CIA Fall Guy: A Spy Thriller

by Phyllis Zimbler Miller

  Kathleen slung a plate of salisbury steak onto her tray. Beth's stomach flipflopped from the pungent odor of the gravy-drowned steak. She was certainly not going to follow suit.

  Beth chose a tuna fish salad and a glass of orange juice. Her hand wavered over and then passed up a chocolate brownie. She let Kathleen pay — the CIA could afford it — and followed her outside to a picnic table.

  Kathleen doused her steak with ketchup. “After lunch we'll be leaving here.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just for a drive. We'll be heading out toward Dulles.”

  “Why is that?”

  Kathleen smiled. “We'll be meeting the subject at a federal park. George thinks the hugeness of Langley would overwhelm the subject. Better to meet him in a less intimidating place.”

  Beth nodded, then asked, “Why didn't this guy make his claim earlier? Why wait several years after the Wall came down?”

  “Lots of people are still coming across. Some have been cautious, waiting to see what happens to the first waves. Others have personal reasons. I believe the wife of our guy just died. Maybe she wouldn't leave her home. Now he's free to come West.”

  “How did you get in this business?” Beth paused as the orange juice puckered her mouth. “I mean, were you always interested in working for the … government?”

  Kathleen laughed. “My parents are still asking me this. They can't understand why I'd spend two years getting an M.B.A. degree and then settle for a low-paying civil service job.”

  Just what any normal parents would wonder.

  Kathleen waved her fork in front of her cafe au lait complexion — she obviously wanted to change the subject. She asked Beth, “How did you end up working for military intelligence in Munich?”

  Beth smiled. “I needed a job to make money for my husband and me to travel around Europe on his leave. Even with an apartment provided by the army and access to the PX and commissary, a lieutenant's salary doesn't go far. The headquarters of the PX paid so little an hour it wasn't worth working. For almost an entire year I fought with the civil service bureaucracy back in the States to get a job. First I worked at the Army Air Force Motion Picture Service.”

  “What did you do there?”

  “I typed lists all day long of 16mm movies being sent to a few guys on top of various mountains in Italy. Finally my security clearance came through and I moved up from a GS-2 there to a GS-3 at group headquarters.”

  “That must have been more interesting.”

  “Not necessarily. Just what I typed was more important.”

  Now Kathleen smiled. “Have you been back to Europe since then?”

  Beth shook her head because she didn't trust her voice. How could she return to Europe without Stephen?

  Beth was grateful that Kathleen's attention was focused on her watch. “We still have some time,” Kathleen said. “He'll be picked up at Dulles right about now. There's no need to rush.”

  Outskirts of Washington D.C. —

  David Ward parked his car a mile from the entrance to the park. The few minutes he needed to sprint the distance was no sweat — his daily workout was at least triple this.

  High overhead cumulus clouds lazed along. He would have preferred rain. For camouflage.

  Yes, the chess pieces were moving into place rather nicely. This next turn wouldn't produce checkmate, but it would up the stakes.

  He just had to be patient.

  **

  Kathleen led the way to her own Honda in the parking lot. George had been explicit that she was to drive her own car. Nothing extraneous to spook the spook.

  A driver would bring the subject to the rendezvous and wait for the meet. Whether Beth recognized him made no difference to Kathleen's instructions, which were to bring Beth back to Langley afterwards.

  “Here we are. Hop in,” Kathleen said. She and Beth fastened their safety belts and Kathleen drove off the grounds of the CIA.

  Kathleen glanced at Beth. Obviously Beth had brought a suitcase for no reason. She'd be back in Philadelphia in time for a late dinner. And Kathleen would be no closer to the kind of assignment she wanted than she'd been before Beth's visit.

  “How long will it take us?” Beth said.

  “It's not far.”

  At the entrance to the federal park Kathleen drove down an interior road until she reached the spot chosen by George.

  Where was the other vehicle? Was this the right place?

  “Come on,” Kathleen said. “There's supposed to be a shed where we're to meet.”

  Beth followed Kathleen out of the car and down a path. About a hundred yards away a wooden shed stood at the end of the path. They were in the right place, Kathleen thought. She didn't think she'd memorized the instructions incorrectly.

  The door of the shed was closed and there were no signs of anyone.

  Kathleen pushed open the door. It sure was dark inside. She fished her pocket flashlight out of her purse and shone it around the interior while Beth stood behind her.

  The scream — had she or Beth or both of them screamed? — caused her to tighten her grasp on the flashlight. Then Kathleen held the light steady on the man who lay sprawled on the dirt floor, stomach down, his face turned to one side, a small dark hole in his forehead.

  “Do you recognize him?” she asked Beth.

  Kathleen moved to one side so Beth could see the lighted face.

  “Yes,” Beth said, her breath sounding as if it were being squeezed out of a grape press.

  “You do? How can you be so sure after all these years?”

  “What?” Beth stumbled against her. “I saw him this morning. This is Ralph.”

  “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.”