s … he’s not my boyfriend.”

“How is he?”

“Fine.” She started to think of the last conversation she’d had with Edwards but Fox didn’t give her enough time to complete the thought.

“You can leave tonight?”

Cahill sighed. More than anything she didn’t want to get on a plane for Budapest. What she really wanted was to return to the BVI and be with Eric Edwards, not only because of the intimacy that had developed between them, but because she wanted to talk more about this thing she was doing, this organization she’d placed so much trust in. That trust wasn’t there anymore. Now she knew: She wanted out, too.

“I’ll be hearing from Joe,” Fox said. Breslin.

“I’m sure you will. I have to go. Goodbye.” She slammed the receiver into its cradle, gripped the small shelf beneath the phone and shook it, muttering as she did, “The hell with you, the hell with it all.”

She caught a flight out of Washington to New York and barely made the Pan Am flight to Frankfurt, Germany, where she could make a direct connection for Budapest. She’d called Vern Wheatley at his brother’s apartment but there was no answer. She needed to talk with him. Somehow,
she had the sense that if she didn’t talk to someone outside the organization, someone who wasn’t intrinsically bound up in its intrigues, she’d go to pieces. And that, she knew, would be the worst thing that could happen.

By the time she left the plane in Budapest she was exhausted but, at least, more in control of herself and her circumstances. She realized as she went through Customs that she was now back in her official status as an employee of the United States Embassy. It didn’t matter that her real employer was the CIA. What
did
matter was that things were familiar now; not quite as comforting as the bosom of her mother, but certainly better than what she’d been through the past week.

She took a cab to her apartment and called Joe Breslin at the embassy.

“Welcome back,” he said. “You must be beat.”

“I sure am.”

“It’s five o’clock. Think you can stay awake long enough for dinner?”

“I’ll make myself. Where?”

“Légrádi Testvérek.”

Cahill managed a smile despite her fatigue. “Going fancy, are we? Is this in honor of my return?”

“If it makes you feel good thinking that, then that’s what it’s for. Actually, my stomach is in need of a good meal, and I get a kick out of the chubby little violin player.”

“I’ll consider it in my honor. What time?”

“I prefer late but, considering your condition, maybe we should make it early. How’s eight sound?”

“Eight? I’ll be dead to the world by then.”

“Okay, tell you what. Take a good long nap and meet me there at ten.”

She knew there was little sense in trying to negotiate a different time. He said he’d make a reservation under his name. She opened the door of her small refrigerator and remembered she’d cleaned it out before leaving. The only thing in it was two bottles of Szamorodni, the heavy dessert white wine, a half dozen bottles of Köbanyai világos beer,
a tin of coffee, and two cans of tuna fish her mother had sent in a “care package” a month ago. She opened the tuna fish, realized she was out of bread, ate it directly from the can, stripped off her clothing, set her alarm clock, climbed into bed, and was asleep in seconds.

They sat across from each other in a small room at Légrádi Testvérek. The oval table betwen them was covered with a white lace tablecloth. Their chairs were broad, had high backs covered in a muted tapestry. A single silver candle epergne with ruffled glass dishes on two protruding arms dominated the center of the table. One of the dishes held fresh grapes and plums, the other apples and pears. The walls were stark white, the ceiling low and curved. Gypsy music emanated from a short, fat violinist and a tall, handsome cimbalom player who used tiny mallets to delicately strike the strings on his pianolike instrument.

“You look good,” Breslin said, “considering the schedule you’ve been on.”

“Thank you. Nothing like a can of American tuna fish and a nap to put color back in a girl’s cheeks.”

He smiled and looked up at the owner, who’d come to take their order. They decided to share a dish of assorted appetizers—caviar, tiny shrimps on salmon mousse stuffed into an egg, three kinds of pâté, and marinated oysters. Breslin ordered beef with pâté as his entrée; Cahill opted for chicken layered with a paprika sauce and little pools of sour cream. They skipped wine; Breslin had a Scotch and soda, Cahill mineral water.

“So?” he asked.

“So?” she mimicked. “You don’t want a litany here, do you?”

“Why not?”

“Because …” She made a small gesture with both hands to indicate the public nature of the restaurant.

“Skip the names, and I don’t need details. First, what about your boyfriend in the pretty place?”

She shook her head and sat back. “Joe, what do you and Hank do, talk every twenty minutes?”

“No, just two or three times a day. What about him? Did you enjoy your vacation?”

“Very much, except for a minor mishap out in the water.”

“I heard. What were you doing, snorkeling or something?”

“Exactly, and that’s why I’m sitting here tonight. As for my so-called boyfriend, he’s terrific. Want to know something? A lot of our
friends
have said bad things about him.…” She raised her eyebrows and adopted an expression to reinforce she was talking about her employer. “People are wrong. If there’s a problem, it’s not with my ‘boyfriend.’ ”