Murder in the CIA by Margaret Truman

country. I’m proud of it and I haven’t told anyone except you and …”
    “And your friend.”
    “Yes.”
    “And your friend told you about me.”
    “Only because she knew I was seeing you.”
    “It’s a woman?”
    “Yes, but that doesn’t matter.”
    “What’s her name?”
    “I think under the circumstances that …”
    “Who is she, Barrie? She’s breached a very important confidence.”
    “Forget it, Eric. Forget I even mentioned it.”
    He got up and sat on the cabin roof. They said nothing to each other. The yacht swayed in the soft evening breeze. The sky above was dark, the stars pinpoints of white light through tiny holes in black canvas. “Tell me all about it,” Edwards said.
    “I don’t think I should,” she said, “not after that reaction.”
    “I was surprised, that’s all,” he said, smiling. “You told me you had a big surprise to share with me at an appropriate time and you weren’t kidding.” She stood next to him. He looked into her eyes and said, “I’m sorry I sounded angry.” He put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. “How the hell did you end up working for the CIA?”
    She told him.

8
    SAN FRANCISCO
    Dr. Jason Tolker sat in his suite at the Mark Hopkins and dialed his Washington office. “Anything urgent?” he asked his receptionist.
    “Nothing that can’t wait.” She read him a list of people who’d called, which included Collette Cahill.
    “Where did she call from?” he asked.
    “She left a number in Virginia.”
    “All right. I’ll be back on schedule. I’ll call again.”
    “Fine. How’s the weather there?”
    “Lovely.”
    It was two in the afternoon. Tolker had until six before his meeting in Sausalito. He put on a white cable-knit sweater, comfortable walking shoes, tossed his raincoat over his arm, posed for an admiring moment before a full-length mirror, then strolled down California Street to Chinatown, where he stopped in a dozen small food shops to peruse the vast array of foodstuffs. Among many of his interests was Chinese cooking. He considered himself a world-class Chinese chef, which wasn’t far from true, although, as with many of hishobbies, he tended to over-value his accomplishments. He also boasted a large collection of vintage jazz recordings. But, as a friend and devoted jazz buff often said, “The collection means more to Jason than the music.”
    He bought Chinese herbs that he knew he’d have trouble finding in Washington, or even in New York’s Chinatown, and returned to the hotel. He showered, changed into one of many suits he had tailored by London’s Tommy Nutter, went to the Top of the Mark, sat at a window table with a glass of club soda, and watched the fog roll in over the Golden Gate Bridge on its way to obscuring the city itself. Nice, he thought; appropriate. He checked his watch, paid, got into his rented Jaguar, and headed for the bridge and his appointment on the other side.
    He drove through the streets of Sausalito, the lights of San Francisco across the bay appearing, then disappearing through the fog, and turned into a street that began as a residential area, then slowly changed to light industry. He pulled into a three-car paved parking lot next to a two-story white stucco building, turned off his engine and lights, and sat for a moment before getting out and approaching a side door that was painted red. He knocked, heard footsteps on an iron stairway, and stood back as the door was opened by an older man wearing a gray cardigan sweater over a maroon turtleneck. His pants were baggy and his shoes scuffed. His face was a mosaic of lumps and crevices. His hair was gray and uncombed. “Hello, Jason,” he said.
    “Bill,” Tolker said as he stepped past him. The door closed with a thud. The two men walked up a staircase to the second floor. Dr. William Wayman opened a door to his large, cluttered office. Seated in it was a woman who Tolker judged to be in her mid-thirties. She was in a shadowed