Murder in the CIA (32 page)

“Why are you interested in him?” he asked.

“A long story,” she replied, “something personal.”

“Got time for the lunch you promised me?”

“Yes, I do. I’d love it, but first I have to do one thing.”

She left him in the suite and went downstairs to where the hall porter was sorting mail. “Excuse me,” she said, “do you recognize this man?”

The porter adjusted half-glasses on his large nose and moved the photo in and out of focus. “Yes, madam, I believe I do, but I can’t say why.”

She said, “Do you remember those three men who came to collect the belongings of my friend, Miss Mayer, right after she died?”

“Yes, that’s it. He was one of the gentlemen who came here that day.”

“Is this a photograph of Mr. Hubler, David Hubler?”

“Exactly, madam. This is the gentleman who introduced himself as a business associate of your lady friend. He said his name was Hubler, although I can’t quite recall what his first name was.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cahill said. “Thank you.”

Cahill and Moeller had lunch in a pub on Sloane Square.
They promised to keep in touch, and hugged before he climbed into a taxi. She watched him disappear around the corner, then walked briskly back to the hotel where she carefully packed, had the desk call a taxi, and went directly to Heathrow Airport for a first-class ride home.

Cahill deplaned in New York and went to the nearest public telephone where she dialed Washington, D.C., information. “The number for the Watergate Hotel,” she asked.

She placed the call and said to the hotel operator, “Has Mr. Eric Edwards changed suites yet?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m sorry. I’m here in Washington with the French contingent of Mr. Edwards’s investors. When I tried to reach him before, I realized he’d changed suites. Is he still in 845?”

“Well, I … no, he’s still in 1010 according to my records. I’ll connect you.”

“Oh, don’t bother. I just didn’t want to bring the French group to the wrong suite.” She laughed. “You know how the French are.”

“Well … thank you for calling.”

Collette hung up and sighed. Hotel operators didn’t give out room numbers, but there were ways. Dazzle ’em with confusion. She picked up the phone again, dialed the Watergate number, and asked whether there were any suites available.

“How long will you be staying?” she was asked.

“Three days, possibly more.”

“Yes, we have two diplomat suites available at $410 a night.”

“That will be fine,” Cahill said. “Do you have one on a low floor? I have a phobia about high floors.”

“The lowest we would have is on the eighth floor. Our diplomat suites are all higher up.”

“The eighth floor? Yes, I suppose that will be all right.” She gave her name, read off her American Express card number, and said she would be taking the shuttle to Washington that evening.

It took her longer to get from Kennedy Airport to La Guardia than it did for the flight to Washington’s National Airport. The minute she stepped off the plane, she went to a telephone center, pulled out a Washington Yellow Pages, and scanned the listing for sporting goods stores. She found one in Maryland within a few blocks of the district line and took a cab to it, catching the owner as he was about to close. “I need some bullets,” she told him sheepishly, the teenager buying condoms.

He smiled. “Ammo, you mean.”

“Yes, ammunition, I guess. It’s for my brother.”

“What kind?”

“Ah, let’s see, ah, right, nine millimeter, for a small revolver.”

“Very small.” He rummaged through a drawer behind the counter and came up with a box. “Anything else?”

“No, thank you.” She’d expected questioning, a demand for an address, for identification. Nothing. Just a simple consumer purchase. She paid, thanked him, and returned to the street, a box of bullets in her purse.

She walked to the Watergate and checked in, her eyes scanning the lobby.

The moment she was in her suite, she unpacked, took a hot shower and, wearing a robe provided by the hotel, stepped out onto a wraparound balcony that overlooked the Potomac River and the oversized, gleaming white Kennedy Center. It was a lovely sight, but she was too filled with energy to stand in any one place for more than a few seconds.

She went to a living room furnished with antique reproductions,
found a scrap of paper in her purse, and dialed the number on it. The phone at Vern Wheatley’s brother’s apartment rang eight times before Wheatley answered. The minute he heard her voice, he snapped, “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been going crazy trying to find you.”

“I was in Budapest.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? You just take off and not even tell me?”

“Vern, I tried to call but there was no answer. It wasn’t a leisurely trip I took. I had to leave immediately.”

His voice indicated that he’d ignored her words. He said flatly, “I have to see you right away. Where are you?”

“I’m … why do you want to see me?”

He snorted. “Maybe the fact that we slept together is good enough. Maybe just because I want to see you again. Maybe because I have something damned important to discuss with you.” She started to say something but he quickly added, “Something that might save both our lives.”

“Why don’t you just tell me on the phone?” she said. “If it’s that important …”

“Look, Collette, there are things I haven’t told you because … well, because it wasn’t the right time. The right time is
now
. Where are you? I’ll come right over.”

“Vern, I have something I have to do before I can talk to you. Once it’s done, I’ll
need
to talk to someone. Please try to understand.”

“Damn it, Collette, stop …”

“Vern, I said I have other things to do. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You won’t catch me here,” he said quickly.

“No?”

“I’m getting out right now. I was on my way when the phone rang. I almost didn’t bother answering it.”

“You sound panicked.”

“Yeah, you might say that. I always get a little uptight when somebody’s looking to slit my throat or blow up my car.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about? I’ll tell you what I’m talking about. I’m talking about that freaky outfit you work for.
I’m talking about a bunch of psychopaths who start out ripping wings off flies and shooting birds with BB guns before they graduate to people.”

“Vern, I don’t work for the CIA anymore.”

“Yeah, right, Collette. That one of the courses down on the Farm? Lying 101? Goddamn it, I have to see you right now.”

“Vern, I … all right.”

“Where are you?”

“I’ll meet you someplace.”

“How about dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Yeah, well I am. I’m in the mood for Greek. Like drama or tragedy. Meet me at the Taverna in an hour.”

“Where is it?”

“Pennsylvania Avenue, Southeast. An hour?”

She almost backed out but decided to go through with the date. After all, she’d called him. Why? She couldn’t answer. That weakness coming through, that need to talk with someone she knew and thought she could trust. Talk about
what
, that she was back in Washington to assassinate someone? No, there’d be no talk of that. He sounded desperate. It was
he
who needed to talk. Okay, she’d listen, that’s all.

As she dressed, she went over in her mind what she’d been told about Vern by Joe Breslin. He’d come to Washington to do an exposé of one sort or another on the CIA, particularly its mind-control experimentation programs. If that was true—and she was sure it was, based upon their brief conversation a few minutes ago—he was to be as distrusted as the rest of them. Nothing was straightforward anymore. Living a life of simple truth must be reserved for monks, nuns, and naturalists, and it was too late to become any of those.

She rode the elevator to the tenth floor and walked past Suite 1010, her heart tripping in anticipation of running into Edwards. It didn’t happen; she retraced her steps, got in the elevator, and went to the lobby. The Watergate was bustling. She stepped through the main entrance to where a long line of black limousines stood, their uniformed drivers
waiting for their rich and powerful employers or customers to emerge. A cab from another line moved forward. Cahill got in and said, “The Taverna, on Pennsylvania Avenue, South.…”

The driver turned and laughed. “I know, I know,” he said. “I am Greek.”

She walked into what the cabbie had said was a “goud Grick” restaurant and was immediately aware of bouzouki music and loud laughter from the downstairs bar. She went down there in search of Wheatley. No luck. He hadn’t specified where he would meet her but she assumed it would be the bar. She took the only vacant stool and ordered a white wine, turned and looked at the bouzouki player, a good-looking young man with black curly hair who smiled at her and played a sudden flourish on his instrument. She was reminded of Budapest. She returned his smile and surveyed others in the room. It was a loud, joyous crowd and she wished she were in the mood—wished she were in the position—to enjoy something festive. She wasn’t. How could she be?

She sipped her wine and kept checking her watch; Wheatley was twenty minutes late. She was angry. She hadn’t wanted to meet him in the first place but he’d prevailed. She looked at the check the bartender had placed in front of her, laid enough money on it to take care of it plus tip, got up and started for the stairs. Wheatley was on his way down. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t help it.”

“I was leaving,” she said icily.

He took her arm and escorted her up the stairs to the dining room. Half the tables were vacant. “Come on,” he said. “I’m starved.”

“Vern, I really don’t have time to …”

“Don’t hassle me, Collette, just spend an hour while I get some food for my belly and feed you some food for your thoughts.”

The manager showed them to a corner table that put them at considerable distance from other patrons. Collette took the chair that placed her back against the wall. Wheatley sat across from her.

After they’d ordered a bottle of white wine, Wheatley shook his head and grinned. “You could drive a guy crazy.”

“I don’t mean to do that, Vern. My life has been …” She smiled. “It’s been chaotic lately, at best.”

“Mine hasn’t been exactly run-of-the-mill, either,” he said. “Let’s order.”

“I told you I’m not hungry.”

“Then nibble.”

He looked at the menu, motioned for the waiter, and ordered moussaka, stuffed grape leaves, and an eggplant salad for two. After the waiter was gone, Wheatley leaned across the table and said, his eyes locked on hers, “I know who killed your friend Barrie Mayer, and I know why. I know who killed your friend David Hubler, and I know why he was killed, too. I know about the people you work for but, most of all, I know that you and I could end up like your dead friends if we don’t do something.”

“You’re going too fast for me, Vern,” she said, her excitement level rising. A large “What if?” struck her. What if Breslin and the rest of them were wrong? What if Eric Edwards was not, in fact, a double agent, had not killed Barrie Mayer? It was the first time since she left Budapest that she acknowledged to herself how much she hoped it was the case.…

Wheatley said, “All right, I’ll slow down for you. In fact, I’ll do even better than that.” He had a briefcase on the floor at the side of his chair. He pulled from it a bulging envelope and handed it to her.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“That, my friend, is the bulk of an article I’m writing about the CIA. There’s also the first ten chapters of my book in there.”

She immediately thought of David Hubler and the call that brought him to Rosslyn and to his death. She didn’t have to ask. Wheatley said, “I was the one who called Hubler and asked him to meet me in that alley.”

His admission hit her hard. At the same time, it wasn’t a surprise. She’d always questioned the coincidence of Wheatley having been there at the time. The look on her face prompted him to continue.

“I’ve been working through a contact in New York for months, Collette. He’s a former spook—I hope that doesn’t offend you, considering you’re in the same business.…” When she didn’t respond, he continued. “This contact of mine is a psychologist who used to do work for the CIA. He broke away a number of years ago and almost lost his life in the bargain. You don’t just walk away from those people, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Cahill said. “I’ve never walked away,” which was only half true. She’d left Budapest committed to never returning, not only to that city but to any job within Central Intelligence once her present assignment was completed.

“When someone tried to kill my contact, he did some fast thinking and came to the conclusion that his best protection was to offer up everything he knew for public consumption. Once he did that, why bother killing him? Eliminating him would only make sense if it were to avoid disclosure.”

“Go on,” she said.

“A mutual friend got us together and we started talking. That’s what brought me to Washington.”

“Finally, some simple honesty,” Cahill said, not particularly proud of the smugness in her voice.

“Yeah, that must be refreshing for you, Collette, considering that you’ve been dishonest with me all along.”

She was tempted to get into that discussion but resisted. Let him continue talking.

“My contact put me in touch with a woman who’d been an experimental subject in the Operation Bluebird and
MK
-
ULTRA
projects. They pulled out all the stops with her and, in the process, manipulated her mind to the extent that she doesn’t know who she is anymore. Ever hear of a man named Estabrooks?”

“A psychologist who did a lot of work with hypnosis.” She said it in a bored tone of voice.

“Yeah, right, but why should I be surprised? You probably know more about this than I ever imagined.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know much about those CIA projects from the past.”

He guffawed. “From the
past
? Those projects are going
on stronger than ever, Collette, and someone you know pretty well is one of the movers and shakers in them.”