Murder in the CIA (28 page)

“I see,” Breslin said, scratching his nose and rubbing his eyes. “We can discuss that at length another time. Did you see your shrink while you were back?”

“My—Oh, you mean Dr. Jayne.”

“Who?”

“Don’t worry, Joe, we’re talking about the same person. I didn’t see him again after I saw you in Washington. I felt no need to. My mental health is getting better all the time.”

He narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized her across the flickering candle. “Something up with you, Collette? You okay?”

“I think I’m beginning to be more than okay, Joe. I think I grew up this past week.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means …” She realized she was on the verge of tears and told herself that if she cried, she would never forgive herself. She looked around the restaurant. A waiter brought the appetizers on a white china platter. He filled their glasses with water and asked if they needed anything else.

“No,
köszönöm szepen
,” Breslin said politely. The waiter left and Breslin gave his attention to Cahill. “You’re not happy, are you?”

Cahill shook her head in wonder and laughed. She leaned forward so that her face was inches from the candle’s flame and said, “What the
hell
am I supposed to be happy about, Joe?”

He held up his hands and said, “Okay, I won’t press it. You’ve been under a lot of strain. I realize that. Come on, enjoy the food. It’s costing me a month’s salary.”

Throughout the meal, Cahill was on the verge a dozen
times of telling him how she felt. She resisted the temptation and contented herself with light conversation.

The doorman got Breslin’s car for him. When he and Cahill were in it, Breslin asked, “Feel up to a little nightlife?”

“Joe, I … the Miniatur?”

“No, I ran across another spot while you were away. Change is good for the soul, right?”

“If you say so, Joe. Might as well catch up on what’s new in Budapest, but not too late, huh? One drink and get me home.”

“Trust me.”

She always had, but wasn’t so sure anymore.

He drove slowly through the narrow, winding streets of the Pest side of the city until reaching Vörösmarty tėr, with its statue of the famed Hungarian poet for whom the square was named. They passed a succession of airline offices and government buildings until they reached Engels Square and its large bus terminal. Ahead of them was St. Stephen’s basilica. Breslin made a sharp turn north and, five minutes later, entered an especially narrow street made worse by cars hanging off their sidewalk parking spots. He found a place, wedged his small Renault between two other cars, and they got out. Cahill looked up the street to the huge red star atop the Parliament Building. She was back. Hungary. Budapest. Red stars and Soviet tanks. She was glad. Oddly, it was as close to home as she’d ever be outside of her mother’s house in Virginia.

The bar wasn’t marked, no sign, no windows. Only the faint tinkling of a piano heralded its location, and that was confused by a dozen dark doors set into the long concrete wall that formed the front of the street’s buildings.

Breslin rapped with a brass knocker. The door opened and a large man in a black suit, with long greasy black hair and sunken cheeks, scrutinized them. Breslin nodded toward Cahill. The man stepped back and allowed them to enter.

Now the music was louder. The pianist was playing “Night and Day.” Female laughter in the air mingled with his notes.

Cahill looked around. The club was laid out much like
the Miniatur—bar as you entered, a small room just off it in which customers could enjoy the piano.

“
Jó napot
(How are you?),” Breslin said to an attractive woman with hair bleached white, wearing a tight red satin dress.

“
Jó estét
(Good evening),” she said.

“
Fel tudya ezt váltani?
(Can you change this?)” Breslin asked, handing her a Hungarian bill of large denomination.

She looked at the bill, at him, then stepped back to give them access to a door hidden in shadows beyond the bar. Breslin nodded at Cahill and she followed him. He hesitated, his hand poised over the knob, then turned it. The door swung open. Breslin indicated that Cahill should enter first. She took a step into a small room lighted only by two small lamps on a battered table in the middle. There were no windows, and heavy purple drapes covered all walls.

Her eyes started to adjust to the dimness. A man, whose face was vaguely familiar, was the first object she focused on. He had a thick, square face. Bones beneath bushy eyebrows formed hairy shelves over his cheeks. His black hair was thick and curly and streaked with gray. She remembered—Zoltán Réti, the author, Barrie Mayer’s author.

Next to Reti sat Árpád Hegedüs. One of his hands on the table covered a female hand. A plain, wide-faced woman with honest eyes and thin, stringy hair.

“Árpád,” Cahill said, the surprise evident in her voice.

“Miss Cahill,” he said, standing. “I am so happy to see you.”

Collette looked across the table at Hegedüs and Réti. Hegedüs’s presence was the more easily understood. She’d known that the purpose of her return to Budapest was to meet with him. Réti was another matter. She’d forgotten about him in the rush of the past weeks.

“Miss Cahill, allow me to introduce you to Miss Lukács, Magda Lukács,” Hegedüs said. Cahill rose slightly and extended her hand. The Hungarian woman reached out tentatively, then slipped her hand into Cahill’s. She smiled; Cahill did, too. The woman’s face was placid, yet there was fear in her eyes. She wasn’t pretty, but Cahill recognized an earthy female quality.

“I mentioned Miss Lukács to you the last time we were together,” Hegedüs said.

“Yes, I remember,” said Cahill, “but you didn’t mention her name.” She again smiled at the woman. Here was Hegedüs’s lover, the woman Cahill had fervently hoped would not deter him from continuing to provide information. Now, as she observed the happiness in Hegedüs’s face, she was glad he’d found Magda Lukács. He was happier and more relaxed than Cahill could ever remember seeing him.

As for Réti, she knew him only from photographs, and from having seen him on Hungary’s state-controlled television network. Barrie had often spoken of him but they’d never met. “I’m glad to finally meet you, Mr. Réti,” she said. “Barrie Mayer spoke so often and enthusiastically of you and your work.”

“That is flattering,” said Réti. “She was a wonderful woman and a fine literary agent. I miss her very much.”

Cahill turned to Breslin. “Joe, why are we here?”

Breslin glanced at the others before saying, “First of all, Collette, I should apologize for not telling you up front how the evening would play. I didn’t want to lay a lot of tension on you at dinner. From what I’ve heard, there’s been enough of that in your life already.”

She half smiled.

“Mr. Hegedüs has come over to our side.”

Collette said to Hegedüs, “You’ve defected?”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “Yes, I have. My family is in Russia and I am now one of you. I am sorry, Miss Cahill. I know that was not what you or your people wished.”

“No need to apologize, Árpád. I think it’s wonderful.” She looked at Magda Lukács. “You have defected, too?”

Lukács nodded. “I come with Árpád.”

“Of course,” said Cahill. “I’m sure that …” She swung around to Breslin. “But that isn’t why we’re sitting here, is it?”

Breslin shook his head. “No, it’s not. The defection has already taken place. What we
are
here for is to hear what Mr. Hegedüs and Mr. Réti have to tell us.” He smiled. “They wouldn’t say a word unless you were here, Collette.”

“I see,” Cahill said, taking in the table. “Well, go ahead. Here I am, and I’m all ears.”

When no one spoke, Breslin said, “Mr. Hegedüs.”

Now Hegedüs seemed more like his old nervous self. He cleared his throat and squeezed his lover’s hand. He ran a finger beneath his shirt collar and said with a forced sense of gaiety, “We are in a bar, yes? Could I possibly have some whiskey?”

His request visibly annoyed Breslin, but he got up with a sigh and went to the door, opened it, and said to the
woman in the red satin dress who was seated at the bar, “Could we have a bottle of wine, please?”

Hegedüs said from behind Breslin, “Would bourbon be all right?”

Breslin turned and screwed up his face.
“Bourbon?”

“Yes, Miss Cahill always …”

Breslin shook his head and said to the woman in red, “A bottle of bourbon.” He then laughed and added, “And some Scotch and gin, too.” He closed the door and said to Cahill, “Never let it be said that Joe Breslin didn’t throw as good a defector party as Collette Cahill.”

“You’re a class act, Joe,” Collette said. She looked at Zoltán Réti and asked, “Have you defected too, Mr. Réti?”

Réti shook his head.

“But have you …?” She checked Breslin before continuing. His expressionless face prompted her to go ahead. “Have you been involved with our efforts all along, Mr. Réti, through Barrie Mayer?”

“Yes.”

“Were you Barrie’s contact here in Budapest?”

“Yes.”

“She would hand you what she was carrying for us?”

He smiled. “It was a little more complicated than that, Miss Cahill.”

There was a knock at the door. Breslin opened it and the woman in red carried in a tray with the liquor, a bucket of ice and glasses. After she’d placed it on the table and left, Collette cocked her head and listened to the strains of piano music and the laughter of patrons through the wall. Was this place secure enough for the sort of conversation they were having? She was almost ashamed for even questioning it. Breslin had a reputation of being the most cautious intelligence employee within the Budapest embassy.

“Maybe I’d better lead this conversation,” Breslin said.

Cahill was momentarily taken aback, but said, “By all means.”

Breslin pointed a finger across the table at Zoltán Réti and said, “Let’s start with you.” To Hegedüs, “You don’t mind, do you?”

Hegedüs, busy pouring a tall glass of bourbon, quickly shook his head and said, “Of course not.”

Breslin continued. “Mr. Réti, Miss Cahill has been back in the United States trying to find out what happened to Barrie Mayer. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but they were best of friends.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Réti.

“Then you know that we’ve never believed that Barrie Mayer died of natural causes.”

Réti grunted. “She was assassinated. Only a fool would think otherwise.”

“Exactly,” said Breslin. “One of the pieces we’ve had trouble with has to do with what she could have been carrying that was important enough for her to have been murdered. Frankly, we weren’t even aware of her final trip to Budapest until after the fact. We expected nothing from Washington. But you evidently knew she was coming.”

Réti nodded, and his heavy eyebrows came down even lower over his eyes.

Cahill said, “But you weren’t
here
, Mr. Réti. You were in London.”

“Yes, I was sent there by the Hungarian Arts Council to make an appearance at an international writers’ conference.”

“Didn’t Barrie know that you wouldn’t be here to meet her?” Cahill asked.

“No, I had no time to contact her. I was not allowed access to any means of communication with her before she left the United States.”

“Why?” Cahill realized she had taken the meeting from Breslin. She cast a glance at him to see if he were annoyed. The expression on his face showed that he wasn’t.

Réti shrugged. “I can only assume that they … the government had become aware that she and I were more than simply agent and author.”

Cahill processed what he’d said, then asked, “And they didn’t do more to you than just keep you from telling Barrie that you wouldn’t be here to meet her? They knew that you were involved in some sort of activity on our behalf, but only kept you from calling her?”

Réti smiled, exposing a set of widely spaced teeth. He said, “That is not so surprising, Miss Cahill. The Russians … and my government … they are not so foolish to punish someone like myself. It would not look so good in the world, huh?”

His explanation made sense to Cahill, but she said, “Still, if Barrie
had
arrived and didn’t find you here, what would she do with what she was carrying? Who would she hand it to?”

“This time, Miss Cahill, Barrie was not to hand me anything.”

“She wasn’t?”

“No.”

“What was she to do, then?”

“She was to tell me something.”

“Tell?”

“Yes. This time what she carried was in her head.”

“Her mind, you mean.”

“Yes, in her mind.”

The room was hot and stuffy, yet a chill radiated through Collette that caused her to fold into herself. Was it all coming true now—Jason Tolker, Estabrooks’s theories on using hypnosis to create the perfect intelligence courier, programs like Operation Bluebird and
MK
-
ULTRA
, supposedly scrapped years ago but still going strong—everything Eric Edwards had told her, every bit of it?

She looked at Breslin. “Joe, do you know what Barrie was supposed to tell Mr. Réti?”

Breslin, who’d just lighted his pipe, squinted through the smoke and said, “I think so.”

Cahill hadn’t expected an affirmative answer. Breslin said to Hegedüs, “Perhaps it’s time for you to contribute to this conversation.”

The Hungarian psychiatrist looked at Magda Lukács, cleared his throat with a swallow of bourbon, and said, “It has to do with what I told you the last time, Miss Cahill.”

Collette said it quietly, almost to the table: “Dr. Tolker.”

“Yes, your Dr. Tolker …”

“What about him?”

A false start from Hegedüs, then, “He had given Miss
Mayer information of the gravest importance to the Banana Quick project.”

“What sort of information?” Cahill asked.

“The source of the leak in the British Virgin Islands,” Breslin said.

Cahill raised her eyebrows. “I thought that …”

Breslin shrugged. “I think you’re beginning to understand, Collette.”

“You told me the last time we were together, Árpád, that Tolker was not to be trusted.”