by James Grady
"Yes."
"OK, hang up now, and remember, don't lose your head."
Mitchell broke the connection before Malcolm had taken the phone from his ear.
After Malcolm hung up, he stood on the corner for a few seconds, trying to formulate a plan. He knew he had to find someplace safe where he could hide unnoticed for an hour, someplace close. Slowly, very slowly, he turned and walked up the street. Fifteen minutes later he joined the Iowa City Jaycees on their tour of the nation's Capitol building.
* * *
Even as Malcolm spoke to Mitchell, one of the largest and most intricate government machines in the world began to grind. Assistants monitoring Malcolm's call dispatched four cars from Washington security posts and one car from Langley with a mobile medical team, all bound for Section 9, Department 17. The squad leaders were briefed and established procedure via radio as they homed in on the target. The proper Washington police precinct was alerted to the possibility of an assistance request by "federal enforcement officials." By the time Malcolm hung up, all D.C. area CIA bases had received a hostile-action report. They activated special security plans.
Within three minutes of the call all deputy directors were notified, and within six minutes the director, who had been in conference with the Vice-President, was personally briefed over a scrambled phone by Mitchell. Within eight minutes all the other main organs of America's intelligence community received news of a possible hostile action.
In the meantime Mitchell ordered all files pertaining to the Society sent to his office. During a panic situation, the Panic officer of the day automatically assumes awesome power. He virtually runs much of the entire Agency until personally relieved by a deputy director. Only seconds after Mitchell ordered the files, Records called him back.
"Sir, the computer check shows all primary files on Section 9, Department 17, are missing."
"They're what?"
"Missing, sir."
"Then send me the secondary set, and God damn it, send it under guard!" Mitchell slammed the phone down before the startled clerk could reply. Mitchell grabbed another phone and connected immediately. "Freeze the base," he ordered. Within seconds all exits from the compound were sealed. Anyone attempting to leave or enter the area would have been shot. Red lights flashed throughout the buildings. Special security teams began clearing the corridors, ordering all those not engaged in Panic or Red priority business to return to their base offices. Reluctance or even hesitance to comply with the order meant a gun barrel in the stomach and handcuffs on the wrists.
The door to the Panic Room opened just after Mitchell froze the base. A large man strode firmly past the security guard without bothering to return the cursory salute. Mitchell was still on the phone, so the man settled down in a chair next to the second in command.
"What the hell is going on?" The man would normally have been answered without question, but right now Mitchell was God. The second looked at his chief. Mitchell, though still barking orders into the phone, heard the demand. He nodded to his second, who in turn gave the big man a complete synopsis of what had happened and what had been done. By the time the second had finished, Mitchell was off the phone, using a soiled handkerchief to wipe his brow.
The big man stirred in his chair. "Mitchell," he said, "if it's all right with you, I think I'll stay around and give you a hand. After all, I am head of Department 17."
"Thank you, sir," Mitchell replied, "I'll be glad of any help you can give us."
The big man grunted and settled down to wait.
* * *
If you had been walking down Southeast A just behind the Library of Congress at 1:09 on that cloudy Thursday afternoon, you would have been startled by a sudden flurry of activity. Half a dozen men sprang out of nowhere and converged on a three-story white building. Just before they reached the door, two cars, one on each side of the road, double-parked almost in front of the building. A man sat in the back seat of each car, peering intently at the building and cradling something in his arms. The six men on foot went through the gate together, but only one climbed the steps. He fiddled with a large ring of keys and the lock. When the door clicked, he nodded to the others. After throwing the door wide open and hesitating for an instant, the six men poured inside, slamming the door behind them. A man got out of each car. They slowly began to pace up and down in front of the building. As the cars pulled away to park, the drivers both nodded at men standing on the corners.
Three minutes later the door opened. A man left the building and walked slowly toward the closest parked car. Once inside, he picked up a phone. Within seconds he was talking to Mitchell.
"They were hit all right, hard." The man speaking was Allan Newberry. He had seen combat in Vietnam, at the Bay of Pigs, in the mountains of Turkey, dozens of alleys, dark buildings, and basements all over the world, yet Mitchell could feel uneasy sickness in the clipped voice.
"How and how bad?" Mitchell was just beginning to believe.
"Probably a two- to five-man team, no sign of forcible entry. They must have used silenced machine guns of some sort or the whole town would have heard. Six dead in the building, four men, two women. Most of them probably didn't know what hit them. No signs of an extensive search, security camera and film destroyed. Phones are dead, probably cut somewhere. A couple of bodies will have to be worked on before identity can be definitely established. Neat, clean, and quick. They knew what they were doing down to the last detail, and they knew how to do it."
Mitchell waited until he was sure Newberry had finished. "OK. This is beyond me. I'm going to hold definite action until somebody upstairs orders it. Meantime you and your men sit tight. Nothing is to be moved. I want that place frozen and sealed but good. Use whatever means you must."
Mitchell paused, both to emphasize his meaning and to hope he wasn't making a mistake. He had just authorized Newberry's team to do anything, including premeditated, nondefensive kills, Stateside action without prior clearance. Murder by whim, if they thought the whim might mean something. The consequences of such a rare order could be very grave for all concerned. Mitchell continued. "I'm sending out more men to cover the neighborhood as additional security. I'll also send out a crime lab team, but they can only do things that won't disturb the scene. They'll bring a communications setup, too. Understand?"
"I understand. Oh, there's something a little peculiar we've found."
Mitchell said, "Yes?"
"Our radio briefing said there was only one door. We found two. Make any sense to you?"
"None," said Mitchell, "but nothing about this whole thing makes sense. Is there anything else?"
"Just one thing." The voice grew colder. "Some son of a bitch butchered a little girl on the third floor. He didn't hit her, he butchered her." Newberry signed off.
"What now?" asked the big man.
"We wait," said Mitchell, leaning back in his wheelchair. "We sit and wait for Condor to call."
At 1:40 Malcolm found a phone booth in the Capitol. With change acquired from a bubbly teen-age girl he dialed the panic number. It didn't even finish one complete ring.
"493-7282." The voice on the phone was tense.
"This is Condor, Section 9, Department 17. I'm in a public phone booth, I don't think I was followed, and I'm pretty sure I can't be heard."
"You've been confirmed. We've got to get you to Langley, but we're afraid to let you come in solo. Do you know the Circus 3 theaters in the Georgetown district?"
"Yes."
"Could you be there in an hour?"
"Yes."
"OK. Now, who do you know at least by sight who's stationed at Langley?"
Malcolm thought for a moment. "I had an instructor code-named Sparrow IV."
"Hold on." Through priority use of the computer and communications facilities, Mitchell verified Sparrow IV's existence and determined that he was in the building. Two minutes later he said, "OK, this is what is going to happen. Half an hour from now Sparrow IV and one other man wi
ll park in a small alley behind the theaters. They'll wait exactly one hour. That gives you thirty minutes leeway either direction. There are three entrances to the alley you can take on foot. All three allow you to see anybody in front of you before they see you. When you're sure you're clean, go down the alley. If you see anything or anybody suspicious, if Sparrow IV and his partner aren't there or somebody is with them, if a God damn pigeon is at their feet, get your ass out of there, find someplace safe, and call in. Do the same if you can't make it. OK?"
"OKahahaachoo!"
Mitchell almost shot out of his wheelchair. "What the hell was that? Are you OK?"
Malcolm wiped the phone off. "Yes, sir, I'm fine. Sorry, I have a cold. I know what to do."
"For the love of Christ." Mitchell hung up. He leaned back in his chair. Before he could say anything, the big man spoke.
"Look here, Mitchell. If you have no objection, I'll accompany Sparrow IV. The Department is my responsibility, and there's no young tough around here who can carry off what might be a tricky situation any better, tired old man as I may be."
Mitchell looked at the big, confident man across from him, then smiled. "OK. Pick up Sparrow IV at the gate. Use your car. Have you ever met Condor?"
The big man shook his head. "No, but I think I've seen him. Can you supply a photo?"
Mitchell nodded and said, "Sparrow IV has one. Ordnance will give you anything you want, though I suggest a hand gun. Any preference?"
The big man walked toward the door. "Yes," he said, looking back, "a .38 Special with silencer just in case we have to move quietly."
"It'll be waiting in the car, complete with ammo. Oh," said Mitchell, stopping the big man as he was halfway out of the door, "thanks again, Colonel Weatherby."
The big man turned and smiled. "Think nothing of it, Mitchell. After all, it's my job." He closed the door behind him and walked toward his car. After a few steps he began to wheeze very softly.
Faulty execution of a winning combination has lost many a game on the very brink of victory. In such cases a player sees the winning idea, plays the winning sacrifice and then inverts the order of his follow-up moves or misses the really clinching point of his combination.
—Fred Reinfeld, The Complete Chess Course
* * *
Chapter 3
Thursday Afternoon
* * *
Malcolm had little trouble finding a taxi, considering the weather. Twenty minutes later he paid the driver two blocks from the Circus theaters. Again he knew it was all-important that he stay out of sight. A few minutes later he sat at a table in the darkest corner of a bar crowded with men. The bar Malcolm chose is the most active male homosexual hangout in Washington. Starting with the early lunch hour at eleven and running until well after midnight, men of all ages, usually middle to upper middle class, fill the bar to find a small degree of relaxation among their own kind. It's a happy as well as a "gay" bar. Rock music blares, laughter drifts into the street. The levity is strained, heavy with irony, but it's there.
Malcolm hoped he looked inconspicuous, one man in a bar crowded with men. He nursed his tequila Collins, drinking it as slowly as he dared, watching faces in the crowd for signs of recognition. Some of the faces in the crowd watched him too.
No one in the bar noticed that only Malcolm's left hand rested on the small table. Under the table his right hand held a gun, a gun he pointed at anyone coming near him.
At 2:40 Malcolm jumped from his table to join a large group leaving the bar. Once outside, he quickly walked away from the group. For several minutes he crossed and recrossed Georgetown's narrow streets, carefully watching the people around him. At three o'clock, satisfied he was clean, he headed toward the Circus theaters.
* * *
Sparrow IV turned out to be a shaky, spectacled instructor of governmental procedure. He had been given no choice concerning his role in the adventure. He made it quite clear that this was not what he was hired for, he most definitely objected, and he was very concerned about his wife and four children. Mostly to shut him up, Ordnance dressed him in a bulletproof vest. He wore the hot and heavy armor under his shirt. The canvas frustrated his scratching attempts. He had no recollection of anyone called Condor or Malcolm; he lectured Junior Officer Training classes by the dozen. The people at Ordnance didn't care, but they listened anyway.
Weatherby briefed the drivers of the crash cars as they walked toward the parking lot. He checked the short gun with the sausage-shaped device and nodded his approval to the somber man from Ordnance. Ordinarily Weatherby would have had to sign for the gun, but Mitchell's authority rendered such procedures unnecessary. The Ordnance man helped Weatherby adjust a special shoulder holster, handed him twenty-five extra rounds, and wished him luck. Weatherby grunted as he climbed into his light blue sedan.
The three cars rolled out of Langley in close formation with Weatherby's blue sedan in the middle position. Just as they exited from the Beltway turnpike to enter Washington, the rear car "blew" a tire. The driver "lost control" of his vehicle, and the car ended up across two lanes of traffic. No one was hurt, but the accident blocked traffic for ten minutes. Weatherby closely followed the other crash car as it turned and twisted its way through the maze of Washington traffic. On a quiet residential street in the city's south-west quadrant the crash car made a complete U-turn and started back in the opposite direction. As it passed the blue sedan, the driver flashed Weatherby the OK sign, then sped out of sight. Weatherby headed toward Georgetown, checking for tails all the way.
Weatherby figured out his mistake. When he dispatched the assassination team, he ordered them to kill everyone in the building. He had said everyone, but he hadn't specified how many that was. His men had followed orders, but the orders hadn't been complete enough to let them know one man was missing. Why the man wasn't there Weatherby didn't know and he didn't care. If he had known about the missing man, this Condor, he could have arranged a satisfactory solution. He had made the mistake, so now he had to rectify it.
There was a chance Condor was harmless, that he wouldn't remember his conversation with the Heidegger man, but Weatherby couldn't take that chance. Heidegger questioned all the staff except Dr. Lappe. Those questions could not be allowed to exist. Now one man knew about those questions, so, like the others, that man must die even if he didn't realize what he knew.
Weatherby's plan was simple, but extremely dangerous. As soon as Condor appeared he would shoot him. Self-defense. Weatherby glanced at the trembling Sparrow IV. An unavoidable side product. The big man had no qualms concerning the instructor's pending death. The plan was fraught with risks: Condor might be better with his weapon than anticipated, the scene might be witnessed and later reported, the Agency might not believe his story and use a guaranteed form of interrogation, Condor might turn himself in some other way. A hundred things could go wrong. But no matter how high the risks, Weatherby knew they were not the certainty that faced him should he fail. He might be able to escape the Agency and the rest of the American intelligence network. There are several ways, ways that have been successfully used before. Such things were Weatherby's forte. But he knew he would never escape the striking-looking man with strange eyes. That man never failed when he acted directly. Never. He would act directly against Weatherby the dangerous bungler, Weatherby the threat. This Weatherby knew, and it made him wheeze painfully. It was this knowledge that made any thought of escape or betrayal absurd. Weatherby had to account for his error. Condor had to die.
Weatherby drove through the alley slowly, then turned around and came back, parking the car next to some garbage cans behind the theaters. The alley was empty just as Mitchell said it would be. Weatherby doubted if anyone would enter it while they were there: Washingtonians tend to avoid alleys. He knew Mitchell would arrange for the area to be free of police so that uniforms wouldn't frighten Condor. That was fine with Weatherby. He motioned for Sparrow IV to get out. They leaned against the car, prominent and visibly alone. T
hen, like any good hunter staging an ambush, Weatherby blanked his mind to let his senses concentrate.
Malcolm saw them standing there before they knew he was in the alley. He watched them very carefully from a distance of about sixty paces. He had a hard time controlling sneezes, but he managed to stay silent. After he was certain they were alone, he stepped from behind the telephone pole and began to walk toward them. His relief built with every step.
Weatherby spotted Malcolm immediately. He stepped away from the car, ready. He wanted to be very, very sure, and sixty paces is only a fair shot for a silenced pistol. He also wanted to be out of Sparrow IV's reach. Take them one at a time, he thought.
Recognition sprang on Malcolm twenty-five paces from the two men, five paces sooner than Weatherby anticipated any action. A picture of a man in a blue sedan parked just up from the Society in the morning rain flashed through Malcolm's mind. The man in that car and one of the men now standing in front of him were the same. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. Malcolm stopped, then slowly backed up. Almost unconsciously he tugged at the gun in his belt.
Weatherby knew something was wrong, too. His quarry had quite unexpectedly stopped short of the trap, was now fleeing, and was probably preparing an aggressive defense. Malcolm's unexpected actions forced Weatherby to abandon his original plan and react to a new situation. While he quickly drew his own weapon, Weatherby briefly noted Sparrow IV, frozen with fright and bewilderment. The timid instructor still posed no threat.
Weatherby was a veteran of many situations requiring rapid action. Malcolm's pistol barrel had just cleared his belt when Weatherby fired.
A pistol, while effective, can be a difficult weapon to use under field conditions, even for an experienced veteran. A pistol equipped with a silencer increases this difficulty, for while the silencer allows the handler to operate quietly, it cuts down on his efficiency. The bulk at the end of the barrel is an unaccustomed weight requiring aim compensation by the user. Ballistically, a silencer cuts down on the bullet's velocity. The silencer may affect the bullet's trajectory. A siencer-equipped pistol is cumbersome, difficult to draw and fire quickly.