Murder in the CIA Read Online Free PDF Page B

it used to be,” Joe Breslin said as he finished his meal. “I remember when Gundel was …”
    “Joe, I’m going to London and Washington,” Cahill said.
    “Why?”
    “To find out what happened to Barrie. I just can’t sit here and let it slide, shrug and accept the death of a friend.”
    “Maybe you should do just that, Collette.”
    “Sit here?”
    “Yes. Maybe …”
    “Joe, I know exactly what you’re thinking, and if what you’re thinking bears any relationship to the truth, I don’t know what I’ll do.”
    “I don’t know anything about Barrie’s death, Collette, but I do know that she assumed a known risk once she got involved, no matter how part time it might have been. Things have heated up since Banana Quick. The stakes have gotten a lot bigger, and the players are more visible and vulnerable.”He added quickly, in a whisper, “The schedule’s been moved up. It’ll be sooner than planned.”
    “What are you saying, Joe, that this could have been a Soviet wet affair?” She’d used Russian intelligence slang for blood, for an assassination, which had been picked up by the intelligence community in general.
    “Could be.”
    “Or?”
    “Or … your guess. Remember, Collette, it might have been exactly what it was labeled by the British doctors, a coronary pure and simple.”
    A lump developed in Cahill’s throat and she touched away a tear that had started down her cheek. “Take me home, Joe, please. I’m suddenly very tired.”
    As they left Gundel, the Soviet intelligence officer at the table with three women waved to Collette and said, “
Vsyevó kharóshevo
, Madam Cahill.” He was drunk.
    “Good night to you, too, Colonel,” she responded.
    Breslin dropped her at her apartment on Huszti ut, on the more fashionable Buda side of the Danube. It was one of dozens of apartments the U.S. government had leased to house its embassy personnel, and although it was extremely small and three flights up, it was light and airy and featured a remodeled kitchen that was the best of all the kitchens her embassy friends had in their subsidized apartments. It also came with a telephone, something Hungarian citizens waited years for.
    A flashing red light indicated Cahill had two messages on her answering machine. She rewound the tape and heard a familiar voice, his English heavily laden with his Hungarian birthright.
“Collette, it is Zoltán Réti. I am in London. I am shocked at what I have heard about Barrie. No, shocked is not the word to describe my feelings. I read about it in the paper here. I am attending a conference and will return to Budapest tomorrow. I am sorry for the loss of your good friend, and for my loss. It is a terrible thing. Goodbye.”
    Cahill stopped the machine before listening to the second message. London? Hadn’t Réti known Barrie was coming to Budapest? If he hadn’t—and if she knew he wouldn’t be here—she had to be on CIA business. But that broke precedent.She’d never traveled to Budapest without having him there as the reason for her visit which, in fact, was legitimate. He was a client. The fact that he happened to be Hungarian and lived in Budapest only made it more plausible and convenient to perform her second mission, carrying materials for the Central Intelligence Agency.
    She started the second message:
    “Collette Cahill, my name is Eric Edwards. We’ve never met, but Barrie and I were quite close, and she talked about you often. I just learned about what happened to her and felt I had to make contact with someone, anyone who was close to her and shares what I’m feeling at this moment. It seems impossible, doesn’t it, that she’s gone, like that, this beautiful and talented woman who …”
There was a pause, and it sounded to Cahill as though he were trying to compose himself.
“I hope you don’t mind this long and convoluted message but, as I said, I wanted to reach out and talk to her friend. She gave me your number a long time