Murder in the CIA

by Margaret Truman

  The next day, Edwards was out early. He said he had a number of officials on the island with whom he had to speak about the explosion.

  After he was gone, Cahill grappled with conflicting thoughts. What he’d said last night had caused her to rethink everything she’d done since coming to work for Central Intelligence. She certainly didn’t share his passionate disgust with the CIA. She wasn’t even sure that what he’d said was true. All she knew was that it was time to do some serious thinking, not only about this assignment, but about who she was.

  She considered placing a call to Hank Fox in Washington but was afraid of breaching security. Phone calls from the islands went to the United States via satellite; conversations were open to the world, including the Russians on their small, private island.

  Pusser’s Landing.

  She drove Edwards’s Mercedes there at noon, took a table, ordered a sandwich and a Coke, then went to the birdcage where she fed the parrot. She’d noticed the big man from the day before. He was down on the dock repairing an outboard engine on a small runabout. Soon, he had casually made his way to her side.

  “I thought I’d come back for lunch again,” she said. “It was so pleasant last time.”

  “It is a pleasant place, miss,” he said. He looked about to ensure no one was near them before adding, “It is even nicer in Budapest. You should go there immediately.”

  “Budapest? Who …?”

  “As quickly as possible, miss. Today.”

  Cahill asked, “Does my travel agent know about this?”

  The big man smiled and said, “Ask him yourself. You are to go to Washington first.”

  She left Pusser’s Landing, telling the waiter that an emergency had arisen, found her way back to Edwards’s house, quickly packed, and left him a note.

  Dear Eric,

  I won’t even try to explain why I’ve rushed away but I assure you it’s urgent. Please forgive me. There are so many things I want to say to you about last night, about feelings it generated in me, about—well, about a lot of things. There’s no time now. Thank you for providing a wonderful vacation in your beloved BVI. I hope I’ll be able to share it with you again soon.

  Collette

  25

  Cahill got off the plane at Dulles Airport, rented a car, and drove directly to her mother’s house where she was met with a barrage of questions about where she’d been and why she was running off again in such a rush. Cahill explained, “They’re having some kind of a budget crisis at the embassy at Budapest and I have to get back right away.”

  “What a shame,” her mother said. “I thought I might get to see you for at least a day.”

  Collette stopped rushing for a moment, hugged her, said she loved her and yes, she would have coffee, and ran upstairs to pack.

  She shared the next hour with her mother in the kitchen and felt a desperate yearning to stay, to retreat into childhood where the world was wondrous and the future bright when viewed from the protective custody of family and home. She had to force herself to say goodbye, leaving her mother standing at the front door with a poignant expression on her face. “I’ll be back soon,” Cahill yelled through the open car window. She knew her mother’s smile was forced but she appreciated the effort.

  She drove back to Washington, went to a phone booth, and dialed the special number Hank Fox had given her. When a young woman answered, Cahill said, “This is Dr. Jayne’s office calling for Mr. Fox.” The woman told her to hold. A minute later Fox came on the line and said, “I heard about the accident. I’m glad you’re all right.”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I made friends with someone at Pusser’s Landing. He told me …”

  Fox said sharply, “I know what he told you. The Fisherman is restless in Budapest.”

  “The Fisherman?” Then, it dawned on her. Code name Horgász—Árpád Hegedüs. She said, “I thought he went to …?”

  “He didn’t, and he wants to talk to his friend. It’s important that he see her as soon as possible.”

  “I understand,” she said.

  “How is your boyfriend in the British Virgin Islands?”

  “He’s … he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “How is he?”

  “Fine.” She started to think of the last conversation she’d had with Edwards but Fox didn’t give her enough time to complete the thought.

  “You can leave tonight?”

  Cahill sighed. More than anything she didn’t want to get on a plane for Budapest. What she really wanted was to return to the BVI and be with Eric Edwards, not only because of the intimacy that had developed between them, but because she wanted to talk more about this thing she was doing, this organization she’d placed so much trust in. That trust wasn’t there anymore. Now she knew: She wanted out, too.

  “I’ll be hearing from Joe,” Fox said. Breslin.

  “I’m sure you will. I have to go. Goodbye.” She slammed the receiver into its cradle, gripped the small shelf beneath the phone and shook it, muttering as she did, “The hell with you, the hell with it all.”

  She caught a flight out of Washington to New York and barely made the Pan Am flight to Frankfurt, Germany, where she could make a direct connection for Budapest. She’d called Vern Wheatley at his brother’s apartment but there was no answer. She needed to talk with him. Somehow, she had the sense that if she didn’t talk to someone outside the organization, someone who wasn’t intrinsically bound up in its intrigues, she’d go to pieces. And that, she knew, would be the worst thing that could happen.

  By the time she left the plane in Budapest she was exhausted but, at least, more in control of herself and her circumstances. She realized as she went through Customs that she was now back in her official status as an employee of the United States Embassy. It didn’t matter that her real employer was the CIA. What did matter was that things were familiar now; not quite as comforting as the bosom of her mother, but certainly better than what she’d been through the past week.

  She took a cab to her apartment and called Joe Breslin at the embassy.

  “Welcome back,” he said. “You must be beat.”

  “I sure am.”

  “It’s five o’clock. Think you can stay awake long enough for dinner?”

  “I’ll make myself. Where?”

  “Légrádi Testvérek.”

  Cahill managed a smile despite her fatigue. “Going fancy, are we? Is this in honor of my return?”

  “If it makes you feel good thinking that, then that’s what it’s for. Actually, my stomach is in need of a good meal, and I get a kick out of the chubby little violin player.”

  “I’ll consider it in my honor. What time?”

  “I prefer late but, considering your condition, maybe we should make it early. How’s eight sound?”

  “Eight? I’ll be dead to the world by then.”

  “Okay, tell you what. Take a good long nap and meet me there at ten.”

  She knew there was little sense in trying to negotiate a different time. He said he’d make a reservation under his name. She opened the door of her small refrigerator and remembered she’d cleaned it out before leaving. The only thing in it was two bottles of Szamorodni, the heavy dessert white wine, a half dozen bottles of Köbanyai világos beer, a tin of coffee, and two cans of tuna fish her mother had sent in a “care package” a month ago. She opened the tuna fish, realized she was out of bread, ate it directly from the can, stripped off her clothing, set her alarm clock, climbed into bed, and was asleep in seconds.

  They sat across from each other in a small room at Légrádi Testvérek. The oval table betwen them was covered with a white lace tablecloth. Their chairs were broad, had high backs covered in a muted tapestry. A single silver candle epergne with ruffled glass dishes on two protruding arms dominated the center of the table. One of the dishes held fresh grapes and plums, the other apples and pears. The walls were stark white, the ceiling low and curved. Gypsy music emanated from a short, fat violinist and a tall, handsome cimbalom
player who used tiny mallets to delicately strike the strings on his pianolike instrument.

  “You look good,” Breslin said, “considering the schedule you’ve been on.”

  “Thank you. Nothing like a can of American tuna fish and a nap to put color back in a girl’s cheeks.”

  He smiled and looked up at the owner, who’d come to take their order. They decided to share a dish of assorted appetizers—caviar, tiny shrimps on salmon mousse stuffed into an egg, three kinds of pâté, and marinated oysters. Breslin ordered beef with pâté as his entrée; Cahill opted for chicken layered with a paprika sauce and little pools of sour cream. They skipped wine; Breslin had a Scotch and soda, Cahill mineral water.

  “So?” he asked.

  “So?” she mimicked. “You don’t want a litany here, do you?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because …” She made a small gesture with both hands to indicate the public nature of the restaurant.

  “Skip the names, and I don’t need details. First, what about your boyfriend in the pretty place?”

  She shook her head and sat back. “Joe, what do you and Hank do, talk every twenty minutes?”

  “No, just two or three times a day. What about him? Did you enjoy your vacation?”

  “Very much, except for a minor mishap out in the water.”

  “I heard. What were you doing, snorkeling or something?”

  “Exactly, and that’s why I’m sitting here tonight. As for my so-called boyfriend, he’s terrific. Want to know something? A lot of our friends have said bad things about him.…” She raised her eyebrows and adopted an expression to reinforce she was talking about her employer. “People are wrong. If there’s a problem, it’s not with my ‘boyfriend.’ ”

  “I see,” Breslin said, scratching his nose and rubbing his eyes. “We can discuss that at length another time. Did you see your shrink while you were back?”

  “My—Oh, you mean Dr. Jayne.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t worry, Joe, we’re talking about the same person. I didn’t see him again after I saw you in Washington. I felt no need to. My mental health is getting better all the time.”

  He narrowed his eyes as he scrutinized her across the flickering candle. “Something up with you, Collette? You okay?”

  “I think I’m beginning to be more than okay, Joe. I think I grew up this past week.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means …” She realized she was on the verge of tears and told herself that if she cried, she would never forgive herself. She looked around the restaurant. A waiter brought the appetizers on a white china platter. He filled their glasses with water and asked if they needed anything else.

  “No, köszönöm szepen,” Breslin said politely. The waiter left and Breslin gave his attention to Cahill. “You’re not happy, are you?”

  Cahill shook her head in wonder and laughed. She leaned forward so that her face was inches from the candle’s flame and said, “What the hell am I supposed to be happy about, Joe?”

  He held up his hands and said, “Okay, I won’t press it. You’ve been under a lot of strain. I realize that. Come on, enjoy the food. It’s costing me a month’s salary.”

  Throughout the meal, Cahill was on the verge a dozen times of telling him how she felt. She resisted the temptation and contented herself with light conversation.

  The doorman got Breslin’s car for him. When he and Cahill were in it, Breslin asked, “Feel up to a little nightlife?”

  “Joe, I … the Miniatur?”

  “No, I ran across another spot while you were away. Change is good for the soul, right?”

  “If you say so, Joe. Might as well catch up on what’s new in Budapest, but not too late, huh? One drink and get me home.”

  “Trust me.”

  She always had, but wasn’t so sure anymore.

  He drove slowly through the narrow, winding streets of the Pest side of the city until reaching Vörösmarty tėr, with its statue of the famed Hungarian poet for whom the square was named. They passed a succession of airline offices and government buildings until they reached Engels Square and its large bus terminal. Ahead of them was St. Stephen’s basilica. Breslin made a sharp turn north and, five minutes later, entered an especially narrow street made worse by cars hanging off their sidewalk parking spots. He found a place, wedged his small Renault between two other cars, and they got out. Cahill looked up the street to the huge red star atop the Parliament Building. She was back. Hungary. Budapest. Red stars and Soviet tanks. She was glad. Oddly, it was as close to home as she’d ever be outside of her mother’s house in Virginia.

  The bar wasn’t marked, no sign, no windows. Only the faint tinkling of a piano heralded its location, and that was confused by a dozen dark doors set into the long concrete wall that formed the front of the street’s buildings.

  Breslin rapped with a brass knocker. The door opened and a large man in a black suit, with long greasy black hair and sunken cheeks, scrutinized them. Breslin nodded toward Cahill. The man stepped back and allowed them to enter.

  Now the music was louder. The pianist was playing “Night and Day.” Female laughter in the air mingled with his notes.

  Cahill looked around. The club was laid out much like the Miniatur—bar as you entered, a small room just off it in which customers could enjoy the piano.

  “Jó napot (How are you?),” Breslin said to an attractive woman with hair bleached white, wearing a tight red satin dress.

  “Jó estét (Good evening),” she said.

  “Fel tudya ezt váltani? (Can you change this?)” Breslin asked, handing her a Hungarian bill of large denomination.

  She looked at the bill, at him, then stepped back to give them access to a door hidden in shadows beyond the bar. Breslin nodded at Cahill and she followed him. He hesitated, his hand poised over the knob, then turned it. The door swung open. Breslin indicated that Cahill should enter first. She took a step into a small room lighted only by two small lamps on a battered table in the middle. There were no windows, and heavy purple drapes covered all walls.

  Her eyes started to adjust to the dimness. A man, whose face was vaguely familiar, was the first object she focused on. He had a thick, square face. Bones beneath bushy eyebrows formed hairy shelves over his cheeks. His black hair was thick and curly and streaked with gray. She remembered—Zoltán Réti, the author, Barrie Mayer’s author.

  Next to Reti sat Árpád Hegedüs. One of his hands on the table covered a female hand. A plain, wide-faced woman with honest eyes and thin, stringy hair.

  “Árpád,” Cahill said, the surprise evident in her voice.

  “Miss Cahill,” he said, standing. “I am so happy to see you.”

  26

  Collette looked across the table at Hegedüs and Réti. Hegedüs’s presence was the more easily understood. She’d known that the purpose of her return to Budapest was to meet with him. Réti was another matter. She’d forgotten about him in the rush of the past weeks.

  “Miss Cahill, allow me to introduce you to Miss Lukács, Magda Lukács,” Hegedüs said. Cahill rose slightly and extended her hand. The Hungarian woman reached out tentatively, then slipped her hand into Cahill’s. She smiled; Cahill did, too. The woman’s face was placid, yet there was fear in her eyes. She wasn’t pretty, but Cahill recognized an earthy female quality.

  “I mentioned Miss Lukács to you the last time we were together,” Hegedüs said.

  “Yes, I remember,” said Cahill, “but you didn’t mention her name.” She again smiled at the woman. Here was Hegedüs’s lover, the woman Cahill had fervently hoped would not deter him from continuing to provide information. Now, as she observed the happiness in Hegedüs’s face, she was glad he’d found Magda Lukács. He was happier and more relaxed than Cahill could ever remember seeing him.

  As for Réti, she knew him only from photographs, and from having seen him on Hungary’s state-controlled television network. Barrie had often spoken of him but th
ey’d never met. “I’m glad to finally meet you, Mr. Réti,” she said. “Barrie Mayer spoke so often and enthusiastically of you and your work.”

  “That is flattering,” said Réti. “She was a wonderful woman and a fine literary agent. I miss her very much.”

  Cahill turned to Breslin. “Joe, why are we here?”

  Breslin glanced at the others before saying, “First of all, Collette, I should apologize for not telling you up front how the evening would play. I didn’t want to lay a lot of tension on you at dinner. From what I’ve heard, there’s been enough of that in your life already.”

  She half smiled.

  “Mr. Hegedüs has come over to our side.”

  Collette said to Hegedüs, “You’ve defected?”

  He gave her a sheepish smile. “Yes, I have. My family is in Russia and I am now one of you. I am sorry, Miss Cahill. I know that was not what you or your people wished.”

  “No need to apologize, Árpád. I think it’s wonderful.” She looked at Magda Lukács. “You have defected, too?”

  Lukács nodded. “I come with Árpád.”

  “Of course,” said Cahill. “I’m sure that …” She swung around to Breslin. “But that isn’t why we’re sitting here, is it?”

  Breslin shook his head. “No, it’s not. The defection has already taken place. What we are here for is to hear what Mr. Hegedüs and Mr. Réti have to tell us.” He smiled. “They wouldn’t say a word unless you were here, Collette.”

  “I see,” Cahill said, taking in the table. “Well, go ahead. Here I am, and I’m all ears.”

  When no one spoke, Breslin said, “Mr. Hegedüs.”

  Now Hegedüs seemed more like his old nervous self. He cleared his throat and squeezed his lover’s hand. He ran a finger beneath his shirt collar and said with a forced sense of gaiety, “We are in a bar, yes? Could I possibly have some whiskey?”