CIA Fall Guy (3 page)

“Read it,” George said. “Take your time.”

It began: “Source confirms that there has been a doubling of guards outside the factory for the last week. Source offers the opinion that the factory has received a shipment of strategic materiel that may be utilized for the manufacture of long-range missiles to be aimed at the most densely populated cities of Western Europe.”

Missiles aimed at the most densely populated cities of Western Europe. Beth flashed to the memory of waiting for a ski lift on the top of Germany's tallest mountain, the Zugspitze. The army man next to her in line is explaining his job. “I check on the nuclear arms hidden all over Germany in case the Soviets start a war.” He leans closer. “Believe me,” he says, “you don't even want to consider living through the devastation if we set those weapons off.”

The soldier had told her this only a week before she typed the report of the possible manufacture of missiles aimed at Western Europe. Which is why she remembered this particular report. Because she had thought then — even if those weapons didn't have nuclear heads — if they were fired the Americans would probably retaliate with nuclear weapons, so they'd all be killed anyway.

“Is the question do I remember this report? Because I do.”

“Good,” George said. “Do you remember anything else about this report?”

“No, should I?”

George flipped open a folder on his desk and pushed a photo towards her. “This was your boss, was it not, when you worked in Munich?”

Jack Lockheim, a short, kind man in his forties at the time. He had collected European stamps and liked good German restaurants. He had been nice to her when some of the other men who shared their office space had not.

“Yes, I worked for Jack Lockheim.”

“And when you gave notice of quitting your job so that you could travel on your husband's leave, what did Jack do?”

“Do? He took me out to lunch to celebrate my European travels.”

“Do you remember where you went for lunch?”

Beth smiled. “We went to a Russian restaurant that Jack liked. There was a bottle of vodka on every table. You just poured as much as you wanted and the waiter charged you by how much the bottle had gone down. And we had caviar.”

“Yes,” George said. “And what else happened?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“Just take a couple more minutes and think about that lunch.”

The vodka bottle in the middle of the white tablecloth, the group of British officers seated next to them celebrating someone's promotion to captain. A short splainky man stumbling over her feet and offering in German to buy them a drink. She'd understood his offer more from his actions, swinging his bottle in their faces, than from his slurred words. She had thought nothing of him after his companion pulled him away.

“You mean the drunken man who offered us a drink? His friend pulled him away from our table.”

“He wasn't drunk and that wasn't his friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's like this,” George said. “A man named Hans Wermer was at that time passing us information about the economic progress of the workers' paradise in East Germany. He came with some colleagues to Munich to speak at an economics conference on the two Germanys. His family remained in East Germany so he was allowed to come.

“The day you ate in that restaurant he was there with some of his East German colleagues. Of course the political officer was with to keep them in line. In contradiction of all security procedures, somehow Hans knew that Jack Lockheim received his reports from Hans' case officer. And apparently Hans knew what Jack looked like.”

Perspiration bathed Beth's palms. Where was this all leading?

George looked across his office, then back to her. “Hans was somewhat arrogant, pleased as punch to be in the West for the first time. He got up from his table and came over to your table, carrying his table's vodka bottle. He offered to buy you drinks to show you the hospitality of the East. He spoke in German and said something to Jack to let him know who he was. Before Jack could reply, the political officer arrived at your table and pulled Hans away.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Because Jack wrote a report of an attempted contact by a foreign national at that meal.”

“An attempted contact?”

“Surely you remember that much when you got your job with military intelligence? You were required to report any overtures made to you by foreign governments or any other contacts.”

Had she broken the pledge she'd signed? If she didn't know he was a foreign national, wasn't that okay not to have reported it?

“I didn't know it was an attempted contact — I didn't really understand what was said in German. And one drunk German looked like any other drunk German to me.”

George waved a hand. “No, no, it's okay. You couldn't have known. But Jack did. And he filed a report of the incident and stated that you were with him at lunch. That report went into Hans' folder, which was reviewed when he came forward to make his claim.”

“But why am I here?”

George spread his hands on his desk. “You see, Jack Lockheim died a couple of years ago, and Hans' case officer is also dead. We don't have anyone else who could possibly identify Hans. We think he might not be who he says he is. After the Wall fell, lots of identity papers got lost or switched. This might just be an opportunist trying to cash in on the confusion. We need you to try to identify him.”

The laugh escaped her mouth. “That's over twenty years ago. I saw him for a few seconds. How could I possible recognize him?”

Charles rustled in his seat. “We know. We have to try.”

Something didn't compute. Beth didn't believe they thought she could recognize this guy Hans. He must be asking for a lot of money so someone was covering his or her ass, going through the motions, making a check next to everything on a “to do” list, proving everything had been covered by the book, before authorizing or not authorizing this claim.

This was a time waster like the enormous amounts of time spent in her day on conversations and telexes by civilians at headquarters in Munich, the people engaged in the “life-and-death” decisions of the Christmas gifts of liquor and perfume for the German nationals and for the others who helped the Americans. Decisions of who deserved a $10 bottle of whiskey and who a $20 bottle — bought at the American
kaserne
's liquor store for which military personnel had ration cards and headquarters had a budget.

“Why not just show me recent photos when those guys visited me in Philadelphia? Why bring me all the way down here?”

“Because we realize it's been a long time,” George said. “Body language may be able to help you identify him.”

“Body language? Are you going to have him hold a vodka bottle in one hand and stumble over me in a pretend drunken stupor?” She laughed again.

“It's not a funny matter,” Charles said. “You're our only hope.”

God help the country if she were the CIA's only hope.

**

Charles was back in his own office, having begged off lunch with Kathleen and their guest. He did not want to discuss women's things.

He didn't like women much. Preferred the company of men. Not sexually — he thought of himself as asexual, above the pull of those entrapping emotions. Men offered companionship, good conversation, and they knew how to play the game.

He'd told George he had a squash game with someone in another department. Just the type of silly-horse thing George expected him to say. If George were to find out Charles hadn't in fact played squash, Charles could always say the game had been canceled at the last minute and he didn't want to intrude on lunch late.

Good manners. Such a useful affectation. Got one past potentially inquisitive minds.

Charles picked up his telephone and punched numbers. “It's me,” he said into the receiver. “Calling from the office. I wanted to check on our meeting time tonight.”

He listened, said “Fine” and hung up.

Had he done right to call now? The phones here were supposed to be secure, but he never said anything on them he couldn't explain to any official “eavesdropper.” And he tried to avoid calling from his office all together. Sometimes, like today, when things were happening, he'd call using the code of “check on our meeting time tonight.” It really meant he wanted a meeting tonight.

And tonight it was imperative to meet.

**

“Choose anything you like,” Kathleen told Beth as they walked down the cafeteria line. “The food is decent.”

Kathleen slung a plate of salisbury steak onto her tray. Beth's stomach flipflopped from the pungent odor of the gravy-drowned steak. She was certainly not going to follow suit.

Beth chose a tuna fish salad and a glass of orange juice. Her hand wavered over and then passed up a chocolate brownie. She let Kathleen pay — the CIA could afford it — and followed her outside to a picnic table.

Kathleen doused her steak with ketchup. “After lunch we'll be leaving here.”

“Where are we going?”

“Just for a drive. We'll be heading out toward Dulles.”

“Why is that?”

Kathleen smiled. “We'll be meeting the subject at a federal park. George thinks the hugeness of Langley would overwhelm the subject. Better to meet him in a less intimidating place.”

Beth nodded, then asked, “Why didn't this guy make his claim earlier? Why wait several years after the Wall came down?”

“Lots of people are still coming across. Some have been cautious, waiting to see what happens to the first waves. Others have personal reasons. I believe the wife of our guy just died. Maybe she wouldn't leave her home. Now he's free to come West.”

“How did you get in this business?” Beth paused as the orange juice puckered her mouth. “I mean, were you always interested in working for the … government?”

Kathleen laughed. “My parents are still asking me this. They can't understand why I'd spend two years getting an M.B.A. degree and then settle for a low-paying civil service job.”

Just what any normal parents would wonder.

Kathleen waved her fork in front of her cafe au lait complexion — she obviously wanted to change the subject. She asked Beth, “How did you end up working for military intelligence in Munich?”

Beth smiled. “I needed a job to make money for my husband and me to travel around Europe on his leave. Even with an apartment provided by the army and access to the PX and commissary, a lieutenant's salary doesn't go far. The headquarters of the PX paid so little an hour it wasn't worth working. For almost an entire year I fought with the civil service bureaucracy back in the States to get a job. First I worked at the Army Air Force Motion Picture Service.”

“What did you do there?”

“I typed lists all day long of 16mm movies being sent to a few guys on top of various mountains in Italy. Finally my security clearance came through and I moved up from a GS-2 there to a GS-3 at group headquarters.”

“That must have been more interesting.”

“Not necessarily. Just what I typed was more important.”

Now Kathleen smiled. “Have you been back to Europe since then?”

Beth shook her head because she didn't trust her voice. How could she return to Europe without Stephen?

Beth was grateful that Kathleen's attention was focused on her watch. “We still have some time,” Kathleen said. “He'll be picked up at Dulles right about now. There's no need to rush.”

Outskirts of Washington D.C. —

David Ward parked his car a mile from the entrance to the park. The few minutes he needed to sprint the distance was no sweat — his daily workout was at least triple this.

High overhead cumulus clouds lazed along. He would have preferred rain. For camouflage.

Yes, the chess pieces were moving into place rather nicely. This next turn wouldn't produce checkmate, but it would up the stakes.

He just had to be patient.

**

Kathleen led the way to her own Honda in the parking lot. George had been explicit that she was to drive her own car. Nothing extraneous to spook the spook.

A driver would bring the subject to the rendezvous and wait for the meet. Whether Beth recognized him made no difference to Kathleen's instructions, which were to bring Beth back to Langley afterwards.

“Here we are. Hop in,” Kathleen said. She and Beth fastened their safety belts and Kathleen drove off the grounds of the CIA.

Kathleen glanced at Beth. Obviously Beth had brought a suitcase for no reason. She'd be back in Philadelphia in time for a late dinner. And Kathleen would be no closer to the kind of assignment she wanted than she'd been before Beth's visit.

“How long will it take us?” Beth said.

“It's not far.”

At the entrance to the federal park Kathleen drove down an interior road until she reached the spot chosen by George.

Where was the other vehicle? Was this the right place?

“Come on,” Kathleen said. “There's supposed to be a shed where we're to meet.”

Beth followed Kathleen out of the car and down a path. About a hundred yards away a wooden shed stood at the end of the path. They were in the right place, Kathleen thought. She didn't think she'd memorized the instructions incorrectly.

The door of the shed was closed and there were no signs of anyone.

Kathleen pushed open the door. It sure was dark inside. She fished her pocket flashlight out of her purse and shone it around the interior while Beth stood behind her.

The scream — had she or Beth or both of them screamed? — caused her to tighten her grasp on the flashlight. Then Kathleen held the light steady on the man who lay sprawled on the dirt floor, stomach down, his face turned to one side, a small dark hole in his forehead.

“Do you recognize him?” she asked Beth.

Kathleen moved to one side so Beth could see the lighted face.

“Yes,” Beth said, her breath sounding as if it were being squeezed out of a grape press.

“You do? How can you be so sure after all these years?”

“What?” Beth stumbled against her. “I saw him this morning. This is Ralph.”