Six Days of the Condor

by James Grady

  Weatherby’s plan was simple, but extremely dangerous. As soon as Condor appeared he would shoot him. Self-defense. Weatherby glanced at the trembling Sparrow IV. An unavoidable side product. The big man had no qualms concerning the instructor’s pending death. The plan was fraught with risks: Condor might be better with his weapon than anticipated, the scene might be witnessed and later reported, the Agency might not believe his story and use a guaranteed form of interrogation, Condor might turn himself in some other way. A hundred things could go wrong. But no matter how high the risks, Weatherby knew they were not the certainty that faced him should he fail. He might be able to escape the Agency and the rest of the American intelligence network. There are several ways, ways that have been successfully used before. Such things were Weatherby’s forte. But he knew he would never escape the striking-looking man with strange eyes. That man never failed when he acted directly. Never. He would act directly against Weatherby the dangerous bungler, Weatherby the threat. This Weatherby knew, and it made him wheeze painfully. It was this knowledge that made any thought of escape or betrayal absurd. Weatherby had to account for his error. Condor had to die.

  Weatherby drove through the alley slowly, then turned around and came back, parking the car next to some garbage cans behind the theaters. The alley was empty just as Mitchell said it would be. Weatherby doubted if anyone would enter it while they were there: Washingtonians tend to avoid alleys. He knew Mitchell would arrange for the area to be free of police so that uniforms wouldn’t frighten Condor. That was fine with Weatherby. He motioned for Sparrow IV to get out. They leaned against the car, prominent and visibly alone. Then, like any good hunter staging an ambush, Weatherby blanked his mind to let his senses concentrate.

  Malcolm saw them standing there before they knew he was in the alley. He watched them very carefully from a distance of about sixty paces. He had a hard time controlling sneezes, but he managed to stay silent. After he was certain they were alone, he stepped from behind the telephone pole and began to walk toward them. His relief built with every step.

  Weatherby spotted Malcolm immediately. He stepped away from the car, ready. He wanted to be very, very sure, and sixty paces is only a fair shot for a silenced pistol. He also wanted to be out of Sparrow IV’s reach. Take them one at a time, he thought.

  Recognition sprang on Malcolm twenty-five paces from the two men, five paces sooner than Weatherby anticipated any action. A picture of a man in a blue sedan parked just up from the Society in the morning rain flashed through Malcolm’s mind. The man in that car and one of the men now standing in front of him were the same. Something was wrong, something was very wrong. Malcolm stopped, then slowly backed up. Almost unconsciously he tugged at the gun in his belt.

  Weatherby knew something was wrong, too. His quarry had quite unexpectedly stopped short of the trap, was now fleeing, and was probably preparing an aggressive defense. Malcolm’s unexpected actions forced Weatherby to abandon his original plan and react to a new situation. While he quickly drew his own weapon, Weatherby briefly noted Sparrow IV, frozen with fright and bewilderment. The timid instructor still posed no threat.

  Weatherby was a veteran of many situations requiring rapid action. Malcolm’s pistol barrel had just cleared his belt when Weatherby fired.

  A pistol, while effective, can be a difficult weapon to use under field conditions, even for an experienced veteran. A pistol equipped with a silencer increases this difficulty, for while the silencer allows the handler to operate quietly, it cuts down on his efficiency. The bulk at the end of the barrel is an unaccustomed weight requiring aim compensation by the user. Ballistically, a silencer cuts down on the bullet’s velocity. The silencer may affect the bullet’s trajectory. A silencer-equipped pistol is cumbersome, difficult to draw and fire quickly.

  All these factors worked against Weatherby. Had he not been using a silenced pistol—even though his quarry’s retreat forced him to take time to revise his plans—there would have been no contest. As it was, the pistol’s bulk slowed his draw. He lost accuracy attempting to regain speed. The veteran killer tried for the difficult but definite head shot, but he overcompensated. Milliseconds after the soft plop!, a heavy chunk of lead cut through the hair hanging over Malcolm’s left ear and whined off to sink in the Potomac.

  Malcolm had only fired one pistol in his life, a friend’s .22 target model. All five shots missed the running gopher. He fired Mrs. Russell’s gun from the waist, and a deafening roar echoed down the alley before he knew he had pulled the trigger.

  When a man is shot with a .357 magnum he doesn’t grab a neat little red hole in his body and slide slowly to the ground. He goes down hard. At twenty-five paces the effect is akin to being hit by a truck. Malcolm’s bullet smashed through Weatherby’s left thigh. The force of the blast splattered a large portion of Weatherby’s leg over the alley; it flipped him into the air and slammed him face down in the road.

  Sparrow IV looked incredulously at Malcolm. Slowly Malcolm turned toward the little instructor, bringing the gun into line with the man’s quivering stomach.

  “He was one of them!” Malcolm was panting though he hadn’t exerted himself. “He was one of them!” Malcolm slowly backed away from the speechless instructor. When he reached the edge of the alley, Malcolm turned and ran.

  Weatherby groaned, fighting off the shock of the wound. The pain hadn’t set in. He was a very tough man, but it took everything he had to raise his arm. He had somehow held on to the gun. Miraculously, his mind stayed clear. Very carefully he aimed and fired. Another plop!, and a bullet shattered on the theater wall, but not before it tore through the throat of Sparrow IV, instructor of governmental procedure, husband, father of four. As the body crumpled against the car, Weatherby felt a strange sense of elation. He wasn’t dead yet, Condor had vanished again, and there would be no bullets for Ballistics to use in determining who shot whom. There was still hope. He passed out.

  A police car found the two men. It took them a long time to respond to the frightened shopkeeper’s call, because all the Georgetown units had been sent to check out a sniper report. The report turned out to be from a crank.

  Malcolm ran four blocks before he realized how conspicuous he was. He slowed down, turned several corners, then hailed a passing taxi to downtown Washington.

  Sweet Jesus, Malcolm thought, he was one of them. He was one of them. The Agency must not have known. He had to get to a phone. He had to call … Fear set in. Suppose, just suppose the man in the alley wasn’t the only double. Suppose he had been sent there by a man who knew what he was. Suppose the man at the other end of the Panic Line was also a double.

  Malcolm quit his suppositions to deal with the immediate problem of survival. Until he thought it out he wouldn’t dare call in. And they would be looking for him. They would have looked for him even before the shooting, the only survivor of the section, they … But he wasn’t! The thought raced through his mind. He wasn’t the only survivor of the section. Heidegger! Heidegger was sick, home in bed, sick! Malcolm searched his brain. Address, what did Heidegger say his address was? Malcolm had heard Heidegger tell Dr. Lappe his address was … Mount Royal Arms!

  Malcolm explained his problem to the cabby. He was on his way to pick up a blind date, but he had forgotten the address. All he knew was she lived in the Mount Royal Arms. The cabby, always eager to help young love, called his dispatcher, who gave him the address in the northwest quadrant. When the cabby let him out in front of the aging building, Malcolm gave him a dollar tip.

  Heidegger’s name tape was stuck next to 413. Malcolm buzzed. No return buzz, no query over the call box. While he buzzed again, an uneasy but logical assumption grew in his mind. Finally he pushed three other buzzers. No answer came, so he punched a whole row. When the jammed call box squealed, he yelled, “Special delivery!” The door buzzer rang and he ran inside.

  No one answered his knock at Apartment 413, but by then he didn’t really expect an answer. He got on his knees a
nd looked at the lock. If he was right, only a simple spring night lock was on. In dozens of books he’d read and in countless movies, the hero uses a small piece of stiff plastic and in a few seconds a locked door springs open. Plastic—where could he find a piece of stiff plastic? After several moments of frantic pocket slapping, he opened his wallet and removed his laminated CIA identification card. The card certified he was an employee of Tentrex Industries, Inc., giving relevant information regarding his appearance and identity. Malcolm had always liked the two photos of himself, one profile, one full face.

  For twenty minutes Malcolm sneezed, grunted, pushed, pulled, jiggled, pleaded, threatened, shook, and finally hacked at the lock with his card. The plastic lamination finally split, shooting his ID card through the crack and into the locked room.

  Frustration turned to anger. Malcolm relieved his cramped knees by standing. If nobody has bothered me up till now, he thought, a little more noise won’t make much difference. Backed with the fury, fear, and frustration of the day, Malcolm smashed his foot against the door. Locks and doors in the Mount Royal Arms are not of the finest quality. The management leans toward cheap rent, and the building construction is similarly inclined. The door of 413 flew inward, bounced off its doorstop, and was caught on the return swing by Malcolm. He shut the door a good deal more quietly than he had opened it. He picked his ID card out of the splinters, then crossed the room to the bed and what lay on it.

  Since time forestalled any pretense, they hadn’t bothered to be gentle with Heidegger. If Malcolm had lifted the pajama top, he would have seen the mark a low-line punch leaves if the victim’s natural tendency to bruise is arrested by death. The corpse’s face was blackish blue, a state induced by, among other things, strangulation. The room stank from the corpse’s involuntary discharge.

  Malcolm looked at the beginning-to-bloat body. He knew very little about organic medicine, but he knew that this state of decomposition is not reached in a couple of hours. Therefore Heidegger had been killed before the others. “They” hadn’t come here after they discovered him missing from work but before they hit the building. Malcolm didn’t understand.

  Heidegger’s right pajama sleeve lay on the floor. Malcolm didn’t think that type of tear would be made in a fight. He flipped the covers back to look at Heidegger’s arm. On the underside of the forearm he found a small bruise, the kind a tiny bug would make. Or, thought Malcolm, remembering his trips to the student health service, a clumsily inserted hypodermic. They shot him full of something, probably to make him talk. About what? Malcolm had no idea. He began to search the room when he remembered about fingerprints. Taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped everything he remembered touching, including the outside of the door. He found a pair of dusty handball gloves on the cluttered dresser. Too small, but they covered his fingers.

  After the bureau drawers he searched the closet. On the top shelf he found an envelope full of money, fifty-and one-hundred-dollar bills. He didn’t take the time to count it, but he estimated that there must be at least ten thousand dollars.

  He sat on the clothes-covered chair. It didn’t make sense. An ex-alcoholic, an accountant who lectured on the merits of mutual funds, a man frightened of muggers, keeping all that cash stashed in his closet. It didn’t make sense. He looked at the corpse. At any rate, he thought, Heidegger won’t need it now. Malcolm put the envelope inside his shorts. After a last quick look around, he cautiously opened the door, walked down the stairs, and caught a downtown bus at the corner.

  Malcolm knew his first problem would be evading his pursuers. By now there would be at least two “they”s after him: the Agency and whatever group hit the Society. They all knew what he looked like, so his first move would have to be to change his appearance.

  The sign in the barbershop said “No Waiting,” and for once advertising accurately reflected its product. Malcolm took off his jacket facing the wall. He slipped the gun inside the bundle before he sat down. His eyes never left the jacket during the whole haircut.

  “What do you want, young fellow?” The graying barber snipped his scissors gleefully.

  Malcolm felt no regrets. He knew how much the haircut might mean. “A short butch, just a little longer than a crew cut, long enough so it will lay down.”

  “Say, that’ll be quite a change.” The barber plugged in an electric clipper.

  “Yeah.”

  “Say, young man, are you interested in baseball? I sure am. I read an article in the Post today about the Orioles and spring training, and the way this fellow figures it …”

  After the haircut Malcolm looked in the mirror. He hadn’t seen that person for five years.

  His next stop was Sunny’s Surplus. Malcolm knew a good disguise starts with the right attitude, but he also knew good props were invaluable. He searched through the entire stock until he found a used field jacket with the patches intact that fitted reasonably well. The name patch above the left pocket read “Evans.” On the left shoulder was a tricolored eagle patch with the word “Airborne” in gold letters on a black background. Malcolm knew he had just become a veteran of the 101st Airborne Division. He bought and changed into a pair of blue stretch jeans and an outrageously priced set of used jump boots (“$15, guaranteed to have seen action in Vietnam”). He also bought underwear, a cheap pullover, black driving gloves, socks, a safety razor, and a toothbrush. When he left the store with his bundle under his arm, he pretended he had a spike rammed up his ass. His steps were firm and well measured. He looked cockily at every girl he passed. After five blocks he needed a rest, so he entered one of Washington’s countless Hot Shoppe restaurants.

  “Can Ah have a cup of caufee?” The waitress didn’t bat an eye at Malcolm’s newly acquired southern accent. She brought him his coffee. Malcolm tried to relax and think.

  Two girls were in the booth behind Malcolm. A lifetime habit made him listen to their conversation.

  “So you’re not going anywhere for your vacation?”

  “No, I’m just going to stay home. For two weeks I’ll shut the world out.”

  “You’ll go crazy.”

  “Maybe, but don’t try calling me for a progress report, because I probably won’t even answer the phone.”

  The other girl laughed. “What if it’s a hunk of man who’s just pining for companionship?”

  The other girl snorted. “Then he’ll just have to wait for two weeks. I’m going to relax.”

  “Well, it’s your life. Sure you won’t have dinner tonight?”

  “No, really, thanks, Anne. I’m just going to finish my coffee and then drive home, and starting right now I won’t have to hurry for another two weeks.”

  “Well, Wendy, have fun.” Thighs squeaked across plastic. The girl called Anne walked toward the door, right past Malcolm. He caught a glimpse of a tremendous pair of legs, blond hair, and a firm profile vanishing in the crowd. He sat very still, sniffling occasionally, nervous as hell, for he had found the answer to his shelter problem.

  It took the girl called Wendy five minutes to finish her coffee. When she left she didn’t even look at the man sitting behind her. She couldn’t have seen much anyway, as his face was hidden behind a menu. Malcolm followed her as soon as she paid and started out the door. He threw his money on the counter as he left.

  All he could tell from behind was that she was tall, thin but not painfully skinny like Tamatha, had short black hair, and only medium legs. Christ, he thought, why couldn’t she have been the blond? Malcolm’s luck held, for the girl’s car was in the back section of a crowded parking lot. He casually followed her past the fat attendant leering from behind a battered felt hat. Just as the girl unlocked the door of a battered Corvair, Malcolm yelled, “Wendy! My God, what are you doing here?”

  Startled, but not alarmed, the girl looked up at the smiling figure in the army jacket walking toward her.

  “Are you talking to me?” She had narrow-set brown eyes, a wide mouth, a little nose, and high cheekbones. A p
erfectly ordinary face. She wore little or no makeup.

  “I shore am. Don’t you remember me, Wendy?” He was only three steps from her now.

  “I … I don’t think so.” She noticed that his one hand held a package and his other was inside his jacket.

  Malcolm stood beside her now. He set the package on the roof of her car and casually placed his left hand behind her head. He tightly grabbed her neck, bending her head down until she saw the gun in his other hand.

  “Don’t scream or make any quick moves or I’ll splatter you all over the street. Understand?” Malcolm felt the girl shiver, but she nodded quickly. “Now get in the car and unlock the other door. This thing shoots through windows and I won’t even hesitate.” The girl quickly climbed into the driver’s seat, leaned over, and unlocked the other door. Malcolm slammed her door shut, picked up his package, slowly walked around the car, and got in.

  “Please don’t hurt me.” Her voice was much softer than in the restaurant.

  “Look at me.” Malcolm had to clear his throat. “I’m not going to hurt you, not if you do exactly as I say. I don’t want your money, I don’t want to rape you. But you must do exactly as I say. Where do you live?”

  “In Alexandria.”

  “We’re going to your apartment. You’ll drive. If you have any ideas about signaling for help, forget them. If you try, I’ll shoot. I might get hurt, but you’ll be dead. It’s not worth it. OK?” The girl nodded. “Let’s go.”

  The drive to Virginia was tense. Malcolm never took his eyes off the girl. She never took her eyes off the road. Just after the Alexandria exit she pulled into a small courtyard surrounded by apartment units.

  “Which one is yours?”

  “The first one. I have the top two floors. A man lives in the basement.”