by James Grady
But Malcolm wasn't alone. Chou fired before the screen door he kicked open bounced back to its closed position. His first bullet passed through Krumin's right knee, sending the man writhing to the floor in pain. Chou was inside the kitchen before the screen door slammed shut. His second bullet shattered Shirley Kincaid’s brain as she turned to face the enemy to her rear.
Malcolm reached Krumin in time to kick the gun from his desperately rising hand. Malcolm looked into the kitchen just after Chou's pistol cracked a third -time and Fran Robinson slid down the front of the kitchen sink, streaking her fine, bourgeois chrome with Russian blood.
"No!" Malcolm screamed. He saw Neil Robinson sitting at the kitchen table, the beer bottle still clutched in his hands. The man watched his wife slide to the floor. Resigned to his fate, he turned to look at his executioner. Malcolm had time to scream "No!" a second time before Chou's gun cracked and Neil's head snapped back, then slumped forward to the table.
Chou stood almost impassively in front of Malcolm. Malcolm opened his mouth to scream at him a third time when Chou yelled, "Behind you, Malcolm!"
Malcolm whirled without thinking. Clare Stowe, the "grandmother," one of Krumin's earliest comrades, was charging across the living room. She had been upstairs monitoring the radio, waiting for a call which would never come, when the shooting broke out. She didn't have a gun, but she charged Malcolm's with a pair of sewing scissors raised high above her head, hoping against hope to get at least one deep stab.
McGiffert's training made Malcolm react before he could think. He fired three quick rounds from the crouched position. All three slugs smashed into the woman, halting her charge and throwing her body backward. Malcolm saw blood blossom on her stomach, her chest and her left shoulder before her body thumped backward onto the floor. Death flashed across her face before her head smacked against the polished wood and lay still.
"Oh, my God," Malcolm said, the words quietly falling from his mouth. He stood straight, his arms lowered to his side. The gun in his hand pulled his shoulders lower. He stared at the woman's black shoes jutting awkwardly to the ceiling.
Chou's voice came softly from behind him. "I'll check the rest of the house and summon Sheila. Tie Krumin's wound shut."
The Chinese turned Malcolm to the moaning figure on the floor. A dishtowel lay beside the man's bleeding leg. Malcolm felt Chou take his gun from his hand, then Malcolm knelt and bound the dish towel around the Russian's knee, all the while avoiding looking at the man's face.
Malcolm was still kneeling over Krumin when Sheila gently touched his arm. Malcolm looked up at her. She smiled at him, consolingly, comfortingly. There was no happiness on her face. She led him to a chair, then resumed her preparations. Chou stood nearby, watching. Malcolm was vaguely aware that he now carried neither gun.
Sheila moved briskly, efficiently, wasting no effort. She checked Malcolm's tourniquet and found it satisfactory for her needs. From her knapsack she withdrew a small, battery-driven tape recorder and her medical kit. The injection took only seconds. Within a minute Krumin had ceased moaning. She carefully checked his eyes, his pulse, his breathing, then flipped on the recorder. She glanced at Chou. .
"You know what we need to know. My Russian is good enough to understand a little. If I think of anything, I'll. tell you and you ask."
Sheila nodded. She slowly talked to the wounded man. At first he didn't respond, but gradually she drew more and more from him until his replies were as long as her questions.
Malcolm glanced at Chou. The Chinese stood above Krumin.
Chou smiled as Sheila asked her questions. He seemed to glow. From pride, thought Malcolm, satisfaction. Malcolm looked back to the old woman's corpse on the living room floor, then to the kitchen. He closed his eyes and forced himself to swallow. He kept his eyes closed as he tried to shut out his surroundings.
Chou's words jarred him back to reality. The Chinese, speaking in English, said, "Now for the Americans. Let's give them a little present besides the return of their borrowed bird. Ask about this, about the man who died in the missile site, about the Russian the Americans killed Saturday night. Put a fresh cartridge in first."
Chou turned to Malcolm. "Unfortunately, Malcolm, friend, Comrade Krumin will respond best in his native tongue. You will have to wait until the tape is translated to learn what a fascinating experience you have participated in. Oh, well, I'm sure you don’t mind." Chou nodded to Sheila. She quickly changed the cartridge in the machine, then began the questions again.
Three minutes later she looked at Chou and in English said, "it's finished. The wound is too much to continue with questioning." She handed both tape cartridges to Chou. He pocketed one and walked over to Malcolm. Chou stuck the other tape cartridge in Malcolm's jean jacket pocket, then buttoned the flap securely.
"Sheila," commanded Chou, "there are seven vehicles in this town. Remove all the distributor caps and bring them to me."
Sheila left without a word.
Chou tilted Malcolm's head. Malcolm was too weak to make any resistance.
"So," said Chou softly, "our association comes to an end. I must tell you that it has been fascinating to work with you, simply fascinating. I'm sure your superiors win find our efforts equally enthralling. Whatever you have to tell them will not harm us in the slightest. Since I cleared up a mess they botched and left them the tape a& a nice little present, they should be well disposed toward my country and myself. All in all, I would say it has been a very satisfactory alliance, wouldn’t you?
Malcolm stared at Chou numbly. Chou smiled back. They watched each other like that for several minutes, until Sheila returned with an armload of distributor caps.
"Excellent, my dear. I'm sure ' I don't have to ask you if you got them all. You wouldn’t miss any, not knowing what I would do if I didn't trust you and decided to check up on your efforts. Put them in your pack. We can leave the recorder, but take your medical kit. I'll bring the pack when I come. Hand me the camera."
Sheila reached in the knapsack and gave Chou a Japanese 35 mm camera. She dropped the bag as ordered, then stood.
"It’s a good thing the lights are bright enough that we don't need a flash. Still subjects help too." Chou flashed a. smile at them, but they ignored his joke. He gestured with his head. "Take our Condor outside. I will join you presently."
Sheila led Malcolm out the side door. He had to pass through the kitchen.
They got to the middle of the road before the crack came from inside the house. Malcolm jerked at the sound of the gun's report. He turned to face Sheila and said, "Oh, my God!"
Sheila grabbed both of Malcolm's arms and shook him as if he were a small child. She pushed him back roughly and hissed at him, "What did you expect? What did you think this was, a parlor' game? Don't tell me you couldn't guess about Chou after the day at the farm. You knew he was no ordinary agent, that he isn't sent after information! Do you really think any government would waste a man like Chou on mere snooping? You knew, you had to know he was an assassin, a killer, a small army. You knew what he would do. Maybe you wouldn't admit it to yourself, but don't hide behind shock. It won't do any good anyway."
Malcolm stared at her. Her eyes shone in the darkness, perhaps tears reflecting the slight glow from the house's lights. It’s just . . . I just I hoped. He shook his head. He heard Chou moving in the house. He knew the Chinese would join them soon. "What about . . . '’
Sheila interrupted him. "What about us? My God, as you say, don't be a fool. You knew that too. And so did 1. It's over, whatever it was, it's over, finished, gone."
"Sheila, ‘’
"Sheila, You nothing. What would you have me do? Desert my life's work, everything I believe in, my past, my country, my people? For you? I know you wouldn't come with me. For one thing, Chou wouldn't let you, it isn't part of the plan. And do you think he would let me stay? And do you think your superiors would let me stay without me selling them my soul, my very existence?
"We're pawns,
we're tiny, insignificant pawns. You think Chou is letting you live out of . . . gratitude or chivalry? If your position on a living square didn't benefit us, he would shoot you without the slightest hesitation and with no trouble. And I would be powerless to stop him! Powerless, powerless.
"Oh, Malcolm," she said, her voice losing its edge, "don't you see we have no choice?" She took him in her arms, briefly holding him against her.
"Sometimes," she said, her voice muffled in his clothing, "sometimes you'll think of me, and it will cross your mind that everything I did was part of my mission, that you were another airman. That's not true, but the doubt will always be there, And maybe that's good. Maybe it will help you. Quit this, Malcolm, quit this thing we do. You'll either die from it or it will kill what is good about you and replace it with its own life in your shell. Either way you lose, you're dead. You're either too human or not human enough to survive.
She pulled herself from his grasp. He didn't have the strength to hold her. They were staring at each other when Chou rejoined them.
"Well, how sweet," he said. "As I'm sure my comrade has told you, this is where we parL Where we all part."
Malcolm looked at him. Once again the thought of killing Chou crossed his mind, but once again his mind held onto control. He knew Chou read his thoughts. The Chinese smiled.
"There are no vehicles left operating. The phones are all out. The homosexual brothers are the nearest farm, and I would be leery of approaching them unexpectedly in the dead of night with a crazy story. The deaf old man at the end of the road will be of little help: How could you explain all this? My suggestion is you walk back to town and call your superiors. It would be fascinating to stay and see how they sort this mess out but, unfortunately, we must be going. We will, of course, disable your jeep.
"I know you dislike me, but I'm sure you will grant me one more small favor, if not for my sake, for my comrade's. Just to be sure we are safe, could you please not contact your superiors for . . . oh, let's say an hour or two? That's assuming you can find a way to do so in that time period."
Chou reached across the short distance between them and touched Malcolm's cheek. "Good-bye, Malcolm. It has been simply fascinating to know you. I hope we never have to see each other again, if you know what I mean."
Chou dropped his hand and headed up the road. Sheila glanced briefly at Malcolm, then turned her back and trudged away behind Chou. Malcolm stood in the middle of Whitlash's one street and watched them walk slowly from his-life.
It took Malcolm over an hour to walk from the silent town to the even more silent, glowing missile site. It wasn't that far, but Malcolm moved very slowly. He plodded vacantly over the prairie sod. Occasionally he kicked loose a rock and listened to it bounce off into the darkness. He walked with his head bowed and his hands thrust deep in his jeans' front pockets. Once' he stepped on some cactus., but it was too early in the year for the soft spines to hurt his leather boots.
Malcolm watched the missile for three hours. His contacts burned in his eyes, his legs were numb from standing, but he didn't sit down. He thought of nothing, he just, stared at the concrete slab and the bright lights on the other side of the chain-link fence. Half an hour before sunrise, as the false dawn began to chase away the shadows, he reached out and grabbed the fence with both hands. He shook the strong metal links as hard as he could for several minutes, then he bent to the ground and began to throw rocks over the fence. AR his missiles missed the ventilator shafts, but one rolled against the side of a TV monitor. Malcolm stopped three stones later, turned his back to the missile and slumped down against the fence.
"Oh, Jesus, not again!" shouted the duty officer at the missile security control as the red light lit up underneath the missile's number and the bells screamed. He punched the scramble button, then picked up the phone. In less than thirty seconds he was talking to the base commander, saying, "Sir, you're not going to believe this, but. . . ."
The first two security helicopters came in low from the south. By the time they got there it was light enough to see almost everything. They circled the missile site, scanning the area. The pilot of the command helicopter nudged his copilot as they saw Malcolm look up at their approach. Malcolm made no gesture. The copilot snorted and said, "Well, at least this one is alive."
19
You see, Kitty, it must have been either me or the Red King. He was part of my dream, of course-but then I was part of his dream, too! Was it the Red King, Kitty?
"There's one thing I still don't quite understand," Kevin said to the old man as they sat in the Washington Circle town house two days later. "I"he tape explains how they caught Parkins after he followed Krumin to Whitlash, how Krumin and the neighbor Kincaid shot him, tells about their mission and all. But I just don't see what the worth of it was.
"Look at it," he continued, "Nurich and the three people they blew getting him across the country, our man in Berlin KGB headquarters they were using by the way, other sources report he has dropped from sight and we haven't heard from him. I'm sure he's been picked up. As for the others, we think we can trade the Brooks woman for Cummings; he's not worth much to them and neither is she. If you do persuade Forty to keep the-bureau from pressing charges, the Pulaskis will keep quiet and we have everything covered from that angle. Then there's the UN secretary the CIA has been wooing: If the Russians deliberately used him, they must know that now we don’t trust him. We'll stiff all pretend, but his value is negligible to both sides. They wasted all that when all they had to do was quietly clear out Gamayun.
"Gamayun's strategic value was almost nothing. Good God, guerrilla warfare in northern Montana? Those people out there would stop that without our help. We'd have to restrain them from witch-hunting. Sure, Krumin must have funneled some valuable stuff through Gamayun, but nothing he couldn't have gotten out another way. It would be a different story if the missiles were susceptible to intelligence or that machine worked, but it doesn't. The people at National Reconnaissance Project agree with what Krumin said on the tape; the machine is worthless.
"So why all this fuss?"
"Kevin, my boy," the old man said quietly, "I can only make an educated guess.
"One thing I always remember in our work is Lord Radcliffe's note in his 1962 report on British security: He said, 'The Government's secrets are quite often ephemeral.' I think that is important to remember here. Gamayun was of ephemeral, transitory worth. Its intrinsic worth had long since been outdated. But its value, its currency within Soviet internal affairs, ah, that is a different matter, and I think that is where we find the key to Gamayun.
"Krumin and his projects were an integral part of the KGB structure. I'm sure that somewhere there is a very important, very high-ranking KGB officer who used Krumin and Gamayun as ongoing proof of his achievements, even though Gamayun was essentially worthless. It is an old Parkinson observation that a bureaucracy, in order to maintain itself, will elevate non-productivity to the point where productivity is secondary and existence is primary. If a bureaucracy allows even a dead or worthless appendage to be trimmed, if it admits that something it has or is doing is of no value, then the bureaucracy feels its power threatened. The bureaucracy, and in Gamayun's case probably particularly the chief commander, realized that when a little power is lost, the rest is jeopardized. One of the ironies of such -a situation is that the more worthless the project is, the more vulnerable the bureaucracy and the harder one has to work to protect oneself. I am sure that in order to protect his power base, the overall commander of Gamayun pushed it as high on the priority list as he could. The domino effect also came into play: The higher in value Gamayun rose, the more the commander's power grew. Gamayun was very important to someone. Very important
"And I disagree with you about Gamayun's strategic importance. True, the cold-war fifth-column. strategy is outmoded and possibly may never have been valid, but think of it: a complete secure base-that deaf old man gave them no trouble. Krumin and his KGB superior controlled an en
tire American town. An impeccable cover! For training purposes alone it must have been extremely valuable. I doubt they used it much, but when they did, it came in very handy. Gamayun's value was basically the same as our ICBMS' value: potential. For years your tool might sit idle on the prairies, unused but not useless. But when you need it, it is there."
"Until Condor blew it over," Kevin remarked lightly.
"Yes," the old man replied, "our Malcolm did a remarkable job. Condor and Gamayun. We finally translated that word. Gamayun is a mythological winged Russian creature, not really a bird, not really an animal. Supposedly it foresees the future and helps bring it about. The thing figures prominently in Russian poetry and painting, a kind of ubiquitous malevolence. From the Russian point of view, Gamayun was quite appropriate for that little covert operation in Montana. If not for our own ubiquitous bird, our Condor, Gamayun might well be alive.
"Curious, isn't it? Our boy wag both the prime factor and the least important factor in the whole operation, almost like a catalyst. Without ' him it wouldn't have happened as it did, yet he was really quite unimportant. He's like a character in a play, a classic, bungling spy, like Shakespeare's two fools Rosencrantz and Guildenstcrn, who, had they done their task as it was assigned, would have completely changed poor Hamlet's path. We put Condor on stage as an almost extraneous, self-serving prop in our play and the prop ends up casting a forceful, substantive shadow over the entire show. In a sense, his being Was more important than his acting. Our prop cues the Chinese and they carry out the theme, rewriting our plot substantially, but still coming to the same basic finale. I'm amazed he pulled the whole thing off and came out of it alive. Unlike Rosencrantz; and Guildenstern, Condor had a good deal of luck: If the Chinese didn't need Malcolm as a living extension of their anti-Soviet mission, we would have found our Condor with a hole for an eye."