by James Grady
Powell was late, but when he walked quickly into the room he did not receive a reproachful glance from the old man. Indeed, the old man's congeniality seemed at a new height. At first Powell thought the warmth was contrived for the benefit of the stranger who sat with them at the small table, but he gradually decided it was genuine.
The stranger was one of the biggest men Powell had ever seen. It was hard to judge his height while he sat, but Powell guessed he was at least six feet seven. The man had a massive frame, with at least three hundred pounds of flesh supplying extra padding beneath the expensively tailored suit. The thick black hair was neatly greased down. Powell noticed the man's little piggy eyes quietly, carefully taking stock of him.
"Ah, Kevin," said the old man, "how good of you to join us. I don't believe you know Dr. Lofts."
Powell didn't know Dr. Lofts personally, but he knew the man's work. Dr. Crawford Lofts was probably the foremost psychological diagnostician in the world, yet his reputation was known only in very tightly controlled circles. Dr. Lofts headed the Psychiatric Evaluation Team for the Agency. PET came into its own when its evaluation of the Soviet Premier convinced President Kennedy that he should go ahead with the Cuban blockade. Ever since then, PET had been given unlimited resources to compile its evaluation of major world leaders and selected individuals.
After ordering coffee for Powell, the old man turned and said, "Dr. Lofts has been working on our Condor. For the last few days he has talked to people, reviewed our boy's work and dossiers, even lived in his apartment. Trying to build an action profile, I believe they call it. You can explain it better, Doctor."
The softness of Loft's voice surprised Powell. "I think you've about said it, old friend. Basically, I'm trying to find out what Malcolm would do, given the background he has. About all I can say is that he will improvise fantastically and ignore whatever you tell him unless it filts into what he wants." Dr. Lofts did not babble about his work at every opportunity. This too surprised Powell, and he was unprepared when Lofts stopped talking.
"Uh, what are you doing about it?" Powell stammered, feeling very foolish when he heard his improvised thoughts expressed out loud.
The Doctor rose to go. At least six-seven. "I've got field workers scattered at points throughout the city where Malcolm might turn up. If you'll excuse me, I want to get back to supervising them." With a curt, polite nod to the old man and Powell, Dr. Lofts lumbered from the room.
Powell looked at the old man. "Do you think he has much of a chance?"
"No, no more than anyone else. That's what he thinks, too. Too many variables for him to do much more than guess. The realization of that limitation is what makes him good."
"Then why bring him in? We can get all the manpower we want without having to pull in PET."
The old man's eyes twinkled, but there was coldness in his voice. "Because, my dear boy, it never hurts to have a lot of hunters if the hunters are hunting in different ways. I want Malcolm very badly, and I don't want to miss a trick. Now, how are you coming from your end."
Powell told him, and the answer was the same as it had been from the beginning: no progress.
* * *
At 4:30 Malcolm decided it was time to steal a car. He had considered many other ways of obtaining transportation, but crossed them off his list as too risky. Providence combined with the American Legion and a Kentucky distillery to solve Malcolm's problem.
If it hadn't been for the American Legion and their National Conference on Youth and Drugs, Alvin Phillips would never have been in Washington, let alone at the Washington Monument. He was chosen by the Indiana state commander to attend the expense-paid national conference to learn all he could about the evils of drug abuse among the young. While at the conference, he had been given a pass which would enable him to avoid the lines at the Monument and go straight to the top. He lost this pass the night before, but he felt obligated to at least see the Monument for the folks back home.
If it hadn't been for a certain Kentucky distillery, Alvin would not have been in his present state of intoxication. The distillery kindly provided all conference participants with a complimentary fifth of their best whiskey. Alvin had become so upset by the previous day's film describing how drugs often led to illicit sex among nubile teen-age girls that the night before he drank the entire bottle by himself in his Holiday Inn room. He liked the whiskey so much that he bought another fifth to help him through the conference and "kill the dog that bit him." He finished most of that fifth by the time the meetings broke up and he managed to navigate to the Monument.
Malcolm didn't find Alvin, Alvin found the line. Once there, he made it plain to all who could hear that he was standing in this hot God damn sun out of patriotic duty. He didn't have to be here, he could have gone right to the God damn top, except for that God damn hustling floozy who lifted his wallet and the God damn pass. He sure fooled her God damn ass with those traveler's checks— best God damn things you could buy. She sure had God damn big jugs, though. God damn it, all he wanted to do was take her for a ride in his new car.
When Malcolm heard the word "car," he immediately developed a dislike for cheap God damn floozies and a strong affection for the American Legion, Indiana, Kentucky whiskey, and Alvin's brand-new Chrysler. After a few short introductory comments, he let Alvin know he was talking to a fellow veteran of American wars, one whose hobby just happened to be automobiles. Have another drink, Alvin, old buddy.
"S'at right? You really dig cars?" The mention of important matters pulled Alvin part way out of the bottle. It didn't take a lot of effort for bosom companionship to slide him back down. "You wanna see a real good 'un? Got me a bran'-new one. Jus' drove't here from Indiana. Ever been to Indiana? Gotta come, come see me. An' the old lady. She ain't much to look at— we're forry-four, you know. I don't look forry-four, do I? Where was I? Oh yeah, ol' lady. Good woman. A li'l fat, but what the hell, I always say…"
By this time Malcolm had maneuvered Alvin away from the crowd and into a parking lot. He had also shared half a dozen swigs from the bottle Alvin carefully kept hidden under his soggy suit coat. Malcolm would raise the bottle to his closed lips and move his Adam's apple in appreciation. He didn't want alcohol slowing him down for the night. When Alvin took his turn, he more than made up for Malcolm's abstention. By the time they reached the parking lot, only two inches remained in the bottle.
Malcolm and Alvin talked about those God damn kids and their God damn drugs. Especially the girls, the teen-age girls, just like the cheerleaders in Indiana, hooked on that marijuana and ready to do anything, "anything," for that God damn drug. Anything. Malcolm casually mentioned that he knew where two such girls were hanging around, just waiting to do anything for that God damn marijuana. Alvin stopped him and plaintively said, "Really?" Alvin thought very hard when Malcolm ("John") assured him that such was the case. Malcolm let the discussion lag, then he helped Alvin suggest meeting these two girls so Alvin could tell the folks back in Indiana what it was really like. Really like. Since the girls were in kind of a public place, it probably would be best if "John" went and picked them up and brought them back here. Then they could all go to Alvin's room and talk. Better to talk to them there than here. Find out why they'd do anything, anything, for that God damn marijuana. Alvin gave Malcolm the keys just as they reached the shiny new car.
"Got lotsa gas, lotsa gas. Sure ya don't need any money?" Alvin fumbled with his clothes and extracted a weather-beaten wallet. "Take watcha need, bitch last night only got traveler's checks." Malcolm took the wallet. While Alvin shakily tipped the bottle to his lips, his new friend removed all identification papers from the wallet, including a card with his car license number. He gave the wallet back to Alvin.
"Here," he said. "I don't think they'll want any money. Not now." He smiled briefly, secretively. When Alvin saw the smile his heart beat a shade faster. He was too far gone to show much facial expression.
Malcolm unlocked the car. A crumpled blue cap lay on
the front seat. On the floor was a six-pack of beer Alvin had brought to help ease the heat. Malcolm put the cap on his friend's head and exchanged the now empty whiskey bottle for the six-pack of beer. He looked at the flushed face and blurred eyes. Two hours in the sun and Alvin should pass out. Malcolm smiled and pointed to a grassy mall.
"When I come back with the girls, we'll meet you over there, then go to your room. You'll recognize us because they both have big jugs. I'll be back with them just after you finish the six-pack. Don't worry about a thing." With a kindly push he sent Alvin staggering off to the park and the tender mercies of the city. When he pulled out of the parking lot, he glanced at the rearview mirror in time to see Alvin lurch to a sitting position on a portion of grass well away from anyone else. Malcolm turned the corner as Alvin opened a beer can and took a long, slow swig.
The car had almost a full tank of gas. Malcolm drove to the expressway circling the city. He stopped briefly at a drive-in restaurant in Chevy Chase for a cheeseburger and use of the rest room. In addition to relieving himself, he checked his gun.
Number 42 Elwood Lane was indeed a country estate. The house was barely visible from the road. Direct access to it was through a private lane closed off by a stout iron gate. The closest neighboring house was at least a mile away. Dense woods surrounded the house on three sides. The land between the house and the road was partially cleared. From Malcolm's brief glance he could tell that the house was large, but he didn't stop for a closer look. That would be foolish.
From a small gas station just up the road he obtained a map of the area. The woods behind the house were uninhabited hills. When he told the gas-station attendant he was a vacationing ornithologist and that he might have seen a very rare thrush, the attendant helped him by describing some unmapped country roads which might lead to the bird's nesting area. One such road ran behind 42 Elwood Lane.
Because of the attendant's anxious help, Malcolm found the proper road. Bumpy, unpaved, and with only traces of gravel, the road wound around hills, through gullies, and over ancient cowpaths. The woods were so dense that at times Malcolm could see only twenty feet from the road. His luck held, though, and when he topped a hill he saw the house above the trees to his left, at least a mile away. Malcolm pulled the car off the road, bouncing and lurching into a small clearing.
The woods were quiet, the sky was just turning pink. Malcolm quickly pushed his way through the trees. He knew he had to get close to the house before all light faded or he would never find it.
It took him half an hour of hard work. As the day shifted from sunset to twilight, he reached the top of a small hill. The house was just below him, three hundred yards away. Malcolm dropped to the ground, trying to catch his breath in the crisp, fresh air. He wanted to memorize all he could see in the fading light. Through the windows of the house he caught fleeting glimpses of moving figures. The yard was big, surrounded by a rock wall. There was a small shed behind the house.
He would wait until dark.
* * *
Inside the house Robert Atwood sat back in his favorite easy chair. While his body relaxed, his mind worked. He did not want to meet with Maronick and his men tonight, especially not here. He knew the pressure was on them, and he knew they would press him for some sort of alternate solution. At present Atwood didn't have one. The latest series of events had changed the picture considerably. So much depended on the girl. If she regained consciousness and was able to identify him… well, would be unfortunate. It was too risky to send Maronick after her, the security precautions were too tight. Atwood smiled. On the other hand, the girl's survival might pose some interesting and favorable developments, especially in dealing with Maronick. Atwood's smile broadened. The infallible Maronick had missed. True, not by much, but he had missed. Perhaps the girl, a living witness, might be useful against Maronick. Just how Atwood wasn't sure, but he decided it might be best if Maronick continued thinking the girl was dead. She could be played later in the game. For the time being Maronick must concentrate on finding Malcolm.
Atwood knew Maronick had insisted on meeting him at his home in order to commit him even further. Maronick would make it a point to be seen by someone in the neighborhood whom the police might later question should things go wrong. In this way Maronick sought to further ensure Atwood's loyalty. Atwood smiled. There were ways around that one. Perhaps the girl might prove a useful lever there.
If…
"I'm going now, dear." Atwood turned toward the speaker, a stocky gray-haired woman in an expensively cut suit. He rose and walked with his wife to the door. When he was close to his wife, his eyes invariably traveled to the tiny scars on her neck and the edge of her hairline where the plastic surgeon had stretched and lifted years from her skin. He smiled, wondering if the surgery and all her hours at an exclusive figure salon made her lover's task any more agreeable.
Elaine Atwood was fifty, five years younger than her husband and twenty-four years older than her lover. She knew the man who had driven her wild and brought back her youth as Adrian Queens, a British graduate student at American University. Her husband knew all about her lover, but he knew that Adrian Queens was really Alexy Ivan Podgovich, an aspiring KGB agent who hoped to milk the wife of a prominent American intelligence officer for information necessary to advance his career. The "affair" between Podgovich and his wife amused him and served his purposes very well. It kept Elaine busy and distracted and provided him with an opportunity to make an intelligence coup of his own. Such things never hurt a man's career, if he knows how to take advantage of opportunity.
"I may just stay over at Jane's after the concert, darling. Do you want me to call?"
"No, dear, I'll just assume you are with her if you aren't home by midnight. Don't worry about me. Give Jane my love."
The couple emerged from the house. Atwood delivered a perfunctory kiss to his wife's powdered cheek. Before she reached the car in the driveway (a sporty American car, not the Mercedes) her mind was on her lover and the long night ahead. Before Atwood closed the front door his mind was back on Maronick.
Malcolm saw the scene in the doorway, although he couldn't discern features at that distance. The wife's departure made his confidence surge. He would wait thirty minutes.
Fifteen of that thirty minutes had elapsed when Malcolm realized there were two men walking up the driveway toward the house. Their figures barely stood out from the shadows. If it hadn't been for their motion, Malcolm would never seen them. The only thing he could distinguish from his distant perch was the tail leanness of one of the men. Something about the tall man triggered Malcolm's subconscious, but he couldn't pull it to the surface. The men, after ringing the bell, vanished inside the house.
With binoculars, Malcolm might have seen the men's car. They had parked it just off the road inside the gate and walked the rest of the way. Although he wanted to leave traces of his visit to Atwood's house, Maronick saw no point in letting Atwood get a look at their car.
Malcolm counted to fifty, then began to pick his way toward the house. Three hundred yards. In the darkness it was hard to see tree limbs and creepers reaching to trip him and bring him noisily down. He moved slowly, ignoring the scratches from thornbushes. Halfway to the house, Malcolm stumbled over a stump, tearing his pants and wrenching his knee, but somehow he kept from crying out. One hundred yards. A quick, limping dash through brush stubble and long grass before he crouched behind the stone wall. Malcolm eased the heavy magnum into his hand while he fought to regain his breath. His knee throbbed, but he tried not to think about it. Over the stone wall lay the house yard. In the yard to the right was the crumbling tool shed. A few scattered evergreens stood between him and the house. To his left was blackness.
Malcolm looked at the sky. The moon hadn't risen yet. There were few clouds and the stars shone brightly. He waited, catching his breath and assuring himself his ears heard nothing unusual in the darkness. He vaulted the low wall and ran to the nearest evergreen. Fifty yards.
A shadow quietly detached itself from the tool shed to swiftly merge with an evergreen. Malcolm should have noticed. He didn't.
Another short dash brought Malcolm to within twenty-five yards of the house. Glow from inside the building lit up all but a thin strip of grass separating him and the next evergreen. The windows were low. Malcolm didn't want to chance a fleeting glance to the outside catching him running across the lawn. He sprawled to his belly and squirmed across the thin shadowed strip. Ten yards. Through open windows he could hear voices. He convinced himself different noises were his imagination playing on Mother Nature.
Malcolm took a deep breath and made a dash for the bush beneath the open window. As he was taking his second step, he heard a huffing, rushing noise. The back of his neck exploded into reverberating fire.
The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
—Traditional oath
* * *
Chapter 10
Late Tuesday Night, Early Wednesday Morning
* * *
Consciousness returned abruptly to Malcolm. He felt a dim awareness around his eyes, then suddenly his body telegraphed a desperate message to his brain: he had to vomit. He lurched forward, up, and had his head thrust into a thoughtfully provided bucket. When he stopped retching, he opened his aching eyes to take in his plight.
Malcolm blinked to clear his contacts. He was sitting on the floor of a very plush living room. In the opposite wall was a small fireplace. Two men sat in easy chairs between him and that wall. The man who shot Wendy and his companion. Malcolm blinked again.