CIA Fall Guy (4 page)

“Ralph? Who's Ralph?”

“He's the guy who drove me here from Philly today.”

Not the subject? Then where was the subject? Had Ralph been the driver assigned to pick up the subject at the airport?

“Shit! Nobody tells me anything,” Kathleen said. And presumably nobody would — even when she was the one to stumble over a body. For now she and Beth should get out of here quick. Call Langley. Let them handle it.

Kathleen turned the flashlight beam on Beth. “You're sure about the identity.”

Beth's color didn't look too good. “How many men do you want me to identify? First you bring me down here to look at some man I met for one second years ago, now you're questioning me about a man whose back of the head I stared at for several hours. But, I'm sure. He's wearing the same clothes and his neck has the same little bandaid probably protecting a shaving cut. It's Ralph. And he's as talkative now as he was on the drive down from Philly.”

Kathleen pulled Beth towards the door. Sick jokes were probably Beth's way of dealing with crisis. “Come on,” Kathleen said. “We have to get out of here.”

Kathleen stumbled over Beth's feet, then righted herself and tugged on the other woman to hurry. Kathleen slammed the door of the shed and, with one arm around Beth's waist, led her back down the path.

She pushed Beth into the car and backed out before punching in George's number. Cell phones were incapable of being secure because anyone could pick up radio signals, but she could use a little double talk.

“George, it's Kathleen. We found a little surprise waiting for us. You'd better send a cleanup team immediately.” She listened to his sputtering on the other end. “I'll explain when I get there.”

Beth had said nothing since they'd left the shed. Maybe she was in shock. Kathleen leaned over and shook Beth slightly. “Are you okay?”

Beth turned towards her. “What's going on? Is this a setup or what?”

I wish I knew, Kathleen thought. I wish I knew.

**

Jawohl,
Hans thought, then reminded himself he must not only speak English, but try to think only in English. Okay, he said. And he must not drive so fast. He raised his foot a little off the gas pedal. Above everything he must not attract attention to himself in any way.

He was driving on some kind of highway headed toward Washington, he thought, but he couldn't be sure.

When he'd checked in the car he found no maps. He could have asked the driver which way to go, but unfortunately the driver wasn't here any longer.

No maps, a little bit of money, a passport not in his own name, half a tank of gas, and no plan. He needed to stop somewhere and think. But where?

Into the crowds. He'd do what every visitor to Washington did. He'd tour the monuments.

Up ahead a road sign indicated how many miles to downtown Washington. Relief swept through him. He was going in the right direction!

Ist das klar?
he had been asked in Berlin. He had said yes then, but nothing was clear now. He had a plan, back in Germany, but now the plan had to be changed. Now he must think quickly, or he'd be caught before he fulfilled his mission.

His mission.

He spotted the Potomac River and, as he came closer, the signs directed him onto the bridge that crossed it. Although he had never been in Washington before, he had read up in preparation for his trip. But he had brought no material with him, no maps or guidebooks, because he didn't want to alarm his contacts. They must not guess at anything.

He drove south along the shore of the Potomac and followed the sign to the Jefferson Memorial. As he came alongside the monument he pulled in and parked his car among the others. Adults and children moved toward the open rotunda. He fell into step behind a group of Japanese tourists climbing down from an immense tour bus, their cameras already cocked ready to aim.

In front of the monument he stopped, standing a few feet away from the tour guide talking in rapid Japanese, and stared across at the Lincoln and Washington monuments.

“Excuse me, what time is it?” a young woman holding a baby asked him.

He opened his mouth to speak, stopping the German words just in time. In English he said, “It is 3:30.”

“Thank you,” she said and turned towards the huge statue of Thomas Jefferson.

The sweat pooled under his armpits. He had almost slipped. He had to be more careful. Yes, that's what Frederick used to say to him all the time, he had to be more careful.

Frederick. His comrade who had defected while on an economic mission to the United States. Had left his wife and children back in Dresden. Frederick hadn't give a damn what the secret police might do to them; he'd wanted his freedom, wanted to stop having to be so careful all the time.

Frederick lived in Baltimore now. He worked for a messenger service. Had his own car and could drive all over with it.

Hans knew just what to do! He'd call the messenger service asking for Frederick — he remembered the name was Speedy Delivery — and ask for help. Frederick would help him. It was the American way.

Langley, Virginia —

“I don't understand,” George said. Kathleen watched him tap his pen against his blotter and shift his weight in his desk chair.

“How could the driver be shot with no sign of the subject? Are you saying the subject shot the driver?”

His eyes bored into Kathleen's. She tugged her hem over her knees, glad that Charles and Beth weren't in the room. She slowed her breathing to avoid a high pitch, then answered.

“I'm saying I don't know. I'm saying this whole thing is too weird.”

The door squeaked behind Kathleen. Charles strolled into the office and dropped into a chair.

“Howdy,” he said. “I hear not everything's well on the western front.”

George swiveled his head to Charles. “No, things aren't going well. Kathleen appears to have misplaced the subject.”

How dare he blame this on her! He never allowed her to be involved in any operations. Then when one of his went wrong, he dumped it on her. She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. One thing she had learned from day one at the CIA — protesting only made you look more suspect. Best to keep one's mouth shut. Charles knew the score anyway. Let George vent.

“What's the deal?” Charles asked.

“The deal is we don't know what the deal is,” George said.

“And where's our ace-in-the-hole, Beth Parsons?”

Kathleen turned to Charles. “She's in the cafeteria having coffee.”

“Not tea? A cup of tea is always so restorative,” Charles said.

“Funny, very funny,” Kathleen said.

“Kathleen!” George thrashed his hands at her. “Quiet. I have to think what to do.”

“Let me go look for him,” Kathleen said. “There was no car, so we can assume the subject is driving the CIA's car. I can put out a discreet bulletin.”

“No,” George said. “How many times do I have to tell you that you are not to be involved in operations? This is a job for professionals.”

Kathleen dug her nails into her palms. No use in pointing out that she was a professional, trained by the CIA in numerous clandestine procedures. George only thought of men his age, who had been in the field for centuries, as capable of undertaking operations, even if these same men couldn't run a mile or do a computer search to save their lives.

“I'll help,” Charles said.

Of course Mr. Goody Two Shoes was always ready to help, always prepared to show up Kathleen. And for some reason George's distrust of everyone under 50 didn't extend to Charles, the golden-haired boy.

“Good.” George studied his blotter, then looked up at Kathleen. “Take Beth to your apartment now. I want her nearby in case we find the suspect quickly.”

“Come on, George, she's not going to be able to ID him. This is a big waste of time.”

“Kathleen, I decide who does what. Now get her out of here.”

George flapped his hands at Kathleen and she stood. At her side Charles grinned.

He thought he had won again. They would just see about that.

**

Kathleen sniffed as she entered the cafeteria. The smells didn't exactly identify the menu, yet the tang of cooking grease was discernible.

Beth sat at a table halfway across the room, her back to the door. You could see she hadn't had any clandestine training. Always sit where you can survey the room was practically rule number one. You didn't want anyone to get the jump on you without your knowing what was coming.

“Beth,” Kathleen called from a few steps away. Better not to wait until she was upon Beth and perhaps make her jump and perhaps causing her to spill hot coffee on herself or create some other equally unfortunate consequence.

“Yes?” Beth turned to face Kathleen.

“We have to go now.”

“Where?”

“To my apartment. Let's go retrieve your suitcase and I'll explain in the car.”

Baltimore, Maryland —

“SPEEDY DELIVERY” announced the sign outside the red-brick building. Frederick's directions to Hans had been quite clear. Hans had without difficulty driven the car to Baltimore and found his friend's place of business.

He walked inside. A woman with clown's red hair sat at a counter, speaking into a phone headset.

She looked up at him. “You must be Frederick's friend. He told me to look out for you.”

Hans smiled. “I am an old friend of his.”

“That's nice.” She motioned to a door behind her. “Just go on back and you'll find Frederick in his office.”

From a distance Hans could tell Frederick had changed much and had not changed much. Frederick was dressed as an American, in casual khaki pants and a checked shirt. Yet his posture and bearing as he walked towards Hans with an outstretched hand said German.

They clasped hands and shook. “Welcome,” Frederick said. “I am delighted to see you again.”

“It has been a long time, my old friend, has it not?”

“Yes, a long time. Come into my office and we will talk.”

Hans sat in the chair indicated by Frederick. The office was plain, just the one guest chair besides Frederick's desk and chair. No pictures on the wall. A hot plate on the edge of the desk.

Hans gestured at the hot plate. “Is this where you live?”

Frederick laughed. “Oh, no, this is just for quick meals when business is bustling. I have a house nearby.”

“And a family? Did you marry again?”

“No, no. My family is still in the Fatherland.”

Hans forced himself to look Frederick in the eyes. “You did well for yourself. Your flight to the West was worth the sacrifice of leaving your family.”

Frederick smiled. “My family understood — they knew the truth.”

“What truth? That you couldn't resist freedom when you participated in the soccer match in West Berlin?”

“Hans, Hans. I do not believe you are so naive after all these years. Just as you had some ‘activity’ on the side, I did too.”

“What are you saying?”

“Will you take an oath? Swear never to reveal what I am about to tell you?”

“
Jawohl
, I will swear.”

Frederick leaned closer; Hans could smell beer on his breath. “I knew what you were doing back home. I knew your arrangements with the West.”

“How could you know?” Hans asked.

“Because I was working for the East. And that's why I'm here. My defection was part of the plan.”

“Part of the plan?”

“My assignment was to come out, give the Americans enough information that they would set me up in America, then use my new life to continue working for the East.”

“What did the East want you to spy on? And surely you're not still in business?”

“Oh, but I am. And perhaps I can convince you to join our little group.”

Hans smiled. This was all quite interesting, quite interesting indeed.

**

“This looks familiar, the way we went to the park for the meet,” Beth said, watching Kathleen's face for clues as Kathleen drove.

“Hey, good observation, you're right.”

“What's going on?”

“Look, I couldn't say anything at headquarters. You never know who — or what — is listening. But I just wanted to check out the scene again for myself. See what we might have missed in our … rush to leave.”

Whose rush to leave? Kathleen had dragged Beth back down the path from the hut. Beth had wanted to check around, see if they could spot any footprints, wait until the people from headquarters arrived. Beth read enough mysteries and thrillers to know not to leave a murder site unguarded. Evidence could be ruined, clues trampled. What did the CIA teach its operatives, for heaven's sake?

Kathleen drove into the park along the route they'd taken earlier that day. After Kathleen parked the car, Beth followed her along the path. The hut stood a few yards in front of them.

Twigs crackled behind the women. “Who's there?” Kathleen said as both of them whirled to face their rear.

The man was a foot away from her when Beth twisted to her right and stretched out her leg, trying to use the karate technique of break balance. It didn't work. The man sidestepped her attempt and she skidded towards him. He yanked her up a nanosecond before she nosedived into the dirt.

“Mark Haskell!” Kathleen said.

Beth tugged away from the man. “You know this asshole?”

“He's from the Company.”

What a shit! A guy — a well-built guy — supposedly from your own team crashes out of the woods and scares you almost to death.

Mark turned from Beth and smiled at Kathleen. “Who's your quick-trigger friend?”

“No one you know.”

Mark's grin stretched from ear to ear. Beth wanted to puke.

“Does she think she's in tryouts for the Company?”

Kathleen shook her head. “Listen, Mark, what's the story? You posted here?”

“Naw. I'm just giving the site another once over.”

“Find anything?”

“Nope. The clean-up team didn't find the murder weapon or any footprints except those of the victim and what they assumed to be those of the subject.”