Murder in the CIA (7 page)

He returned to the table and sipped from his fresh drink. “I have news for you, Collette. What did you call your request last time—an RQM?”

“Yes, a requirement. What is the news?”

“They know more than your people perhaps realize.”

“About Banana Quick?”

“Yes. That island they’ve taken has been doing its job. The surveillance equipment on it is their best, and they’ve recruited native people who have been passing on information about your activities.”

The Russians had leased the private island in the British Virgins from its owner, a multimillionaire British real estate developer who was told it was to be used as a rest-and-recreation area for tired, high-ranking Soviet bureaucrats. The U.S. State Department, upon learning of this and after hurried conferences with the CIA, approached him and asked that he reconsider. He wouldn’t. The deal went through and the Russians moved in.

A further assessment was made then by State and Central Intelligence. Their conclusion: The Soviets could not move in enough sophisticated equipment and staff in time to effectively monitor Banana Quick, nor had they enough agents in place to build an effective corps of citizen-spies.

“Can you be more specific?” Cahill asked.

“Of course.” He pulled papers from his rumpled black suit jacket and handed them to her. She laid them flat on the table and started reading. When she was done with the first page, she looked up at him and allowed a tiny whistle to come through her lips. “They know a lot, don’t they?”

“Yes. These dispatches arrived from the island outpost. It was all I felt I could safely take—and bring with me. I return them in the morning. However, I have seen many more and have done my best to commit them to memory. Shall I begin?”

Cahill looked to the wall that concealed the cameras and recorders. Hegedüs knew they were there and often joked about them, but they remained shielded from his view, the sight of such instruments providing neither inspiration nor incentive. She prompted him to start before more of the bourbon disappeared and his memory with it.

He talked, drank, ate, and recalled for three hours. Cahill focused on everything he said, making notes to herself despite knowing every word was being recorded. Transcripts seldom provide nuance. She pushed him for details, kept
him going when he seemed ready to fade, complimented, cajoled, stroked, and encouraged.

“Anything else?” she asked once he’d sat back, lighted a cigarette, and allowed a permanent smile of satisfaction to form on his thick lips.

“No, I think that is all.” He suddenly raised his index finger and sat up. “No, I am wrong, there is more. The name of a man you know has come up.”

“What man? I know him?”

“Yes. The psychiatrist who is involved with your
Company
.”

“You mean Tolker?” She was instantly furious at herself for mentioning the name. Maybe he didn’t mean him. If so, she’d given the name of a CIA-connected physician to the other side. It was a relief to hear him say, “Yes, that is the one. Dr. Jason Tolker.”

“What about him?”

“I’m not really sure, Collette, but his name was mentioned briefly in connection with one of the dispatches from our island listening post about Banana Quick.”

“Was it positive? I mean, were they saying that …?”

“They said nothing specific. It was the tone of the voices, the context in which it was said that led me to believe that Dr. Tolker might be … 
friendly
.”

“To you. To the Soviets.”

“Yes.”

Cahill had forgotten about Barrie during the session. Now her image filled the room. She wasn’t sure how to respond to what Hegedüs had said, so said nothing.

“I am afraid I am becoming an expensive friend to you and your people, Collette. Look, the bourbon is all but finished.”

She resisted mentioning that it always was, said instead, “There’s always more to replace it, Árpád. But not to replace you. Tell me, how are things with you personally?”

“I shall miss my family but … perhaps this is the time to bring up what is on my mind.”

“Go ahead.”

“I have been thinking, I have been feeling lately that the time might be approaching for me to consider becoming one of you.”

“You are. You know that.…” She observed him shaking his head. He was smiling.

“You mean time to defect to our side?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know about that, Árpád. As I told you when that subject came up before, it isn’t something I deal with.”

“But you said you would talk to those in charge about the possibility.”

“Yes, I did.” She didn’t want to tell him that the discussion with Podgorsky and with two people from Langley had resulted in a flat denial. Their attitude was that Árpád Hegedüs was valuable to them as long as he remained ensconced in the Hungarian and Soviet hierarchy and could provide information from the inner councils. As a defector, he was useless. Of course, if it meant saving him in the event he’d been uncovered by his superiors, that would create a different scenario; but Cahill had been instructed in no uncertain terms that she was to do everything in her power to dissuade him from such a move, and to foster his continued services as an agent.

“It was not met with enthusiasm, I take it,” he said.

“It isn’t that, Árpád, it’s just that—”

“That I am worth more where I am.”

She drew a breath and fell back in her chair. It was naive of her to think he wouldn’t know exactly the reason without being told. He worked for an organization, the KGB, that played by the same rules, operated from the same set of needs and intelligence philosophies.

“Don’t look worried, Collette. I do understand. And I intend to continue functioning as I have. But, if the need arises, it would be comforting to me and my family to know that the possibility was there.”

“I appreciate your understanding, Árpád, and I shall bring it up with my people again.”

“I am grateful. Well, what do you say, ‘One for the road’?
I shall have one, and then the road, and then home.”

“I’ll join you.”

They sat in silence at the table and sipped from their drinks. His smile was gone; a sadness that pulled down the flesh of his face had replaced it.

“You’re more upset about your family going to Moscow than you want to admit,” she said.

He nodded, eyes on his glass. He grunted, looked up, and said, “I have never told you about my family, about my dear children.”

Collette smiled. “No, you haven’t, except that your daughter is very beautiful and sweet, and that your son is a fine boy.”

There was a flicker of a smile, then gloom again. “My son is a genius, a very bright boy. He is sensitive and loves artistic things.” He leaned forward and spoke with renewed animation. “You should see how the boy draws and paints, Collette. Beauty, always such beauty, and the poetry he writes touches me so deeply.”

“You must be very proud,” Collette said.

“Proud? Yes. And concerned for his future.”

“Because—”

“Because in Russia, he will have little chance to develop his talents. For the girl, my daughter, it is not so bad. She will marry because she is pretty. For him …” He shook his head and finished his drink.

Cahill was tempted to come around and hug him. Any initial thoughts of the chauvinistic attitude he’d expressed were tempered by her understanding of the society in which he, and his family, functioned.

She thought, then said, “It would be better for your son here in Hungary, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, there is more freedom here, but who knows when that will end? America would be best. I am not a religious man, Collette, but I sometimes pray to someone that my son will be allowed to grow up in America.”

“As I said before, Árpád, I’ll try to …”

He wanted to continue, and did. “When I first came to you and offered my services, I talked about how my beloved Hungary had been destroyed by the Soviets. I talked of
disgust with their system and ways, of how this wonderful country has been forevermore changed by them.” He sighed deeply, sat back, and nodded in agreement with whatever he was thinking at the moment. “I was not completely honest, Collette. I came to you because I wanted to find a way to see my family—my son—reach America. Instead, he goes to Moscow.”

Cahill stood. “Árpád, I will make every effort to help bring that about. No promises, but a decent effort.”

He stood, too, and extended his hand. She took it. “Thank you, Collette. I know you will do what you say. I have been here a long time. I must go.”

He was paid and she escorted him to the door. She said, “Árpád, be careful. Don’t take risks. Please.”

“Of course not.” He looked back to the center of the room. “The tape and camera are off?”

“I assume they are. The main show is over.”

He motioned her into the hall and spoke in a whisper, so close to her ear that his lips touched it. “I am in love.”

“In … love?”

“I have met a wonderful woman recently and …”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Cahill said.

“Good idea, bad idea, it has happened. She is very beautiful and we have commenced … an affair.”

Collette wasn’t sure what to say, except, “What about your family, Árpád? You say you love them so much and …”

His grin was sheepish, a little boy caught in a quandary. His eyes averted her and he shuffled his feet. Then he looked at her and said, “There are different forms of love, Collette. Surely, that reality is not a Socialist aberration.” He cocked his head and waited for a response.

Cahill said, “We should meet again soon and discuss this. In the meantime, take extra care. Discuss what you’re doing with no one. No one, Árpád.”

“With her?” His laugh was guttural. “We have so little time together that discussion is the last thing on our minds.
Köszönöm
, Collette.”

“Thank
you
, Árpád.”

“Until the next time a tack appears in the pole.
Viszontlátásra!
”

Rule Six:
Do anything you can to keep your agent from having an affair—at least with anyone else.

Collette Cahill got off a Malev flight in London, went to a phone booth, and dialed a number. A woman answered, “Eleven, Cadogan Gardens.”

“My name is Collette Cahill. I was a close friend of Barrie Mayer.”

“Oh, yes, what a tragedy. I’m so sorry.”

“Yes, we were all terribly shocked. I’ve just arrived in London for a few days’ vacation and wondered if you had any available rooms?”

“Yes, we do, a few suites as a matter of fact. Oh, goodness.”

“What?”

“Number 27 is available. It was Miss Mayer’s favorite.”

“Yes, that’s right, she always talked about it. That would be fine with me.”

“You wouldn’t mind …?”

“Staying where she’d stayed? No, not at all. I’ll be there within the hour.”

She spent the first hour sitting in the Victorian living room and imagining what Barrie had done the last day and night of her life while in London. Had she watched television,
gone across to the private park, read, called friends, napped, walked the pretty, quiet streets of Chelsea and Belgravia, shopped for relatives back home? It eventually became too sad an exercise. She went downstairs to the main drawing room and flipped through an array of magazines and newspapers, then caught the attention of one of the hall porters. “Yes, ma’am?” he said.

“I was a very good friend of Miss Mayer, the lady who’d stayed in Number 27 and who recently died.”

“Poor Miss Mayer. She was one of my favorite guests whenever she was here, a real lady. We’re all terribly sad at what happened.”

“I was wondering whether she did anything special the day she arrived, the day before she died?”

“Special? No, not really. I brought her tea at three … let me see, yes, I’m quite certain it was three o’clock the afternoon she arrived. We made a reservation for her that evening at the Dorchester for dinner.”

“For how many people?”

“Two. Yes, for two. I can check.”

“No, that’s all right. Did she take a taxi, or did someone pick her up?”

“She took the limousine.”

“
The
limousine?”

“Ours. It’s available to our guests twenty-four hours a day.”

“Did the limousine pick her up at the Dorchester?”

“I don’t know, madam. I wasn’t here that evening when she returned, but I can ask.”

“Would you mind?”

“Of course not.”

He returned a few minutes later and said, “To the best of recollection, Miss Mayer returned a little before ten that evening. She arrived by taxi.”

“Alone?”

He looked at the floor. “I’m not sure, madam, whether that would be discreet to comment upon.”

Cahill smiled. “I’m not snooping. It’s just that we were such good friends and her mother back in the States asked me to find out what I could about her daughter’s last hours.”

“Of course. I understand. Let me ask.”

He returned again and said, “She was alone. She announced she was going straightaway to bed and left an early call. That was the morning she was leaving for Hungary, I believe.”

“Yes, that’s right, to Budapest. Tell me, didn’t the police come and ask questions about her?”

“Not to my knowledge. They came and took her things from the room and …”

“Who’s
they
?”

“Friends, business colleagues, I think. You’d have to ask the manager about that. They spoke to her. They took everything and were gone within ten minutes. The other one … there were three chaps … he stayed behind for at least an hour. I remember he said he wanted to sit where Miss Mayer had spent her last hours and think. Poor chap, I felt terrible for him.”

“Did any of them have names?”

“I feel like I’m getting a proper interrogation,” he said, not angrily but with enough of an edge to cause Cahill to back off. She smiled. “I guess so many people knew and loved her that we’re not behaving in our usual manner. Sorry, I didn’t mean to ask so many questions of you. I’ll check with the manager a little later.”

He returned the smile. “No problem, madam. I understand. Ask me anything you wish.”

“Oh, I think I’ve asked enough. Did they have names, the men who came here and took her things?”