Murder in the CIA by Margaret Truman Read Free Book Online Page B

said.
    “Miss Cahill.”
    His voice shocked her. Although she was expecting him, she was not ready for his voice, any voice. She gasped, afraid to turn.
    Hegedüs came out of the shadows of the church and stood behind her. She slowly turned. “Mr. Hegedüs,” she said in a shaky voice. “You’re here.”
    “
Igen
, I am here, and so are you.”
    “Yes, I …”
    “I will be brief. For reasons of my own I wish to help you and your country. I wish to help Hungary, my country, rid itself of our most recent conquerors.”
    “What sort of help?”
    “Information. I understand you are always in need of information.”
    “That’s true,” she said. “You realize the risk you take?”
    “Of course. I have thought about this for a very long time.”
    “And what do you want in return? Money?”
    “Yes, but that is not my only motivation.”
    “We’ll have to talk about money. I don’t have the authority to …” She wished she hadn’t said it. It was important that he put his complete trust in her. To suggest that he’d have to talk to others wasn’t professional.
    It didn’t seem to deter him. He looked up at the church tower and smiled. “This was a beautiful country, Miss Cahill. Now it is …” A deep sigh. “No matter. Here.” He pulled two sheets of paper from his raincoat pocket and thrust them at her. Instinctively, she reached for them, then withdrew her hand. His expression was one of puzzlement.
    “I don’t want anything from you now, Mr. Hegedüs. We’ll have to meet again. Is that acceptable to you?”
    “Do I have a choice?”
    “Yes, you can reconsider your offer and withdraw it.”
    It was a rueful laugh. “Pilots reach a point in their flight that represents no return. Once they pass it, they are committed to continuing to their final destination—or crashing. It is the same with me.”
    Cahill pronounced slowly and in a clear voice the address of the safehouse that had been chosen. She told him the date and time: exactly one week from that night, at nine in the evening.
    “I shall be there, and I shall bring what I have here to that meeting.”
    “Good. Again, I must ask whether you understand the potential ramifications of what you’re doing?”
    “Miss Cahill, I am not a stupid man.”
    “No, I didn’t mean to suggest that.…”
    “I know you didn’t. You are not that kind of person. I could tell that the moment I met you, and that is why it was you I contacted.”
    “I appreciate that, Mr. Hegedüs, and I look forward to our next meeting. You have the address?”
    “Yes, I do.
Viszontlátásra!
” He disappeared into the shadows. Somehow, his simple “Goodbye” was inadequate for Collette.
    If the meet went smoothly, she was not to get into the Zim but return to her apartment by public transportation. A half hour after she’d arrived, there was a knock on the door. She opened it. It was Joe Breslin. “Hey, just in the neighborhood and thought I could buy you a drink.”
    She realized he was there as part of what had gone on at the church. She put on her coat and they went to an outdoor café, where he handed her a note that read,
“Tell me what happened without mentioning names or getting specific. Use a metaphor—baseball, ballet, whatever.”
    She recounted the meeting with Hegedüs as Breslin lighted his pipe and used the match to incidentally ignite the smallslip of paper he’d handed her. They both watched it turn to ash in an ashtray.
    When she was done, he looked at her, smiled his characteristic half-smile, touched her hand. “Excellent,” he said. “You look beat. These things don’t take a hell of a lot of time, but they drain you. So drain a
hosszúlépés
and I’ll take you home. If anyone’s tail is on us, they’ll think we’re having just another typical, torrid, capitalistic affair.”
    Her laugh caught, became almost a giggle. “After what I’ve been through, Joe, I think we should make it a
fröccs
.” Two parts wine to one part