Three Days of the Condor

by James Grady

  The distinguished-looking man regained his confidence. In a firm whisper he said, "Nevertheless there have been setbacks. As you so astutely pointed out, the operation is not yet over. I need not remind you that it was scheduled for completion three days ago. Three days. A good deal can happen in three days. For all our bumbling we have been very lucky. The longer the operation continues, the greater the risk that certain things will come to the fore. We both know how disastrous that could be."

  "Everything possible is being done. We must wait for another chance."

  "And if we don't get another chance? What then, my fine friend, what then?"

  The man called Levine turned and looked at him. Once again the other man felt nervous. Levine said, "Then we make our chance."

  "Well, I certainly hope there will be no more… setbacks."

  "I anticipate none."

  "Good. I shall keep you informed of all the developments in the Agency. I expect you to do the same with me. I think there is nothing further to say."

  "There is one other thing," Levine said calmly. "Operations such as this sometimes suffer certain kinds of internal setbacks. Usually these… setbacks happen to certain personnel. These setbacks are planned by operation directors, such as yourself, and they are meant to be permanent. The common term for such a setback is double cross. If I were my director, I would be most careful to avoid any such setback, don't you agree?" The pallor crossing the other man's face told Levine there was no disagreement. Levine smiled politely, nodded farewell, and walked away. The distinguished man watched him stalk down the marble corridors and out of sight. The gentleman shuddered slightly, then went home to Sunday brunch with his wife, son, and a fidgety new daughter-in-law.

  * * *

  While Malcolm and Wendy dressed and the two men left the Capitol grounds, a telephone truck pulled up to the outer gates at Langley. After the occupants and their mission were cleared, they proceeded to the communications center. The two telephone repairmen were accompanied by a special security officer on loan from another branch. Most of the Agency men were looking for a man called Condor. The security officer had papers identifying him as Major David Burros. His real name was Kevin Powell, and the two telephone repairmen, ostensibly there to check the telephone tracing device, were highly trained Air Force electronics experts flown in from Colorado less than four hours before. After their mission was completed, they would be quarantined for three weeks. In addition to checking the tracing device, they installed some new equipment and made some complicated adjustments in the wiring of the old. Both men tried to keep calm while they worked from wiring diagrams labeled Top Secret. Fifteen minutes after they began work, they electronically signaled a third man in a phone booth four miles away. He called a number, let it ring until he received another signal, then hung up and walked quickly away. One of the experts nodded at Powell. The three men gathered their tools and left as unobtrusively as they had come.

  An hour later Powell sat in a small room in downtown Washington. Two plainclothes policemen sat outside the door. Three of his fellow agents lounged in chairs scattered around the room. There were two chairs at the desk where Powell sat, but one was unoccupied. Powell talked into one of the two telephones on the desk.

  "We're hooked up and ready to go, sir. We've tested the device twice. It checked out from our end and our man in the Panic Room said everything was clear there. From now on, all calls made to Condor's panic number will ring here. If it's our boy, we'll have him. If it's not… Well, let's hope we can fake it. Of course, we can also nullify the bypass and just listen in."

  The old man's voice told his delight. "Excellent, my boy, excellent. How's everything else working out?"

  "Marian says the arrangements with the Post should be complete within the hour. I hope you realize how much our ass is in the fire on this. Someday we'll have to tell the Agency we tapped their Panic Line, and they won't appreciate that at all."

  The old man chuckled. "Don't worry about that, Kevin. It's been in the fire before and it will be there again. Besides, theirs is roasting too, and I imagine they won't feel too bad if we pull it out for them. Any reports from the field?"

  "Negative. Nobody reports a sign of Malcolm or the girl. When our boy goes to ground, he goes to ground."

  "Yes, I was thinking much the same thing myself. I don't think the opposition has got him. I'm rather proud of his efforts so far. Do you have my itinerary?"

  "Yes, sir. We'll call you if anything happens." The old man hung up, and Powell settled down for what he hoped would be a short wait.

  * * *

  Wendy and Malcolm arrived in Washington just as the sun was setting. Malcolm drove to the center of the city. He parked the car at the Lincoln Memorial, removed their luggage, and locked the vehicle securely. They came into Washington via Bethesda, Maryland. In Bethesda they purchased some toiletries, clothes, a blond wig, and a large padded "visual disguise and diversionary" bra for Wendy, a roll of electrical tape, some tools, and a box of .357 magnum shells.

  Malcolm took a carefully calculated risk. Using Poe's "Purloined Letter" principle that the most obvious hiding place is often the safest, he and Wendy boarded a bus for Capitol Hill. They rented a tourist room on East Capitol Street less than a quarter of a mile from the Society. The proprietress of the dingy hostel welcomed the Ohio honeymooners. Most of her customers had checked out and headed home after a weekend of sightseeing. She didn't even care if they had no rings and the girl had a black eye. In order to create a believable image of loving young marrieds (or so Malcolm whispered), the young couple retired early.

  In war it is not men, but the man who counts.

  —Napoleon

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  Monday, Morning to MidAfternoon

  * * *

  The shrill scream from the red phone jarred Powell from his fitful nap. He grabbed the receiver before a second ring. The other agents in the room began to trace and record the call. Concentrating on listening, Powell only half saw their scurrying figures in the morning light. He took a deep breath and said, "493-7282."

  The muffled voice on the other end seemed far away. "This is Condor."

  Powell began the carefully prepared dialogue. "I read you, Condor. Listen closely. The Agency has been penetrated. We're not sure who, but we're pretty sure it's not you." Powell cut the beginning of a protest short. "Don't waste time protesting your innocence. We accept it as a working assumption. Now, why did you shoot Weatherby when they came to pick you up?"

  The voice on the other end was incredulous. "Didn't Sparrow IV tell you? That man— Weatherby? —shot at me! He was parked outside the Society Thursday morning. In the same car."

  "Sparrow IV is dead, shot in the alley."

  "I didn't…"

  "We know. We think Weatherby did. We know about you and the girl." Powell paused to let this sink in. "We traced you to her apartment and found the corpse. Did you hit him?"

  "Barely. He almost got us."

  "Are you injured?"

  "No, just a little stiff and woozy."

  "Are you safe?"

  "For the time being, fairly."

  Powell leaned forward tensely and asked the hopeless and all-important question. "Do you have any idea why your group was hit?"

  "Yes." Powell's sweaty hand tightened on the receiver as Malcolm quickly told of the missing books and financial discrepancies Heidegger had discovered.

  When Malcolm paused, Powell asked in a puzzled voice, "But you have no idea what it all means?"

  "None. Now, what are you going to do about getting us to safety?"

  Powell took the plunge. "Well, that's going to be a little problem.

  Not just because we don't want you set up and hit, but because you're not talking to the Agency."

  Five miles away, in a phone booth at a Holiday Inn, Malcolm's stomach began to churn. Before he could say anything, Powell spoke again.

  "I can't go into the details. You will simply have to
trust us. Because of the penetration of the Agency at what is probably a very high level, we've taken over. We plugged into the Panic Line and intercepted your call. Please don't hang up. We've got to blow the double in the Agency and find out what this was all about. You're our only way, and we want you to help us. You have no choice."

  "Bullshit, man! You might be another security agency, and then again you might not. Even if you are OK, why the hell should I help you? This isn't my kind of work! I read about this stuff, not do it."

  "Consider the alternatives." Powell's voice was cold. "Your luck can't hold forever, and some very determined and competent people besides us are looking for you. As you said, this isn't your line of work. Someone will find you. Without us, all you can do is hope that the right someone does find you. If we're the right someone, then everything is already OK. If we're not, then at least you know what we want you to do. It's better than running blind. Any time you don't like our instructions, don't follow them. There's one final clincher. We control your communication link with the Agency. We even have a man on the listed line." (This was a lie.) "The only other way you can go home is to show up at Langley in person. Do you like the idea of going in there cold?"

  Powell paused and got no answer. "I thought not. It won't be too dangerous. All we basically want is for you to stay hidden and keep rattling the opposition's cage. Now, here's what we know so far." Powell gave Malcolm a concise rundown of all the information he had. Just as he finished, his man in charge of tracing the call came to him and shrugged his shoulders. Puzzled, Powell continued. "Now, there's another way we can communicate with you. Do you know how to work a book code?"

  "Well… You better go over it again."

  "OK. First of all pick up a paperback copy of The Feminine Mystique. There is only one edition. Got that? OK. Now, whenever we want to communicate with you, we will run an ad in the Post. It will appear in the first section, and the heading will read, 'Today's Lucky Sweepstakes Winning Numbers Are:' followed by a series of hyphenated numbers. The first number of each series is the page number, the second is the line number, and the third is the word number. When we can't find a corresponding word in the book, we'll use a simple number-alphabet code. A is number one, B is number two, and so on. When we code such a word, the first number will be thirteen. The Post will forward any communication you want to send us if you address it to yourself, care of Lucky Sweepstakes, Box 1, Washington Post. Got it?"

  "Fine. Can we still use the Panic Line?"

  "We'd rather not. It's very chancy."

  Powell could see the trace man across the room whispering furiously into another phone. Powell said, "Do you need anything?"

  "No. Now, what is it you want me to do?"

  "Can you call the Agency back on your phone?"

  "For a conversation as long as this?"

  "Definitely not. It should only take a minute or so."

  "I can, but I'll want to shift to another phone. Not for at least half an hour."

  "OK. Call back and we will let the call go through. Now, here's what we want you to say." Powell told him the plan. When both men were satisfied, Powell said, "One more thing. Pick a neighborhood you won't have to be in."

  Malcolm thought for a moment. "Chevy Chase."

  "OK," Kevin said. "You will be reported in the Chevy Chase area in exactly one hour. Thirty minutes later a Chevy Chase cop will be wounded while chasing a man and a woman answering your descriptions. That should make everyone concentrate their forces in Chevy Chase, giving you room to move. Is that enough time?"

  "Make it an hour later, OK?"

  "OK."

  "One more thing. Who am I talking to, I mean personally?"

  "Call me Rogers, Malcolm." The connection went dead. No sooner had Powell placed the phone in the cradle than his trace man ran to him.

  "Do you know what that little son of a bitch did? Do you know what he did?" Powell could only shake his head. "I'll tell you what he did, that little son of a bitch. He drove all over town and wired pay phones together, then called and hooked them all up so they transmitted one call through the lines, but each phone routed the call back through the terminal. We traced the first one in a little over a minute. Our surveillance team got there right away. They found an empty phone booth with homemade Out of Order signs and his wiring job. They had to call back for a trace on the other phone. We've gone through three traces already and there are probably more hookups to go, that son of a bitch!"

  Powell leaned back and laughed for the first time in days. When he found the part in Malcolm's dossier that mentioned his summer employment with the telephone company, he laughed again.

  * * *

  Malcolm left the phone booth and walked to the parking lot. In a rented U-Haul pickup with Florida plates a chesty blonde wearing sunglasses sat chewing gum. Malcolm stood in the shade for a few moments while he checked the lot. Then he walked over and climbed in the truck. He gave Wendy the thumbs-up sign, then began to chuckle.

  "Hey," she said, "what is it? What's so funny?"

  "You are, you dummy."

  "Well, the wig and the falsies were your idea! I can't help it if…" His protesting hand cut her short.

  "That's only part of it," he said, still laughing. "If you could only see yourself."

  "Well, I can't help it if I'm good." She slumped in the seat. "What did they say?"

  As they drove to another phone booth, Malcolm told her.

  * * *

  Mitchell had been manning the Panic phone since the first call.

  His cot lay a few feet from his desk. He hadn't seen the sun since Thursday. He hadn't showered. When he went to the bathroom the phone followed. The head of the Panic Section was debating whether to give him pep shots. The Deputy Director had decided to keep Mitchell on the phone, as he stood a better chance than a new man of recognizing Malcolm should he call again. Mitchell was tired, but he was still a tough man. Right now he was tough determined man. He was raising his ten-o'clock coffee to his lips when the phone rang. He spilled the coffee as he grabbed the receiver.

  "493-7282."

  "This is Condor."

  "Where the hell…"

  "Shut up. I know you're tracing this call, so there isn't much time. I would stay on your line, but the Agency has been penetrated."

  "What!"

  "Somebody out there is a double. The man in the alley" —Malcolm almost slipped and said "Weatherby" — "shot at me first. I recognized him from when he was parked in front of the Society Thursday morning. The other man in the alley must have told you that, though, so…" Malcolm slowed, anticipating interruption. He got it.

  "Sparrow IV was shot. You…"

  "I didn't do it! Why would I want to do it? Then you didn't know?"

  "All we know is we have two more dead people than when you first called."

  "I might have killed the man who shot at me, but I didn't kill Maronick."

  "Who?"

  "Maronick, the man called Sparrow IV."

  "That wasn't Sparrow IV's name."

  "It wasn't? The man I shot yelled for Maronick after he hit the ground. I figured Maronick was Sparrow IV." (Easy, thought Malcolm, don't overdo it.) "Never mind that now, time is running short. Whoever hit us was after something Heidegger knew. He told all of us about something strange he found in the records. He said he was going to tell somebody out at Langley. That's why I figure there is a double. Heidegger told the wrong man.

  "Listen, I've stumbled onto something. I think I might be able to figure some more out. I found something at Heidegger's place. I think I can work it out if you give me time. I know you must be looking for me. I'm afraid to come in or let you find me. Can you pull the heat off me until I figure out what I know that makes the opposition want me dead?"

  Mitchell paused for a moment. The trace man frantically signaled him to keep Malcolm talking. "I don't know if we can or not. Maybe if…"

  "There's no more time. I'll call you back when I find out some more." The line
went dead. Mitchell looked at his trace man and got a negative shake of the head.

  "How the hell do you figure that?"

  Mitchell looked at the speaker, a security guard. The man in the wheelchair shook his head. "I don't but it's not my job to figure it. Not this one." Mitchell looked around the room. His glance stopped when it came to a man he recognized as a veteran agent. "Jason, does the name Maronick mean anything to you?"

  The nondescript man called Jason slowly nodded his head. "It rings a bell."

  "Me too," said Mitchell. He picked up a phone. "Records? I want everything you got on people called Maronick, any spelling you can think of. We'll probably want several copies before the day is out, so hop to it." He broke the connection, then dialed the number of the Deputy Director.

  While Mitchell waited to be connected with the Deputy Director, Powell connected with the old man. "Our boy did fine, sir."

  "I'm delighted to hear that, Kevin, delighted."

  In a lighter voice Powell said, "Just enough truth mingled with some teasing tidbits. It'll start the Agency rolling the right way, but hopefully they won't catch up to us. If you're right, our friend Maronick may begin to feel nervous. They'll be more anxious than ever to find our Condor. Anything new on your end?"

  "Nothing. Our people are still digging into the past of all concerned. Outside of us, only the police know about the connection between Malcolm and the man killed in the girl's apartment. The police are officially listing it and her disappearance as parts of a normal murder case. When the time is right, that little tidbit will fall into appropriate hands. As far as I can tell, everything is going exactly according to plan. Now I suppose I'll have to go to another dreary meeting with a straight face, gently prodding our friends in the right direction. I think it best if you stay on the line, monitoring, not intercepting, but be ready to move any time."

  "Right, sir." Powell hung up. He looked at the grinning men in the room and settled back to enjoy a cup of coffee.