Three Days of the Condor

by James Grady

  "Yes, my name is Henry Cooper. My brother is flying out today for an overdue vacation. Getting away from it all, you understand. He didn't tell anyone where he was going for sure because he hadn't made up his mind. What we want to do is give him a last-minute going-away present. He's already left his apartment, but we think he's on Flight 27, leaving at six. Could you tell me if he has a reservation?"

  There was slight pause, then, "Yes, Mr. Cooper, your brother has booked a reservation on that flight for… Chicago. He hasn't picked up his ticket yet."

  "Fine, I really appreciate this. Could you do me another favor and not tell him we called? The surprise is named Wendy, and there's a chance she'll be either flying with him or taking the next plane."

  "Of course, Mr. Cooper. Shall I make a reservation for the lady?"

  "No, thank you. I think we better wait and see how it works out at the airport. The plane leaves at six, right?"

  "Right."

  "Fine, we'll be there. Thank you."

  "Thank you, sir, for thinking of TWA."

  Malcolm stepped out of the phone booth. He brushed some lint off his sleeve. Atwood's uniform fitted him fairly well, though it was somewhat bulky. The shoes were a loose fit and his feet tended to slip in them. The highly polished leather creaked as he walked from the parking lot into the main lobby of National Airport. He carried the raincoat draped over his arm and pulled the hat low over his forehead.

  Malcolm dropped an unstamped envelope addressed to the CIA in a mailbox. The letter contained all he knew, including Maronick's alias and flight number. The Condor hoped he wouldn't have to rely on the U.S. postal system.

  The terminal was beginning to fill with the bustling people who would pass through it during the day. A wheezing janitor swept cigarette butts off the red rug. A mother tried to coax a bored infant into submission. A nervous coed sat wondering if her roommate's half-fare card would work. There young Marines headed home to Michigan wondered if she would work. A retired wealthy executive and a penniless wino slept in adjoining chairs, both waiting for daughters to fly in from Detroit. A Fuller Brush executive sat perfectly still, bracing himself for the effects of a jet flight on a gin hangover. The programmer for the piped-in music had decided to jazz up the early-morning hours, and a nameless orchestra played watered-down Beatle music.

  Malcolm strode to a set of chairs within hearing range of the TWA desk. He sat next to the three Marines, who respectfully ignored his existence. He held a magazine so it obscured most of his face. His eyes never left the TWA desk. His right hand slipped inside the Navy jacket to bring the silenced automatic out. He slipped his gun-heavy hand under the raincoat and settled back to wait.

  At precisely 5:30 Maronick walked confidently through the main doors. The striking gentleman had developed a slight limp, the kind observers invariably try to avoid looking at and the kind they always watch. The limp dominates their impression and their mind blurs the other details their eyes record. A uniform often accomplishes the same thing.

  Maronick had grown a mustache with the help of a theatrical-supply house, and when he stopped at the TWA desk Malcolm did not recognize him. But Maronick's soft voice drew his attention, and he strained to hear the conversation.

  "My name is James Cooper. I believe you have a reservation for me."

  The desk clerk flipped her head slightly to place the wandering auburn lock where it belonged. "Yes, Mr. Cooper, Flight 27 to Chicago. You have about fifteen minutes until boarding time."

  "Fine." Maronick paid for his ticket, checked his one bag, and walked aimlessly away from the counter. Almost empty, he thought. Good. A few servicemen, everything normal; mother and baby, normal; old drunks, normal; college girl, normal. No large preponderance of men standing around busily doing nothing. No one scurrying to phones, including the girl behind the desk. Everything normal. He relaxed even more and began to stroll, checking the terminal and giving his legs the exercise they would miss on the long flight. He didn't notice the Navy captain who slowly joined him at a distance of twenty paces.

  Malcolm almost changed his mind when he saw Maronick looking so confident and capable. But it was too late for that. Help might not arrive in time and Maronick might get away. Besides, this was something Malcolm had to do himself. He fought down the drug-edged nervousness. He would get only one chance.

  National Airport, while not breathtakingly beautiful, is attractive. Maronick allowed himself to admire the symmetry of the corridors he passed through. Fine colors, smooth lines.

  Suddenly he stopped. Malcolm barely had time to dodge behind a rack of comic books. The proprietress gave him a withering glance but said nothing. Maronick checked his watch and held a quick debate with himself. He would just have time. He began to move again, substituting a brisk walk for his leisurely stroll. Malcolm followed his example, carefully avoiding loud foot-steps on the marble stretches. Maronick took a sudden right and passed through a door, which swung shut behind him.

  Malcolm trotted to the door. His hand holding the gun under the raincoat was sweating from the heat, the drug, and his nerves. He stopped outside the brown door. Gentlemen. He looked around him. No one. Now or never. Being careful to keep the gun between his body and the door, he pulled the weapon out from under the coat. He tossed the heavy raincoat to a nearby chair. Finally, his heart beating against his chest, he leaned on the door.

  It opened easily and quietly. One inch. Malcolm could see the glistening white brightness of the room. Mirrors sparkled on the wall to his far left. He opened the door a foot. The wall with the door had a line of three shiny sinks. He could see four urinals on the opposite wall, and he could make out the corner of one stall. No one stood at the sinks or the urinals. Lemony disinfectant tingled his nose. He pushed the door open and stepped in. It closed behind him with a soft woosh and he leaned heavily against it.

  The room was brighter than the spring day outside the building. The piped-in music found no material capable of absorbing its volume, so the sound echoed off the tile walls— cold, crisp, blaring notes. There were three stalls opposite Malcolm. In the one on the far left he could see shoes, toes pointed toward him. Their polish added to the brightness of the room. The flute in the little box on the ceiling posed a gay musical question and the piano answered. Malcolm slowly raised the gun. The sound of toilet paper turning a spindle cued the band. The flute piped a more melancholy note as it inquired once more. A tiny click from the gun's safety preceded the sound of tearing paper and the piano's soft reply.

  The gun jumped in Malcolm's hand. A hole tore through the thin metal stall door. Inside the stall the legs jerked, then pushed upward. Maronick, slightly wounded in the neck, desperately reached for the gun in his back pocket, but his pants were around his ankles. Maronick normally carried his gun holstered either at his belt or under his arm, but he had planned to ditch the weapon before passing through the security screening at the airport. There would probably be no need of a gun this stage of the plan, especially at a large, crowded airport, but the cautious Maronick put his gun in his back pocket, unobtrusive but sometimes awkward to reach, just in case.

  Malcolm fired again. Another bullet tore through screeching metal to bury itself in Maronick's chest and fling his body against the wall. Malcolm fired again, and again and again and again. The gun spat the spent cartridge cases onto the tile floor. Bitter cordite mixed with the lemony smell. Malcolm's third bullet ripped a hole through Maronick's stomach. Maronick sobbed softly, and fell down along the right side of the metal cage. His weakening arm depressed the plunger. The woosh of water and waste momentarily drowned out his sobs and the coughs from the gun. As Malcolm fired the fourth time, a passing stewardess hearing the muffled cough remembered it was cold season. She vowed to buy some vitamins. That bullet missed Maronick's sinking form. The lead shattered on the tile wall, sending little pieces of shrapnel into the metal walls and tile roof.

  A few hit Maronick's back, but they made no difference. Malcolm's fifth bullet buried itsel
f in Maronick's left hip, positioning man on the stool.

  Malcolm could see the arms and feet of a man slumped on a toilet. A few red flecks stained the tile pattern. Slowly, almost deliberately, Maronick's body began to slide of the toilet. Malcolm had to be sure before he confronted the man's face so he squeezed the trigger for the last two rounds. An awkward knee on a naked and surprisingly hairless leg jammed against a stall post. The body shifted slightly as it settled to the floor. Malcolm could see enough of the pale face. Death replaced Maronick's striking appearance with a rather common, glassy dullness. Malcolm dropped the gun to the floor. It skidded to a stop near the body.

  It took Malcolm a few minutes to find a phone booth. Finally a pretty oriental stewardess helped the rather dazed naval officer. He even had to borrow a dime from her.

  "493-7282." Mitchell's voice wavered slightly.

  Malcolm took his time. In a very tired voice he said, "This is Malcolm. It's over. Maronick is dead. Why don't you send somebody to pick me up? I'm at National Airport. So is Maronick. I'm the guy in the Navy uniform by the Northwest terminal."

  Three carloads of agents arrived two minutes ahead of the squad car summoned by the janitor who had found more than dirty toilets in his rest room.

  The whole is equal to the sum of its parts.

  —Traditional mathematical concept

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  Wednesday Afternoon

  * * *

  "It was like shooting birds in a cage." The three men sipped their coffee. Powell looked at the smiling old man and Dr. Lofts. "Maronick didn't stand a chance."

  The old man looked at the doctor. "Do you have any explanation for Malcolm's actions?"

  The large man considered his answer, then said, "Without having talked to him at great length, no. Given his experiences of the last few days, especially the deaths of his friends and his belief that the girl was dead, his upbringing, training, and the general situation he found himself in, to say nothing of the drug's possible effect, I think his reaction was logical."

  Powell nodded. He turned to his superior and said, "How's Atwood?"

  "Oh, he will live, for a while at least. I always wondered about his oafishness. He did too well to be the idiot he played. He can be replaced. How are we handling Maronick's death?"

  Powell grinned. "Very carefully. The police don't like it, but we've pressured them into accepting the idea that the Capitol Hill Killer committed suicide in the men's room of National Airport. Of course, we had to bribe the janitor to forget what he saw. No real problems, however."

  A phone by the old man's elbow rang. He listened for a few moments, then hung up. He pushed the button next to the phone and the door opened.

  Malcolm was coming down from the drug. He had spent three hours bordering on hysteria, and during that time he had talked continually. Powell, Dr. Lofts, and the old man heard six days compressed into three hours. They told him Wendy was alive after he finished, and when they took him to see her he was dazed by exhaustion. He stared at the peacefully sleeping form in the bright, antiseptic room and seemed not to be aware of the nurse standing beside him. "Everything will be fine." She said it twice but got no reaction. All Malcolm could see of Wendy was a small head swathed in bandages and a sheet-covered form connected by wires and plastic tubing to a complicated machine. "My God," he whispered with mixed relief and regret, "my God." They let him stand there in silence for several minutes before they sent him out to be cleaned up. Now he had on clothes from his apartment, but he looked strange even in them.

  "Ah, Malcolm, dear boy, sit down. We won't keep you long." The old man was at his charming best, but he failed to affect Malcolm.

  "Now, we don't want you to worry about a thing. Everything is taken care of. After you've had a nice long rest, we want you to come back and talk to us. You will do that, won't you, my boy?"

  Malcolm slowly looked at the three men. To them his voice seemed very old, very tired. To him it seemed new. "I don't have much choice, do I?"

  The old man smiled, patted him on the back, and, mumbling platitudes, led him to the door. When he returned to his seat, Powell looked at him and said, "Well, sir, that's the end of our Condor."

  The old man's eyes twinkled. "Don't be so sure, Kevin, my boy, don't be so sure."

  * * *

  About the Author

  * * *

  James Grady, journalist and author of over ten acclaimed works of suspense and espionage, published his first and most enduring work, Six Days of the Condor, when he was twenty four years old. It provided the basis for Sydney Pollack's classic 1975 film Three Days of the Condor, which featured an all-star cast, including Faye Dunaway and Robert Redford as the Condor. Grady followed up this enormous success with 1975's Shadow of the Condor.

  Grady has also worked as a consultant and story editor for movies and television, and an investigative reporter for Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Jack Anderson. The latter occupation has provided raw material for many of his later novels, including Razor Game (1981) and Runner in the Street (1984). A native of Montana, Grady now makes his home in Washington, D.C., the city which has inspired much of his fiction.

  * * *

  About this Title

  * * *

  RosettaBooks is the leading publisher dedicated exclusively to electronic editions of great works of fiction and non-fiction that reflect our world. RosettaBooks strives to improve the quality of its electronic books. We welcome your comments and suggestions. Please write to Editor@RosettaBooks.com

  We hope you enjoyed Three Days of the Condor. If you are interested in learning more about the book and Author, we suggest you visit the RosettaBooks Connection at:

  www.RosettaBooks.com/

  ThreeDaysoftheCondor

  Table of Contents

  eForeword

  Preface

  Chapter 1 Wednesday

  Chapter 2 Thursday, Morning to Early Afternoon

  Chapter 3 Thursday Afternoon

  Chapter 4 Thursday Evening-Friday Morning

  Chapter 5 Saturday

  Chapter 6 Sunday

  Chapter 7 Monday, Morning to MidAfternoon

  Chapter 8 Late Monday

  Chapter 9 Tuesday, Morning through Early Evening

  Chapter 10 Late Tuesday Night, Early Wednesday Morning

  Chapter 11 Wednesday Morning

  Chapter 12 Wednesday Afternoon

  About the Author

  About this Title