Authors: Margaret Truman
“Close.” She thought of Mark Hotchkiss, who’d exhibited a similar skepticism of the depth of her relationship with Mayer. “Is there some element of doubt about my friendship with Barrie or, for that matter, my reason for being here?”
He smiled and shook his head. “No, not at all. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. Do you work and live in the Washington area?”
“No, I … I work for the United States Embassy in Budapest, Hungary.”
“That’s fascinating,” said Tolker. “I’ve spent some time there. Charming city. A shame the Soviets came in as they did. It certainly has put a lid on things.”
“Not as much as people think,” Cahill said. “It’s got to be the most open of Soviet satellite countries.”
“Perhaps.”
It dawned on Cahill that he was playing a game with her, asking questions for which he already had answers. She decided to be more forthright. “We’ve met before, Dr. Tolker.”
He squinted and leaned forward. “I thought we had the minute I saw you. Was it in Budapest?”
“Yes. You were attending a conference and I’d just arrived.”
“Yes, it comes back to me now, some reception, wasn’t it? One of those abominable get-togethers. You’re wearing your hair different, shorter, aren’t you?”
Cahill laughed. “Yes, and I’m impressed with your memory.”
“Frankly, Miss Cahill, when more than a year has passed since meeting a woman, it’s always safe to assume she’s
changed her hair. Usually, it involves the color, too, but that isn’t the case with you.”
“No, it isn’t. Somehow, I don’t think I was born to be a blonde.”
“No, I suppose not,” he said. “What do you do at the embassy?”
“Administration, trade missions, helping stranded tourists, run-of-the-mill.”
He smiled and said, “It can’t be as dull as you make it sound.”
“Oh, it’s never dull.”
“I have a good friend in Budapest.”
“Really? Who is that?”
“A colleague. His name is Árpád Hegedüs. Do you know him?”
“He’s … he’s a colleague, you say, a psychiatrist?”
“Yes, and a very good one. His talent is wasted having to apply it under a Socialist regime, but he seems to find room for a certain amount of individuality.”
“Like most Hungarians,” she said.
“Yes, I suppose that’s true, just as you must find room for other activities within the confines of your run-of-the-mill job. How much time do you devote to helping stranded tourists as opposed to …?”
When he didn’t finish, she said, “As opposed to what?”
“As opposed to your duties for the CIA.”
His question startled her. Early in her career with Central Intelligence, it would have thrown her, perhaps even generated a nervous giggle as she collected her thoughts. That wasn’t the case any longer. She looked him in the eye and said, “That’s an interesting comment.”
“More wine?” he asked, standing and going to the bar.
“No, thank you, I have plenty.” She looked at her glass on the table and thought of the comment Árpád Hegedüs had made to her during their last meet in Budapest: “Jason Tolker might be friendly to the Soviets.”
Tolker returned, took his seat, sipped his wine. “Miss Cahill, I think you might accomplish a lot more, and we might get along much better, if you practiced a little more candor.”
“What makes you think I haven’t been candid?”
“It isn’t a matter of thinking, Miss Cahill. I
know
you haven’t been.” Before she could respond he said, “Collette E. Cahill, graduated cum laude from George Washington University Law School, a year or so with a legal trade journal, then a stint in England for the CIA and a transfer to Budapest. Accurate? Candid?”
“Am I supposed to be impressed?” she asked.
“Only if your life to date impresses you. It does me. You’re obviously bright, talented, and ambitious.”
“Thank you. Time for me to ask you a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Assuming the things you’ve said about me were correct, particularly my supposed continuing employment with the CIA, how would you know about that?”
He smiled, and it quickly turned into a laugh. “No argument, then?”
“Is that Shrink School 101, answer a question with a question?”
“It goes back further than that, Miss Cahill. The Greeks were good at it. Socrates taught the technique.”
“Yes, that’s true, and Jesus, too. As a learning tool for students, not to evade a reasonable question.”
Tolker shook his head and said, “You’re still not being candid, are you?”
“No?”
“No. You know, either through Barrie or someone else in your organization, that I have, on occasion, provided certain services to your employer.”
Cahill smiled. “This conversation has turned into one with so much candor that it would probably be upsetting to … to our employers,
if
we worked for them.”
“No, Miss Cahill, your employer. I simply have acted as a consultant on a project or two.”
She knew that everything he’d said up to that moment was literally true, and decided it was silly to continue playing the game. She said, “I’d love another glass of wine.”
He got it for her. When they were both seated again, he looked at his watch and said, “Let me try to tell you what it is you want to know without you having to ask the questions.
Barrie Mayer was a lovely and successful woman, as you’re well aware. She came to me because there were certain aspects of her life with which she was unhappy, that she was having trouble negotiating. That, of course, is a sign of sanity in itself.”
“Seeking help?”
“Of course, recognizing a problem and taking action. She was like most people who end up in some form of therapy, bright and rational and put together in most aspects of her life, just stumbling now and then over some ghosts from the past. We worked things out very nicely for her.”
“Did you maintain a relationship after therapy was finished?”
“Miss Cahill, you know we did.”
“I don’t mean about what she might have done as a courier. I mean a personal relationship.”
“What a discreet term. Do you mean did we sleep together?”
“It would be indiscreet for me to ask that.”
“But you already have, and I prefer not to answer an indiscretion with an indiscretion. Next question.”
“You were telling me everything I need to know without questions, remember?”
“Yes, that’s right. You’ll want to know whether I have any information bearing upon her death.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea who killed her?”
“Why do you assume someone killed her? My understanding is that it was an unfortunate, premature heart attack.”
“I don’t think that’s really what happened. Do you?”
“I wouldn’t know more about that than what I’ve read in the papers.”
Cahill sipped her wine, not because she wanted it but because she needed a little time to process what had transpired. She’d assumed when she called and asked for an appointment with Tolker that she would be summarily turned down. She’d even considered seeking an appointment as a patient but realized that was too roundabout an approach.
It had all been so easy. A phone call, a brief explanation to the secretary that she was Barrie Mayer’s friend—instant appointment with him. He’d obviously worked fast in finding out who she was. Why? What source had he turned to to come up with information on her? Langley and its central personnel files? Possible, but not likely. That sort of information would never be given out to a contract physician who was only tangentially associated with the CIA.
“Miss Cahill, I’ve been preaching candor to you without practicing it myself.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I’m assuming that you’re sitting here wondering how I came up with information about you.”
“As a matter of fact, that’s right.”
“Barrie was … well, let’s just say she didn’t define close-mouthed.”
Cahill couldn’t help but laugh. She remembered her dismay at her friend’s casual mention of her new, part-time job as courier.
“You agree,” Tolker said.
“Well, I …”
“Once Barrie agreed to carry some materials for the CIA, she became talkative. She said it was ironic because she had this friend, Collette Cahill, who worked for the CIA at the American Embassy in Budapest. I found that interesting and asked questions. She answered them all. Don’t misunderstand. She didn’t babble about it. If she had, I would have ended the relationship, at least that aspect of it.”
“I understand what you’re saying. What else did she say about me?”
“That you were beautiful and bright and the best female friend she’d ever had.”
“Did she really say that?”
“Yes.”
“I’m flattered.” She sensed that a tear might erupt and swallowed against it.
“Want my honest opinion about how and why she died?”
“Please.”
“I buy the official autopsy verdict of a coronary. If that
isn’t
why she died, I’d assume that our friends on the other side decided to terminate her.”
“The Russians.”
“Or some variation thereof.”
“I can’t accept that, not today. We’re not at war. Besides, what could Barrie have been carrying that would prompt such a drastic action?”
He shrugged.
“What
was
she carrying?”
“How would I know?”
“I thought you were her contact.”
“I was, but I never knew what was in her briefcase. It was given to me sealed, and I would give it to her.”
“I understand that but …”
He leaned forward. “Look, Miss Cahill, I think we’ve gotten off onto a tangent that goes far beyond the reality of the situation. I know that you’re a full-time employee of the CIA, but I’m not. I’m a psychiatrist. That’s what I do for a living. It’s my profession. A colleague suggested to me years ago that I might be interested in becoming a CIA-approved physician. All that means is that when someone from the agency needs medical help in my specialty, they’re free to come to me. There are surgeons and OB-GYN men and heart specialists and many others who’ve been given clearance by the agency.”
She cocked her head and asked, “But what about being a contact for a courier like Barrie? That isn’t within your specialty.”
His smile was friendly and reassuring. “They asked me somewhere along the line to keep my eye out for anyone who might fit their profile of a suitable courier. Barrie fit it. She traveled often to foreign countries, particularly Hungary, wasn’t married, didn’t have any deep, dark secrets that would jeopardize her clearance, and she enjoyed adventure. She also appreciated the money, off-the-books money, fun money for clothes and furniture and other frills. It was a lark for her.”
His final words hit Cahill hard, caused her to draw a deep breath.
“Something wrong?” Tolker asked, observing the pain on her face.
“Barrie’s dead. ‘Just a lark.’ ”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“Do you feel any … any guilt about having recruited her into a situation that resulted in her death?”
For a moment, she thought his eyes might mist. They didn’t, but his voice had a ring of pathos. “I think about it often. I wish I could go back to that day when I suggested she carry for your employer and withdraw my offer.” He sighed and stood, stretched, and broke his knuckles. “But that’s not possible, and I tell my patients that to play the what-if game is stupid. It happened, she’s dead, I’m sorry, and I must leave.”
He walked her to the office door. They paused and looked at each other. “Barrie was right,” he said.
“About what?”
“About her friend being beautiful.”
She lowered her eyes.
“I hope I’ve been helpful.”
“Yes, you have, and I’m appreciative.”
“Will you have dinner with me?”
“I …”
“Please. There’s probably more ground we could cover about Barrie. I feel comfortable with you now. I didn’t when you first arrived, thought you were just snooping around for gossip. I shouldn’t have felt that way. Barrie wouldn’t have a very close friend who’d do that.”
“Maybe,” she said. “Yes, that would be fine.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Ah, yes, fine.”
“Would you mind coming by here at seven? I have a six o’clock group. Once they’re gone, I’m free.”
“Seven. I’ll be here.”
She drove home realizing two things. One, he’d told her everything that she would have known anyway. Two, she was anxious to see him again. That second thought bothered her because she couldn’t effectively separate her continuing curiosity about Barrie Mayer’s death from a personal fascination with him as a man.
“Have a nice night?” her mother asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re staying in the city tomorrow night?”
“For the next few nights, Mom. It’ll be easier to get things done. I’m seeing Barrie’s mother tomorrow for lunch.”
“Poor woman. Please give her my sympathy.”
“I will.”
“Will you be seeing Vern?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“It was fun having him at dinner last night, like when you were in high school and he used to hang around hoping to be invited.”
Cahill laughed. “He’s nice. I’d forgotten how nice.”
“Well,” said her mother, “the problem with pretty girls like you is having to pick and choose among all the young men who chase you.”
Cahill hugged her mother and said, “Mom, I’m not a girl anymore, and there isn’t a battalion of men chasing me.”
Her mother stepped back, smiled, and held her daughter at arm’s length. “Don’t kid me, Collette Cahill. I’m your mother.”
“I know that, and I’m very grateful that you are. Got any ice cream?”
“Bought it today for you. Rum raisin. They were out of Hungarian flavors.”
Cahill drove a rented car into the city the next morning and checked into the Hotel Washington at 15th and Pennsylvania. It wasn’t Washington’s finest, but it was nice. Besides, it had a sentimental value. Its rooftop terrace restaurant and bar offered as fine a view of Washington as any place in the capitol. Cahill had spent four glorious Fourth of Julys there with friends who, through connections, had been able to wangle reservations on the terrace’s busiest night of the year, and were able to view the spectacular festivities that only Washington can provide on the nation’s birthday.