Read Murder in the CIA for Free Online Page A

Barrie?”
    “Exactly.”
    “And it wasn’t a heart attack?”
    “Not from what I hear.”
    They approached a construction crew that was using jack-hammers to tear out an old dock. When they were closeenough so that even sophisticated, long-range microphones would fail to distinguish their words from the din, Breslin said, “She
was
carrying, Collette, and evidently it was important.”
    “And it’s gone?”
    “Right.”
    “Any ideas?”
    “Sure. It was either us or them. If it was them, they have the material and we’re in a panic. If it was us, one of our people has what she had in her briefcase and maybe is looking to sell it to the other side.” He drew on his pipe and said, “Or …”
    “Or wanted what she had for other reasons, personal maybe, incriminating, something like that.”
    “Yes, something like that.”
    She squinted against the sun that popped out from a fast-moving cloud and said, “Joe, we’re down here for more than just a preliminary warning to me that Stan might ask me to look into Barrie’s death. He told you to feel me out, didn’t he?”
    “Not in so many words.”
    “I’ll do it.”
    “Really? No hesitation?”
    “None. I wanted to do it on my own time anyway. This way I don’t blow what leave I have coming to me.”
    “That’s pragmatic.”
    “That’s working for the Pickle Factory too long. Do I go back and tell him, or do you?”
    “You. I have nothing to do with this. One final bit of advice, Collette. Stan and the desk people back at Langley really don’t give a damn how Barrie died. As far as they’re concerned, she had a heart attack. I mean, they know she didn’t but
she
doesn’t count. The briefcase does.”
    “What was in it? Who was it from?”
    “Maybe Stan will tell you, but I doubt it. Need-to-know, you know.”
    “If I’m trying to find out who ended up with it, I’ll need to know.”
    “Maybe, maybe not. That’s up to Stan and Langley. Letthem lay out the rules and you stay within them.” He looked over half-glasses to reinforce his point.
    “I will, and thanks, Joe. I’ll go see Stan right now.”
    Podgorsky occupied an office that had a sign on the door that read TYPEWRITER REPAIR . Many CIA offices within the embassy had such signs which, the thinking went, would discourage casual visitors. They usually did.
    He sat behind a battered desk with a row of burn marks from too many cigars perched on the edge. Stanley was short and stocky, with a full head of gray hair of which he was inordinately proud. Cahill liked him, had from the first day she arrived in Budapest. He was shrewd and tough but had a sentimental streak that extended to everyone working for him.
    “You talked to Joe?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Make sense to you?”
    “I guess so. We were close. I was supposed to meet her flight.”
    He nodded and grunted, rolled his fingertips on the desk. “Were you meeting her for us?”
    “No, strictly personal. I didn’t know whether she was carrying or not.”
    “She ever talk to you about what she was doing?”
    “A little.”
    “Nothing about this trip.”
    “Nothing. She never got specific about any trip she took here. All she ever got into was her meetings with her agency clients like Zoltán Réti.”
    “He’s not here.”
    “I know. He called me last night from London and left a message on my machine.”
    “You find it strange he isn’t here?”
    “As a matter of fact, yes.”
    “She was supposed to meet with him and a Party big shot about clearing Réti to get the money his books are making in the West.”
    “How much was
that
going to cost?”
    Podgorsky laughed. “Whatever the
papakha
needed tobuy one of those condos up on the hill, or to get himself a fancy new car quick.”
    “Palms are all the same.”
    “So’s the grease and the way it goes on.” His face became grim. “We lost a lot, Collette.”
    “What she was carrying was that important?”
    “Yeah.”
    “What was