CIA Fall Guy: A Spy Thriller

by Phyllis Zimbler Miller

  Whose rush to leave? Kathleen had dragged Beth back down the path from the hut. Beth had wanted to check around, see if they could spot any footprints, wait until the people from headquarters arrived. Beth read enough mysteries and thrillers to know not to leave a murder site unguarded. Evidence could be ruined, clues trampled. What did the CIA teach its operatives, for heaven's sake?

  Kathleen drove into the park along the route they'd taken earlier that day. After Kathleen parked the car, Beth followed her along the path. The hut stood a few yards in front of them.

  Twigs crackled behind the women. “Who's there?” Kathleen said as both of them whirled to face their rear.

  The man was a foot away from her when Beth twisted to her right and stretched out her leg, trying to use the karate technique of break balance. It didn't work. The man sidestepped her attempt and she skidded towards him. He yanked her up a nanosecond before she nosedived into the dirt.

  “Mark Haskell!” Kathleen said.

  Beth tugged away from the man. “You know this asshole?”

  “He's from the Company.”

  What a shit! A guy — a well-built guy — supposedly from your own team crashes out of the woods and scares you almost to death.

  Mark turned from Beth and smiled at Kathleen. “Who's your quick-trigger friend?”

  “No one you know.”

  Mark's grin stretched from ear to ear. Beth wanted to puke.

  “Does she think she's in tryouts for the Company?”

  Kathleen shook her head. “Listen, Mark, what's the story? You posted here?”

  “Naw. I'm just giving the site another once over.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Nope. The clean-up team didn't find the murder weapon or any footprints except those of the victim and what they assumed to be those of the subject.”

  Kathleen gazed at the trees that encompassed the hut. “Figure a sniper?”

  “Could be. No telling for sure.”

  “Okay, we're out of here,” Kathleen said. She motioned for Beth to walk down the path.

  “Nice meeting you,” Mark said to Beth. “Better luck next time getting your man.”

  **

  Kathleen unlocked the door to her third floor apartment. She was proud of the cocoon she had created for herself. Book-crammed shelves lined two parallel walls of her living room and a walnut-colored leather chesterfield sofa, guarded by a goose-necked reading lamp, bridged the two book depositories. On the far wall a sliding glass door led to a balcony filled with a wrought-iron table and two matching chairs.

  A decorator friend had helped with the furnishings. Kathleen had paid the decorator for her time — that was the decorator's job, after all — friend or no friend. And the results were worth the investment: two taupe arm chairs faced the couch, a maple clutter column held Kathleen's current magazine reading, a glass display case abutted the front door — showcasing Kathleen's collection of paperweights, the domed kind with the miniature scenes inside them.

  She'd started the collection when she was 10. At first she had the usual cheap ones that most people had, like the ones with the snow scenes where the snowflakes float down when you shake the paperweight. She had graduated to more expensive ones, including one of Murano glass bought in Venice last summer when she had met Rodney for a brief vacation.

  “Are you hungry?” Kathleen asked Beth. “I don't keep a lot of food in the refrigerator, but I can dig up some cheese and crackers.”

  “No, thanks. I had a cinnamon roll with my coffee.”

  “Then make yourself at home. Use the bathroom if you want to freshen up; read any of my books. I have to go back to the office for a while.”

  “What for?”

  “I didn't have a chance to lock everything up for the day. I also have to answer my voice mail messages. Can't do that from here — this phone is not secure.”

  Beth dropped onto the chesterfield. “I just sit and wait?”

  “I won't be that long. I'll be back in no time.”

  “That's what they all say.”

  Kathleen laughed. “I mean it. You'll hardly notice I was gone.”

  **

  Beth stood at the bookshelves checking out Kathleen's collection. Books always told a lot about their owners, unless the books were sets of leather-bound classics bought only for show. And then these, too, were a clue to the owner's personality.

  Kathleen had a large collection of military history books, including several on the CIA. In fiction her taste ran to thrillers, including Tom Clancy and Ken Follett. She had a minimum number of self-help books, mostly on good nutrition and energy dieting. There was one book on guns and ammunition, another one on surveillance tradecraft. No CIA-issue manuals. They were probably classified, destined to be kept only in the office, perhaps under lock and key.

  Beth checked out the bathroom, then peeked into the one bedroom. Kathleen favored shades of rust and beige. No blue, rose or green shades anywhere. Keeping a low profile even in her domestic life?

  Back in the living room, Beth ran her fingers over Kathleen's collection of John LeCarre espionage novels. Kathleen had almost as many as Beth herself did. Because in spite of what happened to Stephen, in spite of everything, Beth was still drawn to tales of espionage. Perhaps the tales compensated for the thrill of excitement lacking in her pedestrian life.

  Romance. You could have romance she reminded herself. She shook her head. No, not really. She wasn't ever going to open herself up again for the devastation of betrayal and abandonment following Stephen's death. She could tell herself from here to kingdom come that Stephen's death was a freak accident and it wouldn't happen if she risked marrying again. But every time a man she was dating got too close, mentioned marriage too many times, Beth found a reason or reasons to call their relationship off — he wasn't smart enough, he didn't treat women with enough respect, he wasn't stable. Whatever it took to convince herself that the man wasn't for her.

  And so here she sat, in some stranger's apartment, waiting to do — what? Why was she here? None of this made any sense.

  Beth's palms itched. Nerves. Sitting here waiting for whatever made her nervous.

  You're a fool she told herself. How can you trust the CIA? If they're so hotshot, how come they never solved what happened to Stephen? Or did they solve it and keep it secret? Was she brought down to Langley to identify someone she saw for a moment so many years ago or was there a more sinister reason?

  Maybe someone was trying to set her up after all these years. Make her the fall guy for something, perhaps something whose head had reared itself after 25 years?

  Calm down. You read too many spy novels.

  Yet good spy novels have verisimilitude — they seem accurate because similar things do happen. Why after all these years would the CIA contact her?

  Beth walked into the kitchen and checked out the cupboards. Whenever she was nervous she craved chocolate. A quick inspection of the contents revealed that the closest Kathleen kept to sweets was reduced-fat peanut butter. No wonder she was so thin.

  Back in the living room Beth paced between the bookshelves. What was she doing staying around here? Waiting for the other shoe to drop? Shouldn't she get out of here while the getting was good?

  But this was the CIA we're talking about. Where could she go that they couldn't find her?

  Maybe they could find her, but how about a respite for a few days? Let whatever was going down happen, perhaps dissipate the need for her.

  Beth strode to the door and turned the knob. It didn't open. Had Kathleen locked the door from the outside? How dare she! Maybe there was another door. Beth checked the kitchen. No back door. She plunged her hands deep into the canisters, pawed through the silverware drawers, cased the bedroom, checking everywhere she could think of for a spare door key. Nothing.

  Why am I locked in? What's going on?

  Beth slid the balcony glass door open. She gulped, then forced herself to look over the balcony edge — heights were somethin
g Beth didn't do well. The drop of three floors wasn't bad — if you had wings. There wasn't any way she could get down.

  Back in the living room. Check the clock. How long would she be locked in here? She could call 911, ask for help. And say what? “I'm being held by the CIA against my will?” The 911 operator would probably laugh. Another loony. Must get calls like that all the time.

  Back out on the balcony. Wait, there was a trellis at the far end. Beth shook the top rung. Seemed sturdy enough. But she couldn't climb down it. Not only did she have a fear of heights, she had a fear of falling. Or maybe it was the same fear all rolled into one.

  When she and Stephen toured Europe, she had freaked standing at the top of the Tower of Pisa, not to mention the tower in London built by Christophe Wren that marked the start of the Great Fire, or the top of the Eiffel Tower. At each tourist spot she had tried to be a good sport, to go to the top with Stephen, only to be terrified by the fear of falling.

  It had been getting worse for years, was one of the reasons she had such a hard time in karate being at the receiving end of the break-balance maneuvers. Even the prospect of landing on the mats padding the dojo floor scared her. She tensed up in class, unable to relax enough to execute the maneuvers.

  What was she going to do here? Was she more afraid of falling or more afraid of being lost permanently in the bowels of CIA headquarters? No one knew she was here. She had followed instructions and told no one where she was going. See, hadn't they planned ahead of time to disappear her?

  But why her? She knew nothing, nothing at all. Had never really known anything. Only remembered some vague things about a potential source in Ridayh, Saudi Arabia, and a Christmas card and vacation postcard from a known KGB operative.

  All this worry effected her bladder. She ran into the bathroom and peed. Then checked herself in the mirror as she washed her hands.

  Get a grip. You can't allow yourself to be a victim. Action. You must take action.

  Beth raced into the living room where Kathleen had left Beth's suitcase. She tore open the case and grabbed a pair of jeans, t-shirt, hooded sweatshirt, socks and Reeboks. She peeled off her heels, nylons and summer dress and dumped these in the case. Then she pulled on the other clothes. She grabbed her brush, toothbrush, extra sox and underclothes and stuffed them in her leather backpack purse. Her passport, money, and reading glasses were already there.

  Damn it! Beth regretted her insistence on not having a cell phone. She didn't want to be at the beck and call of her clients. By not having a cell phone she could truthfully say they had to call her office phone number. Too late to do anything about this now.

  She reached into the suitcase once more. She had brought a cotton scarf to wear with another dress. Scarfs could come in handy.

  She dashed back into Kathleen's bathroom and extracted some bandaids, gauze and adhesive tape from the medicine cabinet. If she were going to climb down that trellis, she might cut herself. At least she could bandage up any cuts and make a sling with the scarf. As the Girl Scouts said, it was best to be prepared.

  It was too hot for a sweatshirt. Beth had only brought it in case of air conditioning. Now she wanted it in case she had to spend the night outdoors. She couldn't climb down with the thing tied around her waist. She'd wear it now, then remove it once she was on the ground. Oh, yes, don't forget tissues. She had some in her purse, but stuffed more from Kathleen's bathroom into her jean pockets.

  Okay, she couldn't stall any longer if she were going to go. What about food and drink? She wasn't going on safari in deepest Africa. She had money; she could buy food. Still, she found an individual-sized bottle of Perrier in Kathleen's refrigerator and added it to her backpack purse.

  Now. She inhaled and walked out onto the balcony. She closed the sliding door behind her. It wouldn't take Kathleen long to figure out how Beth had gotten out, but Beth didn't have to facilitate Kathleen's investigation. Let her take at least five minutes to notice the glass door was no longer locked from the inside. That's why Beth had also taken the time to reclose her suitcase and place it back where Kathleen had put it. No immediate red flags for Kathleen to find.

  Don't look down. Just sit on the edge, grasp the trellis, swing your leg around, and climb down. Simple as — her whole body trembled, she mumbled her mantra when she was scared, the opening lines of the prologue of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales that she had to memorize when she was in college and had never forgotten: “Whan that April with his shores soote…”

  She climbed, foot after foot, hand after hand. When her feet hit the ground, she resisted the urge to throw herself down and offer a thanksgiving prayer for safe passage to the New World.

  Now all she had to do was evade the CIA. If she had climbed down a trellis, how hard could that be?

  Bethesda, Maryland —

  George unlocked the steel front door of his Bethesda apartment with his customary caution. He no longer put a strand of hair wedged in the doorframe to check for intruders. His years of field operations were behind him. Yet he would never be liberated from his uneasiness at entering his own quarters — someone could be lurking inside. Someone with a gun or knife, someone with a new grievance or an old score to settle.

  The coast appeared clear. George strode into the foyer, double locked the door and inserted a wedge bar, and charged into the living room.

  Pristine clean. He liked order. He'd been a military man in those faraway days of World War II. One of the original members of the OSS, the fledgling U.S. intelligence unit that survived to become the CIA. He liked everything in its place, whether it be his food in separate garrisons on his plate or his clothes in individually labeled compartments. When he died it would be a snap for the Company to clear his possessions. Everything labeled, corresponding to directions in his will, already on file in the personnel office.

  In the living room he swept the cloth off the bird cage, and Jasper greeted him with loud caws. George leaned closer to the parrot's cage. “Jasper want some yum-yums?”

  “Yum-yums. Yum-yums,” Jasper cawed.

  George scooped a handful of birdseed into the feeder, then tapped his hand on the cage.

  “Now be a good boy and be quiet. I've had a hard day — things are not going well. Not well at all.”

  George eyed the sideboard with its array of liquor. Not yet. He had to think clearly, couldn't risk befuddlement.

  He loosened his tie, considered changing. But he might have to go out again. Better to stay in uniform. At least for the next hour or two. They weren't crucial hours. He didn't expect anything more to happen today. Still, one never knew. No, one never knew.

  Georgetown —

  Charles parked his Lexus — comfortable but not flashy — around the corner from the restaurant. It wasn't so easy to find a parking spot in Georgetown so he had allowed himself extra time. Now he was early.

  He stood a few doors down from the restaurant, apparently engrossed in contemplation of the antique clocks displayed in the shop window. In actually he was using the window glass as a mirror, watching the other people who walked or drove past him, sensitive to the nuances of their body or driving language.

  He'd had a teacher once who'd said you could practically complete a psychological profile about people just by watching their body language. Over the years he'd found this advice invaluable. Take that woman walking her dog across the street, the one holding her pooper scooper as far away from her body as her arm would allow. She obviously wasn't enthralled with the bodily functions of her dog. Maybe it wasn't even her dog. Perhaps she was unwillingly dog walking for a friend or relative. Yes, that would explain her obvious reluctance. Or she may just be a clean freak, uncomfortable with any messes. In either case, not someone he would trust to remain inconspicuous, such an important asset in his business.

  “Excuse me,” a voice behind him said as the voice's owner bumped into him. “I didn't see you standing there.”

  Ah, but Charles had seen the man — his contact — coming from a
block away. Just one of the small payoffs for being willing to pause, to study the surrounding environment, to observe the little things.

  The man, good-looking in that nondescript way that fitted their business, continued towards the restaurant. Yes, best to let him enter first. Charles would wait another five minutes — so many clocks to admire — and follow the man in.

  The diners' chatter rolled over Charles as he entered the fern-filled foyer. Good. He appreciated a noisy place. All the better to camouflage his conversation.

  He refused the maitre d's offer of a table. “I just want to have a drink at the bar.” Then walked in the direction the maitre d' indicated.

  The man was seated, engaged with his glass of red wine.

  “Is that the house wine?” Charles asked him.

  “Yes, but it's actually quite good.”

  Charles turned towards the bartender. “I'll have the same.”

  The peanut bowl was positioned close to Charles' right hand. He slid it towards the other man. “Would you like some peanuts?”

  “Don't mind if I do.”

  The man's hand received the bowl, then closed quickly over the little slip of paper protruding from it. Charles smiled; the message was delivered.

  **

  Kathleen worked quietly inside George's office. There were no sounds outside George's office and the cleaning crew wasn't due for another hour. She'd had the standard training in breaking and entering, but since she was not allowed to participate in operations, she hadn't any practical experience. George had locked his files, but as she was frequently the one who co-signed his locking, she'd had ample opportunity to watch the movements of his hand. And she had watched, because she'd known that someday she'd need this information. It had taken her seven-and-a-half minutes to open his file safe.

  Of course, she could have tried for access to his computer files. But she hadn't been able to observe his fingerstrokes for his password enough times to even guess, unless it was something easy like the name of his silly parrot Jasper. And George was of the old school, still more comfortable with paper files than he would ever be with computer ones.