Authors: Margaret Truman
Cahill just stared at him and blinked.
“This facility in Rosslyn is the one Hank Fox directs.”
Another blink. Then, the question, “And David was killed by this person who was going to sell him information?”
“David was killed by … we don’t know.”
“Not robbery?”
“Not likely.”
“Us? Someone from …
us
?”
“I don’t know. Your friend, Vern Wheatley, was there when it happened.”
“He was with the Rosslyn police looking for information on a story he’s doing about Washington and …”
“He was there.” His words were stone-hard.
“Good God, Joe, you’re not suggesting that Vern had anything to do with David’s murder?”
“I stopped suggesting things a long time ago, Collette. I just raise possibilities these days.”
“You’re damn good at it.”
“Thanks. By the way, one of Barrie Mayer’s clients, Zoltán Réti, was in to see us.” He laughed. “Talk about a poor choice of words. He contacted Ruth Lazara from Cultural Exchange at a party, said he had to talk to someone. We arranged a meet.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that he was convinced that he’d been sent to London for a conference because they knew he was supposed to meet Barrie Mayer when she arrived in Budapest.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning … that the Soviets evidently knew not only that she was carrying something important, but that they wanted her point man out of the way.”
“You think the Soviets killed her?”
“No idea.”
“Joe.”
“What?”
“What was Barrie carrying?”
“As far as I can ascertain, nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“She was killed for
nothing
?”
“Looks like it.”
“Great. That gives real value to her life.”
He re-ignited his pipe.
“We have to go in,” Cahill said. “It’s starting again.”
“Okay. One more thing, Collette. Keep these things in mind. One, choosing you to follow up on the Banana Quick leak isn’t a frivolous choice. You have the perfect reasons for asking questions, and now you’ve got an invitation from one of our primary people. You’ve met Tolker. Don’t drop that contact. You’re living with someone who’s poking his nose into our affairs, which means you have as much access to him as he has with you. Be a pro, Collette. Drop all the personal reactions and do the job. You’ll be rewarded.”
“How?”
He grunted. “You want figures?”
“No, I want some sense of being able to return to a routine life.”
“Meeting Hungarian turncoats in secret safehouses?”
“Right now, Joe, that’s like working nine to five as a switchboard operator.”
“Do the job and you can have what you want. They told me.”
“Who?”
“The brain trust.”
“Joe.”
“What?”
“I don’t know you.”
“Sure you do. When this whole thing settles, it’ll be like old times, dinners at Gundel, the Miniatur, heartburn, out-of-tune violins. Trust me.”
“They say that in L.A.”
“Trust me. I’m a fan.”
“I’ll try.”
Cahill skipped the second act and returned to the apartment where Vern Wheatley was waiting. He was in his shorts, a can of beer in his hand, his bare feet propped up on the coffee table. “Where’ve you been?” he asked.
“The Kennedy Center.”
“Yeah? Good concert?”
“Dance recital.”
“Never could get into dance.”
“Vern.”
“What?”
“Let’s talk.”
By the time Saturday rolled around and Cahill was settled into a seat on a Pan Am flight to San Juan, she was more than ready to escape Washington, and to spend some time on an island. She had no illusions. Her trip to the BVI was just an extension of everything else she’d been doing since returning from Budapest but, for some reason (probably the concept of hitting your foot with a hammer to make you forget a headache), there was a vacation air to the trip.
There hadn’t been time to visit her mother before leaving, but she did squeeze in a frantic shopping spree in search of warm-weather clothing. She didn’t buy much; sunny islands didn’t demand it—two bathing suits, one a bikini, the other a tank suit, both in shades of red; a multicolored caftan, white shorts, sandals, a clinging white dress, and her favorite item, a teal blue cotton jumpsuit that fit perfectly, and in which she felt comfortable. She wore it that morning on the plane.
Once airborne, and breakfast had been served, she removed her shoes, reclined in her seat, and tried to do what she’d promised herself—use the flight to sort things out
without interruption, off by herself, some time alone in her own private think tank.
She’d had one additional contact with Langley before leaving. It was with Hank Fox. During their meeting on the Kennedy Center’s terrace, Breslin had verbally given her a special telephone number to call, and suggested she check in each day, saying to whoever answered, “This is Dr. Jayne’s office calling for Mr. Fox.” She did as instructed and Fox came on the line a moment later. All he said was, “Our friend’s gone back to Budapest. You’re all set to go south?”
“Yes, Saturday.”
“Good. In the event you get homesick and want to talk to someone, there’s always a large group of friends at Pusser’s Landing. They congregate in the deck bar and restaurant. Feed the big bird in the cage between noon and three. You’ll have all the conversation you need.”
She’d been on the receiving end of enough double-talk since joining the CIA to understand. Obviously, they kept a bird in a cage at this place called Pusser’s Landing, and if she fed it at the right time, she’d be approached by someone affiliated with the CIA. It was good to know.
“Call this number when you get back,” Fox said. “I’ll be here.”
“Right. Thanks.”
“My best to Dr. Jayne.”
“What? Oh, yes, of course. He sends his regards, too.”
Silly games, she used to think, until she was in the field and understood the thinking behind such codes.
Need-to-know
; unless the person receiving the call was certain to answer, there was no need for whoever else picked up the phone to know who was calling. They carried it to extremes at times, especially those who loved intrigue, but it made sense. You had to adopt that attitude, she’d reasoned during her training, or you’d never take anything seriously, and that could get you in trouble.
Had Barrie Mayer not taken it seriously enough? Cahill wondered. She had been shockingly cavalier at times, and Cahill had called her on it. Had she joked at the wrong time, when the thing she was carrying was no joke? Had she taken too lightly the need to use a code name, or failed
to contact someone through circuitous routes rather than directly?
The possible link between Mayer’s and Hubler’s deaths remained at the top of her list of thoughts. Dave Hubler had been killed in an alley adjacent to a CIA facility in Rosslyn, the one run by Hank Fox. Supposedly, Hubler had gone there to meet with someone who’d indicated he, or she, was willing to sell inside Company information that could be used in a book. That certainly drew Hubler in enough to validate a possible
mutual
reason for both murders.
She tried to stretch her mind to accommodate all the possibilities. She was hindered in this exercise by the most pervasive thought of all, the last thirty-six hours with Vern Wheatley.
She’d returned from the dance recital and decided to force a conversation. They talked until three o’clock the next morning. It was a frustrating discussion for Cahill. While Wheatley had been open to an extent, it was clear that there was more he was holding back than offering.
Collette had started the discussion with, “I’d like to know, Vern, exactly what this assignment is you’re on for
Esquire
.”
He laughed; Rule Number One, he told her, was never to discuss a story in progress. “You dilute it when you do that,” he said. “You talk it out and the fire’s gone when you sit down to write it.”
She wanted to say, “Rule Number One for anyone working for the CIA is to stay far away from journalists.” She couldn’t say that, of course. As far as he knew, she’d left Central Intelligence for a mundane job with the United States Embassy in Budapest.
Or
did
he believe that? If Hank Fox’s insinuations were correct, Wheatley had made contact with her again not to rekindle their romance, but to get close to a potential inside source to feed the story he was working on about a program that had been dropped long ago.
There it was again,
the
dilemma. Who knew what about whom? On top of that, could she believe Hank Fox? Maybe Wheatley wasn’t pursuing a story about the CIA. The agency’s paranoia wasn’t any secret. There were people within
it who found conspiracies behind every garage door in Georgetown.
She realized as she sat with Wheatley that night in his brother’s apartment that she’d have to be more direct if anything near the truth were to be ferreted out. She took the chance and said, “Vern, someone told me today that you weren’t in Washington doing a story on social changes here. This person told me you were digging into a story about the CIA.”
He laughed and shook his empty beer can. “I think I’ll have another. Can I get you something?”
“No, I … sure, any Scotch in there?”
“Probably. My brother has been known to take a drink now and then. Neat?”
“A little water.”
She used his absence to go to the bedroom, where she undressed and got into one of his brother’s robes. Three of her could have been enfolded in it. She rolled up the sleeves and returned to the living room where her drink was waiting. Wheatley raised his beer can. “Here’s to the basic, underlying distrust between man and woman.”
Cahill started to raise her glass in a reflex action. She stopped herself and looked at him quizzically.
“Great scenario, Collette. Some clown tells you I’m down here doing a story on the CIA. You used to work for the CIA so you figure I showed up at your house to get close to a ‘source.’ That’s my only interest in Collette Cahill, hoping she’ll turn into a Deep Throat—hey, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad—and now she confronts me with the naked facts.” He threw up his hands in surrender. “Your friend is right.”
Wheatley put his beer can down on a table with considerable force, leaned forward, and said with exaggerated severity, “I’ve come into information through a highly reliable source that the Director of the CIA is not only having a wild affair with a female member of the Supreme Court—naturally, I can’t mention her name—but is, at the same time, engaged in a homosexual liaison with a former astronaut who has been diagnosed at a clinic in Peru as having AIDS.”
“Vern, I really don’t see …”
“Hold on,” he said, his hand raised as a stopper. “There’s more. The CIA is plotting the overthrow of Lichtenberg, has permanently wired both of Dolly Parton’s breasts, and is about to assassinate Abe Hirschfeld to get control of every parking lot in New York City in case of a nuclear attack. How’s it play for you?”
She started to laugh.
“Hey, Collette, nothing funny here.”
“Where’s Lichtenberg? You meant Liechtenstein.”
“I meant Lichtenberg. It’s a crater on the moon. The CIA wouldn’t bother with Liechtenstein. It’s the moon they want.”
“Vern, I’m being serious,” she said.
“Why? You still work for our nation’s spooks?”
“No, but … it doesn’t matter.”
“Who told you I’m working on a CIA story?”
“I can’t say.”
“Oh, that’s democratic as hell. I’m supposed to bare my soul to you, but the lady ‘can’t say.’ Not what I’d expect from you, Collette. Remember the yearbook line I wrote.”
“I remember,” she said.
“Good. Anything new about your friend Hubler?”
“No.”
“You talk to that Englishman, Hotchkiss?”
“Yes, I ran into him at Barrie’s agency. He’s taken over. He owns it.”
“How come?”
She explained the partnership agreement and told him of her call to Mayer’s attorney.
“Doesn’t sound kosher to me.”
“To me, either, but evidently Barrie saw fit to make such a deal.”
“She was that impetuous?”
“Somewhat, but not to that extent.”
He joined her on the couch and put his arm around her. It felt good, the feel of him, the smell of him. She looked up into his eyes and saw compassion and caring. He lightly brushed her lips with his. She wanted to protest but knew
she wouldn’t. It was preordained, this moment, in the cards, an inevitability that she welcomed.…
They slept late the next morning. She awakened with a start. She looked over at Vern, his face calm and serene in sleep, a peaceful smile on his lips. Are you being legit with me? she questioned silently. All thoughts of their discussion the night before had been wiped away by the wave of passion and pleasure they’d created for themselves in bed. Now sunlight came through the windows. The passion was spent, the reality of beginning another day took center stage. It was depressing; she preferred what she’d felt under the covers where, someone once said, “They can’t hurt you.”
She got up, crossed the room, and sat in a chair for what seemed to be a very long time. It was only minutes, actually, before he woke up, yawned, stretched, and pushed himself to a sitting position against the headboard. “What time is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Late.”
Another yawn, legs swung over the side of the bed. He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head.
“Vern.”
“Yeah?”
“I loved last night but …”
He slowly turned his head and screwed up his face. “But
what
, Collette?”
She sighed. “Nothing. I guess I just hate having to wake up, that’s all. I’ll be away a few days.”
“Where you going?”
“The British Virgin Islands.”
“How come?”
“Just to get away. I need it.”
“Sure, I can understand that, but why that place? You know people there?”
“One or two.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Ah … probably on a chartered yacht a friend of mine is arranging.”
“You have rich friends.” He stood, touched his toes, and disappeared into the bathroom.