Murder in the CIA

by Margaret Truman

  “You know what I was just thinking, Collette?” Fox asked.

  “What?”

  “I was thinking back to when this whole organization was started by President Truman.” He shook his head. “He’d never recognize it today. I met Truman, you know.”

  She glanced at the photograph on the wall before saying, “I remember you talked about that during training.” He’d talked about it often, as she recalled.

  “Hell of a guy. It was right after those two Puerto Ricans tried to assassinate him in ’fifty. They did their best to do him in, botched it, got death sentences, and then Truman turns around at the final minute and commutes their sentences to life. I admired him for that.”

  Along with cabinet building, winemaking, jewelry design and crafting, and a dozen other interests, Hank Fox was a history buff, especially the Harry Truman presidency. During Cahill’s training, it was obvious that the Truman hand in creating the CIA in 1947 was being deliberately glossed over. She hadn’t understood the reasons for it until Fox had sat down with a few favorite recruits over dinner at Martin’s Tavern in Georgetown and explained.

  When Truman abolished the OSS following World War II, he did so because he felt that such wartime tactics as psychological warfare, political manipulation, and paramilitary operations that had been practiced during the war by the OSS had no place in a peacetime, democratic society. He did, however, recognize the need for an organization to coordinate the collection of intelligence information from all branches of government. As he said, “If such an organization had existed within the United States in 1941, it would have been difficult, if not impossible, for the Japanese to have launched their successful attack on Pearl Harbor.”

  And so the Central Intelligence Agency was born—to collect, assimilate, and analyze intelligence, not to engage in any other activity.

  “He got snookered,” Fox had told his handful of students that night at dinner. “Allen Dulles, who ended up running the CIA six years later, thought Truman’s views on intelligence were too limited. Know what he did? He sent a memo to the Senate Armed Services Committee undercutting Truman’s view of what the CIA was supposed to be.”

  Fox had produced a copy of that memo for his students:

  Intelligence work in time of peace will require other techniques, other personnel, and will have rather different objectives.… We must deal with the problem of conflicting ideologies as democracy faces communism, not only in the relations between Soviet Russia and the countries of the West but in the internal political conflicts with the countries of Europe, Asia, and South America.

  Dulles went on to contribute a concept to what would eventually become intelligence law, and which gave the CIA its ultimate power. It called for the agency to carry out “such other functions and duties related to intelligence as the National Security Council may from time to time direct.” This took it out of the realm of congressional control and helped establish the atmosphere under which the CIA could function autonomous from virtually all control, including manpower and financing. The director had only to sign a voucher and the funds were there, something President Truman had never envisioned happening.

  Cahill and the other students at that dinner with Hank Fox later discussed his somewhat irreverent view of the agency and its history. It was refreshing; everyone else with whom they’d come into contact seemed rigidly bound to a party line, no room for deviation, no patience with frivolity or casual remarks that could be construed as less than sanctified.

  “Well, on to other functions and duties,” Cahill said. “I lost a very good friend recently.”

  “I’m sorry. Accident?”

  “No one is sure. It’s been ruled a heart attack but she was only in her thirties and …”

  “She work with us?”

  Cahill hesitated, then said, “Part-time. She was a literary agent.”

  He removed his feet from the desk and replaced them with his elbows. “Barrie Mayer.”

  “Yes. You know about her, about what happened?”

  “Very little. The rumor mill swung into full gear when she died, and the word was that she did some part-time carrying for us.”

  Cahill said nothing.

  “Did you know she was affiliated?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she carry to you in Budapest?”

  “Not directly but yes, she carried to Budapest.”

  “Banana Quick.”

  “I’m not sure about that, Hank.”

  “Is that what you’re on these days?”

  “Yes. I turned someone.”

  “So I heard.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. Whether you know it or not, Miss Cahill, your Hungarian friend is viewed around here as the best we’ve got at the moment.”

  She resisted a smile of satisfaction and said, “He’s been cooperative.”

  “That’s a mild way to put it. Your girlfriend’s demise has a lot of people reaching for the Turns bottle.”

  “Because of Banana Quick?”

  “Sure. It’s the most amibitious project we’ve had since the Bay of Pigs. Unfortunately, it has about half as much chance of succeeding, and you know how successful the Cuban fiasco was, but the timetable’s been pushed up. Could be anytime now.”

  “I wouldn’t know about the overall project, Hank. I get information from my source and I feed it back. One spoke. I’m not privy to what the wheel does.”

  “Operation Servo?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Haven’t heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “Just as well. Another act of genius by our army of resident geniuses. I hope death is final, Collette. If it isn’t, Harry S. Truman has been twisting and turning ever since he left us the day after Christmas, 1972.” He drew a deep breath and his face seemed to sink, to turn gray. He pressed his lips together and said in a low voice lacking energy, “It’s no good here anymore, Collette. At best, it’s disorganized and ineffectual. At worst, it’s evil.”

  She started to respond but he quickly said, “You’ll have to pardon a tired, disgruntled old man. I don’t mean to corrupt your enthusiasm with my jaded grumbling.”

  “Please, Hank, no apologies.” She glanced around the office. “Are we secure?”

  “Who knows?”

  “You don’t care?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a perk of becoming old. Lots of things don’t matter anymore. Don’t get me wrong. I do my job. I give them my best effort and loyalty for the check. I want to retire. Janie and I bought a pretty house on some land down in West Virginia. Another year and that’s where we head. The kids are doing nicely. We bought another dog. That’s three. The five of us, Janie, me, and the canine trio, need West Virginia.”

  “It sounds great, Hank,” Cahill said. “Should I leave now?”

  “You have to?”

  “I have a luncheon appointment in Rosslyn.”

  “ ‘Appointment.’ ” He smiled. “Not a date?”

  “No. I’m meeting Barrie Mayer’s mother.”

  “Only kid?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tough.”

  “Yes.”

  “Come on. I’ll walk you out. I need fresh air.”

  They stood next to her small, red rented car and Fox looked up at the building, then out over the woods that shielded other buildings from view. “Rosslyn? I spend a lot of time over there.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. One of the Octopus computer centers moved to Rosslyn. Half this joint is empty now.”

  Cahill laughed as she thought of the tour guide who’d talked about that. She mentioned him.

  “I remember him,” Fox said. “He was an idiot which, we’ve all come to realize, doesn’t preclude you from working here. He was a running joke around here, and his boss was told to get him out. He hit him with fifty demerits in a week, and you know what that means. Fifty in a year is automatic dismissal. The kid was really broken up
. He came to me and begged for another chance. I felt sorry for him but he was an idiot. I told him I couldn’t do anything and he slunk away. He’s probably a millionaire four times over now.”

  “Probably. Hank, it was wonderful seeing you, touching base like this.”

  “Good to see you, too, kid. Before you take off, listen carefully to me.”

  She stared at him.

  “Watch that pretty little rear end of yours. The Barrie Mayer thing is hot. So’s Banana Quick. It’s trouble. Watch who you talk to. Banana Quick is a mess, and anybody associated with it goes down the tube along with all the rest of the dirty water.” He lowered his voice. “There’s a leak in Banana Quick.”

  “Really?”

  “A big one. Maybe that’s why your friend isn’t with us anymore.”

  “Oh, no, Hank, she’d never …”

  “I didn’t say she’d do anything, but maybe she got too close to the wrong people. Understand?”

  “No, but I have a feeling you’re not about to continue my education.”

  “I would if I could, Collette. I’ve been kicked upstairs, remember? Need-to-know. I don’t have that need anymore. Be careful. I like you. And remember Harry Truman. If they could screw the President of the United States, they can screw anybody, even bright, pretty girls like you who mean well.” He kissed her on the cheek, turned, and disappeared inside the building.

  12

  “It was sweet of you to come,” Mrs. Mayer said as they sat at a window table in Alexander’s III in Rosslyn, just over the Key Bridge from Georgetown. Rosslyn had grown rapidly. Their view of Georgetown and Washington from the penthouse restaurant was partially obscured by the latest in a series of high-rise office and apartment buildings.

  “Frankly, I dreaded it, Mrs. Mayer,” Collette said, running a fungernail over the starched white linen tablecloth.

  Melissa Mayer placed her hand on Collette’s, smiled, and said, “You shouldn’t have. It means a great deal to me that one of Barrie’s closest friends cared enough to see me. I’ve felt very lonely lately. I don’t today.”

  Her words boosted Cahill’s spirits. She smiled at the older woman, who was impeccably dressed in a light blue jersey suit, white blouse with lace at the neck, and mink stole. Her hair was white and pulled back into a severe chignon. Her face had a healthy glow, aided by makeup that had been expertly applied. She wore a substantial strand of pearls around her neck and pearl earrings with tiny diamond chips. Her fingers, gnarled by arthritis, supported heavy gold and diamond rings.

  “I had all sorts of things I’d planned to say when I saw you but …”

  “Collette, there really is very little to say. I’d always heard that the saddest thing in life was to have a child predecease a parent and I never debated it. Now I know it’s true. But I am also a believer in the scheme of life. It was never meant to be perfect. The odds are that children will outlive their parents, but it certainly isn’t set in stone. I’ve grieved, I’ve cried, I’ve cried a great deal, and now it’s time to stop those things and continue with my life.”

  Cahill shook her head. “You’re an amazing woman, Mrs. Mayer.”

  “I’m nothing of the sort, and please call me Melissa. ‘Mrs. Mayer’ creates too wide a gap.”

  “Fair enough.”

  A waiter asked whether they’d like another drink. Cahill shook her head. Mayer ordered a second perfect Manhattan. Then Collette said, “Melissa, what happened to Barrie?”

  The older woman frowned and sat back. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Do you believe she died of a heart attack?”

  “Well, I … what else am I to believe? That’s what I was told.”

  “Who told you?”

  “The doctor.”

  “Which doctor?”

  “Our family doctor.”

  “He examined her, did an autopsy?”

  “No, he received confirmation from a British physician, I believe. Barrie died in …”

  “I know, in London, but there’s … there’s some reason to question whether it really was her heart.”

  Mayer’s face hardened. She said in a voice that matched her expression. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at, Collette.”

  “I’m not sure what I’m getting at either, Melissa, but I’d like to find out the truth. I simply can’t buy the notion that Barrie had a coronary at her age. Can you?”

  Melissa Mayer reached into an alligator purse, took out a long cigarette, lighted it, seemed to savor the smoke in her lungs and mouth, then said, “I believe that life revolves around accepting, Collette. Barrie is dead. I must accept that. Heart attack? I must accept that, too, because if I don’t, I’ll spend the rest of my days in torment. Can’t you accept that?”

  Cahill winced at the intensity in her voice. She said, “Please don’t misunderstand, Melissa, I’m not trying to raise questions that would make Barrie’s death more painful to you than it is right now. I realize losing a friend is not as traumatic as losing a daughter, but I’ve been suffering my own brand of torment. That’s why I’m here, trying to lessen my own pain. I suppose that’s selfish, but it happens to be the truth.”

  Cahill watched the older woman’s face soften from the hard mask it had become, for which she was thankful. She was feeling an increasing amount of guilt. There she was sitting with a grieving mother under false pretenses, pretending only to be a friend but, in actuality, functioning as an investigator for the CIA. That damned duality, she thought. It was the thing that bothered her most about the work, the need to lie, to withhold, to be anything but the basic person that you were. Everything seemed based upon a lie. There was no walking in the sunshine because too much was conducted in shadows and safehouses, messages written in code instead of plain English, strange names for projects, a life of looking over your shoulder and watching your words, and suspicions about everyone with whom you came in contact.

  “Melissa, let’s just have a pleasant lunch,” Cahill said. “It was wrong of me to use this occasion to salve my own feelings about losing my friend.”

  The older woman smiled and lighted another cigarette. “Barrie was always chiding me for smoking. She said it would take ten years off of my life but here I sit, very much alive, smoking like a chimney and talking about my health-conscious daughter who’s very much dead.” Collette tried to change the subject but Mrs. Mayer shook her off. “No, I would like to talk about Barrie with you. There really hasn’t been anyone since it happened that I could turn to, be open with. I’m very glad you’re here and were close to her. There didn’t seem to be many people close to her, you know. She was so outgoing, yet … yet, she had so few friends.”

  Cahill looked quizzically at her. “I would have thought the opposite was true. Barrie was so gregarious, full of life and fun.”

  “I think that was more show than anything, Collette. You see, Barrie had a lot of nasty things to deal with.”

  “I know she had occasional problems but …”

  The smile on Melissa Mayer’s face was a knowing one. She said, “It was more than just normal problems, Collette. I’m afraid I’ll go to my grave regretting those aspects of her life in which I played a part.”

  Cahill felt uncomfortable at what seemed to be Mayer’s apparent intention to delve into some cavern of secrets about Barrie and her. Yet she was as curious as she was uncomfortable, and did nothing to hinder the conversation.

  Mayer asked, “Did Barrie ever mention her father to you?”

  Cahill thought for a moment. “I think so but I can’t remember in what context. No, I’m not even sure she did.” In fact, it had struck Cahill a few times during her years of friendship with Barrie Mayer that she didn’t mention her father. She remembered a conversation during college with Barrie and some other girls about fathers and their impact on daughters’ lives. Barrie’s only contribution to the conversation had been sarcastic comments about fathers in general. Later that night, Cahill asked about her own father and was met with th
e simple response, “He’s dead.” The tone of Barrie’s voice had made it plain that the conversation was over.

  Cahill told Melissa Mayer about it and the older woman nodded. Her gaze drifted across the dining room as though in search of a place to which she could anchor her thoughts.

  “We don’t have to talk about this, Melissa,” Cahill said.

  Mayer smiled. “No, I was the one who introduced the subject. Barrie’s father died when Barrie was ten.”

  “He must have been a young man,” said Cahill.

  “Yes, he was young and … he was young and not missed.”

  Cahill said, “I don’t understand.”

  “Barrie’s father, my husband, was a cruel and inhuman person, Collette. I wasn’t aware of that when I married him. I was very young and he was very handsome. His cruelty started to come out after Barrie was born. I don’t know whether he resented that a child came between us or whether it just represented a warped aspect of his character, but he was cruel to her, abusive physically and psychologically.”

  “That’s terrible,” Cahill said.

  “Yes, it was.”

  “It must have been terrible for you, too.”

  A pained expression came over Mrs. Mayer’s face. She bit her lip and said, “What was terrible was that I did so little to stop it. I was afraid of losing him and kept finding reasons for what he was doing, kept telling myself that he would change. All that did was to prolong it. He … we virtually destroyed Barrie. She had to find ways to escape the pain of it and went into her own private little world. She didn’t have any friends then, just as she didn’t as an adult—except you, of course, and some love interests—so she created her own friends, imaginary ones who shared her private world which was, Lord knows, better than her real one.”

  Collette felt a lump develop in her throat. She thought back to spending time with Barrie and tried to identify some sort of behavior that would indicate such a childhood. She came up empty, except for Barrie’s tendency sometimes to drift off into her own thoughts, even in the middle of a spirited conversation with a group of people. But that hardly constituted strange behavior. She’d done it herself.