by James Grady
"What do you think Malcolm will do?"
There was another short pause before the old man replied. "I'm not sure," he said. "A lot depends on what he knows. I'm sure he thinks the girl is dead. He would have responded differently to the situation if he thought she was alive. We may be able to use her somehow, as bait for either Malcolm or the opposition. But we'll have to wait and see on that."
"Anything else you want me to do?"
"A good deal, but nothing I can give you instructions for. Keep looking for Malcolm, Maronick, and company, anything which might explain this mess. And keep in touch with me, Kevin. After the meeting with our colleagues, I'll be at my son's house for dinner."
* * *
"I think it's disgusting!" The man from the FBI leaned across the table to glare at the old man. "You knew all along that the murder in Alexandria was connected with this case, yet you didn't tell us. What's worse, you kept the police from reporting it and handling it according to form. Disgusting! Why, by now we could have traced Malcolm and the girl down. They would both be safe. We would be hot after the others, provided, of course, that we didn't already have them. I've heard of petty pride, but his is national security! I can assure you, we at the Bureau would not behave in such a manner!"
The old man smiled. He had told them only about the link between Maronick and the murder in Alexandria. Imagine their anger if they realized how much more he knew! He glanced at the puzzled faces. Time to mend fences, or at least to rationalize. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, I can understand your anger. But of course you realize I had a reason for my actions.
"As you all know, I believe there is a leak in the Agency. A substantial leak, I might add. It was and is my opinion that this leak would thwart our efforts on this matter. After all, the end goal— whether we admit it or not— is to plug that very leak. Now, how was I to know that the leak was not in this very group? We are not immune from such dangers." He paused. The men around the table were too experinced to glance at each other, but the old man could feel the tension rising. He congratulated himself.
"Now then," he continued, "perhaps I was wrong to conceal so much from the group, but I think not. Not that I'm accusing anyone— or, by the way, that I have abandoned the possibility of the leak's being here. I still think my move prudent. I also believe it wouldn't have made much difference, despite what our friend from the FBI says. I think we would still be where we aree today. But that is not the question, at least not now. The question is, Where do we go from here and how?"
The Deputy Director looked around the room. No one seemed eager to respond to the old man's question. Of course, such a situation meant he should pick up the ball. The Deputy dreaded such moments. One always had to be so careful about stepping on toes and offending people. The Deputy felt far more at ease on his field missions when he only had to worry about the enemy. He cleared his throat and used a ploy he hoped the old man expected. "What are your suggestions, sir?"
The old man smiled. Good old Darnsworth. He played the game fairly well, but not very well. In a way he hated to do this to him. He looked away from his old friend and stared into space. "Quite frankly, Deputy, I'm at a loss for suggestions. I really couldn't say. Of course, I think we should keep on trying to do something."
Inwardly the Deputy winced. He had the ball again. He looked around the table at a group of men now suddenly not so competent and eagerlooking. They looked everywhere but at him, yet he knew they were watching his every move. The Deputy cleared his throat again. He resolved to end the agony as quickly as possible. "As I see it, then, no one has any new ideas. Consequently, I have decided that we will continue to operate in the manner we have been." (Whatever that means, he thought.) "If there is nothing further…" He paused only momentarily. "…I suggest we adjourn." The Deputy shuffled his papers, stuffed them into his briefcase, and quickly left the room.
As the others rose to leave, the Army Intelligence representative leaned over to the Navy captain and said, "I feel like the nearsighted virgin on his honeymoon who couldn't get hard: I can't see what to do and I can't do it either."
The Navy captain looked at his counterpart and said, "I never have that problem."
* * *
Malcolm changed taxis three times before he finally headed for northeast Washington. He left the cab on the fringes of the downtown area and walked around the neighborhood. During his ride around town he formed a plan, rough and vague, but a plan. His first step was to find all-important shelter from the hunters.
It took only twenty minutes. He saw her spot him and discreetly move in a path parallel to his. She crossed the street at the corner. As she stepped up to the sidewalk she "tripped" and fell against him, her body pressed close to his. Her arms ran quickly up and down his sides. He felt her body tense when her hands passed over the gun in his belt. She jerked away and a pair of extraordinarily bright brown eyes darted over his face.
"Cop?" From her voice she couldn't have been more than eighteen. Malcolm looked down at her stringy dyed blond hair and pale skin. She smelled from the perfume sampler at the corner drugstore.
"No." Malcolm looked at the frightened face. "Let's say I'm involved in a high-risk business." He could see the fear on her face, and he knew she would take a chance.
She leaned against him again, pushing her hips and her chest forward. "What are you doing around here?"
Malcolm smiled. "I want a lay. I'm willing to pay for it. Now, if I'm a cop, the bust is no good, cause I entrapped you. OK?"
She smiled. "Sure, tiger. I understand. What kind of party are we going to have?"
Malcolm looked down at her. Italian, he thought, or maybe Central European. "What do you charge?"
The girl looked at him, judging possibilities. It had been a slow day. "Twenty dollars for a straight lay?" She made it clear she was asking, not demanding.
Malcolm knew he had to get off the streets soon. He looked at the girl. "I'm in no hurry," he said. "I'll give you… seventy-five for the whole night. I'll throw in breakfast if we can use your place."
The girl tensed. It might take her a whole day and half the night o make that kind of money. She decided to gamble. Slowly she moved her hand into Malcolm's crotch, covering her action by leaning into him, pushing her breast against his arm. "Hey, honey, that sounds great, but…" She almost lost her nerve. "Could you make it a hundred? Please? I'll be extra-special good to you."
Malcolm looked down and nodded. "A hundred dollars. For the full night at your place." He reached in his pocket and handed her a fifty-dollar bill. "Half now, half afterwards. And don't think about any kind of setup."
The girl snatched the money from his hand. "No setup. Just me. And I'll be real good— real good. My place isn't far." She linked her arm in his to guide him down the street.
When they reached the next corner, she whispered, "Just a second, honey, I have to talk to that man." She released his arm before he could think and hurried to the blind pencil hawker on the corner. Malcolm backed against the wall. His hand shot inside his coat. The gun butt was sweaty.
Malcolm saw the girl slip the man the fifty dollars. He mumbled a few words. She walked quickly to a nearby phone booth, almost oblivious of a boy who jostled her and grinned as her breasts bounced. The sign said Out of Order, but she opened the door anyway. She looked through the book, or so Malcolm thought. He couldn't see too well, as her back was toward him. She shut the door and quickly returned.
"Sorry to keep you waiting, honey. Just a little business deal. You don't mind, do you?"
When they came abreast of the blind man, Malcolm stopped and pushed the girl away. He snatched the thick sunglasses off the man's face. Carefully watching the astonished girl, he looked at the pencil seller. The two empty sockets made him push the glasses back quicker than he had taken them off. He stuffed a ten-dollar bill into the man's cup. "Forget it, old man."
The hoarse voice laughed. "It's done forgotten, mister."
As they walked away, the girl looked at him.
"What did you do that for?"
Malcolm looked down at the puzzled, dull face. "Just checking."
Her place turned out to be one room with a kitchen-bath area. As soon as they were safely inside, she bolted and locked the door. Malcolm fastened the chain. "Be right with you, honey. Take off your clothes. I'll fix you up real good right away." She darted into the curtained-off bathroom area.
Malcolm looked out the window. Three stories up. No one could climb in. Fine. The door was solid and double-locked. He didn't think anyone had followed them, or even really noticed them. He slowly took off his clothes. He put the gun on the small table next to the bed and covered it with an old Reader's Digest. The bed squeaked when he lay down. Both his mind and his body ached, but he knew he had to act as normal as possible.
The curtains parted and she came to him, her eyes shining. She wore a long-sleeved black nightgown. The front hung open. Her breasts dangled— long, skinny pencils. The rest of her body matched her breasts, skinny, almost emaciated. Her voice was distant. "Sorry I took so long, sugar. Let's get down to business."
She climbed on the bed and pulled his head to her breasts. "There, baby, there you go." For a few minutes she ran her hands over him, then she said, "Now I'll take real good care of you." She moved to the base of the bed and buried her head in his crotch. Minutes later she coaxed his body into a response. She got up and went to the bathroom. She returned holding a jar of Vaseline. "Oh, baby, you were real good, real good, sugar." She lay down on the bed to apply the lubricant to herself. "There, sugar, all ready for you. All ready for you whenever you want."
For a long time they lay there. Malcolm finally looked at her. Her body moved slowly, carefully, almost laboriously. She was asleep. He went to the bathroom. On the back of the stained toilet he found the spoon, rubber hose, matches, and homemade syringe. The small plastic bag was still three-quarters full of the white powder. Now he knew why the nightgown had long sleeves.
Malcolm searched the apartment. He found four changes of underwear, three blouses, two skirts, two dresses, a pair of jeans, and a red sweater to match the purple one laying on the floor. A torn raincoat hung in the closet. In a shoe box in the kitchen he found six of the possession return receipts issued upon release from a Washington jail. He also found a two-year-old high-school identification card. Mary Ruth Rosen. Her synagogue address was neatly typed on the back. There was nothing to eat except five Hersheys, some coconut, and a little grapefruit juice. He ate everything. Under the bed he found an empty Mogen David 20/20 wine bottle. He propped it against the door. If his theory worked, it would crash loudly should the door open. He picked up her inert form. She barely stirred. He put her on the torn armchair and threw a blanket over the limp bundle. It wouldn't make any difference if her body wasn't comfortable in the night. Malcolm took out his lenses and lay down on the bed. He was asleep in five minutes.
In almost every game of chess there comes a crisis that must be recognized. In one way or another a player risks something— if he knows what he's doing, we call it a 'calculated risk.'
If you understand the nature of this crisis; if you perceive how you've committed yourself to a certain line of play; if you can foresee you've committed yourself to a certain line of play; if you can foresee the nature of your coming task and its accompanying difficulties, all's well. But if this awareness is absent, then the game will be lost for you, and fighting back will do no good.
—Fred Reinfeld, The Complete Chess Course
* * *
Chapter 9
Tuesday, Morning through Early Evening
* * *
Malcolm woke shortly after seven. He lay quietly until just before eight, his mind going over all the possibilities. In the end he still decided to carry it through. He glanced at the chair. The girl had slid onto the floor during the night. The blanket was wrapped over her head and she was breathing hard.
Malcolm got up. With a good deal of clumsy effort he put her on the bed. She didn't stir through the whole process.
The bathroom had a leaky hose and nozzle hooked up to the tub, so Malcolm took a tepid shower. He successfully shaved with the slightly used safety razor. He desperately wanted to brush his teeth, but he couldn't bring himself to use the girl's toothbrush.
Malcolm looked at the sleeping form before he left the apartment. Their agreement had been for a hundred dollars, and he had only paid her fifty. He knew where that money went. Reluctantly, he laid the other fifty dollars on the dresser. It wasn't his money anyway.
Three blocks away he found a Hot Shoppe where he breakfasted in the boisterous company of neighbors on their way to work. After he left the restaurant he went to a drugstore. In the privacy of a Gulf station rest room he brushed his teeth. It was 9:38.
He found a phone booth. With change from the Gulf station he made his calls. The first one was to Information and the second one connected him with a small office in Baltimore.
"Bureau of Motor Vehicle Registration. May I help you?"
"Yes." Malcolm replied. "My name is Winthrop Estes, of Alexandria. I was wondering if you could help me pay back a favor."
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"You see, yesterday as I was driving home from work my battery tipped over right in the middle of the street. I got it hooked up again, but there wasn't enough charge to fire the engine. Just as I was about to give up and try to push the thing out of the way, this man in a Mercedes Benz pulled up behind me. At great risk to his own car, he gave me the push necessary to get mine started. Before I had a chance to even thank him, he drove away. All I got was his license number. Now, I would at least like to send him a thankyou note or buy him a drink or something. Neighborly things like that don't happen very often in D.C."
The man on the other end of the line was touched. "They certainly don't. With his Mercedes! Phew, that's some nice guy! Let me guess. He had Maryland plates and you want me to check and see who he is, right?"
"Right. Can you do it?"
"Well… Technically no, but for something like this, what's little technicality? Do you have the number?"
"Maryland 6E-49387."
"6E-49387. Right. Hold on just one second and I'll have it." Malcolm heard the receiver clunk on a hard surface. In the background, footsteps faded into a low office murmur of typewriters and obscure voices, then grew stronger. "Mr. Estes? We've got it. Black Mercedes sedan, registered to a Robert T. Atwood, 42 Elwood— that's E-l-w-o-o-d— Lane, Chevy Chase. Those people must really be loaded. That's the country-squire suburb. He could probably afford a scratch or two on his car. Funny, those people usually don't give a damn, if you know what I mean."
"I know what you mean. Listen, thanks a lot."
"Hey, don't thank me. For something like this, glad to do it. Only don't let it get around, know what I mean? Might tell Atwood the same thing, OK?"
"OK."
"You sure you got it? Robert Atwood, 42 Elwood Lane, Chevy Chase?"
"I've got it. Thanks again." Malcolm hung up and stuffed the piece of paper with the address on it into his pocket. He wouldn't need it to remember Mr. Atwood. For no real reason, he strolled back to the Hot Shoppe for coffee. As far as his watchful eyes could tell, no one noticed him.
The morning Post lay on the counter. On impulse he began to thumb through it. It was on page 12. They hadn't taken any chances. The three-inch ad was set in bold type and read, "Condor call home."
Malcolm smiled, hardly glancing at the coded sweepstakes ad. If he called in, they would tell him to come home or at least lie low. That wasn't what he intended. There was nothing they could say in the coded message that could make any difference to him. Not now. Their instructions had lost all value yesterday on Capitol Hill.
Malcolm frowned. If plan went wrong, the whole thing might end unsatisfactorily. Undoubtedly that end would also mean Malcolm's death, but that didn't bother him too much. What bothered him was the horrible waste factor that failure mean. He had to tell someone, somehow, just in case. B
ut he couldn't let anyone know, not until he had tried. That meant delay. He had to find a way of delayed communication.
The sign flashing across the street gave him the inspiration. With the materials he had at hand he began to write. Twenty minutes later he stuffed curt synopses of the last five days and a prognosis for the future into three small envelopes begged from the waitress. The napkins went to the FBI. The pieces of junk paper from his wallet filled the envelope addressed to the CIA. The map of D.C. he had picked up at the Gulf station went to the Post. These three envelopes went into a large manila envelope he bought at the drugstore. Malcolm stuck the big envelope in a mailbox. Pickup was scheduled for 2:00 p.m. The big envelope was addressed to Malcolm's bank, which for some reason closed at 2:00 p.m. on Tuesdays. Malcolm reckoned it would take the bank until at least tomorrow to find and mail the letters. He had a minimum of twenty-four hours to operate in, and he had passed on what he knew. He considered himself free of obligations.
* * *
While Malcolm spent the rest of the day standing in the perpetually long line at the Washington Monument, security and law-enforcement agencies all over the city were quietly going bananas. Detectives and agents tripped over each other and false reports of Malcolm. Three separate carloads of officials from three separate agencies arrived simultaneously at the same boarding house check out three separate leads, all of which were false. The proprietress of the boarding house still had no idea what happened after the officials angrily drove away. A congressional intern who vaguely resembled Malcolm's description was picked up and detained by an FBI patrol. Thirty minutes after the intern was identified and released from federal custody, he was arrested by Washington police and again detained. Reporters harassed already nervous officials about the exciting Capitol Hill shootout. Congressmen, senators, and political hacks of every shade kept calling the agencies and each other, inquiring about the rumored security leak. Of course, everyone refused to discuss it over the phone, but the senator- congressman-department chief wanted to be personally briefed. Kevin Powell was trying once again to play Condor and retrace Malcolm. As he walked along East Capitol Street, puzzling, perturbing questions kept disturbing the lovely spring day. He received no answers from the trees and buildings, and at 11:00 he gave up the chase to meet the director of the hunt.