by James Grady
“You’re doing just fine. Now, when we go up the walk, just pretend you’re taking a friend to your place. Remember, I’m right behind you.”
They got out and walked the few steps to the building. The girl shook and had trouble unlocking the door, but she finally made it. Malcolm followed her in, gently closing the door behind him.
“I have treated this game in great detail because I think it is important for the student to see what he’s up against, and how he ought to go about solving the problems of practical play. You may not be able to play the defense and counterattack this well, but the game sets a worthwhile goal for you to achieve: how to fight back in a position where your opponent has greater mobility and better prospects.”
—Fred Reinfeld, The Complete Chess Course
DON’T BELIEVE YOU.” The girl sat on the couch, her eyes glued to Malcolm. She was not as frightened as she had been, but her heart felt as if it was breaking ribs.
Malcolm sighed. He had been sitting across from the girl for an hour. From what he found in her purse, he knew she was Wendy Ross, twenty-seven years old, had lived and driven in Carbondale, Illinois, distributed 135 pounds on her five-foot-ten frame (he was sure that was an overestimated lie), regularly gave Type O Positive blood to the Red Cross, was a card-carrying user of the Alexandria Public Library and a member of the University of Southern Illinois Alumni Association, and was certified to receive and deliver summonses for her employers, Bechtel, Barber, Sievers, Holloron, and Muckleston. From what he read on her face, he knew she was frightened and telling the truth when she said she didn’t believe him. Malcolm didn’t blame her, as he really didn’t believe his story either, and he knew it was true.
“Look,” he said, “if what I said wasn’t true, why would I try to convince you it was?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Malcolm paced the room. He could tie her up and still use her place, but that was risky. Besides, she could be invaluable. He had an inspiration in the middle of a sneeze.
“Look,” he said, wiping his upper lip, “suppose I could at least prove to you I was with the CIA. Then would you believe me?”
“I might.” A new look crossed the girl’s face.
“OK, look at this.” Malcolm sat down beside her. He felt her body tense, but she took the mutilated piece of paper.
“What’s this?”
“It’s my CIA identification card. See, that’s me with long hair.”
Her voice was cold. “It says Tentrex Industries, not CIA. I can read, you know.” He could see she regretted her inflection after she said it, but she didn’t apologize.
“I know what it says!” Malcolm grew more impatient and nervous. His plan might not work. “Do you have a D.C. phone book?”
The girl nodded toward an end table. Malcolm crossed the room, picked up the huge book, and flung it at the girl. Her reactions were so keyed she caught it without any trouble. Malcolm shouted at her, “Look in there for Tentrex Industries. Anywhere! White pages, yellow pages, anywhere. The card gives a phone number and an address on Wisconsin Avenue, so it should be in the book. Look!”
The girl looked, then she looked again. She closed the book and stared at Malcolm. “So you’ve got an ID card for a place that doesn’t exist. What does that prove?
“Right!” Malcolm crossed the room excitedly, bringing the phone with him. The cord barely reached. “Now,” he said, very secretively, “look up the Washington number for the Central Intelligence Agency. The numbers are the same.”
The girl opened the book again and turned the pages. For a long time she sat puzzled, then with a new look and a questioning voice she said, “Maybe you checked this out before you made the card, just for times like this.”
Shit, thought Malcolm. He let all the air out of his lungs, took a deep breath, and started again. “OK, maybe I did, but there’s one way to find out. Call that number.”
“It’s after five,” said the girl. “If no one answers am I supposed to believe you until morning?”
Patiently, calmly, Malcolm explained to her. “You’re right. If Tentrex is a real company, it’s closed for the day. But CIA doesn’t close. Call that number and ask for Tentrex.” He handed her the phone. “One thing. I’ll be listening, so don’t do anything wrong. Hang up when I tell you.”
The girl nodded and made the call. Three rings.
“WE4–3926.”
“May I have Tentrex Industries, please?” The girl’s voice was very dry.
“I’m sorry,” said a soft voice. A faint click came over the line. “Everyone at Tentrex has gone for the day. They’ll be back in the morning. May I ask who is calling and what the nature of your business …”
Malcolm broke the connection before the trace had a chance to even get a general fix. The girl slowly replaced the receiver. For the first time she looked directly at Malcolm. “I don’t know if I believe everything you say,” she said, “but I think I believe some of it.”
“One final piece of proof.” Malcolm took the gun out of his pants and laid it carefully in her lap. He walked across the room and sat in the beanbag chair. His palms were damp, but it was better to take the risk now than later. “You’ve got the gun. You could shoot me at least once before I got to you. There’s the phone. I believe in you enough to think you believe me. Call anybody you want. Police, CIA, FBI, I don’t care. Tell them you’ve got me. But I want you to know what might happen if you do. The wrong people might get the call. They might get here first. If they do, we’re both dead.”
For a long time the girl sat still, looking at the heavy gun in her lap. Then, in a soft voice Malcolm had to strain to hear, she said, “I believe you.”
She suddenly burst into activity. She stood up, laid the gun on the table and paced the room. “I … I don’t know what I can do to help you, but I’ll try. You can stay here in the extra bedroom. Umm.” She looked toward the small kitchen and meekly said, “I could make something to eat.”
Malcolm grinned, a genuine smile he thought he had lost. “That would be wonderful. Could you do one thing for me?”
“Anything, anything, I’ll do anything.” Wendy’s nerves unwound as she realized she might live.
“Could I use your shower? The hair down my back is killing me.”
She grinned at him and they both laughed. She showed him the bathroom upstairs and provided him with soap, shampoo, and towels. She didn’t say a word when he took the gun with him. As soon as she left him he tiptoed to the top of the stairs. No sound of a door opening, no telephone dialing. When he heard drawers opening and closing, silverware rattling, he went back to the bathroom, undressed, and climbed into the shower.
Malcolm stayed in the shower for thirty minutes, letting the soft pellets of water drive freshness through his body. The steam cleared his sinuses, and by the time he shut off the water he felt almost human. He changed into his new pullover and fresh underwear. He automatically looked in the mirror to straighten his hair. It was so short he did it with two strokes of his hand.
The stereo was playing as he came down the stairs. He recognized the album as Vince Guaraldi’s score for Black Orpheus. The song was “Cast Your Fate to the Wind.” He had the album too, and told her so as they sat down to eat.
During green salad she told Malcolm about small-town life in Illinois. Between bites of frozen German beans he heard about life at Southern Illinois University. Mashed potatoes were mixed with a story concerning an almost fiancé. Between chunks of the jiffy-cooked Swiss steak he learned how drab it is to be a legal secretary for a stodgy corporate law firm in Washington. There was a lull for Sara Lee cherry covered cheesecake. As she poured coffee she summed it all up with, “It’s really been pretty dull. Up till now, of course.”
During dishes he told her why he hated his first name. She promised never to use it. She threw a handful of suds at him, but quickly wiped them off.
After dishes he said good night and trudged up the stairs to the bathroom. He put
his contact lenses in his portable carrying case (what I wouldn’t give for my glasses and soaking case, he thought). He brushed his teeth, crossed the hall to a freshly made bed, stuck a precautionary handkerchief under his pillow, laid the gun on the night stand, and went to sleep.
She came to him shortly after midnight. At first he thought he was dreaming, but her heavy breathing and the heat from her body were too real. His first fully awake thought noted that she had just showered. He could faintly smell bath powder mingling with the sweet odor of sex. He rolled on his side, pulling her eager body against him. They found each other’s mouth. Her tongue pushed through his lips, searching. She was tremendously excited. He had a hard time untangling himself from her arms so he could strip off his underwear. By now their faces were wet from each other. Naked at last, he rolled her over on her back, pulling his hand slowly up the inside of her thigh, delicately trailing his fingers across rhythmically flowing hips, up across her flat, heaving stomach to her large, erect nipples. His fingers closed on one small breast, easily gathering the mound of flesh into his hand. From out of nowhere he thought of the girl who walked past the Society’s building: she had such fine, large breasts. He softly squeezed his hand. Wendy groaned loudly and pulled his head to her chest, his lips to her straining nipples. As his mouth slowly caressed her breasts, he ran his hand down, down to the wet fire between her legs. When he touched her she sucked in air, softly but firmly arching her back. She found him, and a second later softly moaned, “Now, please now!” He mounted her, clumsily as first-time lovers do. They pressed together. She tried to cover every inch of her body with him. His hard thrusts spread fire through her body. She ran her hands down his back, and just before they exploded he felt her fingernails digging into his buttocks, pulling him ever deeper.
They lay quietly together for half an hour, then they began again, slowly and more carefully, but with a greater intensity. Afterwards, as she lay cradled on his chest, she spoke. “You don’t have to love me. I don’t love you, I don’t think so anyway. But I want you, and I need you.”
Malcolm said nothing, but he drew her closer. They slept.
Other people didn’t get to bed that night. When Langley heard the reports of the Weatherby shooting, already frazzled nerves frazzled more. Crash cars full of very determined men beat the ambulance to the alley. Washington police complained to their superiors about “unidentified men claiming to be federal officers” questioning witnesses. A clash between two branches of government was averted by the entrance of a third. Three more official-looking cars pulled into the neighborhood. Two very serious men in pressed white shirts and dark suits pushed their way through the milling crowd to inform commanders of the other departments that the FBI was now officially in charge. The “unidentified federal officers” and the Washington police checked with their headquarters and both were told not to push the issue.
The FBI entered the case when the powers-that-were adopted a working assumption of espionage. The National Security Act of 1947 states, “The agency [CIA] shall have no police, subpoena, law-enforcement powers, or internal security functions.” The events of the day most definitely fell under the heading of internal subversive activities, activities that are the domain of the FBI. Mitchell held off informing the sister agency of details for as long as he dared, but eventually a deputy director yielded to pressure.
But the CIA would not be denied the right to investigate assaults on its agents, no matter where the assaults occurred. The Agency has a loophole through which many questionable activities funnel. The loophole, Section 5 of the Act, allows the Agency to perform “such other functions and duties related to intelligence affecting the national security as the National Security Council may from time to time direct.” The Act also grants the Agency the power to question people inside the country. The directors of the Agency concluded that the extreme nature of the situation warranted direct action by the Agency. This action could and would continue until halted by a direct order from the National Security Council. In a very polite but pointed note they so informed the FBI, thanking them, of course, for their cooperation and expressing gratitude for any future help.
The Washington police were left with one corpse and a gunshot victim who had disappeared to an undisclosed hospital in Virginia, condition serious, prognosis uncertain. They were not pleased or placated by assurances from various federal officers, but they were unable to pursue “their” case.
The jurisdictional mishmash tended to work itself out in the field, where departmental rivalry meant very little compared to dead men. The agents in charge of operations for each department agreed to coordinate their efforts. By evening one of the most extensive man hunts in Washington’s history began to unfold, with Malcolm as the object of activity. By morning the hunters had turned up a good deal, but they had no clues to Malcolm’s whereabouts.
This did little to brighten a bleak morning after for the men who sat around a table in a central Washington office. Most of them had been up until very late the night before, and most of them were far from happy. The liaison group included all of the CIA deputy directors and representatives from every intelligence group in the country. The man at the head of the table was the deputy director in charge of Intelligence Division. Since the crisis occurred in his division, he had been placed in charge of the investigation. He summed up the facts for the grim men he faced.
“Eight Agency people dead, one wounded, and one, a probable double, missing. Again, we have only a tentative—and I must say doubtful—explanation of why.”
“What makes you think the note the killers left is a fake?” The man who spoke wore the uniform of the United States Navy.
The Deputy Director sighed. The Captain always had to have things repeated. “We’re not saying it’s a fake, we only think so. We think it’s a ruse, an attempt to blame the Czechs for the killings. Sure, we hit one of their bases in Prague, but for tangible, valuable intelligence. We only killed one man. Now, they go in for many things, but melodramatic revenge isn’t one of them. Nor is leaving notes on the scene neatly explaining everything. Especially when it gains them nothing. Nothing.”
“Ah, may I ask a question or two, Deputy?”
The Deputy leaned forward, immediately intent. “Of course, sir.”
“Thank you.” The man who spoke was small and delicately old. To strangers he inevitably appeared to be a kindly old uncle with a twinkle in his eye. “Just to refresh my memory—stop me if I’m wrong—the one in the apartment, Heidegger, had sodium pentothal in his blood?”
“That’s correct, sir.” The Deputy strained, trying to remember if he had forgotten any detail in the briefing.
“Yet none of the others were ‘questioned,’ as far as we can tell. Very strange. They came for him in the night, before the others. Killed shortly before dawn. Yet your investigation puts our boy Malcolm at his apartment that afternoon after Weatherby was shot. You say there is nothing to indicate Heidegger was a double agent? No expenditures beyond his income, no signs of outside wealth, no reported tainted contacts, no blackmail vulnerability?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Any signs of mental instability?” CIA personnel are among the highest groups in the nation for incidence of mental illness.
“None, sir. Excepting his former alcoholism, he appeared to be normal, though somewhat reclusive.”
“Yes, so I read. Investigation of the others reveal anything out of the ordinary?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Would you do me a favor and read what Weatherby said to the doctors? By the way, how is he?”
“He’s doing better, sir. The doctors say he’ll live, but they are taking his leg off this morning.” The Deputy shuffled papers until he found the one he sought. “Here it is. Now, you must remember he has been unconscious most of the time, but once he woke up, looked at the doctors, and said, ‘Malcolm shot me. He shot both of us. Get him, hit him.’”
There was a stir at the end of the table a
nd the Navy captain leaned forward in his chair. In his heavy, slurred voice he said, “I say we find that son of a bitch and blast him out of whatever rat hole he ran into!”
The old man chuckled. “Yes. Well, I quite agree we must find our wayward Condor. But I do think it would be a pity if we ‘blasted’ him before he told us why he shot poor Weatherby. Indeed, why anybody was shot. Do you have anything else for us, Deputy?”
“No, sir,” said the Deputy, stuffing papers into his briefcase. “I think we’ve covered everything. You have all the information we do. Thank you all for coming.”
As the men stood to leave, the old man turned to a colleague and said quietly, “I wonder why.” Then with a smile and a shake of his head he left the room.
Malcolm woke up only when Wendy’s caresses became impossible for even a sick man to ignore. Her hands and mouth moved all over his body, and almost before he knew what was happening she mounted him and again he felt her fluttering warmth turn to fire. Afterwards, she looked at him for a long time, lightly touching his body as if exploring an unseen land. She touched his forehead and frowned.
“Malcolm, do you feel OK?”
Malcolm had no intention of being brave. He shook his head and forced a raspy “No” from his throat. The one word seemed to fuel the hot vise closing around his throat. Talking was out for the day.
“You’re sick!” Wendy grabbed his lower jaw. “Let me see!” she ordered, and forced his mouth open. “My God, it’s red down there!” She let go of Malcolm and started to climb out of bed. “I’m going to call a doctor.”
Malcolm caught her arm. She turned to him with a fearful look, then smiled. “It’s OK. I have a friend whose husband is a doctor. He drives by here every day on his way to a clinic in D.C. I don’t think he’s left yet. If he hasn’t, I’ll ask him to stop by to see my sick friend.” She giggled. “You don’t have to worry. He won’t tell a soul because he’ll think he’s keeping another kind of secret. OK?”