Authors: Margaret Truman
“Who would that be?”
“Your friend Dr. Jason Tolker.”
“He’s not a friend. I simply …”
“Simply slept with him? I don’t know, maybe I’ve got my definition of friendship all screwed up. You slept with me. Am I your friend?”
“I don’t know. You used me. The only reason you got together with me again was to get close to someone involved with the …”
“The CIA?”
“You were saying?”
“What you just said, about me making contact with you because you’re with the CIA, is only partially true. You’re acknowledging that you’re with the CIA, right? The embassy job is a front.”
“That doesn’t matter, and I resent being put in the position of having to explain what I do with my life. You have no right.”
He leaned toward her, and there was a harsh edge to his voice. “And the CIA has no right to go around screwing up innocent people, to say nothing of killing them, like your friend Barrie, and Hubler.”
Collette leaned away from him and glanced about the restaurant. The sounds of the bar crowd downstairs mingled with the strains of the bouzouki music as it drifted up the stairs. Upstairs, where they sat, it was still relatively quiet and empty.
Wheatley sat back. His was a warm, genuine smile and his voice matched it. “Collette, I’ll level with you one hundred percent. After that, you can decide whether you want to level with me. Fair enough?”
She knew it was.
“This woman I mentioned, the one who was a subject in the experimentation, is a prostitute. The CIA is big on hookers. They use them to entice men into apartments and hotel rooms that have been wired for sight and sound. They slip drugs in their drinks and the shrinks stand behind two-way mirrors and watch the action. It’s a nasty game, but I suppose
they rationalize it by saying that the other side does it, too, and that ‘national defense’ is involved. Whether those things are true or not I don’t know, but I do know that a lot of innocent people get hurt.”
Cahill started to add to the conversation but stopped herself. She simply cocked her head, raised her eyebrows, and said, “Go on.”
Her posture obviously annoyed him. He quickly shook it off and continued. “I came down to Washington to see what I could find out about whether these experimental projects were still in operation. The day before Hubler was killed, I got a call from this lady, the prostitute, who told me that someone within the CIA was willing to talk to me. No, that isn’t exactly accurate. This person was willing to
sell
information to me. I was told to meet him in that alley in Rosslyn. I figured the first thing I ought to do was to test the waters with a book publisher, see if I could raise the money I needed to pay the source. I knew the magazine wouldn’t pay, and I sure as hell don’t have the funds.
“I was trying to think of people back in New York to call when Dave Hubler came to my mind. You’d told me all about him, how Barrie Mayer put a lot of faith in him and had actually left the agency to him. I figured he was my best move, so I called him. He was very receptive. In fact, he told me that if the kind of information I was talking about was valid, he could probably get me a six-figure advance. The problem was he wanted to hear with his own ears what this source was selling. I invited him to meet with me. I knew the minute I hung up that it was a mistake. Having two of us show up would probably scare the guy off, but I figured I’d go through with it anyway. Want to know what happened?”
“Of course.”
“I ran late, but Hubler got there on time. Obviously, there was nobody selling information. It was a setup, and if I’d arrived when I was supposed to and alone, I would have had the ice pick in my chest.”
His story had potency to it, no doubt about that. If what he’d said were true, it meant … “You’ve got problems,” she told him.
“That’s right,” he said. “I’m being followed everywhere I go. The other night I was driving through Rock Creek Park and a guy ran me off the road. At least he tried to. He botched it and took off. I think they’ve thrown a tap on my brother’s phone, and my editor back in New York told me he’d received a call from a personnel agency checking my references for a job I was applying for with another magazine. I didn’t apply for a job with another magazine. There’s no legitimate personnel agency checking on me. These guys will stop at nothing.”
“What do you plan to do?” she asked.
“First of all, keep moving. Second, I’m going to adopt the philosophy of my shrink friend back in New York, get everything I know on paper, and make sure it’s in the proper hands as fast as possible. No sense killing somebody once they’ve spilled what they know.”
Cahill looked down at the heavy envelope. “Why are you giving me this?”
“Because I want it in someone else’s hands in case anything happens to me.”
“But why
me
, Vern? You seem filled with distrust where I’m concerned. I’d think I’d be the last person you’d give this to.”
He grinned, reached across the table, and held her hand. “Remember what I wrote in the yearbook, Collette?”
She said softly, “Yes, of course I do. I’m the girl in this world who would never sell out.”
“I still feel that way, Collette. You know something else I feel?”
She looked in his eyes. “What?”
“I’m in love with you.”
“Don’t say that, Vern.” She shook her head. “You don’t know me.”
“I think I do, which is why I’m throwing in with you. I want you to hold on to this, Collette,” he said, tapping the envelope. “I want you to read it and look for any gaps.”
She shoved the envelope back across the table at him. “No, I don’t want that responsibility. I can’t help you.”
His face, which had settled into a slack and serene expression, now hardened. His voice matched it. “I thought you
took some oaths when you became a lawyer, silly things like justice and fairness and righting wrongs. I thought you cared about innocent people being hurt. At least, that was the line you used to give. What was it, Collette, high school rhetoric that goes down the drain the minute you hit the real world?”
She was stung by his words, assaulted by hurt and anger. Had she succumbed to the hurt, she would have cried. Instead, her anger overrode the other feeling. “Don’t preach to me, Vern Wheatley, about ideals. All I’m hearing from you is journalist’s rhetoric. You’re sitting here lecturing me about right and wrong, about why everybody should jump on your bandwagon and sell out our own government. Maybe there is justification for what an organization like the CIA does. Maybe there are abuses. Maybe the other side does it, only worse. Maybe national defense
is
involved, and not just a slogan. Maybe there are things going on in this world that you or I have no idea about, can’t even begin to conceive of the importance of them to other people—people who don’t have the advantages we have in a free society.”
The eggplant salad had gone untouched. Now the waiter brought the stuffed leaves and moussaka. The moment he left, Collette said to Vern, “I’m leaving.”
Wheatley grabbed her hand. “Please don’t do that, Collette,” he said with sincerity. “Okay, we’ve each made our speech. Now let’s talk like two adults and figure out the right thing to do for both of us.”
“I already have,” she said, pulling her hand away.
“Look, Collette, I’m sorry if I shot off my mouth. I didn’t mean to, but sometimes I do that. The nature of the beast, I guess. If spies are out in the cold, journalists need friends, too.” He laughed. “I figure I have one friend in this world. You.”
She slumped back in her chair, stared at the envelope, and suffered the same sensation she’d been feeling so often lately, that she had become increasingly dishonest. She was perfectly capable of taking a stand at the table, yet, more than anything, she wanted that envelope and its contents. She was desperate to read it. Maybe it contained factual answers to events that had shrouded her in confusion.
She deliberately softened as she said, “Vern, maybe you’re right. I’m sorry, too. I just … I don’t want, alone, the responsibility for that envelope.”
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll share the responsibility. Stay with me tonight.”
“Where?”
“I’ve taken a room in a small hotel over in Foggy Bottom, around the corner from Watergate. The Allen Lee. Know it?”
“Yes, friends who used to visit me at college stayed there.”
“I figured it was low class enough that they wouldn’t look for me there, although that’s probably naive. I used a phony name when I checked in. Joe Black. How’s that for a pseudonym?”
“Not very original,” she said, realizing that she shouldn’t have checked into the Watergate under her own name. Too late to worry about that now. “Vern, I think it’s better if I left now and we both did some thinking on our own.” He started to protest but she grabbed his hand and said earnestly, “Please. I need time alone to digest what you’ve said. I can use it to read your article and book. Okay? We’ll catch up tomorrow. I promise.”
Dejection was written all over his face but he didn’t argue.
He slid the envelope back toward her. She looked at it, picked it up, and cradled it in her arms. “I’ll call you at the Allen Lee, say around four tomorrow afternoon?”
“I guess that’s the way it will be. I can’t call you. I don’t know where you’re staying.”
“And that’s the way it will have to be until tomorrow.”
He forced himself to lighten up, saying pleasantly, “Sure you don’t want some food? It’s good.”
“So my cab driver said. He told me this was ‘goud Grick.’ ” She smiled. “I’m not a fan of Greek food, but thanks anyway.” When his expression sagged again, she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, said into his ear, “Please, Vern. I’ve got a lot of thinking to do and I’ll do it best alone.” She straightened up, knew there was nothing more to say, and quickly left the restaurant.
A taxi was dropping off a couple. Cahill got in.
“Yeah?”
“I’d like to go to …” She’d almost told him to take her to Dr. Jason Tolker’s office in Foggy Bottom.
How silly. Like giving the name of an obscure restaurant and expecting the driver to know it.
She spelled out Tolker’s address.
Lights were on in Tolker’s building. Good, she thought, as she paid the driver. She hadn’t wanted to call ahead. If he weren’t there, she’d go to his house. She’d find him someplace.
She rang the bell. His voice came through the intercom. “Who is it?”
“Collette. Collette Cahill.”
“Oh. Yes. I’m tied up right now. Can you come back?” She didn’t answer. “Is it an emergency?” She smiled, knew he was asking it for the benefit of whoever was with him. She pressed the “Talk” button: “Yes, it is an emergency, Doctor.”
“I see. Well, please come in and wait in my reception area, Miss Cahill. It will be a few minutes before I can see you.”
“That will be fine, Doctor. Thank you.”
The buzzer sounded. She turned the knob and pushed the door partially open. Before entering, she patted her raincoat pocket. The now familiar shape of the small revolver resisted her fingers’ pressure. A deep breath pumped any lost resolve back into her.
She stepped into the reception area and looked around. Two table lamps provided minimal, soft lighting. A light under his office door, and muffled voices, indicated at least two people in there. She stepped close and listened. She heard his voice, and then a woman. Their words were only occasionally audible: “… Can’t help that … Hate you … Calm down or …”
Collette chose a chair that allowed her to face the office door. She’d started to pull the revolver from her raincoat pocket when the office door suddenly opened. She released the weapon and it slid back to its resting place. A beautiful and surprisingly tall young Oriental girl, dressed in tight jeans, heels, and wearing a mink jacket, came into the reception area, followed by Tolker. The woman strained to see Collette’s face in the room’s dimness. “Good night,” Tolker said. The girl looked at him; there was hatred on her face. She crossed the room, cast a final, disapproving look at Collette, and left. Moments later the front door closed heavily.
“Hello,” Tolker said to Collette.
“Hello. A patient?”
“Yes. You thought otherwise?”
“I thought nothing. It’s nice of you to see me on such short notice.”
“I try to accommodate. What’s the emergency?”
“Severe panic attack, free-floating anxiety, paranoia, an obsessive-compulsive need for answers.”
“Answers to what?”
“Oh, to … to why a friend of mine is dead.”
“I can’t help you with that.”
“I disagree.”
He conspicuously looked at his watch.
“This won’t take long.”
“I can assure you of that. Ask your questions.”
“Let’s go inside.”
“This is …” He stopped when he saw her hand come out of her raincoat holding the revolver. “What’s that for?”
“A persuasive tool. I have a feeling you might need persuasion.”
“Put it away, Collette. James Bond never impressed me.”
“I think I can …
impress
you.”
He blew through his lips and sighed resignedly. “All right, come in,
without
the gun.”
She followed him into his office, the revolver still in her hand. When he turned and saw it, he said sharply, “Put the goddamn thing away.”
“Sit down, Dr. Tolker.”
He made a move toward her. She raised the weapon and pointed it at his chest. “I said sit down.”
“You’ve gone off the deep end, haven’t you? You’re crazy.”
“That’s professional.”
“Look, I …” She nodded toward his leather chair. He sat on it. She took the matching chair, crossed her legs, and observed him. He certainly hadn’t overreacted, but she could discern discomfort, which pleased her.
“Go ahead,” she said. “Start from the beginning, and don’t leave anything out. Tell me all about Barrie, about how she came to you as a patient, how you hypnotized her, controlled her, got her involved in the CIA and then … I’ll say it … and then killed her.”
“You’re crazy.”
“There’s that professional diagnosis again. Start!” She raised the revolver for emphasis.
“You know everything, because I told you everything. Barrie was a patient. I treated her. We had an affair. I suggested she do some courier work for the CIA. She gladly and, I might add, enthusiastically agreed. She carried materials to Budapest, things she got from me, things I didn’t know. I mean, I would hand her a briefcase, a
locked
briefcase, and off she’d go. Someone killed her. I don’t know who. It wasn’t me. Believe that.”