Murder in the CIA (34 page)

“Why should I?”

“Because …”

“When Barrie made her last trip to Hungary, whatever it was she carried wasn’t in a briefcase. It was in her mind, because you implanted it there.”

“Wait a minute, that’s …”

“That’s the truth, Dr. Tolker. I’m not the only one who knows it. It’s common knowledge. At least it is now.”

“What of it? The program calls for it.”

“What was the message?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“I think you’d better.”

He stood. “And I think you’d better get out of here.”

Collette held up the envelope she’d been given by Vern. “Know what’s in this?”

He tried for levity. “Your memoirs of a clandestine life.”

She didn’t respond in kind. “A friend of mine has been researching the projects you’re involved with. He’s done quite a job. Want an example?”

“You’re talking about Vern Wheatley?”

“Right.”

“He’s in deep water.”

“He’s a strong swimmer.”

“Not with these tides. Go ahead. I know all about him, and about you. Bad form, Collette, for an intelligence agent to sleep with a writer.”

“I’ll let that pass. Vern knows, and so do I, that you programmed Barrie to claim that Eric Edwards, from the BVI, was a double agent. Correct?”

To her surprise, he didn’t deny it. Instead, he said, “That happens to be the truth.”

“No, it’s not. You’re the double agent, Doctor.”

The accusation, and the weight of the envelope despite neither of them knowing what was in it, stopped the conversation. Tolker broke the silence by asking pleasantly, “Drink, Collette?”

She couldn’t help but smile. “No.”

“Coke? The white kind?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Just trying to be sociable. Barrie always enjoyed my sociability.”

“Spare me that again.”

“Like to spend some intimate moments with our deceased friend?”

“What?”

“I have her on tape. I’m reluctant to expose myself to you because, naturally, I’m on the tape, too. But I will.”

“No thanks.” Collette didn’t mean it. Her voice betrayed her true feelings.

He did exactly the right thing. He said nothing, simply sat back down, crossed his legs, folded his hands in his lap, and smirked.

“What kind of tape? While she was hypnotized?”

“No, nothing concerning therapy. That would be highly unprofessional of me. The tape I’m talking about is more
personal
.”

“When she was … with you?”

“When she was very much with me, right here in this office, after hours.”

“You recorded it?”

“Yes. I’m recording us, too.”

Cahill’s head snapped left and right as she took in the room in search of a camera.

“Up there,” Tolker said casually, pointing to a painting at the far end of the room.

“Did Barrie know?”

“Shall we see it?”

“No, I …”

He went to bookshelves where hundreds of videotapes were neatly lined up and labeled. He pulled one from the collection, knelt before a VCR hooked up to a 30-inch NEC monitor, inserted the tape, pushed buttons, and the screen came alive.

Collette turned her head and watched the screen from an angle, like a child wanting to avoid a gruesome scene in a horror movie, yet afraid to miss it. Tolker resumed his seat and said smugly, “You came here demanding answers. Watch closely, Collette. There’s lots of answers on the screen.”

Cahill looked away, her eyes going to where Tolker indicated there was a camera recording them. Out of the corner of her eye, a naked form appeared on the TV monitor. She focused on the screen. It was Barrie, walking around Tolker’s office, a glass in her hand. She went to where he sat fully dressed in his chair. “Come on, I’m ready.” Her words were slurred; her laugh was that of a drunken woman. When he didn’t respond, she sat on his lap and kissed him. His hands ran over her body.…

“You slime,” Collette said.

“Don’t judge me,” Tolker said. “She’s there, too. Keep watching. There’s more.”

A new scene appeared on the screen. Barrie was seated cross-legged on the carpet, still nude. A man’s naked form—presumably Tolker—was in shadows. He obviously knew where to position himself so that he was out of the camera’s direct focus, and out of the lighting.

Barrie held a clear plate on which cocaine was heaped. She put a straw to her nose, leaned forward, placed the other end in the powder, and inhaled.

Cahill stood. “Turn that damn thing off,” she said.

“It’s not over. It gets even better.”

She went to the VCR and pushed the “Stop” button. The screen went blank. She was aware that he’d come up behind her. She quickly fell to her knees, spun around, and pointed the revolver up at his face.

“Easy, easy,” he said. “I’m not out to hurt you.”

“Get away. Back up.”

He did as she requested. She stood, was without words.

“See?” he said. “Your friend was not the saint you thought she was.”

“I never considered her a saint,” Collette said. “Besides, this has nothing to do with how she died.”

“Oh, yes, it does,” Tolker said. He sat in his chair and tasted his drink. “You’re right, Collette, this is kid’s stuff. Ready for the adult version?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Barrie was a traitor. She sold out to Eric Edwards, and to the Soviets.” He sighed and drank. “Oh, God, she was so innocent in that situation. She didn’t know a Soviet from a Buddhist monk. A great literary agent, a lousy intelligence agent. I should have known better than to get her involved. But that’s water over the dam.”

“She wasn’t a traitor,” Collette said, again without conviction. The truth was that she knew little about her close friend. The video she’d seen—so unlike the image she had of Barrie—caused anger to swell in her. “How dare you record someone in their …”

Tolker laughed. “In their
what
, most intimate moments? Forget the tape, think about what I just told you. She was
going to turn Edwards in, and that’s what got her killed. I tried to stop her but …”

“No you didn’t. You were the one who poisoned her against Eric.”

“Wrong. You’re wrong a lot, Collette. Sure, she told me that Edwards was working both sides of the street, and I encouraged her to blow the whistle on him. Want to know why?” Cahill didn’t answer. “Because it was the only way she had a chance to get herself off the hook. They knew about her.”

“Who?”

“The British. Why do you think that buffoon, Hotchkiss, came into the picture?”

Cahill was surprised. “What do you know about him? Why …?”

“You came here for answers,” Tolker said, standing. “I’ll give them to you,
if
you give me the gun, sit down, and shut up!” He extended his hand; his expression said he’d lost patience.

For a moment, Collette considered handing the revolver to him. She started to, but when he went to grab it from her hand, she yanked it away. Now his expression indicated he’d progressed beyond impatience. He was angry. He would do whatever he had to do. He would hurt her.

Collette glared at him; there was an overwhelming desire to use the small plastic revolver—to kill him. It had nothing to do with having determined his responsibility for Barrie’s death, nor was it bound up in some rational thought process involving her job or mission. Rather, it represented what had become an obsession to take action, to push a button, place a phone call, pull a trigger to put an end to the turmoil in her life.

Then again, it occurred to her, there
was
a certain order to what was being played out, a Ramistic logic that said, “Enjoy the pragmatic role you’re in, Collette. You’re a CIA agent. You have the authority to kill, to right wrongs. Nothing will happen to you. You’re expected to act with authority because it is your country that is at stake. You’re a member of law enforcement. The gun has been given to you to use, to enforce a political philosophy of freedom and opportunity
in order to keep evil forces from destroying a precious way of life.”

The thoughts cleared her mind and calmed her down. “You underestimate me,” she said.

“Get out.”

“When I’m ready. Hotchkiss. What role did he play?”

“He …”

“Why are you knowledgeable about him?”

“I have nothing more to say to you.”

“You said the British knew about Barrie being a … traitor. That’s why Hotchkiss is here?”

“Yes.”

“You convinced Barrie to become his partner?”

“It was best for her. It was the understanding.”

“Understanding?”

“The deal. It saved her. Our people agreed with it.”

“Because they believed you, that she and Eric Edwards were traitors.”

“No, Collette, because they
knew
they were. They gave Barrie’s mother money not to pursue any interest in the agency. Barrie’s will left operating control to Hubler, but her mother was to receive Barrie’s share of profits. The old bitch was happy for cash.”

“How much?”

“It doesn’t matter. Any amount was too much. She created the person Barrie became, a muddled, psychotic, pathetic human being who spent her adult life hiding from reality. It’s not unusual. People with Barrie’s high capacity for hypnotic trance usually come out of abused childhoods.”

A smirk crossed Collette’s face. “Do you know what I want to do, Dr. Tolker?”

“Tell me.”

“I either want to spit on you, or kill you.”

“Why?”

“You never tried to help Barrie get over her abused childhood, did you? All you were interested in was exploiting it, and her. You’re despicable.”

“You’re irrational. Maybe it’s a female thing. The agency ought to reconsider hiring women. You make a good case against the policy.”

Collette didn’t respond. She wanted to lash out. At the same time, she couldn’t mount an argument against what he’d said. Somehow, defending equality between the sexes didn’t seem important.

His voice and face had been cold and matter-of-fact up until now. He softened, smiled. “Tell you what,” he said. “Let’s start over, right now, this night. No silly guns, no nasty remarks. Let’s have a drink, dinner. Good wine and soothing music will take care of all our differences. We are on the same side, you know. I believe in you and what you stand for. I like you, Collette. You’re a beautiful, bright, talented, and decent woman. Please, forget why you came in here tonight. I’m sure you have other questions that I can answer, but not in this atmosphere of rancor and distrust. Let’s be friends and discuss these matters as friends, the way you used to discuss things with Barrie.” His smile broadened. “You
are
incredibly beautiful, especially when that anger forces its way to the surface and gives your face a …”

He went for her. She’d shifted the revolver to her left hand minutes before. As he lunged, she dropped Vern’s envelope, stiffened her right hand, and brought the edge of it against the side of his neck. The blow sent him sprawling to the carpet. A string of four-letter words exploded from him as he scrambled to his feet. They stood facing each other, their breathing rapid, their eyes wide in anger and fear.

Collette slowly backed toward the door, the revolver held securely in two hands, its tiny barrel pointed directly at his chest.

“Come here,” he said.

She said nothing, kept retreating, her attention on controlling the damnable shaking of her hands.

“You’ve got it all screwed up,” he said. She sensed the tension in his body as he prepared to attack again, a spring being compressed to give it maximum velocity and distance when released. The restraint on the spring was disengaged. It uncoiled in her direction. Her two fingers on the trigger contracted in concert; there was an almost silly “pop” from
the revolver—a Champagne cork, a dry twig being snapped, Rice Krispies.

She stepped back and he fell at her feet, arms outstretched. She picked up the envelope, ran through the door and to the street where, once she realized the revolver was still in her hands, she shoved it into her raincoat and walked deliberately toward the nearest busy intersection.

The message light on her telephone was on when she returned to her suite at the Watergate. She called the message center. “Oh, yes, Miss Cahill, a gentleman called. He said”—the operator laughed. “It’s a strange message. The gentleman said, ‘Necessary that we discuss Winston Churchill as quickly as possible.’ ”

“He didn’t leave a name?”

“No. He said you’d know who he was.”

“Thank you.”

Collette went to the balcony and looked out over the shimmering lights of Foggy Bottom. What had Joe Breslin told her? She could make contact with someone at the Churchill statue any evening for the next two weeks at six o’clock, and that the contact would remain there for no more than ten minutes.

She returned to the living room, drew the drapes, got into a robe, and sat in a wing chair illuminated by a single floor lamp. On her lap was Vern Wheatley’s envelope. She pulled the pages from it, sighed, and began reading. It wasn’t until the first shaft of sunlight came through a gap in the drapes that she put it down, hung the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign on the door, and went, soberly, to bed.

Sleep. It was what she’d needed most. The small travel alarm clock on the nightstand next to her bed read 3:45. She’d slept almost ten hours, and it had been easy. The events earlier in the evening seemed not to have happened or, at least, had happened to someone else.

It was four-thirty when she got out of the shower. As she stood in front of the bathroom mirror drying her hair, she remembered she was supposed to call Vern. She found the number for the Allen Lee Hotel and dialed it, asked for Mr. Black’s room. “Sorry to be late calling,” she said. “I slept all day.”

“It’s okay. Did you read what I gave you?”

“Read it? Yes, two or three times. I was up all night.”

“And?”

“You make some remarkable accusations, Vern.”

“Are they wrong?” he asked.

“No.”

“Okay, talk to me. How did you react to …?”

“Why don’t we discuss it in person?”

He whooped. “This is called progress. You mean you’re actually going to initiate a date with me?”