by James Grady
Dead. He punched all the lines. Nothing.
I have to leave, he thought, I have to get help. He tried to shove the shotgun under his jacket. Even sawed off, the gun was too long: the barrel stuck out through the collar and bumped his throat. Reluctantly, he put the shotgun back under Walter’s desk, thinking he should try to leave everything as he found it. After a hard swallow, he went to the door and looked out the wide-angled peephole. The street was empty. The rain had stopped. Slowly, standing well behind the wall, he opened the door. Nothing happened. He stepped out on the stoop. Silence. With a bang he closed the door, quickly walked through the gate and down the street, his eyes darting, hunting for anything unusual. Nothing.
Malcolm headed straight for the corner phone. Each of the four divisions of the CIA has an unlisted “panic number,” a phone number to be used only in the event of a major catastrophe, only if all other channels of communication are unavailable. Penalty for misuse of the number can be as stiff as expulsion from the service with loss of pay. Their panic number is the one top secret every CIA employee from the highest cleared director to the lowest cleared janitor knows and remembers.
The Panic Line is always manned by highly experienced agents. They have to be sharp even though they seldom do anything. When a panic call comes through, decisions must be made, quickly and correctly.
Stephen Mitchell was officer of the day manning ID’s Panic phone when Malcolm’s call came through. Mitchell had been one of the best traveling (as opposed to resident) agents in the CIA. For thirteen years he moved from trouble spot to trouble spot, mainly in South America. Then in 1967 a double agent in Buenos Aires planted a plastic bomb under the driver’s seat in Mitchell’s Simca. The double agent made an error: the explosion only blew off Mitchell’s legs. The error caught the double agent in the form of a wire loop tightened in Rio. The Agency, not wanting to waste a good man, shifted Mitchell to the Panic Section.
Mitchell answered the phone after the first ring. When he picked up the receiver a tape recorder came on and a trace automatically began.
“493–7282.” All CIA telephones are answered by their numbers.
“This is …” For a horrible second Malcolm forgot his code name. He knew he had to give his department and section number (to distinguish himself from other agents who might have the same code name), but he couldn’t remember his code name. He knew better than to use his real name. Then he remembered. “This is Condor, Section 9, Department 17. We’ve been hit.”
“Are you on an Agency line?”
“I’m calling from an open phone booth a little ways from … base. Our phones aren’t working.”
Shit, thought Mitchell, we have to use double talk. With his free hand he punched the Alert button. At five different locations, three in Washington, two in Langley, heavily armed men scurried to cars, turned on their engines, and waited for instructions. “How bad?”
“Maximum, total. I’m the only one who …”
Mitchell cut him off. “Right. Do any civilians in the area know?”
“I don’t think so. Somehow it was done quietly.”
“Are you damaged?”
“No.”
“Are you armed?”
“Yes.”
“Are there any hostiles in the area?”
Malcolm looked around. He remembered how ordinary the morning had seemed. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”
“Listen very closely. Leave the area, slowly, but get your ass away from there, someplace safe. Wait an hour. After you’re sure you’re clean, call again. That will be at 1:45. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“OK, hang up now, and remember, don’t lose your head.”
Mitchell broke the connection before Malcolm had taken the phone from his ear.
After Malcolm hung up, he stood on the corner for a few seconds, trying to formulate a plan. He knew he had to find someplace safe where he could hide unnoticed for an hour, someplace close. Slowly, very slowly, he turned and walked up the street. Fifteen minutes later he joined the Iowa City Jaycees on their tour of the nation’s Capitol building.
Even as Malcolm spoke to Mitchell, one of the largest and most intricate government machines in the world began to grind. Assistants monitoring Malcolm’s call dispatched four cars from Washington security posts and one car from Langley with a mobile medical team, all bound for Section 9, Department 17. The squad leaders were briefed and established procedure via radio as they homed in on the target. The proper Washington police precinct was alerted to the possibility of an assistance request by “federal enforcement officials.” By the time Malcolm hung up, all D.C. area CIA bases had received a hostile-action report. They activated special security plans. Within three minutes of the call all deputy directors were notified, and within six minutes the director, who had been in conference with the Vice-President, was personally briefed over a scrambled phone by Mitchell. Within eight minutes all the other main organs of America’s intelligence community received news of a possible hostile action.
In the meantime Mitchell ordered all files pertaining to the Society sent to his office. During a panic situation, the Panic officer of the day automatically assumes awesome power. He virtually runs much of the entire Agency until personally relieved by a deputy director. Only seconds after Mitchell ordered the files, Records called him back.
“Sir, the computer check shows all primary files on Section 9, Department 17, are missing.”
“They’re what?”
“Missing, sir.”
“Then send me the secondary set, and God damn it, send it under guard!” Mitchell slammed the phone down before the startled clerk could reply. Mitchell grabbed another phone and connected immediately. “Freeze the base,” he ordered. Within seconds all exits from the compound were sealed. Anyone attempting to leave or enter the area would have been shot. Red lights flashed throughout the buildings. Special security teams began clearing the corridors, ordering all those not engaged in Panic or Red priority business to return to their base offices. Reluctance or even hesitance to comply with the order meant a gun barrel in the stomach and handcuffs on the wrists.
The door to the Panic Room opened just after Mitchell froze the base. A large man strode firmly past the security guard without bothering to return the cursory salute. Mitchell was still on the phone, so the man settled down in a chair next to the second in command.
“What the hell is going on?” The man would normally have been answered without question, but right now Mitchell was God. The second looked at his chief. Mitchell, though still barking orders into the phone, heard the demand. He nodded to his second, who in turn gave the big man a complete synopsis of what had happened and what had been done. By the time the second had finished, Mitchell was off the phone, using a soiled handkerchief to wipe his brow.
The big man stirred in his chair. “Mitchell,” he said, “if it’s all right with you, I think I’ll stay around and give you a hand. After all, I am head of Department 17.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mitchell replied, “I’ll be glad of any help you can give us.”
The big man grunted and settled down to wait.
If you had been walking down Southeast A just behind the Library of Congress at 1:09 on that cloudy Thursday afternoon, you would have been startled by a sudden flurry of activity. Half a dozen men sprang out of nowhere and converged on a three-story white building. Just before they reached the door, two cars, one on each side of the road, double-parked almost in front of the building. A man sat in the back seat of each car, peering intently at the building and cradling something in his arms. The six men on foot went through the gate together, but only one climbed the steps. He fiddled with a large ring of keys and the lock. When the door clicked, he nodded to the others. After throwing the door wide open and hesitating for an instant, the six men poured inside, slamming the door behind them. A man got out of each car. They slowly began to pace up and down in front of the building. As the cars p
ulled away to park, the drivers both nodded at men standing on the corners.
Three minutes later the door opened. A man left the building and walked slowly toward the closest parked car. Once inside, he picked up a phone. Within seconds he was talking to Mitchell.
“They were hit all right, hard.” The man speaking was Allan Newberry. He had seen combat in Vietnam, at the Bay of Pigs, in the mountains of Turkey, dozens of alleys, dark buildings, and basements all over the world, yet Mitchell could feel uneasy sickness in the clipped voice.
“How and how bad?” Mitchell was just beginning to believe.
“Probably a two- to five-man team, no sign of forcible entry. They must have used silenced machine guns of some sort or the whole town would have heard. Six dead in the building, four men, two women. Most of them probably didn’t know what hit them. No signs of an extensive search, security camera and film destroyed. Phones are dead, probably cut somewhere. A couple of bodies will have to be worked on before identity can be definitely established. Neat, clean, and quick. They knew what they were doing down to the last detail, and they knew how to do it.”
Mitchell waited until he was sure Newberry had finished. “OK. This is beyond me. I’m going to hold definite action until somebody upstairs orders it. Meantime you and your men sit tight. Nothing is to be moved. I want that place frozen and sealed but good. Use whatever means you must.”
Mitchell paused, both to emphasize his meaning and to hope he wasn’t making a mistake. He had just authorized Newberry’s team to do anything, including premeditated, nondefensive kills, Stateside action without prior clearance. Murder by whim, if they thought the whim might mean something. The consequences of such a rare order could be very grave for all concerned. Mitchell continued. “I’m sending out more men to cover the neighborhood as additional security. I’ll also send out a crime lab team, but they can only do things that won’t disturb the scene. They’ll bring a communications setup, too. Understand?”
“I understand. Oh, there’s something a little peculiar we’ve found.”
Mitchell said, “Yes?”
“Our radio briefing said there was only one door. We found two. Make any sense to you?”
“None,” said Mitchell, “but nothing about this whole thing makes sense. Is there anything else?”
“Just one thing.” The voice grew colder. “Some son of a bitch butchered a little girl on the third floor. He didn’t hit her, he butchered her.” Newberry signed off.
“What now?” asked the big man.
“We wait,” said Mitchell, leaning back in his wheelchair. “We sit and wait for Condor to call.”
At 1:40 Malcolm found a phone booth in the Capitol. With change acquired from a bubbly teen-age girl he dialed the panic number. It didn’t even finish one complete ring.
“493–7282.” The voice on the phone was tense.
“This is Condor, Section 9, Department 17. I’m in a public phone booth, I don’t think I was followed, and I’m pretty sure I can’t be heard.”
“You’ve been confirmed. We’ve got to get you to Langley, but we’re afraid to let you come in solo. Do you know the Circus 3 theaters in the Georgetown district?”
“Yes.”
“Could you be there in an hour?”
“Yes.”
“OK. Now, who do you know at least by sight who’s stationed at Langley?”
Malcolm thought for a moment. “I had an instructor code-named Sparrow IV.”
“Hold on.” Through priority use of the computer and communications facilities, Mitchell verified Sparrow IV’s existence and determined that he was in the building. Two minutes later he said, “OK, this is what is going to happen. Half an hour from now Sparrow IV and one other man will park in a small alley behind the theaters. They’ll wait exactly one hour. That gives you thirty minutes leeway either direction. There are three entrances to the alley you can take on foot. All three allow you to see anybody in front of you before they see you. When you’re sure you’re clean, go down the alley. If you see anything or anybody suspicious, if Sparrow IV and his partner aren’t there or somebody is with them, if a God damn pigeon is at their feet, get your ass out of there, find someplace safe, and call in. Do the same if you can’t make it. OK?”
“OKahahaachoo!”
Mitchell almost shot out of his wheelchair. “What the hell was that? Are you OK?”
Malcolm wiped the phone off. “Yes, sir, I’m fine. Sorry, I have a cold. I know what to do.”
“For the love of Christ.” Mitchell hung up. He leaned back in his chair. Before he could say anything, the big man spoke.
“Look here, Mitchell. If you have no objection, I’ll accompany Sparrow IV. The Department is my responsibility, and there’s no young tough around here who can carry off what might be a tricky situation any better, tired old man as I may be.”
Mitchell looked at the big, confident man across from him, then smiled. “OK. Pick up Sparrow IV at the gate. Use your car. Have you ever met Condor?”
The big man shook his head. “No, but I think I’ve seen him. Can you supply a photo?”
Mitchell nodded and said, “Sparrow IV has one. Ordnance will give you anything you want, though I suggest a hand gun. Any preference?”
The big man walked toward the door. “Yes,” he said, looking back, “a .38 Special with silencer just in case we have to move quietly.”
“It’ll be waiting in the car, complete with ammo. Oh,” said Mitchell, stopping the big man as he was halfway out the door, “thanks again, Colonel Weatherby.”
The big man turned and smiled. “Think nothing of it, Mitchell. After all, it’s my job.” He closed the door behind him and walked toward his car. After a few steps he began to wheeze very softly.
“Faulty execution of a winning combination has lost many a game on the very brink of victory. In such cases a player sees the winning idea, plays the winning sacrifice and then inverts the order of his follow-up moves or misses the really clinching point of his combination.”
—Fred Reinfeld, The Complete Chess Course
ALCOLM had little trouble finding a taxi, considering the weather. Twenty minutes later he paid the driver two blocks from the Circus theaters. Again he knew it was all-important that he stay out of sight. A few minutes later he sat at a table in the darkest corner of a bar crowded with men. The bar Malcolm chose is the most active male homosexual hangout in Washington. Starting with the early lunch hour at eleven and running until well after midnight, men of all ages, usually middle to upper middle class, fill the bar to find a small degree of relaxation among their own kind. It’s a happy as well as a “gay” bar. Rock music blares, laughter drifts into the street. The levity is strained, heavy with irony, but it’s there.
Malcolm hoped he looked inconspicuous, one man in a bar crowded with men. He nursed his tequila Collins, drinking it as slowly as he dared, watching faces in the crowd for signs of recognition. Some of the faces in the crowd watched him too.
No one in the bar noticed that only Malcolm’s left hand rested on the small table. Under the table his right hand held a gun, a gun he pointed at anyone coming near him.
At 2:40 Malcolm jumped from his table to join a large group leaving the bar. Once outside, he quickly walked away from the group. For several minutes he crossed and recrossed Georgetown’s narrow streets, carefully watching the people around him. At three o’clock, satisfied he was clean, he headed toward the Circus theaters.
Sparrow IV turned out to be a shaky, spectacled instructor of governmental procedure. He had been given no choice concerning his role in the adventure. He made it quite clear that this was not what he was hired for, he most definitely objected, and he was very concerned about his wife and four children. Mostly to shut him up, Ordnance dressed him in a bulletproof vest. He wore the hot and heavy armor under his shirt. The canvas frustrated his scratching attempts. He had no recollection of anyone called Condor or Malcolm; he lectured Junior Officer Training classes by the dozen.The peo
ple at Ordnance didn’t care, but they listened anyway.
Weatherby briefed the drivers of the crash cars as they walked toward the parking lot. He checked the short gun with the sausage-shaped device and nodded his approval to the somber man from Ordnance. Ordinarily Weatherby would have had to sign for the gun, but Mitchell’s authority rendered such procedures unnecessary. The Ordnance man helped Weatherby adjust a special shoulder holster, handed him twenty-five extra rounds, and wished him luck. Weatherby grunted as he climbed into his light blue sedan.
The three cars rolled out of Langley in close formation with Weatherby’s blue sedan in the middle position. Just as they exited from the Beltway turnpike to enter Washington, the rear car “blew” a tire. The driver “lost control” of his vehicle, and the car ended up across two lanes of traffic. No one was hurt, but the accident blocked traffic for ten minutes. Weatherby closely followed the other crash car as it turned and twisted its way through the maze of Washington traffic. On a quiet residential street in the city’s southwest quadrant the crash car made a complete U-turn and started back in the opposite direction. As it passed the blue sedan, the driver flashed Weatherby the OK sign, then sped out of sight. Weatherby headed toward Georgetown, checking for tails all the way.
Weatherby figured out his mistake. When he dispatched the assassination team, he ordered them to kill everyone in the building. He had said everyone, but he hadn’t specified how many that was. His men had followed orders, but the orders hadn’t been complete enough to let them know one man was missing. Why the man wasn’t there Weatherby didn’t know and he didn’t care. If he had known about the missing man, this Condor, he could have arranged a satisfactory solution. He had made the mistake, so now he had to rectify it.
There was a chance Condor was harmless, that he wouldn’t remember his conversation with the Heidegger man, but Weatherby couldn’t take that chance. Heidegger questioned all the staff except Dr. Lappe. Those questions could not be allowed to exist. Now one man knew about those questions, so, like the others, that man must die even if he didn’t realize what he knew.