Murder in the CIA (30 page)

“Because Tolker told her.”

“No, because she told Tolker.” He reached across the seat and grabbed her arm. “You ready for some heavy stuff, Collette?”

“Heavy stuff? The last week hasn’t exactly been lightweight, Joe, has it?”

“No, it hasn’t.” He paused, used his pipe to fill a few seconds, then said, “Your friend Barrie sold out, too.”

“Sold out? What do you mean? Sold out to whom?”

“The other side. She was in it with Edwards.”

“Joe, that’s …”

“Hey, at least hear me out.”

She didn’t, jumped in with, “If she was in it with Edwards, why would she be off to Hungary to blow the whistle on him?”

“Ever hear of the woman scorned?”

“Not Barrie.”

“Why not?”

“Because … she wouldn’t do something like that.” Now there was only a modicum of conviction behind her words. What spun through her mind was the kind of control someone like Jason Tolker could exercise over a good subject like Barrie Mayer. What she’d read in Estabrooks’s book was there, too, about changing the “visual” in order to get people to behave in a manner foreign to their basic personality and values.

“What if Tolker programmed her to come up with a story about Eric Edwards out of … I don’t know, out of jealousy or pique or to save his own hide? Maybe Tolker is a double agent and used Barrie to cover up. Maybe he poisoned Barrie against Edwards.”

“Yeah, maybe, Collette. Who poisoned you against Tolker?”

“I’m not …”

“Put another way, how come you’re so hell-bent on defending Edwards?”

“I’m not doing that, either, Joe.”

“I think you are.”

“Think again, and get off treating me like some pathetic woman defending a lover to the death. I am a woman, Joe, and I am an agent of the CIA. Know what? I’m good at both.”

“Collette, maybe …”

“Maybe nothing, Joe. You and Stan have wrapped everything
up in what you think is a neat little package, no loose ends, no doubts. Why? Why is it so damn important to resolve Barrie’s murder by laying it on Edwards?” He raised his eyebrows as though to say, “There you go again.” She shook her head. “I don’t buy it, any of it, Joe.”

“That’s a shame,” he said quietly.

“Why?”

“Because that attitude will get in the way of your next assignment.”

She stared quizzically at him, finally asking, “What assignment?”

“Terminating Eric Edwards.”

She started to speak but all that came out was breath.

“You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

“Terminate Eric? Kill him.”

“Yes.”

It was hardly an accurate reflection of what was on her mind, but it happened anyway: She laughed. Breslin did, too, and continued until she stopped.

“They mean it,” he said.

“They?”

“Up top.”

“
They
 … they told you to assign me to kill him?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why me?”

“You can get close to him.”

“So can lots of people.”

“Easier and neater with you, Collette.”

“How do ‘they’ suggest I do this?”

“Your choice. Go by Tech in the morning and choose your weapon.”

“I see,” she said. “Then what?”

“What are you talking about, what happens after it’s done?”

“Right.”

“Nothing. It’s over, the double agent in Banana Quick is no longer a problem and we can get back to normal, which can’t be too soon. Banana Quick is close to popping.”

“Back to normal for me, here in Budapest?”

“If you wish. It’s customary for anyone carrying out a wet
affair to have their choice of future assignment, even to take a leave of absence, with pay, of course.”

“Joe, I’m sorry but …” She started to laugh again, but it did not become laughter, and this time he didn’t join her. Instead, he puffed on his pipe and waited for her nervous, absolutely necessary reaction to subside.

“They’re serious, Collette.”

“I’m sure they are. I’m not.” She paused, then said, “Joe,
they
blew up the yacht, didn’t they?” When he didn’t respond, she added, “Eric knew it.”

Again, no reply from him.

“I was on that yacht, Joe.”

“It wasn’t us.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“It was the Soviets.”

“Why would they do that if he’s on their side?”

A shrug from Breslin. “Maybe he started holding out for more money. Maybe they thought he was feeding them bad information. Maybe they didn’t like him carousing around with a pretty CIA agent.”

Cahill shook her head. “You know what’s remarkable, Joe?”

“What?”

“That ‘they’ means the same people … the Soviets, the CIA … all the same, same morality, same ethics, same game.”

“Don’t give me the moral equivalency speech, Collette. It doesn’t play, and you know it. We’ve got a system to preserve that’s good and decent. Their system is evil. I’ll tell you something else. If you do want to view it that way, keep it between us. It wouldn’t go over too big with …”

“The hell with
them
.”

“Suit yourself. I’ve given you the assignment. Take it?”

“Yes.”

“Look, Collette, you realize that …?”

“Joe, I said I’d do it. No need for more speeches.”

“You’ll really do it?”

“Yes, I’ll really do it.”

“When?”

“I’ll leave tomorrow.”

“I get the feeling that …”

“Take me home, Joe.”

“Collette, if there’s any hesitation on your part, I’d suggest you sleep on it.”

“I’ll do that. I’ll sleep just fine.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why the sudden willingness to kill Edwards?”

“Because … I’m a pro. I work for the CIA. I do what I’m told. It’s obviously for the good of the country,
my
country. Someone has to do it. Let’s go.”

He pulled up in front of her apartment building and said, “Come talk to me in the morning.”

“What for?”

“To go over this a little more.”

“No need. You’ll tell Tech I’ll be by?”

He sighed, said, “Yes.”

“Know something, Joe?”

“What?”

“For the first time since I joined the CIA, I feel part of the team.”

She awoke the next morning feeling surprisingly refreshed. There was no hangover from jet lag or from the late evening and its drinks. She showered quickly, chose her heather wool tweed suit and burgundy turtleneck, and called for a taxi. A half hour later she walked through the front door of the United States Embassy on Szabadság tėr, flashed her credentials at the security guard who knew her well, was buzzed into the inner lobby, and went directly to the transportation office. There she booked an afternoon Malev flight to London, and a connecting flight to New York the following evening.

“Good morning, Joe,” she said brightly to Breslin as they approached each other in the hall.

“Hello, Collette,” he said somberly.

“Can we get this over with now?” she asked.

His was a deep, meaningful sigh. “Yeah, I suppose so,” he said.

He closed the door to his office. “Got a cigarette, Joe?” she asked pleasantly.

“No. Don’t start the habit.”

“Why not? Looks like I’m about to start a whole new set of bad habits.”

“Look, Collette, I talked to Stan late last night. I tried to …” He looked up at the ceiling. “Let’s take a walk.”

“No need. You’ve arranged for me to go to Tech this morning?”

“Yes, but …” He got up. “Come on.”

She had little choice but to follow him out of the embassy and across Liberation Square to a bench on which he propped a foot and lighted his pipe. “I tried to get you off it, Collette,” he said.

“Why? I didn’t balk.”

“Yeah, and that worries me. How come?”

“I thought I explained myself last night. I want to be a pro, part of the team. You join an organization like this because, no matter how much you want to—need to—deny your fascination with James Bond movies, it’s always there. Right, Joe?”

“Maybe. The point is, Collette, I went to Stan’s house after I dropped you and tried to persuade him to cancel the order from Langley.”

“I wish you hadn’t. I don’t want to be treated different from anyone else because I’m a woman.”

“That wasn’t what I pegged my request upon,” Breslin said. “I don’t think you’re the one to go after our friend in the BVI because of your relationship with him.”

“I don’t have a
relationship
with him, Joe. I went down there on business and did what I was told to do. I got close to him and damn near ended up fish food in the bargain. It makes perfect sense for me to do this.”

“Hank thinks so, too.”

“Fox? I’m flattered. All I seem to end up with are father figures, and want to know something, Joe?”

“What?”

“I don’t need a father, and that includes you.”

“Thanks.”

“No gratitude necessary. All my fathers seem to do—including you—is to send their daughters into battle. New definition of fatherhood, I guess. Female liberation. I’m glad. Now, let’s get back to basics. You tried to get me off,
you failed. That’s good because I’m committed to this. Everything is right in my mind. One thing I don’t need is a set of doubts implanted.” She laughed. “Besides, I’m a lousy hypnotic subject. It’s a shame Barrie wasn’t.”

Breslin nodded toward a far corner of the square where two men in overcoats and hats stood, conspicuously not watching them. “I think we’ve talked enough,” Breslin said.

“I think you’re right,” Cahill said. “I have a plane reservation for this afternoon. Better get inside and pick up my supplies.”

“All right. One other thing, though.” He walked away from her and toward a corner where a line of taxicabs waited for fares. He slowed down and she caught up with him. “When you get home, Collette, contact no one involved with us. No one. Understand?”

“Yes.” The order didn’t surprise her. The nature of her mission would preclude touching base with anyone even mildly associated with the CIA and Langley.

“But,” he said, “if you need help in a real emergency, there’s been a control established for you in D.C.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just remember that it’s available in an emergency. You make contact any evening for the next two weeks at exactly six o’clock. The contact point is the statue of Winston Churchill just outside the British Embassy on Massachuetts Avenue. Your contact will hold for ten minutes each evening, no more. Got it?”

“Yes. Do I still have my contact in the BVI, at Pusser’s Landing?”

“No.”

“All right.”

She had nothing more to say, just followed him back inside the embassy, went to her office, closed the door, and stood at the window peering out at the gray, suddenly bleak city of Budapest. Her phone rang but she ignored it. She realized she was in the midst of an unemotional void: no feelings, no anxiety or anger or confusion. There was nothing, and it was pleasant.

Ten minutes later she went to the embassy’s basement where a closed door bore the sign
TECHNICAL ASSISTANCE
.
She knocked; a latch was released and Harold Sutherland opened the door.

“Hi, Red,” she said.

“Hi. Come on in. I’ve been expecting you.”

Once the door was closed behind them, Sutherland said, “Well, kid, what do you need?”

Cahill stood in the middle of the cramped, cluttered room and realized he was waiting for an answer. What was the answer? She didn’t know what she “needed.” Obviously, there were people who did for a living what she was about to do. For a death.
They
knew what was needed in their job. She didn’t. It wasn’t her job to kill anyone, at least not in the lengthy job description that accompanied her embassy employment. But those specifications were a lie, too. She didn’t work for the embassy. She worked for the Central Intelligence Agency, the CIA, the Company, the Pickle Factory, whose stated purpose was to gather and assimilate intelligence from all over the world and … and to kill when it was necessary to keep doing its job.

She’d had courses during her CIA training at the Farm that dealt with killing, although it was never labeled as such. “Self-protection,” they called it. There were other terms—“Termination Techniques,” “Neutralization,” “Securing the Operation.”

“You flying somewhere?” Sutherland asked.

His gravel voice startled her. She looked at him, forced a smile, and said, “Yes.”

“Come here.”

He led her past his desk, past rows of floor-to-ceiling shelving stocked with unmarked boxes and to a tiny separate room at the rear. It was a miniature firing range. She didn’t even know it existed. She’d participated in firing exercises on the embassy’s main range, which wasn’t much bigger, just longer.

There was a table, two chairs, and a thick, padded wall ten feet away. The pads were filled with holes. She glanced up; the ceiling was covered with soundproofing material. So were the other walls.

“Have a seat,” Sutherland said.

She took one of the chairs while he disappeared back into
the shelves, returning moments later carrying a white cardboard box. He placed it on the table, opened it, and removed a purple bag with a drawstring. She watched as he opened the bag and lifted from it a piece of white plastic that was shaped like a small revolver. He pulled a second bag from the box. It contained a plastic barrel. The only metal item was a small spring.

“Nine millimeter,” he said as he weighed the components in his large, callused hand. “It’s like the Austrian Glock 17, only the barrel is plastic, too. It’s U.S.-made. We just got it last week.”

“I see.”

“Here, put it together. Simple.”

He watched as she fumbled with the pieces, then showed her how to do it. When it was assembled, he said, “You stick the spring in your purse and pack the rest in your suitcase. Wrap it in clothes, only that’s not even necessary. X-ray picks up nothing.

She looked at him. “Bullets?”

He grinned. “Ammunition, you mean? Pick it up in any sporting goods store where you’re traveling. Want to try it?”

“No, I … Yes, please.”

He showed her how to load it and told her to shoot at the padded wall. She placed two hands on it and squeezed the trigger. She’d expected a kick. There was virtually nothing. Even the sound was small.