Murder in the CIA Read Free

Limousine, and a stretch was waiting downstairs. “Barrie, a question.”
    “What?”
    “You uncomfortable with this meeting with the Commie big shot in Budapest?”
    “A little, but Zoltán says ‘Not to worry.’ ” They both laughed. “He’s been talking to you too much, David.”
    “Maybe he has. Look, I know
you
know your business, but greasing palms in a Socialist country might not be the smartest thing to do. You could be set up. They do it all the time.”
    Mayer grinned, then picked up her attaché case from the couch, came to where Hubler stood, and kissed him on the cheek. “You, David, are a dear. You also worry more than my mother does, which puts you in the Guinness class. Not to worry, David. Call me if you need me. I’ll check in with you a couple of times. By the way, where’s Carol?” Carol Geffin was one of two secretaries at the agency. The other, Marcia St. John, was on vacation. The only other two people on Mayer’s staff were away on business, one in Hollywood following through on film rights to Réti’s novel, the other in New York attending a conference.
    “Must have been another heavy night at the Buck Stops Here,” Hubler said. Carol Geffin’s favorite disco closed at 6:00 A . M ., sometimes.
    Mayer shook her head. “You tell Carol that she’s got tomake a choice between working and dancing. One more late morning and she can dance all day on her money, not mine. Give me a hand, huh?”
    Hubler carried her briefcase and a suitcase Mayer had dropped off in the reception area to the waiting limo. “See you in a week,” she said as she climbed inside the back of the Fleetwood Brougham. The driver closed the door, got behind the wheel, and headed for National Airport and the shuttle to New York. She glanced back through the tinted glass and saw Hubler standing at the curb, his hand half raised in a farewell. One of many things Mayer liked about him was his disposition. He was always smiling, and his laugh was of the infectious variety. Not this day, however. His face, as he stood and watched the limo become smaller, was grim. It bothered her for a moment but quickly was displaced by thoughts of the day ahead. She stretched her legs out in front of her, closed her eyes, and said to herself, “Here we go again.”
    Her suitcase had been checked through to London, leaving her free to grab a cab from La Guardia into the city, where she was let off at the corner of Second Avenue and 30th Street. She walked toward the East River on 30th until she reached a brownstone with a series of physicians’ names in black-on-white plaques.
    JASON TOLKER — PSYCHIATRIST . She went down the steps and rang the bell. A female voice asked through an intercom, “Who is it?”
    “Barrie Mayer.”
    A buzzer sounded and Barrie opened the door, stepped into a small carpeted reception area, and closed the door behind her. She was the only person there except for a young woman who came from an office in the rear and said, “Good morning.”
    “Good morning,” Mayer said.
    “He’s not here, you know,” the nurse said.
    “I know, a conference in London. He told me to …”
    “I know. It’s here.” The nurse, whose face was severely chiseled and whose skin bore the scars of childhood acne, reached behind a desk and came up with a black briefcase of the sort used by attorneys to carry briefs. Two strapscame over the top, and a tiny lock secured the flap to the case itself.
    “He said you’d been told about this,” the nurse said.
    “That’s right. Thank you.”
    The nurse’s smile was a slash across her lower face. “See you again,” she said.
    “Yes, you will.”
    Mayer left, carrying the new briefcase as well as her attaché case, one in each hand. She checked into a room at the Plaza that David had reserved from Washington, had lunch sent up, and perused papers from her attaché case until three, when she placed a wake-up call for five, stripped naked, and took a nap. She got up at