Murder in the CIA Read Free Page A

five, showered, dressed again, took a cab to Kennedy Airport, and checked in at the Clipper Club, where she had a martini and read a magazine before boarding Pan Am’s seven o’clock 747 to London.
    “Can I take those for you?” a flight attendant asked, indicating the two briefcases.
    “No, thank you. Lots of work to do,” Mayer said pleasantly.
    She slid both cases under the seat in front of her and settled in for the flight. It left on time. She had another martini, and then caviar and smoked salmon, rare beef carved at her seat, and blueberry cheesecake; cognac to top it off. The movie came on, which she ignored. She put on slippers provided by the flight attendant and a pair of blue eyeshades from a toiletry kit given to each first-class passenger, positioned a pillow behind her head, covered herself with a blue blanket, and promptly fell asleep, the toes of her left foot wedged into the handle of the briefcase she’d picked up at Dr. Jason Tolker’s office.
    The cabbie from Heathrow Airport to her hotel was an older man who took more delight in chatting than in driving. Mayer would have preferred silence but he was a charming man, as all the older London cab drivers seemed to be, and she thought of the difference between him and certain New York cabbies, who not only were rude and uncaring but malicious, nervous, opinionated, hyperactive, and who curbed any tendency toward humanity by driving insanely.
    “Here we are, ma’am,” the driver said as he pulled up in front of a row of brick houses on Cadogan Gardens. There was no indication of a hotel on the block. Only the number 11 appeared above a polished wooden door that Mayer went to. She rang a bell. Moments later a hall porter in a white jacket opened the door and said, “Welcome, Miss Mayer. Splendid to see you again. Your room is ready.”
    She signed the guest book and was led to the suite she usually reserved—Number 27. It consisted of a living room, bedroom, and bath. The white ceilings were high, the walls of the living room bloodred. Victorian furniture was everywhere, including a glass-fronted bookcase, an armoire, a dressing table in front of French windows in the bedroom that overlooked a private park across the street, and a gracefully curved chaise and chairs upholstered in gold.
    “Would you like anything, ma’am?” the porter asked.
    “Not this minute, thank you,” Barrie said. “Perhaps tea at three?”
    “Of course.”
    “I’ll be leaving tomorrow for a few days,” she said, “but I’ll be keeping the room for my return.”
    “Yes, ma’am. Tea at three.”
    She slept, and later watched BBC-TV while enjoying scones with clotted cream and jam with her tea. She had dinner at seven at the Dorchester with a British agent, Mark Hotchkiss, with whom she’d been exploring a business link for the past few months, and was back in bed at the Cadogan by ten.
    She arose at seven, had breakfast sent up to the room, dressed and left the hotel at eight. She arrived at Heathrow’s Terminal Number 2 and joined a long line of people waiting to go through a security section leading to a vast array of flights by smaller foreign airlines, including Malev, the Hungarian National Airline.
    She’d been through this before. How many trips had she taken to Budapest in the two or three years? Fifteen, twenty? She’d lost track. Only her accountant knew for certain. The line at Terminal 2 was always impossibly long and slow, and she’d learned to be patient.
    She glanced up at a TV departure monitor. Plenty of time.An older man in front of her asked if she’d “protect” his place while he went to buy a pack of cigarettes. “Of course,” she said. A woman behind her ran the wheel of a suitcase caddy into Mayer’s heel. Mayer turned. The woman raised her eyebrows and looked away.
    The line moved in spurts. Mayer carried her briefcases, and pushed her suitcase along the ground with her foot.
    A loud voice to her right caused Barrie, and