Liar's Market

by Taylor Smith

  He put a single bullet in her forehead. The rice bowl sailed in one direction, the chopsticks in another, as the stool tipped backward. She slumped to the floor, her head wedged between the gleaming stainless steel stove and a maple cabinet.

  Taking care to leave no prints, he left quietly through the rear kitchen door. The maid stared blindly after him, her black eyes milking over.

  CHAPTER ONE

  TOP SECRET

  CODE WORD ACCESS ONLY

  NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION

  FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

  INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPTION

  CASE NO. 1786521-02

  CODE NAME: ACHILLES

  DATE OF INTERVIEW: August 14, 2002

  LEAD INTERROGATOR: FBI Special Agent S. V. Andrews

  (Special Agent Andrews) Okay, let’s get started. Today is Wednesday, August 14, 2002, and this is interview number two with Mrs. Drummond MacNeil, also known as Carrie MacNeil.

  I should note for the record that two witnesses are present: Mr. Frank Tucker, representing the office of the Director of Central Intelligence, and Mr. Mark Huxley, from MI-6, the British foreign intelligence service. They’re being allowed to observe this interview as part of their damage assessment on joint-intelligence operations resulting from the alleged activities of Mrs. MacNeil’s husband. As of right now, Drummond MacNeil, CIA Deputy Director for Operations, is still at large, whereabouts unknown.

  Okay, I think we’re ready to begin now. So, for the record, please, state your full name and date of birth.

  (Mrs. MacNeil) Didn’t we establish that in the first interview?

  We do it every time to keep the tapes properly identified for the transcribers.

  Oh. That makes sense, I guess. So, once again then, it’s Carrie Jane MacNeil. Originally Carolyn, but I’ve always been called Carrie. My maiden name was Morgan.

  And your date of birth?

  May 16, 1973.

  So you’re…um…twenty-nine years old, is that right?

  Yes. I’ll be thirty on my next birthday. The big three-oh. And don’t I have a lot to be proud of approaching that landmark.

  Such as?

  I was being sarcastic, Agent Andrews. Obviously, my accomplishments are pretty limited. In fact, all things considered, I’d say I’ve made a real mess of things, wouldn’t you?

  In what way?

  Take your pick. I’ve pretty much blown everything over the last decade—education, marriage, credibility. Abandoned my personal goals, so no career to speak of. And now, here I am, suspected of treason—and murder, too, if I understand correctly where you were heading when we talked yesterday. Good job, Carrie.

  I told you yesterday, Mrs. MacNeil, the Bureau’s official position is that you’re assisting our investigation into your husband’s activities and subsequent disappearance. No one has said you’re a suspect.

  Not yet they haven’t. You’ll be sure to tell me when I am, though, won’t you?

  You’ll be the first to know. But in the meantime, I want to confirm for the record that your participation in this debriefing is entirely voluntary. Is that right?

  You mean, there’s nothing I’d rather be doing?

  No, I mean you’re here of your own accord and we both understand that you’re free of leave at any time.

  Yes, fine, we both understand that. I can think of plenty of places I’d rather be, mind you. Having a root canal, for example.

  No doubt. But getting back to the subject of your accomplishments, what about your son? You’re proud of him, aren’t you?

  Oh, God, yes, I am. He’s the best part of my life. All right, fair enough. I’ve messed up the rest of it, but I wouldn’t have Jonah if it weren’t for everything else. Let’s just hope I haven’t completely ruined his life, too.

  That has to be a concern, for sure. But depending on the extent of your involvement in your husband’s activities—

  There was no involvement! I don’t even know for sure that he was doing anything illegal. It’s you people who keep insisting he sold state secrets and caused the deaths of I don’t know how many people. Even if that’s true, I had no idea anything was wrong until he vanished two days ago.

  And you say he’s gone into hiding, but what if you’re wrong? What if he’s been kidnapped? Isn’t it possible he’s innocent? That he’s being held hostage—or worse—by terrorists? And you’re just sitting here, wasting time, asking me questions I don’t know the answers to?

  We think it’s highly unlikely he’s been kidnapped, the evidence being what it is.

  I’m still waiting to see all this supposed evidence.

  All in good time. And if, in fact, it turns out you weren’t involved, you’ll be free to go home and raise your son and try to get past all this. But first, we have some information blanks to fill in and we think you can help.

  So, let’s just get back to the task at hand, shall we? State your address and place of employment once again for the record, if you don’t mind.

  What if I do?

  Do what?

  Mind.

  Are you saying you won’t cooperate with this investigation?

  I’m just—never mind. It doesn’t matter. My address—1221 Elcott Road, McLean, Virginia. At the moment, anyway.

  You’re planning to move?

  I’m not sure. It’s a little awkward there right now, and I’ve been offered the chance to house-sit for some family friends so…Well, I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do.

  Do you own the house in McLean?

  No. I think I mentioned yesterday that it belongs jointly to my husband and his mother. Actually, the house was left to Drum when his father died, but with the stipulation that my mother-in-law continue to live in it during her lifetime. Drum left her on the deed as co-owner because he was out of the country so much.

  But this information you’ve already verified, I’m sure.

  These are routine questions we have to ask. So, lastly, your employment.

  None, at the moment. My son just turned six. With him so young and with us living abroad during my husband’s last posting, I wasn’t really able to work. I’m thinking about looking for something part-time in the fall, though, once Jonah’s settled into first grade. Or, I was going to. But now that this has happened…

  Sure. Things are up in the air, I can see that. Anyway, Mrs. MacNeil, I want to go back now to a subject we touched on yesterday before we had to wrap up—the murder of Alexandra Kim Lee in Hong Kong last summer.

  I told you yesterday, I never met the woman.

  But you know who she is.

  Anyone who reads the papers or a newsmagazine would have heard of her. Her picture showed up there often enough, even before she died. I gather she was fairly well connected. Her murder was quite a little mystery back in the dog days of last summer. I seem to recall reading articles in Time—or Newsweek. Or both, I’m not sure. Weren’t her maid and butler killed, too?

  It wasn’t a butler. It was the doorman of her building. Obviously, the killer wanted to eliminate witnesses.

  Right. Anyway…I’m not sure why you keep asking me about her. It’s not like I have anything original to offer.

  You say most of what you know is from the papers. But not all, isn’t that right? You have heard of Ms. Lee outside the media coverage of her murder, haven’t you?

  (unintelligible)

  Pardon?

  I said, yes, but it’s still secondhand information. Until two days ago, when all hell broke loose, I only knew of her because of those newspaper stories. How would I have known her personally? She died in Hong Kong, right? At the time, we were living in London.

  She had a home in London, too. Did you know that?

  Not while we were there I didn’t. I only just found that out.

  At the same time you learned your husband knew her?

  (unintelligible)

  What was that, Mrs. MacNeil? You’ll have to speak up for the microphone.

  I said, you really like to rub
it in, don’t you?

  What do you mean?

  The fact that Drum knew this woman—in the biblical sense, I suppose is what you’re implying.

  Is that true? Was he having an affair with her?

  I have no idea. You’re suggesting he was, apparently, but I have no proof of it.

  Do you think it’s possible?

  Anything is possible. I would have had no way of knowing. You know what my husband’s position was in London. He was CIA Chief of Station there. He had contact with all kinds of people, but I wasn’t allowed to ask questions about any of it. That’s how that game works, isn’t it? Need to know—isn’t that the operational term? Does your wife need to know about this conversation we’re having right now, Agent Andrews? Are you going to go home tonight and talk it over with her? I’m guessing not. You guys and your precious little spy games and secrets. You just love them.

  Mrs. MacNeil, if you and I were sleeping together, I guarantee you, my wife would know it in two minutes flat. She’d see the guilt in my face, for one thing, even before she found lipstick on my collar or whatever.

  Ah, well, there’s the problem—you just put your finger on it. You, Agent Andrews, would apparently feel guilty about sleeping with another woman and your wife would pick up on that. Bravo. She’s a lucky woman. Nice to be married to a man you can count on.

  Are you saying your husband was unreliable in a general sense? Or just that he didn’t love you? Mrs. MacNeil? Carrie? Would you like some water?

  No, I’m fine. I just—I thought—at the time…I knew there were other women. I did. Not because Drum showed any sign of guilt, mind you. Oh, there was a little pro forma remorse, maybe, on a couple of occasions when I tried to confront him about it, but I wouldn’t call it guilt. He didn’t even try all that hard to deny it. He said it was the nature of the job, that it didn’t mean anything.

  Not to him, maybe….

  Look, you have to understand, Drum’s twenty years older than me. His career and his habits were firmly established long before I came along. Not that I knew that when I married him, mind you. But from the time I found out what he really did for a living, I had to accept that he would be keeping odd hours and meeting people I’d know nothing about—his intelligence contacts, agents, sources—whatever you want to call them. Women in my position—it’s mostly women, although these days, I suppose there are some husbands in the same boat, too—anyway, when you marry into this business, you soon learn not to ask questions.

  And Alexandra Kim Lee?

  Well, I guess it makes sense she was the kind of source Langley would want to cultivate. The papers said she was bribing western officials on behalf of Beijing.

  So that’s what you think your husband was doing? Cultivating a source? Or eliminating a threat?

  I told you, I’m not even certain he knew her.

  And if there were proof he did?

  What kind of proof?

  Copies of CIA contact reports on meetings he had with her. Surveillance photographs.

  You have those? Do you have them here?

  I can’t show you the contact reports. Those are highly classified, obviously. But I do have these pictures I can show you—

  Oh, God—then it’s true.

  This last one was taken three days before she was murdered…. Carrie? What is it?

  The park they’re in here? I recognize it. That statue of the soldier on the horse? Jonah, my son, used to call it the dancing horse statue. It’s across the street from the American International School in London—Bloody hell! Drum took that woman to our son’s school?

  According to the surveillance report, they had been at her place in Mayfair that afternoon until your husband had to leave to pick up your son. The Brits had her apartment bugged. Apparently he told her you were at the British Museum—something about a seminar on African sculpture?

  It was that day? I remember. I’d been updating the research on my master’s thesis, trying to finish it. The British Museum was having a lecture series on African art that was right up my alley, so Drum agreed I should attend. Our housekeeper was off sick, so he said he’d take care of Jonah after kindergarten. Damn him! Then he goes and takes one of his bimbos to our son’s school? What a bastard! Did he—

  What? Introduce her to your son? No. Apparently she left when the school bell rang. Honestly, Carrie? I doubt this woman had much interest in playing stepmom to anyone.

  Still—

  Anyway, she flew back to Hong Kong the next day and two days after that, she was thrown off a twenty-eighth floor balcony.

  And you think Drum had something to do with her murder?

  What do you think?

  I have no idea.

  Do you remember where he was when it happened? Three days after you attended that lecture at the British Museum, it would have been.

  Not the foggiest. I mean, I presume he would have been in his office at the embassy, but I can’t be certain. Who can remember every little detail of a week that happened over a year ago?

  Well, let me remind you then. His calendar for that week says he left London two days after this to attend a CIA regional meeting in Delhi.

  Okay, I remember that, now that you mention it. He did go to India for a few days last summer. There you go, then. That’s where he was.

  Except he showed up late to the Delhi meeting. Arrived the day after Alexandra Kim Lee was murdered in Hong Kong. He said one of his connecting flights had been cancelled, but when we retrace his steps, there are thirty-eight hours unaccounted for. We have no idea where he was. He had no shortage of CIA aliases he could have been traveling under, but in checking flight manifests, we can’t find any record of IDs sanctioned by the Agency. Thirty-eight hours, though, would have given him enough time to get from London to Hong Kong, murder Miss Lee, as well as the maid and doorman, then hightail it back to the Delhi meeting.

  Sounds like a stretch to me. But even supposing you’re right about all that, are you really surprised? She was bribing western officials, right? That’s what the papers said, anyway. I know the CIA’s not supposed to be assassinating people, but I gather there are exceptions to the rule. Langley could have ordered him to do it.

  Oh, he was ordered to do it, all right, but not by the CIA. She was one of their own assets, you see—a double agent and a direct feed into the Chinese leadership. Whatever she did for Beijing was small potatoes compared to the influence she exerted on key Chinese officials and the gold mine of information she funneled back to Langley.

  Now, we know from other sources that the Chinese found out she was playing both sides of the street, and so they ordered the hit on her. And how did they find out? Because your husband sold them the information.

  You have proof of that?

  Let’s just say it looks like your husband has been selling out CIA assets for some time now—and some assets our British allies were sharing with us, too, which is why Mr. Huxley here from MI-6 is being allowed to observe these debriefings. And we’re not just talking about Chinese operations, either.

  It’s so hard to believe. I mean, Drum’s no angel, but I find it difficult to credit that he would commit treason, especially given his family’s history of service to the country.

  All I know for sure is that I had nothing to do with it. The only thing I’ve been doing for the past few years is trying to make a stable home for my son under circumstances that haven’t always been ideal.

  And yet, you do seem to be personally connected to a number of people who subsequently show up murdered.

  What do you mean, a number of people? Who else? And while we’re on the subject, let’s not forget that my connection to Alexandra Kim Lee is secondhand, involuntary and after the fact. I don’t know why anyone would think I had reason to want her dead.

  She was sleeping with your husband and getting too close for comfort to your child.

  Okay, that’s it. I’m out of here.

  You should sit down, Carrie.

  No. This has g
one far enough. I don’t have to listen to this. I agreed to come in and tell you what I know about my husband’s comings and goings. Now, I find myself being accused of God only knows what. You said I could leave anytime. Well, I want to leave now.

  That’s not a good idea. You leave now, it looks like you’ve got something to hide.

  Like, I murdered this woman in Hong Kong? Are you out of your mind?

  All right, all right. Let’s forget about Alexandra Kim Lee for the moment.

  Not until it’s clear that I had nothing to do with her death—or anyone else’s, for that matter.

  Fine. If we leave her aside, will you sit back down?

  No more stupid accusations?

  Come on, Carrie, you know we have to ask you these questions if we’re ever going to get to the bottom of what happened to your husband. Let’s just do what we have to do so you can get back to your son, all right.

  As long as it’s understood…

  Thank you. Now, if you’d take a look at another picture. What about this young woman? Do you recognize her?

  Yes.

  Where do you know her from?

  I didn’t say I knew her. I saw her—once, at the embassy in London. Just before it happened.

  Before she was murdered, right? Her name was Karen Ann Hermann, by the way.

  I know. I mean, I didn’t know her name at the time—we barely spoke—but I learned it later. She was killed outside the embassy.

  This past April 2, in fact. You were there when it happened. And then, right afterward, you skipped town—you and your husband both.

  We didn’t skip town! His posting in London was supposed to be up that summer, anyway. We left sooner than planned, that’s all.

  How convenient for you.

  You’re twisting this—

  Let’s just go over that day, Carrie—the day last spring when Karen Ann Hermann, a young American student who’d never hurt anyone in her life, was gunned down in cold blood outside the U.S. Embassy.

  CHAPTER TWO

  London, England

  Tuesday, April 2, 2002

  It wasn’t meant to happen that way. No one so young or sweet or blameless should die like that, sprawled bleeding and terrified in a muddy puddle on a dark and rainy London street, far from home, surrounded by gaping strangers watching her life ebb away.