CIA Fall Guy (7 page)

The waitress slopped another coffee cup onto the table. Charles pushed the sugar bowl towards Matthew. “Would you like the sugar?”

Matthew laughed. “I love your manners. It's so nice to have an aristocrat on our team.”

“I can't help who I am.”

Matthew dumped two teaspoons into his coffee. “It's partly why you're so useful to us.”

Behind Matthew the door slammed again. Frederick Schmidt, also wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, strode toward them, followed by a foreigner in a cheap suit.

“Frederick's guest looks more out of place than I do,” Charles said.

“There wasn't time to get him the right clothes.”

Frederick and the guest came up to the booth.

“Charles and Matthew,” Frederick said, “may I present Hans Wermer — the man you planned to kill.”

Charles' stomach flip flopped. “How is this possible?”

Frederick smiled and motioned for Hans to sit. “A natural mistake. When you told us a German agent for the Americans was arriving, we told you we wanted to take the traitor out. Who knew it was my old friend?”

Charles' stomach executed another series of acrobatic maneuvers.

“Yes,” Frederick said. “Hans appeared to be an American agent but he was actually a double agent — always working for the Fatherland.”

Charles studied the face across from him. German, perhaps some Slavic blood at one time, eyes hooded. The hands clasped on the table were calloused, veined. Edging on old age.

Charles spoke to Frederick. “And how did he come to survive the hit and find you?”

Frederick turned to Hans. “Please.”

“The sniper had bad aim...”

“The sun was in my eyes,” Matthew said.

“...and hit the driver first. I run into the trees. When the sniper looks for me, I circle back, take the driver's keys from his body. Then I reach the car and drive off.”

“The undergrowth made tracking difficult,” Matthew said.

“Stop making excuses,” Frederick said. “It is well that you failed at your mission.”

Now Charles spoke to Hans. “And how did you know what Frederick has been doing? Where to find him?”

Hans nodded. “I knew where to find him — he wrote to his family back home. Until a few hours ago I did not know what he has been doing since his defection. It is amazing — his operation here in the United States.”

Matthew gulped his coffee. “Yes, it is extensive. And we can use another dedicated man. I understand you've agreed to join our cause?”

“I have pledged myself to help you — with the return promise that you will help me. Because I too have a plan.”

“What plan?” Charles said.

“The one I maneuvered coming to the United States in order to carry out. I must get even with the American at the CIA who — how do you say it? — did me wrong.”

“Who's the man?” Charles said.

“George MacIntosh.”

Charles clenched his teeth. His stomach could have won the Olympic parallel bars competition. “Are you sure?”

“Jawohl.”

“English, Hans, use English,” Frederick said.

Charles thought quickly what he should say next. He said, “We have to first deal with the CIA's search for Hans. Perhaps we can allow Hans to contact the CIA and thus meet George directly.”

Matthew shook his head at Charles. “It could be a trap. If George knows Hans has a score to settle, he may be planning to kill Hans himself.”

Charles sipped his coffee, buying time. The soggy mess was cold.

He replaced the coffee cup on its saucer. “This whole affair has gotten out of control. We have a civilian — brought in by George to identify Hans — on the run. We have my CIA colleague looking for the civilian. And we have CIA resources watching for Hans.”

“This civilian, who is she?” Matthew said.

“Beth Parsons, late 40s, widow of an Army officer working in military intelligence in Germany when he died in a bomb explosion at the Frankfurt Officers Club in 1972,” Charles said. “At the time she worked for the 66th MI Group typing field reports that were shared with the CIA.”

“What's her connection to me?” Hans said.

“Supposedly saw you when you tried to make contact with Jack Lockheim at a restaurant in Munich. Only one alive on our side known to have seen you at least once.”

“Jack Lockheim!” Hans said.

Frederick laughed. “She is to identify someone she only saw for a moment so many years ago?”

“I know, but George insisted,” Charles said.

“Maybe she knows more than George let on to you,” Matthew said. “Maybe she's a threat to Hans.”

Charles shook his head. “Surely not. She hasn't had any contact with intelligence sources for 25 years.”

“Still, we can't be too careful,” Matthew said. “She could be a threat. Better to remove her.”

The coffee sloshed in Charles' stomach. “Remove her! What are you talking about?”

“You know,” Frederick said. “And you'll have to help us by telling us where she is.”

**

Beth twisted in bed, angling her wrist to the light filtered through the crumbling curtains. Some day she'd get one of those neat watches with a face that could be read in the dark. That's if she lived long enough to go shopping again.

Her back ached from the lumpy mattress, her eyes itched from the feather pillow, and her stomach sloshed acid. It was 5 a.m. and time to get going. But where?

Some remote place not connected with her where she could hang out for a few days until the CIA moved on to more important people. And left her alone.

A teensy spider crawled along the bedspread. As a teenager she'd screamed and yelled with her friends whenever they'd seen any bugs. As an adult, she'd learned there were real dangers to be frightened of while most bugs were harmless. This was not always true of most humans.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Could she take a shower without alerting everyone in this wing of the motel that she was up?

This wasn't a motel that provided amenities such as shampoo and conditioner. But her toiletry kit she'd transferred from her suitcase at Kathleen's apartment had a small traveling bottle of shampoo. Even if she was hiding out, she didn't want a scratchy scalp.

The hot water sloshed the shampoo suds down her body. Okay, who did she know? Or where had she been that was truly remote?

Yuk, she closed her mouth. Soap had slid down her throat — she'd been pre-occupied with the answer.

Lance's A-frame in Cape Cod. An overpopulated area and he found the only isolated A-frame in the entire peninsula. She had freaked the time she had stayed with him — total blackness pressing in on the glass windows forming two sides of the structure with the wind and unseen animals howling for good measure. Lance's insistence on reciting ghost stories had only worsened her fear.

Yet the CIA was nothing to sneer at. Given her choice, she'd take the unseen animals over the visible CIA representatives.

Poor Lance. He wouldn't appreciate being awoken so early. But she had to get out of here.

**

Kathleen lifted her left hand from the steering wheel and rubbed her eyes. It had been a hellish night. She'd been leery of using CIA contacts at first, worried that someone would alert George of what she was doing.

So for several hours she'd tried using her own resources to access credit card information. No such luck. She had to call the professionals. And, bingo, Beth's card number had surfaced at a motel near the airport.

And here was the motel itself. A nondescript clump of peeling stucco buildings with cars parked outside some of the rooms.

The lobby door slammed behind her. The clerk at the desk, a young guy with a ponytail, jerked upright.

“Hi. I'm Beth Parsons' friend. I was supposed to meet her here. What room is she in?”

The clerk gave her the once over. No sweat. She looked presentable. And she wasn't carrying, so no revealing waist bulge.

“Room 6 — around the corner on the first floor. But isn't it early to meet someone?”

“Not when you have an early flight. Thanks for the help.”

Kathleen approached room 6. The curtain was closed, same as in the rooms on either side of 6. Should she knock? That would put Beth on guard and who knew what she might do then. Besides, she was probably still sleeping. Why rudely awake her?

Kathleen unzipped an inner pocket in her purse and lifted out two delicate instruments, the main tools for lock picking. Hold one to spring the lock while fiddling with the other. She began the negotiations.

Damn! The pick slipped. She gripped it as tightly as her sweaty palms would allow. Sure, she had practiced this before, but she'd never done it for real.

She pried again for an opening — and the lock clicked open. She'd done it!

She slid the door open a crack. Her luck held — no giveaway creak. In the dark she could just make out a lumpy form on the bed.

She pushed the door wider and slipped through, tiptoeing to the bed.

“Beth,” she said. “Beth, time to wake up.”

She reached for Beth's shoulder, but the bedspread came away in Kathleen's hand, flopping onto her feet. Shit! Shit! Shit!

Kathleen spun back to the door, fumbling for the light switch.

The ceiling fixture revealed — no Beth in the bed!

A quick check of the bathroom revealed no Beth there either.

Kathleen sank onto the bed. She felt nauseous, the same as when she suffered her annual winter bout of the flu, complete with a pounding head.

It was so early in the morning. How could Beth be gone?

Kathleen grabbed the phone, calling a number that was answered on the first ring.

“Doug, it's Kathleen. I need a favor. Can you tell me if any calls were made from this number I'm on within the last few hours? I'll hold.”

Kathleen yanked open the drawer in the nightstand table. Nada. Not even a Gideon Bible. She stood up, cradled the phone against her shoulder, and felt under the bedframe. Her right hand came up with a condom in a foil package.

Shit again!

Doug was talking. “Repeat it once more.” Kathleen was good at remembering numbers; if she heard a phone number once or twice, it was usually hers for life.

“Registered to a Lance Edwards? Thanks. I owe you.”

She dialed again, first the calling card number, then the number Doug had given her.

It was now 6 a.m. on the East Coast. People should still be safely home in bed. Come on, come on, answer the phone.

On the third ring a male voice, befuddled with sleep, mumbled hello.

**

George ran his fingers over the edge of his desk. Solid. He liked solid things. Gave him a good feeling, a foundation on which to depend.

This current situation, with everything going to hell in a handbasket, was not solid. It was slippery, as slippery as any situation he'd worked on over his long career. In fact, in some ways this was slippery. They were on U.S. soil, an area where the CIA was legally not supposed to run operations. CIA was to leave U.S. operations to the FBI boys. But this was not something he could trust to the FBI. They were too narrow-minded, too sure of themselves. He needed creative thinking here — plus a little help from others.

Mark had reported that Beth was traveling north; she'd left her motel before six this morning. He'd stay with her, see what was going on.

Maybe Kathleen would report in later. George had been notified that she'd used the agency's resources to locate Beth, but Mark had seen no sign of Kathleen. Presumably she'd gotten to the motel too late.

George opened a desk drawer and removed his bottle of Maalox chewable tablets. He liked the lemon ones — the cherry ones were chalky. He took four, the maximum suggested dosage. It was going to be that kind of a day.

A knock on his office door. Charles, summoned for a planning meeting.

“Enter.”

Charles took his usual chair, swinging his right leg across his left knee. George had secretly practiced the maneuver at home, but he couldn't achieve the same fluid movement Charles did. Maybe George was too old to learn new tricks. Or maybe you had to be born to that graciousness.

“What do you hear?” Charles said.

“No more than what I told you before. But while we wait to see where Beth's going and what Kathleen's doing, we need to concentrate on finding Hans Wermer.”

Charles smiled. “He's the needle in the haystack.”

“You can say that again.”

Charles coughed, his hand covering his mouth. “George?”

“Yes?”

“You did say that Mark Haskell was keeping an eye on Beth, didn't you?”

George nodded. What was Charles getting at?

“He would be prepared to protect her if ... the elements that took out Ralph try to take her out?”

“Of course,” George said. “But do you seriously think she's in any danger?”

Charles gave an elegant shrug of his shoulders. How did he do that?

“We have no idea what's going on here,” Charles said. “Just wanted to make sure we're prepared for any contingency.”

“That's what the CIA is for, to protect American interests.” George glanced at his flag.

Then he stared across his desk at Charles. Perhaps ol' Charles seemed a little unruffled? Not his usual unflappable self?

George rubbed his brow. Maybe he was seeing bogeymen. He hadn't had much sleep last night. Sleep deprivation could do funny things to one's mind.

He smiled at Charles. Best to change the subject. “Did I ever tell you the time, I think it was '54 in Taiwan, when the army decided civilian employees should have uniforms and asked us what we thought?”

**

Charles drove the back way, staying off the main roads. He had told the secretary he had a meeting at the Pentagon, would be back before lunch. He did have a meeting, agreed upon in the early hours at the trucker's roadside stop, but not at the Pentagon.

George had seemed a bit off this morning. Of course, Beth Parsons was missing, Hans Wermer was missing, and Kathleen was pretending she was in operations, not to mention Ralph had been killed. Still, their business was the unexpected. George shouldn't be riled by this.