by James Grady
Shortly after it was formed, the 54/12 Group tried to solve the problems of internal information and fragmented authority. The 54/12 Group established a small special security section, a section with no identity save that of staff for the 54/12 Group. The special section's duties included liaison work. The head of the special section serves on a board composed of leading staff members from all intelligence agencies. He has the power to arbitrate jurisdictional disputes. The special section also has the responsibility of independently evaluating all the information given to the 54/12 Group by the intelligence community. But most important, the special section is given the power to perform "such necessary security functions as extraordinary circumstances might dictate, subject to Group [the 54/12 Group] regulation."
To help the special section perform its duties, the 54/12 Group assigned a small staff to the section chief and allowed him to draw on other major security and intelligence groups for needed staff and authority.
The 54/12 Group knows it has created a potential problem. The special section could follow the natural tendency of most government organizations and grow in size and awkwardness, thereby becoming a part of the problem it was created to solve. The special section, small though it is, has tremendous power as well as tremendous potential. A small mistake by the section could be a lever of great magnitude.
The 54/12 Group supervises its creation cautiously. They keep a firm check on any bureaucratic growth potentials in the section, they carefully review its activities, keeping the operational work of the section at a bare minimum, and they place only extraordinary men in charge of the section.
* * *
While Malcolm and Wendy waited for the doctor, a large, competent-looking man sat in an outer office on Pennsylvania Avenue, waiting to answer a very special summons. His name was Kevin Powell. He waited patiently but eagerly: he did not receive such a summons every day. Finally a secretary beckoned, and he entered the inner office of a man who looked like a kindly, delicate old uncle. The old man motioned Powell to a chair.
"Ah, Kevin, how wonderful to see you."
"Good to see you, sir. You're looking fit."
"As do you, my boy, as do you. Here." The old man tossed Powell a file folder. "Read this." As Powell read, the old man examined him closely. The plastic surgeons had done a marvelous job on his ear, and it took an experienced eye to detect the slight bulge close to his left armpit. When Powell raised his eyes, the old man said, "What do you think, my boy?"
Powell chose his words carefully. "Very strange, sir. I'm not sure what it means, though it must mean a great deal."
"Exactly my thoughts, my boy, exactly mine. Both the Agency and the Bureau [FBI] have squads of men scouring the city, watching the airports, buses, trains, the usual routine, only expanded to quite a staggering level. As you know, it's these routine operations that make or break most endeavors, and I must say they are doing fairly well. Or they were up until now."
He paused for breath and an encouraging look of interest from Powell. "They've found a barber who remembers giving our boy a haircut— rather predictable yet commendable action on his part— sometime after Weatherby was shot. By the way, he is coming along splendidly. They hope to question him late this evening. Where was I… Oh, yes. They canvassed the area and found where he bought some clothes, but then they lost him. They have no idea where to look next. I have one or two ideas about that myself, but I'll save them for later. There are some points I want you to check me on. See if you can answer them for me, or maybe find some questions I can't find.
"Why? Why the whole thing? If it was Czechoslovakia, why that particular branch, a do-nothing bunch of analysts? If it wasn't, we're back to our original question.
"Look at the method. Why so blatant? Why was the man Heidegger hit the night before? What did he know that the others didn't? If he was special, why kill the others too? If Malcolm works for them, they didn't need to question Heidegger about much. Malcolm could have told them.
"Then we have our boy Malcolm, Malcolm with the many 'why's. If he is a double, why did he use the Panic procedure? If he is a double, why did he set up a meeting— to kill Sparrow IV, whom he could have picked off at his leisure had he worked at establishing the poor fellow's identity? If he isn't a double, why did he shoot the two men he called to take him to safety? Why did he go to Heidegger's apartment after the shooting? And, of course, where, why, and how is he now?
"There are a lot of other questions that grow from these, but I think these are the main ones. Do you agree?"
Powell nodded and said, "I do. Where do I fit in?"
The old man smiled. "You, my dear boy, have the good fortune to be on loan to my section. As you know, we were created to sort out the mishmashes of bureaucracy. I imagine some of those paper pushers who shuffled my poor old soul here assumed I would be stuck processing paper until I died or retired. Neither of those alternatives appeal to me, so I have redefined liaison work to mean a minimum of paper and a maximum of action, pirated a very good set of operatives, and set up my own little shop, just like in the old days. With the official maze of the intelligence community, I have a good deal of confusion to play with. A dramatist I once knew said the best way to create chaos is to flood the scene with actors. I've managed to capitalize on the chaos of others.
"I think some of my efforts," he added in a modest tone, "small though they may be, have been of some value to the country.
"Now we come to this little affair. It isn't really much of my business, but the damn thing intrigues me. Besides, I think there is something wrong with the way the Agency and the Bureau are handling the whole thing. First of all, this is a very extraordinary situation, and they are using fairly ordinary means. Second, they're tripping over each other, both hot to make the pinch, as they say.
Then there's the one thing I can't really express. Something about this whole affair bothers me. It should never have happened. Both the idea behind the event and the way in which the event manifested itself are so… wrong, so out of place. I think it's beyond the parameters of the Agency. Not that they're incompetent— though I think they have missed one or two small points— but they're just not viewing it from the right place. Do you understand, my boy?"
Powell nodded. "And you are in the right place, right?"
The old man smiled. "Well, let's just say one foot is in the door. Now here's what I want you to do. Did you notice our boy's medical record? Don't bother looking, I'll tell you. He has many times the number of colds and respiratory problems he should. He often needs medical attention. Now, if you remember the transcript of the second panic call, he sneezed and said he had a cold. I'm playing a long shot that his cold is much worse, and that wherever he is, he'll come out to get help. What do you think?"
Powell shrugged. "Might be worth a try."
The old man was gleeful. "I think so, too. Neither the Agency nor the Bureau has tumbled to this yet, so we have a clear field. Now, I've arranged for you to head a special team of D.C. detectives— never mind how I managed it, I did. Start with the general practitioners in the metropolitan area. Find out if any of them have treated anyone like our boy— use his new description. If they haven't tell them to report to us if they do. Make up some plausible story so they'll open up to you. One other thing. Don't let the others find out we're looking too. The last time they had a chance, two men got shot."
Powell stood to go. "I'll do what I can, sir."
"Fine, fine, my boy. I knew I could count on you. I'm still thinking on this. If I come up with anything else, I'll let you know. Good luck."
Powell left the room. When the door was shut, the old man smiled.
* * *
While Kevin Powell began his painstakingly dull check of the Washington medical community, a very striking man with strange eyes climbed out of a taxi in front of Sunny's Surplus. The man had spent the morning reading a Xeroxed file identical with the one Powell had just examined. He had received the file from a very distinguished-looking ge
ntleman. The man with the strange eyes had a plan for finding Malcolm. He spent an hour driving around the neighborhood, and now he began to walk it. At bars, newspaper stands, public offices, private buildings, anywhere a man could stop for a few minutes, he would stop and show an artist's projected sketch of Malcolm with short hair. When people seemed reluctant to talk to him, the man flashed one of five sets of credentials the distinguished man had obtained. By 3:30 that afternoon he was tired, but it didn't show. He was more resolute than ever. He stopped at a Hot Shoppe for coffee. On the way out he flashed the picture and a badge at the cashier in a by now automatic manner. Almost anyone else would have registered the shock he felt when the clerk said she recognized the man.
"Yeah, I saw the son of a bitch. He threw his money at me he was in such a hurry to leave. Ripped a nylon crawling after a rolling nickel."
"Was he alone?"
"Yeah, who would want to be with a creep like that?"
"Did you see which way he went?"
"Sure I saw. If I'd have had a gun I'd have shot him. He went that way."
The man carefully paid his bill, leaving a dollar tip for the cashier. He walked in the direction she had pointed. Nothing, no reason to make a man looking for safety hurry that particular way. Then again… He turned into the parking lot and became a D.C. detective for the fat man in the felt hat.
"Sure, I seen him. He got into the car with the chick." The striking man's eyes narrowed. "What chick?"
"The one that works for them lawyers. The firm rents space for all the people that work there. She ain't so great to look at, but she's got class, if you know what I mean."
"I think so," said the fake detective, "I think so. Who is she?"
"Just a minute." The man in the hat waddled into a small shack. He returned carrying a ledger. "Let's see, lot 63… lot 63. Yeah, here it is. Ross, Wendy Ross. This here is her Alexandria address."
The narrow eyes glanced briefly at the offered book and recorded what they saw. They turned back to the man in the felt hat. "Thanks." The striking man began to walk away.
"Don't mention it. Say, what's this guy done?"
The man stopped and turned back. "Nothing, really. We're just looking for him. He… he's been exposed to something— it couldn't hurt you— and we just want to make sure he's all right."
Ten minutes later the striking man was in a phone booth. Across the city a distinguished-looking gentleman picked up a private phone that seldom rang. "Yes," he said, then recognized the voice.
"I have a firm lead."
"I knew you would. Have someone check it out, but don't let him act on it unless absolutely unavoidable circumstances arise. I want you to handle it personally so there will be no more mistakes. Right now I have a more pressing matter for your expert attention."
"Our sick mutual friend?"
"Yes. I'm afraid he has to take a turn for the worse. Meet me at place four as soon as you can." The line went dead.
The man stayed in the phone booth long enough to make another short call. Then he hailed a taxi and rode away into the fading light.
A small car parked across and up the street from Wendy's apartment just as she brought a tray of stew to Malcolm. The driver could see Wendy's door very clearly, even though he had to bend his tall, thin body into a very strange position. He watched the apartment, waiting.
Overconfidence breeds error when we take for granted that the game will continue on its normal course; when we fail to provide for an unusually powerful resource— a check, a sacrifice, a stalemate. Afterwards the victim may wail, 'But who could have dreamt of such an idiotic-looking move?
—Fred Reinfeld, The Complete Chess Course
* * *
Chapter 5
Saturday
* * *
"Are you feeling any better?"
Malcolm looked up at Wendy and had to admit that he was. The pain in his throat had subsided to a dull ache and almost twenty-four hours of sleep had restored a good deal of his strength. His nose still ran most of the time and talking brought pain, but even these discomforts were slowly fading.
As the discomforts of his body decreased, the discomforts of his mind increased. He knew it was Saturday, two days after his co-workers had been killed and he had shot a man. By now several very resourceful, very determined groups of people would be turning Washington upside down. At least one group wanted him dead. The others probably had little affection for him. In a dresser across the room lay $9,382 stolen from a dead man, or at least removed from his apartment. Here he was, lying sick in bed without the foggiest notion about what had happened or what he was to do. On top of all that, here on his bed sat a funny-looking girl wearing a T shirt and a smile.
"You know, I really don't understand it," he rasped. He didn't. In all the hours he had devoted to the problem he could find only four tentative assumptions that held water: that the Agency had been penetrated by somebody; that somebody had hit his section; that somebody had tried to frame Heidegger as a double by leaving the "hidden" money; and that somebody wanted him dead.
"Do you know what you're going to do yet?" Wendy used her forefinger to trace the outline of Malcolm's thigh under the sheet.
"No." He said exasperatedly, "I might try the panic number later tonight, if you'll take me to a phone booth."
She leaned forward and lightly kissed his forehead. "I'll take you anywhere." She smiled and lightly kissed him, his eyes, his cheek, down to his mouth, down to his neck. Flipping back the sheet, she kissed his chest, down to his stomach, down.
Afterwards they showered and he put in his contacts. He went back to bed. When Wendy came back into his room, she was fully dressed.
She tossed him four paperbacks. "I didn't know what you liked, but these should keep you busy while I'm gone."
"Where are—" Malcolm had to pause and swallow. It still hurt. "Where are you going?"
She smiled. "Silly boy, I've got to shop. We're low on food and there are still some things you need. If you're very good— and you're not bad— I might bring you a surprise." She walked away but turned back at the door. "If the phone rings, don't answer unless it rings twice, stops, then rings again. That'll be me. Aren't I learning how to be a good spy? I'm not expecting anybody. If you're quiet, no one will know you're here." Her voice took on a more serious tone. "Now, don't worry, OK? You're perfectly safe here." She turned and left.
Malcolm had just picked up one book when her head popped around the doorjamb. "Hey," she said, "I just thought of something. If I get strep throat, will it classify as venereal disease?" Malcolm missed when he threw the book at her.
When Wendy opened her door and walked to her car, she didn't notice the man in the van parked across the street stirring out of lethargy. He was a plain-looking man. He wore a bulky raincoat even though spring sunshine ruled the morning. It was almost as if he knew the good weather couldn't last. The man watched Wendy pull out of the parking lot and drive away. He looked at his watch. He would wait three minutes.
Saturday is a day off for most government employees, but not for all. This particular Saturday saw a large number of civil servants from various government levels busily and glumly drawing overtime.
One of these was Kevin Powell. He and his men had talked to 216 doctors, receiving nurses, interns, and other assorted members of the medical profession. Over half the general practitioners and throat specialists in the Washington area had been questioned. It was now eleven o'clock on a fine Saturday morning. All Powell had to report to the old man behind the mahogany desk could be summed up in one word: nothing.
The old man's spirits weren't dimmed by the news. "Well, my boy, just keep on trying, that's all I can say, just keep on trying. If it's any consolation, let me say we're in the same position as the others, only they have run out of things to do except watch. But one thing has happened: Weatherby is dead."
Powell was puzzled. "I thought you said his condition was improving."
The old man spread his hands. "I
t was. They planned to question him late last night or early this morning. When the interrogation team arrived shortly after one a.m., they found him dead."
"How?" Powell's voice held more than a little suspicion.
"How indeed? The guard on the door swears only medical personnel went in and out. Since he was in the Langley hospital, I'm sure security must have been tight. His doctors say that, given the shock and the loss of blood, it is entirely possible he died from the wound. They were sure he was doing marvelously. Right now they're doing a complete autopsy."
"It's very strange."
"Yes, it is, isn't it? But because it's strange, it should have been almost predictable. The whole case is strange. Ah, well, we've been over this ground before. I have something new for you."
Powell leaned closer to the desk. He was tired. The old man continued, "I told you I wasn't satisfied with the way the Agency and the Bureau were handling the case. They've run into a blind wall. I'm sure part of the reason is that their method led them there. They've been looking for Malcolm the way a hunter looks for any game. While they're skilled hunters, they're missing a thing or two. I want you to start looking for him as though you were the prey. You've read all the information we have on him, you've been to his apartment. You must have some sense of the man. Put yourself in his shoes and see where you end up.
"I have a few helpful tidbits for you. We know he needed transportation to get wherever he is. If nothing else, a man on foot is visible, and our boy wants to avoid that. The Bureau is fairly certain he didn't take a cab. I see no reason to fault their investigation along those lines. I don't think he would ride a bus, not with the package the man at the store sold him. Besides, one never knows who one might meet on a bus.