Shadow of the Condor

by James Grady

  "Oh, for Christ's sake! I suppose we're sleeping with the gun too? Damn thing will probably go off!"

  She smiled at him tolerantly. "I locked it-in the case. Now if someone comes for us, we'll just have to depend on our good looks to keep us alive. Take the pill, it's late and Six A.M. comes early."

  Malcolm grudgingly took the pill. Ten minutes later, despite his-determination to stay awake, he felt himself drifting off. Sheila lay beside him, breathing deeply, but not, he thought, sleeping. She whispered just as his thought processes began to fuzz.

  "Malcolm, are you awake?"

  "Mmm? Yeah. If this is a mild pill, I'd hate to have any of your strong ones."

  She ignored his comment possibly, he later thought, wanting to make sure she would finish her questions before he fell asleep, catching him in the vulnerable stage of drugged semi-consciousness. He also thought she waited until then partly so she could plausibly deny any embarrassing inference he might have drawn from the conversation. At least, in later reflections, he liked to think that.

  'Those people tonight," she said, "the Stuarts. They're happy, aren't they?"

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  "You think they're happy, yet you sort of feel sorry for them ... no, that's not right. You don't feel sorry for them, you think they are wrong, mistaken, happy when they should be ... pessimistic. You think that, don't you?" Jesus, thought Malcolm, philosophy when I'm stoned. "Oh, I guess so, something like that."

  "Don't you see they're not really happy? Why, they can never be

  "Hey, missionary," Malcolm interrupted, fighting to keep awake, "it's late, you've doped me up. Don't try to convince me. Maybe they. are stupid to be happy in face of all the shit but they are. If I think anything . - . anything bad about them, it's envy. -1 guess"-Malcolm yawned-----~'l guess maybe I envy their blissful happiness."

  "You don't think you'll find it?"

  The thoughts came harder. Malcolm forced the words out. "Can't we ... no, maybe I ... I don't know. Tomorrow maybe. We'll talk about it. Let's just, say I'm, not sure I'll ever find their happiness."

  "But you don't believe in the system they see, do you?" Sheila persisted.

  "Listen," Malcolm said angrily, his fury setting off a burst of adrenalin to fight the sedative. He turned to face her and propped himself up on one elbow. He forced his eyes to stay open and his mind to stay clear. "I don't believe in their system, I don't believe in yours. I feel a damn sight more comfortable and ... optimistic about what I see around me than where you're trying to lead me. Let's leave it at that. I'm not going to convert you or even try to. You won't convert me. Like you said, this is a professional relationship, so let's cut the crap."

  He rolled over, angry with himself, not liking what he said or what he heard. Tomorrow, he thought, I'll be able to explain better tomorrow.

  "I feel sorry for you," Sheila whispered at last.

  Malcolm hadn't relaxed-yet. "Why?" he snapped back, wanting to finish the battle before he fell asleep.

  "Because you have nothing to believe in."

  "I feel sorry for you," he replied after a moment's thought.

  ‘’Why?’’

  "Because you have something to believe in."

  They said nothing else the rest of the night.

  13

  And then (as Alice afterwards described it) all sorts of things happened in a moment.

  "What the hell is he doing?" asked Kevin's assistant for the hundredth time. "It doesn't make any sense."

  Kevin, sitting in the front seat, made no reply. He had none to make.

  It was Wednesday, two days after Rose picked up the car in Chicago. That Monday he had driven all day and most of the night, stopping only for meals and gas. In the early-morning hours of Tuesday he checked into a Jamestown, North Dakota, motel, earning the begrudging gratitude of Kevin and the exhausted members of the surveillance team. Kevin and his team took refuge -at another motel, temporarily turning over their baby-sitting job to a group of local FBI agents. Kevin left three of the most alert members of his team to coordinate the locals, phoned a terse progress report to Washington, then joined his colleagues in a deep sleep.

  Nurich didn't dawdle in Jamestown. He was up and breakfasting before nine Tuesday morning. Because they had little advance warning and no way of knowing their quarry's itinerary, the surveillance team had to skip the luxury of breakfast in a restaurant. The local police managed 'to deliver hamburgers from an all-night processed quick-food chain to the surveillance teams as they satin their cars. Two of the local FBI agents ate in the restaurant with Rose. They reported nothing unusual,

  After breakfast Nurich headed west on U.S. 94, a modern, four-lane interstate highway running straight across North Dakota's broad, empty flatlands. The green was just beginning to color the brown plains. There were almost no hills. Visibility extended for miles. The surveillance teams had to stay well ahead and well behind their quarry to avoid being seen.

  Everything went fine until they were less than an hour from Bismarck and the state's center. Then, for no apparent reason, Rose began to vary his speed, first slowing to as low as 35 mph, then speeding to 70 and 75. The first time he slowed his speed, the lead car following him drew too close and had to pass. Kevin ordered the car to continue to Bismarck, assuming Rose would remember it if he saw it again. That memory might blow the whole surveillance. No sooner had Kevin radioed his other teams and readjusted the box than Rose shot ahead at 75 mph. He passed the tail car of the front-end surveillance team and almost came in sight of the point car. Kevin immediately ordered the blown lead car to drop back, radioed the remaining lead car and ordered it to take up the point position well in advance of Rose. Kevin also began to sweat.

  It was then that his assistant said for the first time, "What the hell is he doing? It can't be car trouble."

  "I don't think so either," replied Kevin' "and I wish it were." He looked across the broad plains. He could see for miles. "If Rose continues this frog hopping, he'll eventually blow all of us."

  "You think he knows we're here?"

  "No," replied Kevin thoughtfully, "no, that doesn't seem right. I don't think he knows we're here, I think he's worried that we might be. It's kind of funny. He's supposed to be the one in the bind, and now he's turned the tables. We can't let him know we're watching him and yet we also can't lose him. We can't follow closely or he'll spot us. If we drop too far away, he'll lose us.'

  "Why the hell did he wait until now to play cat and mouse?"

  Kevin smiled. "Oh, he's been playing all along. Remember the bus? How careful he was in Chicago and New York? He's been playing but he saved his big moves for here. Look," Kevin said, pointing out the car windows, "can you think of a harder place to keep a man in your sight inconspicuously.

  His assistant slowly turned his head, gazing across the broad Dakota prairies. He shuddered. "Give me'the Bronx and its parking problems anytime. You can at least blend, into the crowd. So what do we do now? Eventually he'll catch us short of cars, the box will break and he'll be gone. Even if we could get a helicopter, it would stick out more than a fleet of us cruising behind him."

  Kevin didn't reply. They rode in silence until they reached Bismarck.

  His assistant broke the stillness. "What the hell is he doing now? This isn't the right way!"

  Rose's Logical route to Montana continued west on U.S. 94. Rose defied the logical route. He drove through the business section of Bismarck, then cut north from U.S. 94 on a secondary highway. The lead surveillance car was barely able to cut across Bismarck using another route and get in front of Rose before he left the urban area.

  Kevin looked at his assistant and driver. Both were nervously sweating too.

  "Sir," said the driver, "he does many more changes like that and we'll lose him for sure. The lead teams will go first, then with his change-up speeds he'll pick us trail cars off one by one."

  "I know," replied Kevin, "I know." He thought for a moment, then smiled. "There's a cha
nce. A small one, but it's better than nothing. Hand me the radio."

  It took Kevin almost thirty minutes to confirm that his plan was possible. He had to call the old man, and the old man had to go through the Attorney General's office to get the necessary clout. A number of political favors were traded to get Kevin what he wanted. As Rose pulled into Underwood, North Dakota, halfway between Minot and Bismarck; Carl radioed back the affirmation. The logistics were tight, but Kevin knew he had no choice.

  He dropped out of the surveillance box, calling his reserve unit to take up the slack. He ordered every unmarked law-enforcement car he could commandeer-FBI, state, highway patrol, local sheriff, Treasury Department and even military police-into the central North Dakota area. Then he turned back to Bismarck. Sirens blaring, he made the return journey in almost half the time.

  Kevin based his plan on experience and logic. Rose could and probably would break up the surveillance box much as the driver had described. In the flatlands of North Dakota the surveillance team stood almost no chance of maintaining a surreptitious watch on their quarry. Clearly, something had to give.

  Virtually every state highway patrol or state police force uses a simplified radar device to trap speeders. The device is portable and can be fitted in any normal car with little difficulty. The radar readings are not overly sophisticated, and the range is considerably limited. The North Dakota highway patrol has radar units capable of tracking speeders up to eight miles away, providing no major hills interfere; In North Dakota major hills prove no obstacle.

  Kevin ordered three of his surveillance cars fitted with radar units transferred from North Dakota highway patrol cars. He also borrowed four trained police operators. The head of the North Dakota highway patrol was only too happy to oblige the Justice Department, especially after learning his unit would receive "special consideration" when the Law Enforcement Assistance Administration reviewed grant applications the next year.

  It took three sets of technicians twenty minutes to install the radar sets in Kevin's cars. While he waited, Kevin kept in constant communication with the units watching Rose. Then, with a state police escort and sirens screaming, Kevin and his men raced north across secondary highways in time to intercept Rose, who had cut east just after Kevin left the box, then doubled back northwest on another highway.

  Kevin reestablished the box. He stationed one of the radar cars in front of Rose while another radar car followed. Kevin brought up the rear in another radar car. He also called off the auxiliary help he had requisitioned: That represented no loss. Rose had blown six of the cars. Kevin assigned two of his own backup units to the lead radar car and kept the remaining two for his posterior team.

  "We have to assume," Kevin explained to his assistant, the driver and the young, eager, purloined highway patrolman, "that Rose will take some quick turns and shake the lead tail. When that happens, we'll have to play along behind him until the lead car catches up, passes us and Rose, and reestablishes the box. The second time Rose shakes the lead one of the rear radar cars will have to pass him because be will have seen the original lead car. The original lead car will then be the tail-end backup. Rose can make six changes before he'll see the same radar car twice. If we're lucky, the box will hold together."

  "You realize, sir," the patrolman offered nervously, "the radar is no good in heavy traffic or in a town. It's too hard to distinguish between blips."

  "With the backup units we should be able to keep track of him through major cities. As for heavy traffic-, well, out here that isn't a factor. That's what got us into this bind in the first place. I know it has problems, but it's the only solution we've got."

  Rose continued north, varying his, speed from time to time. He often pulled into rest stops and service stations. All the time Kevin and his teams kept as far out of sight as the radar allowed them. Each time Rose passed through a populated area the non-radar cars closed the gap enough to keep him under visual surveillance. By nightfall they had driven a full circle and were back in Jamestown. Rose stayed at a different motel. His watchers delighted their previous motel host by booking his place full for a second night. Business was slow that time of year. A large party of government employees was always a welcome bonus.

  "So you don't think he's uncovered the surveillance yet?" the old man asked Kevin over the phone that night.

  "No, sir. I still think he's fishing. We've been very, very lucky. He's also not working at it as hard as he could. That may be because he hasn't seen us and in his normal routine he doesn't want to use all his tricks unless he has to. If he has seen us, he may be deliberately stringing us along."

  "It's all very confusing," sighed the old man. "The CIA informs me that the secretary to the Soviet UN mission they've been wooing lo these many months has passed on some information which might help us. A Chicago resident agent made a pickup of some machine from a trade mission on the weekend. He also received unspecified funds and some miscellaneous equipment, including a handgun. The secretary says the items were for delivery to an agent passing through Chicago. The secretary thinks the resident agent would use a local recruit or a cutout system. He also thinks the material is connected with the case he told the CIA about before."

  "How genuine is this secretary?"

  "Well, the CIA thinks he's honest. They are very satisfied with his background. They've started feeding him money, honor, the usual routine. It is now official that as soon as they pump him fairly dry, they plan on turning the tables and sending him back."

  "Have they pushed-for any more information that we could use?"

  "They aren't to the pushing stage yet. I feel fortunate that we've been able to get them to cooperate as much as we have. Have any of Rose's old contacts been active?"

  "No," replied Kevin, "the Brooks woman in New York and the truck driver Pulaski have been quiet. The agents following Woodward report erratic behavior by him, but I thinks that's more a function of the man than his mission."

  "No doubt."

  "I'm hoping for a hunch to pan out. We've been pretty sure that Rose checks back with his previous contact just before each phase ends. We connected phone calls between phone booths that the contacts and Rose used at about the same time. If Rose sticks to that pattern, he's due to check in with Woodward soon." '),

  "What good does that do us? We can't cover all the pay phones in Chicago, let alone get taps on them."

  "We don't have too," Kevin explained eagerly. "The surveillance team covering Woodward reported he got a phone call at a pay phone on the North Side at the same time Rose was making a call. Shortly after that Woodward dropped the car off and Rose picked it up. I'm assuming that particular pay phone is the link between Rose and Woodward. If Rose follows the pattern, he'll call Woodward on that phone at an arranged time. Just in case we're right, I've got a twenty-four-hour tap on it. They'll probably talk code, but we might pick something out of it, and if we lose Rose before he calls, we might trace him through the phone call."

  "Kevin, my boy," the old man said admiringly, "that's brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I'm ashamed, very ashamed that I didn't think of that. Very ashamed."

  Kevin ignored the compliment. Praise made him nervous. Besides, he thought the old man sounded peculiar, almost as though he might be slightly annoyed that he had not come up with the plan. Kevin didn't want to prod whatever emotion came through the old man's words. He -shifted topics. "Do you think we should alert Condor?"

  "No, not yet. I'm still hoping he'll turn up something on his own. If we tell him everything that has happened, he might get overly anxious and blow whatever chances he has. For now, we'll give him routine reports letting him know where Rose is, but not that he is getting fancy. Don’t lose Rose now, Kevin," commanded the old man, "he's getting close, very, very close.".

  "He should be very close by now, sir," Serov told his superior. "He has left Chicago and should be in North Dakota. Not all that far from the missile. He is supposed to check in with Woodward in less than fifteen hou
rs."

  "Good," replied Ryzhov, "very good. And after that he makes the run and if everything goes according to plan, we hear no more from our GRU Comrade Nurich."

  "Yes, sir," replied Serov deferentially. "Might I make a suggestion?"

  "Go on.’’

  "Perhaps now is the time we try to ensure that we give them a fairly comprehensible but incomplete package."

  Ryzhov smiled. "Perhaps you are right. Yes, yes, I think you are. Go ahead."

  Serov nodded. Underneath his desk he wiped his sweaty palms on his pants.

  ….

  The FBI agent in charge of the Woodward detail was unhappy. Thursday was normally his day off, but here it was, Thursday, a nice spring Thursday too; warm after a nasty cold spell, and he was sitting in a car outside the electronics shop where Woodward worked, waiting for something to happen. Except for Woodward acting as weird as the reports said he might, nothing had occurred in the five days the agent had worked on the case. The agent looked at his watch. Ten o'clock in the morning. Normally he would just be getting up, maybe calling for his wife to come visit him in bed and take a break from her household chores. He thought of his wife's broad hips, soft hands, and sighed.

  His partner nudged him out of his delightful daydream: "Look."

  Woodward had emerged from the shop. He nervously stood on the corner glancing at the people who passed him and occasionally looking over his shoulder. He wore a corduroy blazer over a shirt and cheap dress slacks. He kept the bottom button on the blazer fastened. The FBI agent wondered if it was true that he carried a gun. Woodward .quickly crossed the street as the light changed. The agent picked up the radio mike.

  “Unit Four to Central and all other W units.’’ Subject has left work, headed west. All units, pick up on him and roll."

  Woodward boarded a northbound Clark Street bus. The commanding agent and two other cars formed a box around the bus as it headed away from the Loop area. The traffic was light. Twenty minutes later Woodward left the bus and walked to a McDonald's on Clark Street.