“Funny,” I muttered, “all the dicey capers we’ve survived — Berlin, Moscow, all the tightropes and guantlets, and it ends here in the grass in his own backyard.”
Joe regarded me glumly. “What was the piece?”
“Standard thirty-eight caliber issue from the Agency armory. Why?”
“It’s not here.”
“I know.”
Joe said, “As a matter of policy the Agency keeps a sample bullet fired from each armory weapon. For ballistic comparisons. What happens if they dig this slug out of Myerson and it turns out to have been fired by the gun you signed out?”
“I know. They’ll try to pin it on me.”
“Everybody knows how you and Myerson felt about each other. He used to mention your name in the same tone of voice Napoleon must have used when he talked about Wellington.”
I said, “You’d better search me right now. I haven’t got it on me, but frisk me and make sure.”
“All right. But it won’t matter. They’ll say you had plenty of time to get rid of it. Charlie — listen. You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“And do myself out of a job? No. I didn’t shoot him, Joe.”
“And you don’t know who did.”
“No. I don’t know who did.”
“All right. Then we’d better find out what happened. Because if we don’t, they’ll hang it on you — and you won’t just be terminated, Charlie. You’ll be terminated with extreme prejudice.”
“Why not just say killed? It’s the damned euphemisms that’ll do us all in, in the end.”
* * *
WHEN I arrived next morning at the Agency there were long faces around the conference table. Joe Cutter wasn’t there; this was Internal Security and the agent in charge was an amiable hatchet-man named Philip Grebe. He had small hard eyes and polished fingernails; his grey suit was too well tailored and his mustache too neatly trimmed — he was compulsive about details, a thorough and ruthless man but a fair one. He had an unpleasant job but he was good at it. I’d rendered a few favors and assistances to him in the past but that didn’t count for anything now, not with a cool sort like Grebe.
“You understand this isn’t a formal inquiry, Charlie. If we learn anything that’s pertinent to the case and not subject to the security laws we’ll pass it on to the county attorney in Virginia. But we’re not officially empowered to investigate murder cases. If it turns out, for example, that his wife killed him for the insurance or to settle a domestic spat then we have nothing to do with the case. But if it proves to be a problem inside the Agency we want to know about it.”
I said, “Was his insurance paid up?”
“To the hilt. He had outside policies in addition to his Civil Service insurance. Nearly half a million in benefits, all told. The beneficiaries are the widow and the four children — roughly a hundred thousand each.”
“Five good motives for murder,” I observed.
“Possibly.”
“But they don’t explain why he went down to the embankment with a loaded gun in his pocket, do they.”
“Quite,” Grebe said.
The silence that followed his comment was ominous.
Finally he said, “Shall we begin?”
“I thought we already had. You mind my asking one more question? I’ve been out of the country for a while, you know. I just got back day before yesterday. I’m not up on whatever’s been going on here in Langley. Myerson mentioned something yesterday — said I. S. was searching his office. What were you looking for?”
“Sorry, Charlie. That’s need-to-know.”
“Then can you tell me if you’ve got any glimmering of why he might have wanted a revolver?”
“I can answer that one. The answer is no.”
* * *
JOE CUTTER was on the phone when I went up to our section late that afternoon. When he cradled it he said, “How was it?”
“They’re friendly enough. But they think I blew him away.”
It was a bit of a jolt to see Joe in what had been Myerson’s chair. He said, “I’m acting chief until they appoint a replacement for him. It’s no fun, let me tell you. His papers are in a mess. I. S. was in here all day going through the stuff. They’ll be back again tomorrow.”
“What are they looking for?”
“They didn’t say.”
I glanced at the row of locked filing cabinets. “How far did they get?”
“They’re up to P to Q Third cabinet, top drawer.”
“Have you got the keys?”
He brooded at me. “What do you think you’d find?”
“Something that might tell us who he had the appointment with on the embankment.”
Joe considered it. “We haven’t time. They’ll be back in here at eight in the morning.”
“That gives us fifteen hours. Look, we’ll start with the R-S drawer — if there was anything in the earlier drawers they’d have found it.”
“Anything that vital, he’d have coded it into the computer and shredded the papers.”
“Joe, at least it’s worth a try.”
“Maybe. But don’t count on anything turning up.” But I knew he’d given in.
We set to work and it was drudgery: we had to read every sheet of every document in every folder and some of them were in code and I am not one of your speed readers. Most of it was routine stuff and after several hours I began to believe Joe was right. After all, Myerson hadn’t been stupid enough to have left anything too sensitive in those files. He’d been as security-conscious as anyone in our business and he knew where the on-off switch was located on the document-shredding machine. There were no naked records of our ongoing clandestine capers or any of that lot; most of it was standard administrative and personnel and budgetary material. Requisitions and vouchers and the like. Crushing boredom.
At half-past six in the morning Joe slammed the V-W drawer shut and jammed both fists into the small of his back and reared back, stretching his cramped back muscles. “Nothing — unless you count my expense vouchers for the last Warsaw trip. Maybe he planned to blackmail me with them.”
I read slower than Joe does; I was still at the beginning of my last drawer, the X-Y-Z tray. I closed up the Xerxes file — that was the code-name of a double-agent we were running inside the Soviet Embassy in Tokyo — and flipped past the metal “Y” tab. The first file behind the tab was marked Yevshenkovich, M. One of the defectors we’d brought over a few years back. I didn’t open the file; I merely scowled at it. “Joe? Have a look.”
He came sleepily to the drawer and blinked slowly at it. “What about it?”
“Think about it, Joe. What’s missing?”
He looked at me. “Yeah.” He touched the metal “Y” tab. “The first file under ‘Y’ is Yevshenkovich but that’s wrong, isn’t it. Yaskov. We’re missing our old chum Mikhail Yaskov.” Then his face lengthened. “No. It’s probably in the Inactive files. Yaskov’s officially retired from the KGB now.”
“But he’s still doing business from the Black Sea retirement villa. Yaskov’s no more inactive than I am. I’ve filed half a dozen reports on him myself in the past eight months. They ought to be in here. No —Myerson removed the Yaskov file. What was he trying to hide?”
Joe was already on his way to the far cabinet: Inactive. He bent over the bottom drawer and lifted a folder out. “He wasn’t hiding anything. It’s right here — see for yourself.”
I did and he was right. Baffled, I flipped it open. Yaskov, M. Inside were all the reports I’d filed, as well as data from a hundred other sources.
And mixed right in with it was the evidence that could put me in prison for forty years — or more likely in the crematorium.
* * *
JOE WAS glum. “Istanbul — tenth October. You were there, right?”
“Yes. Myerson sent me on a wild goose chase.”