Murder in the CIA

by Margaret Truman

  “Very small.” He rummaged through a drawer behind the counter and came up with a box. “Anything else?”

  “No, thank you.” She’d expected questioning, a demand for an address, for identification. Nothing. Just a simple consumer purchase. She paid, thanked him, and returned to the street, a box of bullets in her purse.

  She walked to the Watergate and checked in, her eyes scanning the lobby.

  The moment she was in her suite, she unpacked, took a hot shower and, wearing a robe provided by the hotel, stepped out onto a wraparound balcony that overlooked the Potomac River and the oversized, gleaming white Kennedy Center. It was a lovely sight, but she was too filled with energy to stand in any one place for more than a few seconds.

  She went to a living room furnished with antique reproductions, found a scrap of paper in her purse, and dialed the number on it. The phone at Vern Wheatley’s brother’s apartment rang eight times before Wheatley answered. The minute he heard her voice, he snapped, “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been going crazy trying to find you.”

  “I was in Budapest.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? You just take off and not even tell me?”

  “Vern, I tried to call but there was no answer. It wasn’t a leisurely trip I took. I had to leave immediately.”

  His voice indicated that he’d ignored her words. He said flatly, “I have to see you right away. Where are you?”

  “I’m … why do you want to see me?”

  He snorted. “Maybe the fact that we slept together is good enough. Maybe just because I want to see you again. Maybe because I have something damned important to discuss with you.” She started to say something but he quickly added, “Something that might save both our lives.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me on the phone?” she said. “If it’s that important …”

  “Look, Collette, there are things I haven’t told you because … well, because it wasn’t the right time. The right time is now. Where are you? I’ll come right over.”

  “Vern, I have something I have to do before I can talk to you. Once it’s done, I’ll need to talk to someone. Please try to understand.”

  “Damn it, Collette, stop …”

  “Vern, I said I have other things to do. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “You won’t catch me here,” he said quickly.

  “No?”

  “I’m getting out right now. I was on my way when the phone rang. I almost didn’t bother answering it.”

  “You sound panicked.”

  “Yeah, you might say that. I always get a little uptight when somebody’s looking to slit my throat or blow up my car.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about? I’ll tell you what I’m talking about. I’m talking about that freaky outfit you work for. I’m talking about a bunch of psychopaths who start out ripping wings off flies and shooting birds with BB guns before they graduate to people.”

  “Vern, I don’t work for the CIA anymore.”

  “Yeah, right, Collette. That one of the courses down on the Farm? Lying 101? Goddamn it, I have to see you right now.”

  “Vern, I … all right.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’ll meet you someplace.”

  “How about dinner?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Yeah, well I am. I’m in the mood for Greek. Like drama or tragedy. Meet me at the Taverna in an hour.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Pennsylvania Avenue, Southeast. An hour?”

  She almost backed out but decided to go through with the date. After all, she’d called him. Why? She couldn’t answer. That weakness coming through, that need to talk with someone she knew and thought she could trust. Talk about what, that she was back in Washington to assassinate someone? No, there’d be no talk of that. He sounded desperate. It was he who needed to talk. Okay, she’d listen, that’s all.

  As she dressed, she went over in her mind what she’d been told about Vern by Joe Breslin. He’d come to Washington to do an exposé of one sort or another on the CIA, particularly its mind-control experimentation programs. If that was true—and she was sure it was, based upon their brief conversation a few minutes ago—he was to be as distrusted as the rest of them. Nothing was straightforward anymore. Living a life of simple truth must be reserved for monks, nuns, and naturalists, and it was too late to become any of those.

  She rode the elevator to the tenth floor and walked past Suite 1010, her heart tripping in anticipation of running into Edwards. It didn’t happen; she retraced her steps, got in the elevator, and went to the lobby. The Watergate was bustling. She stepped through the main entrance to where a long line of black limousines stood, their uniformed drivers waiting for their rich and powerful employers or customers to emerge. A cab from another line moved forward. Cahill got in and said, “The Taverna, on Pennsylvania Avenue, South.…”

  The driver turned and laughed. “I know, I know,” he said. “I am Greek.”

  She walked into what the cabbie had said was a “goud Grick” restaurant and was immediately aware of bouzouki music and loud laughter from the downstairs bar. She went down there in search of Wheatley. No luck. He hadn’t specified where he would meet her but she assumed it would be the bar. She took the only vacant stool and ordered a white wine, turned and looked at the bouzouki player, a good-looking young man with black curly hair who smiled at her and played a sudden flourish on his instrument. She was reminded of Budapest. She returned his smile and surveyed others in the room. It was a loud, joyous crowd and she wished she were in the mood—wished she were in the position—to enjoy something festive. She wasn’t. How could she be?

  She sipped her wine and kept checking her watch; Wheatley was twenty minutes late. She was angry. She hadn’t wanted to meet him in the first place but he’d prevailed. She looked at the check the bartender had placed in front of her, laid enough money on it to take care of it plus tip, got up and started for the stairs. Wheatley was on his way down. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, shaking his head. “I couldn’t help it.”

  “I was leaving,” she said icily.

  He took her arm and escorted her up the stairs to the dining room. Half the tables were vacant. “Come on,” he said. “I’m starved.”

  “Vern, I really don’t have time to …”

  “Don’t hassle me, Collette, just spend an hour while I get some food for my belly and feed you some food for your thoughts.”

  The manager showed them to a corner table that put them at considerable distance from other patrons. Collette took the chair that placed her back against the wall. Wheatley sat across from her.

  After they’d ordered a bottle of white wine, Wheatley shook his head and grinned. “You could drive a guy crazy.”

  “I don’t mean to do that, Vern. My life has been …” She smiled. “It’s been chaotic lately, at best.”

  “Mine hasn’t been exactly run-of-the-mill, either,” he said. “Let’s order.”

  “I told you I’m not hungry.”

  “Then nibble.”

  He looked at the menu, motioned for the waiter, and ordered moussaka, stuffed grape leaves, and an eggplant salad for two. After the waiter was gone, Wheatley leaned across the table and said, his eyes locked on hers, “I know who killed your friend Barrie Mayer, and I know why. I know who killed your friend David Hubler, and I know why he was killed, too. I know about the people you work for but, most of all, I know that you and I could end up like your dead friends if we don’t do something.”

  “You’re going too fast for me, Vern,” she said, her excitement level rising. A large “What if?” struck her. What if Breslin and the rest of them were wrong? What if Eric Edwards was not, in fact, a double agent, had not killed Barrie Mayer? It was the first time since she left Budapest that she acknowledged to herself how much she hoped it was the case.…

  Wheatley said, “All right, I’ll slow down for you
. In fact, I’ll do even better than that.” He had a briefcase on the floor at the side of his chair. He pulled from it a bulging envelope and handed it to her.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “That, my friend, is the bulk of an article I’m writing about the CIA. There’s also the first ten chapters of my book in there.”

  She immediately thought of David Hubler and the call that brought him to Rosslyn and to his death. She didn’t have to ask. Wheatley said, “I was the one who called Hubler and asked him to meet me in that alley.”

  His admission hit her hard. At the same time, it wasn’t a surprise. She’d always questioned the coincidence of Wheatley having been there at the time. The look on her face prompted him to continue.

  “I’ve been working through a contact in New York for months, Collette. He’s a former spook—I hope that doesn’t offend you, considering you’re in the same business.…” When she didn’t respond, he continued. “This contact of mine is a psychologist who used to do work for the CIA. He broke away a number of years ago and almost lost his life in the bargain. You don’t just walk away from those people, do you?”

  “I don’t know,” Cahill said. “I’ve never walked away,” which was only half true. She’d left Budapest committed to never returning, not only to that city but to any job within Central Intelligence once her present assignment was completed.

  “When someone tried to kill my contact, he did some fast thinking and came to the conclusion that his best protection was to offer up everything he knew for public consumption. Once he did that, why bother killing him? Eliminating him would only make sense if it were to avoid disclosure.”

  “Go on,” she said.

  “A mutual friend got us together and we started talking. That’s what brought me to Washington.”

  “Finally, some simple honesty,” Cahill said, not particularly proud of the smugness in her voice.

  “Yeah, that must be refreshing for you, Collette, considering that you’ve been dishonest with me all along.”

  She was tempted to get into that discussion but resisted. Let him continue talking.

  “My contact put me in touch with a woman who’d been an experimental subject in the Operation Bluebird and MK-ULTRA projects. They pulled out all the stops with her and, in the process, manipulated her mind to the extent that she doesn’t know who she is anymore. Ever hear of a man named Estabrooks?”

  “A psychologist who did a lot of work with hypnosis.” She said it in a bored tone of voice.

  “Yeah, right, but why should I be surprised? You probably know more about this than I ever imagined.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know much about those CIA projects from the past.”

  He guffawed. “From the past? Those projects are going on stronger than ever, Collette, and someone you know pretty well is one of the movers and shakers in them.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Your friend Dr. Jason Tolker.”

  “He’s not a friend. I simply …”

  “Simply slept with him? I don’t know, maybe I’ve got my definition of friendship all screwed up. You slept with me. Am I your friend?”

  “I don’t know. You used me. The only reason you got together with me again was to get close to someone involved with the …”

  “The CIA?”

  “You were saying?”

  “What you just said, about me making contact with you because you’re with the CIA, is only partially true. You’re acknowledging that you’re with the CIA, right? The embassy job is a front.”

  “That doesn’t matter, and I resent being put in the position of having to explain what I do with my life. You have no right.”

  He leaned toward her, and there was a harsh edge to his voice. “And the CIA has no right to go around screwing up innocent people, to say nothing of killing them, like your friend Barrie, and Hubler.”

  Collette leaned away from him and glanced about the restaurant. The sounds of the bar crowd downstairs mingled with the strains of the bouzouki music as it drifted up the stairs. Upstairs, where they sat, it was still relatively quiet and empty.

  Wheatley sat back. His was a warm, genuine smile and his voice matched it. “Collette, I’ll level with you one hundred percent. After that, you can decide whether you want to level with me. Fair enough?”

  She knew it was.

  “This woman I mentioned, the one who was a subject in the experimentation, is a prostitute. The CIA is big on hookers. They use them to entice men into apartments and hotel rooms that have been wired for sight and sound. They slip drugs in their drinks and the shrinks stand behind two-way mirrors and watch the action. It’s a nasty game, but I suppose they rationalize it by saying that the other side does it, too, and that ‘national defense’ is involved. Whether those things are true or not I don’t know, but I do know that a lot of innocent people get hurt.”

  Cahill started to add to the conversation but stopped herself. She simply cocked her head, raised her eyebrows, and said, “Go on.”

  Her posture obviously annoyed him. He quickly shook it off and continued. “I came down to Washington to see what I could find out about whether these experimental projects were still in operation. The day before Hubler was killed, I got a call from this lady, the prostitute, who told me that someone within the CIA was willing to talk to me. No, that isn’t exactly accurate. This person was willing to sell information to me. I was told to meet him in that alley in Rosslyn. I figured the first thing I ought to do was to test the waters with a book publisher, see if I could raise the money I needed to pay the source. I knew the magazine wouldn’t pay, and I sure as hell don’t have the funds.

  “I was trying to think of people back in New York to call when Dave Hubler came to my mind. You’d told me all about him, how Barrie Mayer put a lot of faith in him and had actually left the agency to him. I figured he was my best move, so I called him. He was very receptive. In fact, he told me that if the kind of information I was talking about was valid, he could probably get me a six-figure advance. The problem was he wanted to hear with his own ears what this source was selling. I invited him to meet with me. I knew the minute I hung up that it was a mistake. Having two of us show up would probably scare the guy off, but I figured I’d go through with it anyway. Want to know what happened?”

  “Of course.”

  “I ran late, but Hubler got there on time. Obviously, there was nobody selling information. It was a setup, and if I’d arrived when I was supposed to and alone, I would have had the ice pick in my chest.”

  His story had potency to it, no doubt about that. If what he’d said were true, it meant … “You’ve got problems,” she told him.

  “That’s right,” he said. “I’m being followed everywhere I go. The other night I was driving through Rock Creek Park and a guy ran me off the road. At least he tried to. He botched it and took off. I think they’ve thrown a tap on my brother’s phone, and my editor back in New York told me he’d received a call from a personnel agency checking my references for a job I was applying for with another magazine. I didn’t apply for a job with another magazine. There’s no legitimate personnel agency checking on me. These guys will stop at nothing.”

  “What do you plan to do?” she asked.

  “First of all, keep moving. Second, I’m going to adopt the philosophy of my shrink friend back in New York, get everything I know on paper, and make sure it’s in the proper hands as fast as possible. No sense killing somebody once they’ve spilled what they know.”

  Cahill looked down at the heavy envelope. “Why are you giving me this?”

  “Because I want it in someone else’s hands in case anything happens to me.”

  “But why me, Vern? You seem filled with distrust where I’m concerned. I’d think I’d be the last person you’d give this to.”

  He grinned, reached across the table, and held her hand. “Remember what I wrote in the yearbook, Collette?”

  She said softly, “Ye
s, of course I do. I’m the girl in this world who would never sell out.”

  “I still feel that way, Collette. You know something else I feel?”

  She looked in his eyes. “What?”

  “I’m in love with you.”

  “Don’t say that, Vern.” She shook her head. “You don’t know me.”

  “I think I do, which is why I’m throwing in with you. I want you to hold on to this, Collette,” he said, tapping the envelope. “I want you to read it and look for any gaps.”

  She shoved the envelope back across the table at him. “No, I don’t want that responsibility. I can’t help you.”

  His face, which had settled into a slack and serene expression, now hardened. His voice matched it. “I thought you took some oaths when you became a lawyer, silly things like justice and fairness and righting wrongs. I thought you cared about innocent people being hurt. At least, that was the line you used to give. What was it, Collette, high school rhetoric that goes down the drain the minute you hit the real world?”

  She was stung by his words, assaulted by hurt and anger. Had she succumbed to the hurt, she would have cried. Instead, her anger overrode the other feeling. “Don’t preach to me, Vern Wheatley, about ideals. All I’m hearing from you is journalist’s rhetoric. You’re sitting here lecturing me about right and wrong, about why everybody should jump on your bandwagon and sell out our own government. Maybe there is justification for what an organization like the CIA does. Maybe there are abuses. Maybe the other side does it, only worse. Maybe national defense is involved, and not just a slogan. Maybe there are things going on in this world that you or I have no idea about, can’t even begin to conceive of the importance of them to other people—people who don’t have the advantages we have in a free society.”

  The eggplant salad had gone untouched. Now the waiter brought the stuffed leaves and moussaka. The moment he left, Collette said to Vern, “I’m leaving.”

  Wheatley grabbed her hand. “Please don’t do that, Collette,” he said with sincerity. “Okay, we’ve each made our speech. Now let’s talk like two adults and figure out the right thing to do for both of us.”