CIA Fall Guy: A Spy Thriller

by Phyllis Zimbler Miller

  After a short distance the car refused to budge another inch. He'd abandoned it and walked along the Jeep's trail. Luckily she hadn't driven much further before stopping.

  “Wake up, we're here,” he said now, turning the engine off.

  The woman jerked awake. “There's not even a terminal.”

  “This is what's called a stripped-down runway. Just enough length to take off in a hurry.”

  David tossed her backpack at her. She followed him out of the Jeep.

  “What do we do with this car?” she said.

  “Someone will get it and return it to the rental agency.”

  “Remember to have the tank filled.”

  David motioned her towards the waiting plane. “You're unbelievable. Now move quickly. We're vulnerable.”

  “Vulnerable to what?”

  David didn't bother to answer, simply leading the way to the plane's door. Beth was behind him, but suddenly she switched directions and ran back towards her car. Shit! She still hadn't learned she couldn't get away from him.

  He turned to go back for her. Shots whistled past his ears.

  “Get down, get down!” He raced towards the car, dragging her down with him, using the car as a shield. He yanked his gun from a waist holster and returned fire.

  The shots were coming from the periphery, he thought, probably only one shooter. The shooter was far away but with rather good aim, keeping them down but not shooting to kill.

  David chanced jumping up for an instant and waved the plane towards them, then ducked down again.

  The plane taxied towards them with the cargo bay door open. David, crouched over Beth, leaned down and said in her ear, “On the count of three, jump into the plane.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “You want to stay here and get killed?”

  “This is all your fault. I was doing fine before you ...”

  David stood, yanked her up, and said, “1, 2, 3 — jump!”

  They jumped together into the plane. The woman collapsed on the floor while David slammed the door and holstered his gun.

  He yanked her off the floor and pushed her down into a jump seat. “Buckle your seat belt.”

  “Are you nuts? We were just almost killed and you're worried about wearing our seat belts on takeoff.”

  David leaned over and snapped her belt closed. “Listen, you idiot, we wouldn't have almost gotten killed if you hadn't tried to play hide-and-seek. What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “I don't trust you. Why should I? You turned up in the middle of nowhere and attacked me.”

  “I didn't attack you. You attacked me. And trust is not an issue here. Survival is.”

  Her face flushed, accentuating her brown eyes. “Yeah, sure. Which of your good ‘friends’ was shooting at us? I can understand that they find you maddening enough to want to kill you.”

  David checked out the window. The plane had cleared the tree tops, they were circling out to sea. Good, very good.

  “I have no idea,” he said. “I thought you might know.”

  “Me? Let's hear what you've got to say.”

  “Ladies first.”

  Beth twisted away from him. “I'm not talking. Anything I say can — and probably will — be used against me. You're probably wearing a wire right now.”

  That comment didn't merit a response. He smiled. “I hope you didn't take the collision waiver for your car. It's going to be a little worse for wear.”

  The woman glared at him. He stared out the window.

  The intercom overhead cackled: “David, we're coming up on the Maine coast. Do we continue as planned?”

  “Yes,” he said, raising his voice to be heard through the cloth partition separating them from the cockpit. “All the way to Munich.”

  “Munich?” Beth said.

  Her face had changed — something about her eyes. “You lived there, didn't you?” he said.

  He saw her hands tremble. She clasped them together. “I was there from September '70 to May '72. I missed the Olympic massacre.”

  “And the bomb at the Frankfurt Officers Club.”

  Tears caught in the creases of her eyelids. “I did. My husband Stephen didn't.”

  **

  Lunch eaten at a hot dog stand on Capitol Mall. Charles splashed mustard on his all-beef hot dog and seated himself on a bench facing the oldest building of the Smithsonian. He munched to the oom-pah-pah of the miniature merry-go-round nearby, only one facet of the carnival atmosphere on the Mall from April to October, when Washington D.C. was overrun by tourists.

  As a teenager growing up in a privileged home in Boston, he'd been an avid reader of the memoirs of the early presidents and other statesmen. Whenever his family would visit Washington — his father, a patent attorney, often had cause to come — he and his younger sister, Allison, would dash to the red-brick Smithsonian building and its surrounding museums. Charles would vary the order of his visits, soaking up Americana as well as the natural history displays. Allison would dash to her all-time favorite, the First Ladies' hall, where mannequins of the presidents' wives and official hostesses modeled their inaugural gowns. Her second stop would be the gem collection, oohing and aahing at the Hope Diamond and the other magnificent precious stones. It had been a precious stone, housed in a private collection, that had cost Allison her life.

  A jogger slid to a halt in front of Charles. “Can you tell me where …?”

  “What is it, Matthew? Why did you signal again? I've been gone from the office so much today …”

  “We lost her. She got away and we couldn't pick up her trail.”

  Had they lost her due to Mark Haskell's efforts? Charles couldn't risk asking George. Nor could he warn Matthew about Mark. If Matthew took Mark out, George would know that Charles was the leak.

  “Look, why not leave her out of it and concentrate on Hans' objective?” Charles said.

  Matthew glanced over Charles' shoulder. What did he see there? Was Frederick nearby with a long-range listening device, checking out this conversation?

  “No can do. Can't afford any loose ends. So where is she?”

  “Over the Atlantic Ocean.”

  “How is it that you've been able to give me such exact locations each time I've asked?”

  “We have a tracking device inside her backpack. Its signal is picked up by satellite and transmitted back to Langley.”

  Of course, since the signal was transmitted through Langley, Mark Haskell could only follow Beth Parsons by getting updates from Langley. While the delay was not that long, it could interfere with his babysitting mission.

  “How'd you do that?”

  “George never leaves anything to chance. Had Mark insert it when Kathleen and Beth were eating in the cafeteria.”

  Matthew bent down to retie his shoe laces. “George suspected she'd take a powder?”

  “If he did, he's not saying.”

  “Where's the plane heading?”

  “Flight plan is for Munich. My guess is the plane will land at a small field southeast of the city.”

  “How'd she get hold of a plane?”

  “George says he has no idea.” Charles hesitated. He was about to add that Mark had reported she was now with an unidentified man. On second thought, Charles wanted to know who this man was before he revealed the info to Matthew. Nor did Charles want to volunteer that Mark had tried to stop Beth and the man from boarding the plane, had fired at them to force them to stop.

  “Appreciate your help, Charles. You'll hear from us later.”

  Charles waited until Matthew had jogged farther down the Mall, then stood up and brushed the hot dog bun crumbs from his pants.

  He glanced again at the Smithsonian. He would take a few minutes to visit the First Ladies' hall — for Allison.

  **

  The greenery of May in Cape Cod camouflaged the A-frame. Following Lance Edward's instructions, Kathleen pulled off the road at the indicated mailbox — handcarved with a duck waddling
across the top.

  Shit! No car here. Lance said you couldn't drive any closer to the A-frame. Either Beth was down the road buying groceries or she wasn't here.

  Kathleen's hands trembled. This was definitely deja vu. Should she park her car back down the road or risk taking a quick look at the A-frame for signs of habitation?

  A quick look. She wanted her car available for a fast getaway.

  She climbed out of the car and strode down the path that wound around the trees. Just no dead body, please.

  The ground in front of the door had no footprints. Lance had said he hadn't been up here since last September. There was no neighbor who looked in on things for him. “I don't keep anything of value up there; no reason to have anyone take a look-see.”

  The key — under the planter on the front steps. She'd smiled when Lance had said it would be easy for her to check the A-frame. She hadn't mentioned her delicate tools.

  No one had been here. The dust on the floor and table lay undisturbed, except where Kathleen had stepped over the threshold.

  Kathleen slammed one fist into another. Shit! Had she been duped? Had Beth been smart enough to lay a false trail, or had she changed her plans?

  Wait! Maybe Beth was behind Kathleen. If she had pulled off the highway for a leisurely breakfast and lunch, maybe she'd been here in the next hour or so.

  Kathleen backed out of the A-frame and jogged to her car. Okay, she'd park her car down the road. Then walk back here to keep watch. But if Beth didn't show in a couple of hours, Kathleen would have to bite the bullet and take the dreaded next step — call George and ask for help.

  **

  Two hours later Kathleen couldn't postpone the phone call any longer. She'd staked out the A-frame and seen no one. Beth must have somehow sent Kathleen on a wild goose chase. Kathleen would never live this down.

  She dialed George's number. Maybe he'd already be gone for the day. Or at a meeting. Or anywhere.

  He answered on the second ring.

  “George, this is Kathleen.”

  “Where have you been all day? I've been trying to reach you to see how our guest is doing. Figured you were showing her the sights of DC.”

  “Our guest? She's not doing so well. I mean, maybe she is, I just don't know.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You see … I mean …”

  “Spit it out.”

  “Beth … Beth has gone missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “I left her locked in my apartment when I went to the office to … get something I'd forgotten. She … she climbed down a trellis while I was gone. I traced her to a motel outside DC and then to her supposed destination at a friend's cottage on Cape Cod. That's where I am now. But she hasn't shown up. I don't know where she is.”

  Silence at the other end.

  “George, George?”

  Then he said, “We can't have a civilian running around the country — she's likely to talk to anyone. I'll start a search. You come back here immediately.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  **

  George smiled as he put the receiver down. Kathleen had finally decided to tell him she'd lost Beth.

  Of course, Beth wasn't really lost. George knew exactly where she was. But he wasn't going to tell Kathleen that. He and Charles were having an extended laugh at her expense. Show her she wasn't good enough for operations if she couldn't even keep track of one harmless civilian.

  George's eyes found his flag. It stood for the United States, which had sent him overseas as a young enlisted man, just out of high school, to a military intelligence unit in Frankfurt a few years after the end of World War II.

  The army had not been for him. He didn't like having to share his living quarters, bathroom, meals with all the others. He was a solitary man, happiest with his own individual pursuits. But Germany had gotten to him, and he quickly learned German. He loved the chalets sprinkled like confetti across snow-covered fields perched among the army's Bavarian recreation resorts, the opera houses, the theaters and the museums. It was a more cultured country than his own. The beer halls didn't attract him, but the quiet German restaurants, those with the single waitress collecting the meal's price in her leather purse fixed at her waist, offered him a solitary comfort that he craved.

  When his two-year enlistment was up, he signed on to work as a civilian, taking college courses at the army's overseas university to climb up the civil service ladder. The CIA had come knocking on his door one day, guaranteed him to stay on in Germany for several more years before a possible transfer elsewhere, which only now, at the end of his career, had become Langley.

  He'd liked the possibilities the CIA offered. These fit in with the George MacIntosh he was becoming. Not the product of a Scottish father who spoke always of the beauty of the old country, but the son of a mother whose family had left their native Germany in the wake of the upheaval after World War I. They had never forgotten their homeland.

  He reached for his phone again. He had to check on Mark, who should be arriving in Munich to catch up with Beth and identify her knight-in-shining-armor. George didn't want to let her out of his sight until Hans Wermer was found.

  And where the hell was Hans? The team assigned to search for him had reported to Charles that they had no leads although they'd alerted all the appropriate authorities. To the best of their knowledge he hadn't flown back to Germany.

  Where was he?

  **

  The reflection staring back at Hans from the mirror was rather frightening. The Speedy Messenger uniform looked silly on his beer-fed figure, the cap too small for his squarish head.

  Yet Frederick had not wanted him to assist in the pursuit of the woman. “It is best that we stay here. Matthew will be going to Germany. With Charles' help he'll be able to locate Beth and deal with that threat.”

  Could Hans start on his own plan then? He wanted to go back to DC, get close to George's movements outside headquarters at Langley. See where he was vulnerable in his routine.

  Frederick had said not yet, cautioned Hans against doing anything until they heard from Matthew. Hans had insisted; he could not stand to remain inactive so close to his goal. Frederick had then agreed, even offering to exchange Hans' U.S. government vehicle for one of the messenger service's cars “because they'll be looking for that vehicle.”

  Hans tipped his cap to the mirror. He'd been truthful with Frederick, but he had not shared all his plans. He had been better trained than that by the Americans, back when he had been given a short course in tradecraft.

  Now, in a public restroom near the Lincoln Memorial, Hans watched his own face in the mirror, the grey eyebrows bunching together over his dark eyes, eyes that had learned to give nothing away, to be as empty as the store shelves had been in East Germany. Yes, an old man, perhaps a defeated man, but a man who had been given one last chance.

  The uniform would protect him, Frederick had said. “It's easy to hide behind a uniform.”

  “Old men are messengers?” Hans had asked.

  “Who else will hire them?”

  Then Frederick had clapped his hand on Hans' back. “But you must be careful not to jeopardize our mission. Look but don't touch. When we're ready, we'll strike.”

  DAY 4

  Bavaria, Germany —

  “I'm coming, I'm coming,” Beth said. She pushed her arms against the waves of white clouds, sticky like shaving cream foam. She tried moving her feet, but they too were suctioned by the white clouds.

  “Hey you, wake up!”

  What? Beth's eyes flew open.

  “I said wake up!”

  She pushed at his hands.

  “I'm awake; let go of me.” He dropped his hands.

  She looked out the window — early dawn she thought. Then she turned back to the man.

  “And I have a name — Beth Parsons. Do you?”

  “David Ward, at your service.”

  She sat up, reached for her backpack to get out her
mirror, then stopped. She wasn't going to let this man witness her vanity.

  “Now will you please tell me what's going on?”

  “No.”

  “You bastard.”

  “I'm not sure myself.”

  David unbuckled his seatbelt and stood up. “Get up. It's time to go.”

  Beth didn't move. “Go where?”

  David unsnapped her seatbelt and shoved her backpack into her hands. “Follow me.”

  She stood. If they were about to land, why hadn't they stayed seated? What was going on?

  David opened a compartment and removed a wrapped package. He strapped it on his back.

  “That's a parachute.”

  David nodded. He was busy adjusting straps.

  “What are you doing with it?”

  David reached for a second one. “We're going to jump.”

  The weakness coursed down her legs. “Oh, no, I'm not. I have a fear of falling.”

  “You don't have any choice.”

  No, no, no, no, no. She would rather face the entire CIA — on the ground — than jump from a perfectly good airplane. She turned towards her seat.

  David caught her from behind. She tried a back kick, aimed at his groin, but he must know that trick because he held her at an angle where she couldn't reach him.

  “Let me go!”

  “After we jump.” He smashed the parachute onto her back with one hand while he immobilized both her arms with his other hand. Then, so quickly she couldn't believe it, he dropped her hands for the one instant it took to use both his hands to buckle the chute on her.

  She clawed at the buckle, but he anticipated her, grabbing her hands again with one arm.

  “Count 10 after you jump. Then pull this cord.” He nodded at the cord. “If it doesn't work …”

  “What!”

  “… pull this one for the backup chute.”

  Beth tried to drop into a low karate stance, to push all her weight down, so she would be too heavy for David to move. She would not jump.

  David yanked her up, then yelled towards the front, “We're ready. Tell me when we're in position.”

  Eternity. A snatch of a song from the musical “They're Playing Our Song” drifted through her mind: "Maybe someone didn't catch me when I was small.”