Murder in the CIA Read Online Free PDF

I’ve cut some of my better meals and deals here.”
    It turned into a long, leisurely, and progressively introspective evening, aided by a second bottle of wine. The need to bombard each other with detailed tales of their lives had passed, and the conversation slipped into a comfortable and quiet series of reflective thoughts, delivered from their armchairs.
    “Tell me more about Eric Edwards,” Cahill said.
    “What else is there to say? I was in the BVI meeting with an author who’d recently hit it big. Besides, never pass up a chance at the Caribbean. Anyway, he took me on a day cruise, and the charter captain was Eric. We hit it off right away, Collette, one of those instant fermentations, and I spent the week with him.”
    “Still on?”
    “Sort of. It’s hard with my travel schedule and his being down there, but it sure ain’t dead.”
    “That’s good.”
    “And …”
    Cahill looked across the candlelit table and smiled. “That’s right,” she said, “there was something you were dying to tell me.”
    “Eric Edwards isn’t enough?”
    “Only if you hadn’t hinted that there was something even bigger. Lay it on me, lady literary agent. That last train home isn’t far off.”
    Mayer glanced around the restaurant. Only two other tables were occupied, and they were far away. She put her elbows on the table and said, “I joined the team.”
    Cahill’s face was a blank.
    “I’m one of you.”
    It dawned on Cahill that her friend might be referring to the CIA but, because it didn’t make much sense—and because she had learned caution—she didn’t bring it up. Instead, she said, “Barrie, could you be a little more direct?”
    “Sure. I’m working for the Pickle Factory.” There was mirth in her voice as she said the words.
    “That’s … how?”
    “I’m a courier. Just part time, of course, but I’ve been doing it fairly regularly now for about a year.”
    “Why?” It was the only sensible question that came to Cahill at the moment.
    “Well, because I was asked to and … I like it, Collette, feel I’m doing something worthwhile.”
    “You’re being paid?”
    Mayer laughed. “Of course. What kind of an agent would I be if I didn’t negotiate a good deal for myself?”
    “You don’t
need
the money, do you?”
    “Of course not, but who ever has too much money? And, finally, some earnings off the books. Want more specifics?”
    “Yes and no. I’m fascinated, of course, but you really shouldn’t be talking about it.”
    “To
you
? You’re cleared.”
    “I know
that
, Barrie, but it’s still something you don’t chit-chat about over dinner and wine.”
    Mayer adopted a contrite expression. “You aren’t going to turn me in, are you?”
    Collette sighed and looked for a waiter. Once she’d gotten his attention, she said to Mayer, “Barrie, you have ruined my weekend. I’ll spend it wondering about the strange twists and turns my friend’s life has taken while I wasn’t around to protect her.”
    They stood outside the restaurant. It was a crisp and clearevening. The street had filled with the usual weekend crowds that gravitated to Georgetown, and that caused residents to wring their hands and to consider wringing necks, or selling their houses.
    “You’ll be back Monday?” Mayer asked.
    “Yup, but I’ll be spending most of my time out of town.”
    “At the Farm?”
    “Barrie!”
    “Well?”
    “I have some training to take. Let’s leave it at that.”
    “Okay, but promise you’ll call the first moment you’re free. We have a lot more catching up to do.”
    They touched cheeks, and Collette flagged a cab. She spent the weekend at her mother’s house thinking about Barrie Mayer and the conversation at the restaurant. What she’d told her friend was true. She
had
spoiled her weekend, and she returned to Washington Monday morning anxious to get together again for another installment of Barrie Mayer’s “other life.”
    “This restaurant isn’t what