CIA Fall Guy (2 page)

Eitan nodded for the test to begin. She blocked Shmuel from her mind and concentrated on her performance.

At the end of her test minutes later, she returned to her place on the mat. As she passed Shmuel he had murmured, “Better luck next time.” The shit!

Finally the testing of all levels was over. The
sensei
indicated they should line up for the closing ceremony.

Starting with the head-of-the-line black belt, the students kneeled singly as in one of those old Busby Berkeley movies where the dancers create an undulating wave. At the head of the line, Shmuel honked the command to breathe deeply for several seconds. Beth stared straight ahead into the middle distance, her hands on her thighs, trying not to shift on her knees — Shmuel always stretched out the seconds to demonstrate how macho he was, how long he could remain kneeling in the uncomfortable position.

After forever Shmuel barked the commands to bow to the wall portrait of the current grandmaster of their system, then bow to their own
sensei
. Eitan motioned for them to stand singly, starting with Shmuel, the line undulating upwards this time.

Beth stepped off the official
dojo
floor and onto the carpet where they left their shoes and socks. She reached down for her Reeboks.

“Beth Parsons?” a man behind her said.

Beth looked up, one shoe dangling from her right hand.

“Yes,” she said to one of the suited men.

“We need to speak to you.”

“Who are you?”

The man glanced around the small space, crammed with karate students gathering up their gear. “Could you step outside a moment? We'll show you our IDs.”

“Show them to me now.”

“Outside would be better.”

She shook her head.

Both men palmed small ID cards encased in plastic and swiped the cards under her eyes. Tompkinson and Hemmings, both CIA. CIA?

“Wait a minute, what's going on here?” she asked.

“Now will you come outside,” the one with the Tompkinson badge said. “We can't speak in here.”

Outside the humidity pushed against them. Beth's nose wrinkled, protesting the stench of garbage and dog leavings that perfumed the streets of Center City Philadelphia whenever the thermostat rose. She checked where she placed her barefoot feet. Was she in some doo-doo she didn't know about?

“Langley needs to speak to you,” the one identified as Hemmings said.

“About what?”

“We weren't given that information,” Tompkinson said. “Langley just notified the local office to deliver this message.”

“IDs can be faked. How do I know you're for real?”

Hemmings snapped open his briefcase, extracted a single sheet. Beth could see it was old, not a computer-generated document.

He held it under her nose. “Look familiar?”

She recognized the type of form, but without her glasses she couldn't read the type. “Hold on.” Her hand went to the purse she had grabbed as they exited the
dojo
. She slipped on her glasses.

“For heavens sake! This is the first page of my application for a security clearance. It's almost 25 years old. Where did you unearth this?”

The men smiled.

“I still don't get it.”

“We have no comment,” Tompkinson said. “Only to notify you.”

“When will Langley call?”

“No call. A man will come for you tomorrow at 7 a.m. He'll drive you down to Langley,” Hemmings said. “And bring a suitcase for a few nights.”

Tompkinson now snapped open his briefcase. He pulled out a black-and-white photo and handed it to her.

Her face burned. “How did you get this? It's personal.”

She and Stephen stood with their arms around each other, her red hair long and straight instead of short and permed. Snow-covered peaks filled the background.

“This was taken in Bavaria, wasn't it?” Tompkinson said.

“Yes, at Linderhof, one of Mad King Ludwig's castles.”

“It was taken, no doubt, when you lived in Munich?”

An eternity ago. “Yes, why?”

“As I've already said, Langley needs to speak to you.”

“And if I can't arrange to come?”

“You will. This is important.”

Hemmings nodded. “You will be reimbursed for any out-of-pocket expenses.”

Two of her classmates exited the
dojo
, waved to her as they headed down the block. What would they think if they knew who she was talking to? They'd want to know what she wanted to know — what could this possibly be about? Unless, unless, the CIA had finally learned who was responsible for Stephen's death?

She pushed her breath down into her diaphragm, the way the students breathed in karate class. She couldn't get her hopes up. This would probably be about something silly, but what silly thing would be worth bringing up so many years later?

“How's the weather down there?”

“If I were you, I'd bring an assortment of clothes — and your passport. You never know where you may end up.”

End up? What was going on here? And how did they know she had a current passport? Oh, duh. They could easily check that.

“Anything else I'll need?”

“Just your memory.”

Terrific. “What's the name of the person coming for me?”

“Ralph. He'll have a grey Chevy sedan.”

A green belt waved to her as he left the dojo, then she nodded to the two men.

“And tell no one where you're going. Just say you're going out of town.”

The men didn't say good-bye; they just turned away.

Beth walked back into the
dojo
to put on her Reeboks. Several students still milled around, jawing with each other.

Shmuel leaned forward, his open
gi
top framing a hairy chest. Macho. “What did the spooks want?”

“What?”

“Don't bullshit me. I can spot one a mile away.”

Beth stared into Shmuel's eyes. Stephen always said “Don't bullshit a bullshitter.”

“Me.”

Shmuel laughed. “What would they want with you?”

Beth jammed her feet into her shoes. “That's for me to know and for you to find out.”

Shmuel's eyes blazed. Would she regret her words?

Outside again on Walnut Street she turned towards her Pine Street townhouse. At the northeast corner of Walnut and 18th she entered Rittenhouse Square. Halfway through the park she collapsed onto a bench, leaned her head against the wood slats.

She closed her eyes and was back at the 66th Military Intelligence Group, sitting at her secretary's desk on the second floor of the enormous stone building — former Luftwaffe headquarters — as traffic raced alongside the building to exit the eastern edge of Munich and headed toward the lake at Chiemsee where Mad King Ludwig had another one of his castles, Herrenchiemsee, or the mountains in Berchtesgarden where Hitler had his aviary hideaway, Eagle's Nest.

Around her at their desks sat the U.S. army civilians, the captains, the infantry major who thought the military intelligence unit's security measures lax — all scribbling or telephoning. Or reminiscing with each other. Did civilians wear uniforms in Taiwan in '54 or Hong Kong in '56?

The highest-ranking civilian in the room, a GS-13, had caused trouble for her. Had actually gotten her fired without ever telling her he could or would. Her own boss had been a GS-12, unable to reverse the firing. The infantry major had patched things up. And she had played the power game from then on, once she had known that a game had been in progress.

All that was years ago. What could it have to do with her now?

DAY 2

Langley, Virginia —

In a few minutes Kathleen had to meet with George. She twirled an enameled pen — her farewell gift from Rodney. His field reports lit up dots all across the map of Europe. Prague, Paris, Padua. Out in the field. Where the action is.

Being an African-American didn't hinder her as much as being a woman. Even though almost all the old-timers had worked with women in the field or at their cover assignments, they thought of women as order-followers, not order-givers.

It was damn hard to find just the right tone, just the right words, whenever she wanted to get a point across. She had to remind herself not to speak too often, too forcefully, too whatever.

She was determined to make herself an integral part of this operation going down today. Prove that she could handle sensitive situations.

She had to — if she ever wanted to get a field assignment.

**

George signaled for Charles to take a seat, watching as Charles unbuttoned his navy blazer before sitting. Ah, yes, the blazer with the Yale sculling team buttons. Beth Parsons had gone to Penn. Had Charles chosen this outfit to silently cue her in to his superiority?

“What time will she be here?” Charles asked.

“Between ten-thirty and eleven. We'll be notified when the car is 10 minutes away.”

George opened the operation folder lying on his desk. He glanced at the top page. “We'll have plenty of time. He's not arriving until this afternoon.”

“Where are you going to put her tonight if she has to stay over?”

He wouldn't tell Charles that this simple question had given him much anxiety. A safe house wasn't necessary; a hotel was too open.

“With Kathleen.” He had given Kathleen the assignment without asking her permission.

“Ah,” Charles said. “Yes, that's a good idea.”

George appreciated that Charles had learned, perhaps at Yale, always to agree with your superiors. This was one of Charles' qualifications that George found most useful. There were a few others. Charles could speak passable German and decent French. He knew which wine to order with which food. And with his blond WASP looks he could look bland and inconspicuous at will, which was practically all the time.

Kathleen, on the other hand, stood out. A young black woman whose body language said “I'm a professional,” she confounded the men at department meetings. Instructed by George to say nothing unless spoken to, she was invariably asked a question by someone — often to put her on the spot — and she always managed to answer succinctly and intelligently.

With Kathleen, George had to be extremely cautious.

**

Charles strolled back across the hall to his own, smaller, office. He shut the door after telling the young male secretary he shared with Kathleen that he did not wish to be disturbed.

Then he dropped into his desk chair and smiled. Yes, things were going very well, very well indeed.

He removed his tortoise-shell-frame glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It certainly helped to be able to play Lord Peter Wimsey, to act the role of a none-too-bright but harmless arisplainrat. It was amazing what George would say when Charles was around, things George would never say in front of Kathleen.

No, old George was wary around Kathleen. Thought she was too bright and eager to be trusted. But Charles was such a good boy, such a faithful attendant, that lips could be quite loose around him.

And did that ever give Charles an advantage. Poor Kathleen. She wouldn't know what hit her.

**

Beth fidgeted in the back seat of the car as much as her shoulder belt would allow. She had offered to sit up front with Ralph, had hoped for some conversation that would speed the time. He had said no to the first and not responded to any of her conversational gambits.

They had already skirted Washington and now they arrived at their destination, the guard at the gate checking them, then motioning them forward.

Beth followed Ralph through the building until they reached the 4th floor, where he handed her and her suitcase over to a young woman who kept the suitcase and motioned for Beth to enter a door at the far end of the reception room. Needless to say, Ralph didn't say good-bye.

Inside the room an older man, probably in his sixties, occupied a standard-issue desk. A young woman and a young man faced the desk. The third guest chair was empty.

“Welcome, welcome,” the older man said. “I'm George MacIntosh and this is Kathleen Walters and Charles Trenchant. Have a seat.”

Beth slid into the third chair, equidistant between Charles on her left and Kathleen on her right.

George smiled. “First off, we want to thank you for coming down on such short notice. We really appreciate it.”

“What is this about?” she said.

“Yes, this must seem strange,” George said. “I can understand you would have been surprised to hear from us.”

She glanced at Kathleen, then at Charles. Neither one showed any expression.

Beth had typed enough reports in Munich to know that people often rattled on when faced with ambiguity and pauses in an interrogation. They'd begin to talk, to fill in the silences. A big mistake. She said nothing, just turned her head to study the rest of the room.

The American flag in the far corner looked old, but it did seem to have pride of place.

George coughed. She looked at him again. George nodded at Charles.

Charles said, “I don't know how much you've followed the last few years in Europe since the Berlin Wall fell?”

“Some.”

“Perhaps you've read there has been a steady stream of humint — human intelligence — coming across the former borders?”

She nodded.

“Some of these people worked for us in former times. On occasion there are some who feel they're owed for past services rendered.”

“Owed a great deal,” George said.

“And sometimes after all these years it's a problem to determine whether they really are owed.” Charles brushed a blond forelock out of his eyes. “And we have to do the best we can to figure out who's owed what.”

“It's very simple really,” George said. “We need you to identify someone.”

“Identify someone? Who could I possibly identify?”

George nodded at Kathleen, who passed a folder over to Beth. “Open it,” Kathleen said.

So the woman speaks. Beth had wondered if Kathleen were here for window dressing, to show how progressive the CIA now was, with this twofer — a woman and a black.

Inside the folder was a report typed in the format Beth had used for reports of meetings between “sources” (never referred to as spies or informants) and their contacts. The analyzing officer's name she recognized — that of her civilian boss in Munich, Jack Lockheim.