Murder in the CIA Read Online Free PDF Page A

to be added up when someone behind her said her name. She turned. “It can’t be,” she said, wide-eyed.
    “Sure is,” Barrie Mayer said.
    They embraced, stepped apart, and looked at each other, then hugged again.
    “What are you doing here?” Mayer asked.
    “Going to school. I’m being transferred and … it’s a long story. How are you? The agency’s doing well? How’s your …?”
    “Love life?” A hearty laugh from both. “That, too, is a long story. Where are you going now? Can we have a drink? Dinner? I’ve been meaning to …”
    “So have I. I’m going home for the weekend … I mean, where my mother lives. God, I can’t believe this, Barrie! You look sensational.”
    “So do you. Do you have to go right now?”
    “Well, I—let me call my mother and tell her I’ll be late.”
    “Go tomorrow morning, early. Stay with me tonight.”
    “Ah, Barrie, I can’t. She’s expecting me.”
    “At least a drink. My treat. I’m dying to talk to you. This is incredible, bumping into you. Please, just a drink. If you stay for dinner, I’ll even send you home by limo.”
    “Things are good, huh?”
    “Things are
fantastic
.”
    They went to the Georgetown Inn where Cahill ordered a gin and tonic, Mayer an old-fashioned. There was a frenetic attempt to bring each other up to date as quickly as possible, which resulted in little information actually being absorbed. Mayer realized it and said, “Let’s slow down.You first. You said you were here to take classes. What kind of classes? What for?”
    “For my job. I’m”—she looked down at the bar and said sheepishly—“I can’t really discuss it with … with anyone not officially involved with the Company.”
    Mayer adopted a grave expression. “Heavy spy stuff, huh?”
    Cahill laughed the comment away. “No, not at all, but you know how things are with us.”
    “Us?”
    “Don’t make me explain, Barrie. You know what I mean.”
    “I sure do.”
    “Do you?”
    Mayer sat back and played with a swizzle stick. She asked, “Are you leaving jolly old England?”
    “Yes.”
    “And?”
    “I’ll be … I’ve taken a job with the U.S. Embassy in Budapest.”
    “That’s wonderful. With the embassy? You’ve left the CIA?”
    “Well, I …”
    Mayer held up her hand. “No explanations needed. I read the papers.”
    What had been an exuberant beginning to the reunion deteriorated into an awkward silence. It was Cahill who broke it. She clutched Mayer’s arm and said, “Let’s get off the cloaks and daggers. Barrie, your turn. Tell me about
your
agency. Tell me about, well …”
    “My love life.” They giggled. “It’s stagnant, to be kind, although it has had its moments recently. The problem is that I’ve been spending more time on airplanes than anywhere else, which doesn’t contribute to stable relationships. Anyway, the agency is thriving
and
, coincidentally, you and I will probably see more of each other in Budapest than we have for the past five years.”
    “Why?”
    She explained her recent success with foreign authors, including the Hungarian, Zoltán Réti. “I’ve been to Budapest six or eight times. I love it. It’s a marvelous city despite Big Red Brother looking over your shoulder.”
    “Another drink?”
    “Not for me. You?”
    “No. I really should be heading off.”
    “Call your mother.”
    “All right.”
    Cahill returned and said, “She’s such a sweetness. She said, ‘You spend time with your dear friend. Friends are important.’ ” She delivered the words with exaggerated gravity.
    “She sounds wonderful. So, what is it, dinner, stay over? You name it.”
    “Dinner, and the last train home.”
    They ended up at La Chaumière on M Street, where Mayer was given a welcome worthy of royalty. “I’ve been coming here for years,” she told Cahill as they were led to a choice table near the center fireplace. “The food is scrumptious and they have a sense of when to leave you alone.