by James Grady
A dark sedan drove by the apartment as Powell and the others walked toward their cars. The driver was tall and painfully thin. His passenger, a man with striking eyes hidden behind sunglasses, waved him on. No one noticed them drive past.
Malcolm drove around Alexandria until he found a small, dumpy used-car lot. He parked two blocks away and sent Wendy to make the purchase. Ten minutes later, after having sworn she was Mrs. A. Edgerton for the purpose of registration and paid an extra hundred dollars cash, she drove off in a slightly used Dodge. Malcolm followed her to a park. They transferred the luggage and removed the license plates from the Corvair. Then they loaded the Dodge and slowly drove away.
Malcolm drove for five hours. Wendy never spoke during the whole trip. When they stopped at the Paris-burg, Virginia, motel, Malcolm registered as Mr. and Mrs. Evans. He parked the car behind the motel “so it won’t get dirty from the traffic passing by.” The old lady running the motel merely shrugged and went back to her TV. She had seen it before.
Wendy lay very still on the bed. Malcolm slowly undressed. He took his medicine and removed his contacts before he sat down next to her.
“Why don’t you undress and get some sleep, honey?”
She turned and looked at him slowly. “It’s real, isn’t it.” Her voice was softly matter-of-fact. “The whole thing is real. And you killed that man. In my apartment, you killed a man.”
“It was either him or us. You know that. You tried, too.”
She turned away. “I know.” She got up and slowly undressed. She turned off the light and climbed into bed. Unlike before, she didn’t snuggle close. When Malcolm went to sleep an hour later, he was sure she was still awake.
“Where there is much light there is also much shadow.”
—Goethe
H, KEVIN, we seem to be making progress.”
The old man’s crisp, bright words did little to ease the numbness gripping Powell’s mind. His body ached, but the discomfort was minimal. He had been conditioned for much more severe strains than one missed rest period. But during three months of rest and recuperation, Powell had become accustomed to sleeping late on Sunday mornings. Additionally, the frustration of his present assignment irritated him. So far his involvement had been post facto. His two years of training and ten years’ experience were being used to run errands and gather information. Any cop could do that, and many cops were. Powell didn’t share the old man’s optimism.
“How, sir?” Frustrated as he was, Powell spoke respectfully. “Some trace of Condor and the girl?”
“No, not yet.” Despite a very long night, the old man sparkled. “There’s still a chance she bought that car, but it hasn’t been seen. No, our progress is from another angle. We’ve identified the dead man.”
Powell’s mind cleared. The old man continued.
“Our friend was once Calvin Lloyd, sergeant, United States Marine Corps. In 1959 he left that group rather suddenly while stationed in Korea as an adviser to a South Korean Marine unit. There is a good chance he was mixed up in the murder of a Seoul madam and one of her girls. The Navy could never find any direct evidence, but they think the madam and he were running a base commuter service and had a falling out over rebates. Shortly after the bodies were found, Lloyd went AWOL. The Marines didn’t look for him very hard. In 1961 Navy Intelligence received a report indicating he had died rather suddenly in Tokyo. Then in 1963 he was identified as one of several arms dealers in Laos. Evidently his job was technical advice. At the time, he was linked to a man called Vincent Dale Maronick. More on Maronick later. Lloyd dropped out of sight in 1965, and until yesterday he was again believed dead.”
The old man paused. Powell cleared his throat, signaling that he wanted to speak. After receiving a courteous nod, Powell said, “Well, at least we know that much. Besides telling us a small who, how does it help?”
The old man held up his left forefinger. “Be patient, my boy, be patient. Let’s take our steps slowly and see what paths cross where.
“The autopsy on Weatherby yielded only a probability, but based on what has happened, I’m inclined to rate it very high. There is a chance his death may be due to an air bubble in the blood, but the pathologists won’t swear to it. His doctors insist the cause must be external—and therefore not their fault. I’m inclined to agree with them. It’s a pity for us Weatherby isn’t around for questioning, but for someone it’s a very lucky break. Far too lucky, if you ask me.
“I’m convinced Weatherby was a double agent, though for whom I have no idea. The files that keep turning up missing, our friend with credentials covering the town just ahead of us, the setup of the hit on the Society. They all smell of inside information. With Weatherby eliminated, it follows he could have been the leak that became too dangerous for someone. Then there’s that whole shooting scene behind the theaters. We’ve been over that before, but something new occurred to me.
“I had both Sparrow IV’s and Weatherby’s bodies examined by our Ballistics man. Whoever shot Weatherby almost amputated his leg with the bullet. According to our man it was at least a .357 magnum with soft lead slugs. But Sparrow IV had only a neat round hole in his throat. Our Ballistics man doesn’t think they were shot with the same gun. That, plus the fact Weatherby wasn’t killed, makes the whole thing look fishy. I think our boy Malcolm, for some reason or other, shot Weatherby and then ran. Weatherby was hurt, but not hurt so bad he couldn’t eliminate witness Sparrow IV. But that’s not the interesting piece of news.
“From 1958 until late 1969, Weatherby was stationed in Asia, primarily out of Hong Kong, but with stints in Korea, Japan, Taiwan, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam. He worked his way up the structure from special field agent to station head. You’ll note he was there during the same period as our dead mailman. Now for a slight but very interesting digression. What do you know about the man called Maronick?”
Powell furrowed his brow. “I think he was some sort of special agent. A freelancer, as I recall.”
The old man smiled, pleased. “Very good, though I’m not sure if I understand what you mean by ‘special.’ If you mean extremely competent, thorough, careful, and highly successful, then you’re correct. If you mean dedicated and loyal to one side, then you are very wrong. Vincent Maronick was—or is, if I’m not mistaken—the best freelance agent in years, maybe the best of this century for his specialty. For a short-term operation requiring cunning, ruthlessness, and a good deal of caution, he was the best money could buy. The man was tremendously skilled. We’re not sure where he received his training, though it’s clear he was American. His individual abilities were not so outstanding that they couldn’t be matched. There were and are better planners, better shots, better pilots, better saboteurs, better everything in particular. But the man had a persevering drive, a toughness that pushed his capabilities far beyond those of his competitors. He’s a very dangerous man, one of the men I could fear.
“In the early sixties he surfaced working for the French, mainly in Algeria, but, please note, also taking care of some of their remaining interests in Southeast Asia. Starting in 1963, he came to the attention of those in our business. At various times he worked for Britain, Communist China, Italy, South Africa, the Congo, Canada, and he even did two stints for the Agency. He also did a type of consulting service for the IRA and the OAS (against his former French employers). He always gave satisfaction, and there are no reports of any failures. He was very expensive. Rumor has it he was looking for a big score. Exactly why he was in the business isn’t clear, but my guess is it was the one field that allowed him to use his talents to the fullest and reap rewards quasi-legally. Now here’s the interesting part.
“In 1964 Maronick was employed by the Generalissimo on Taiwan. Ostensibly he was used for actions against mainland China, but at the time the General was having trouble with the native Taiwanese and some dissidents among his own immigrant group. Maronick was employed to help preserve order. Washington wasn’t pleased with some of the Na
tionalist government’s internal policies. They were afraid the General’s methods might be a little too heavy-handed for our good. The General refused to agree, and began to go his own merry way. At the same time, we began to worry about Maronick. He was just too good and too available. He had never been employed against us, but it was just a matter of time. The Agency decided to terminate Maronick, as both a preventive measure and as a subtle hint to the General. Now, who do you suppose was station agent out of Taiwan when the Maronick termination order came through?”
Powell was 90 percent sure, so he ventured, “Weatherby?”
“Right you are. Weatherby was in charge of the termination operation. He reported it successful, but with a hitch. The method was a bomb in Maronick’s billet. Both the Chinese agent who planted the bomb and Maronick were killed. Naturally, the explosion obliterated both bodies. Weatherby verified the hit as an eyewitness.
“Now let’s back up a little. Whom do you suppose Maronick employed as an aide on at least five different missions?”
It wasn’t a guess. Powell said, “Our dead mailman, Sergeant Calvin Lloyd.”
“Right again. Now here’s yet another clincher. We never had much on Maronick, but we did have a few foggy pictures, sketchy descriptions, whatnot. Guess whose file is missing?” The old man didn’t even give Powell a chance to speak before he answered his own question. “Maronick’s. Also, we have no records of Sergeant Lloyd. Neat, yes?”
“Yes indeed.” Powell was still puzzled. “What makes you think Maronick is involved?”
The old man smiled. “Just playing an inductive hunch. I racked my brain for a man who could and would pull a hit like the one on the Society. When, out of a dozen men, Maronick’s file turned up missing, my curiosity rose. Navy Intelligence sent over the identification of Lloyd, and his file noted he had worked with Maronick. Wheels began to turn. When they both linked up with Weatherby, lights flashed and a band played. I spent a very productive morning making my poor old brain work when I should have been feeding pigeons and smelling cherry blossoms.”
The room was silent while the old man rested and Powell thought. Powell said, “So you figure Maronick is running some kind of action against us and Weatherby was doubling for him, probably for some time.”
“No,” said the old man softly, “I don’t think so.”
The old man’s reply surprised Powell. He could only stare and wait for the soft voice to continue.
“The first and most obvious question is why. Given all that has happened and the way in which it has happened, I don’t think the question can practically and logically be approached. If it can’t be approached logically, then we are starting from an erroneous assumption, the assumption that the CIA is the central object of an action. Then there’s the next question of who. Who would pay—and I imagine pay dearly—for Maronick with Weatherby’s duplicity and at least Lloyd’s help to have us hit in the way we have been hit? Even given that phony Czech revenge note, I can think of no one. That, of course, brings us back to the why question, and we’re spinning our wheels in a circle going nowhere. No, I think the proper and necessary question to ask and answer is not who or why, but what. What is going on? If we can answer that, then the other questions and their answers will flow. Right now, there is only one key to that what, our boy Malcolm.”
Powell sighed wearily. “So we’re back to where we started from, looking for our lost Condor.”
“Not exactly where we started from. I have some of my men digging rather extensively in Asia, looking for whatever it is that ties Weatherby, Maronick, and Lloyd together. They may find nothing, but no one can tell. We also have a better idea of the opposition, and I have some men looking for Maronick.”
“With all the machinery you have at your disposal we should be able to flush one of the two, Malcolm or Maronick—sounds like a vaudeville team, doesn’t it?”
“We’re not using the machinery, Kevin. We’re using us, plus what we can scrounge from the D.C. police.”
Powell choked. “What the hell! You control maybe fifty men, and the cops can’t give you much. The Agency has hundreds of people working on this thing now, not counting the Bureau and the NSA and the others. If you give them what you have given me, they could …”
Quietly but firmly the old man interrupted. “Kevin, think a moment. Weatherby was the double in the Agency, possibly with some lower-echelon footmen. He, we assume, acquired the false credentials, passed along the needed information, and even went into the field himself. But if he was the double, then who arranged for his execution, who knew the closely guarded secret of where he was and enough about the security setup to get the executioner (probably the competent Maronick) in and out again?” He paused for the flicker of understanding on Powell’s face. “That’s right, another double. If my hunch is correct, a very highly placed double. We can’t risk any more leaks. Since we can’t trust anyone, we’ll have to do it ourselves.”
Powell frowned and hesitated before he spoke. “May I make a suggestion, sir?”
The old man deliberately registered surprise. “Why, of course you may, my dear boy! You are supposed to use your fine mind, even if you are afraid of offending your superior.”
Powell smiled slightly. “We know, or at least we are assuming, there is a leak, a fairly highly placed leak. Why don’t we keep after Malcolm but concentrate on stopping the leak from the top? We can figure out what group of people the leak could be in and work on them. Our surveillance should catch them even if so far they haven’t left a trail. The pressure of this thing will force them to do something. At the very least, they must keep in touch with Maronick.”
“Kevin,” the old man replied quietly, “your logic is sound, but the conditions for your assumptions invalidate your plan. You assume we can identify the group of people who could be the source of the leak. One of the troubles with our intelligence community—indeed, one of the reasons for my own section—is that things are so big and so complicated such a group easily numbers over fifty, probably numbers over a hundred, and may run as high as two hundred persons. That’s if the leak is conscious on their part. Our leak may be sloppy around his secretary, or his communications man may be a double.
“Even if the leak is not of a secondary nature, through a secretary or a technician, such surveillance would be massive, though not impossible. You’ve already pointed out my logistical limitations. In order to carry out your suggestion, we would need the permission and assistance of some of the people in the suspect group. That would never do.
“We also have a problem inherent in the group of people with whom we would be dealing. They are professionals in the intelligence business. Don’t you think they might tumble to our surveillance? And even if they didn’t, each one of their departments has its own security system we would have to avoid. For example, officers in Air Force Intelligence are subject to unscheduled spot checks, including surveillance and phone taps. It’s done both to see if the officers are honest and to see if someone else is watching them. We would have to avoid security teams and a wary, experienced suspect.
“What we have,” the old man said, placing the tips of his fingers together, “is a classic intelligence problem. We have possibly the world’s largest security and intelligence organization, an entity ironically dedicated to both stopping the flow of information from and increasing the flow to this country. At a moment’s notice we can assign a hundred trained men to dissect a fact as minuscule as a misplaced luggage sticker. We can turn the same horde loose on any given small group and within a few days we would know everything the group did. We can bring tremendous pressure to bear on any point we can find. There lies the problem: on this case we can’t find the point. We know there’s a leak in our machine, but until we can isolate the area it’s in, we can’t dissect the machine to try to pinpoint the leak. Such activity would be almost certainly futile, and possibly dangerous, to say nothing of awkward. Besides, the moment we start looking, the opposition will know we know there�
��s a leak.
“The key to this whole problem is Malcolm. He might be able to pinpoint the leak for us, or at least steer us in a particular direction. If he does, or if we turn up any links between Maronick’s operation and someone in the intelligence community, we will, of course, latch on to the suspect. But until we have a firm link, such an operation would be sloppy, hit-and-miss work. I don’t like that kind of job. It’s inefficient and usually not productive.”
Powell covered his embarrassment with a formal tone. “Sorry, sir. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
The old man shook his head. “On the contrary, my boy,” he exclaimed, “you were thinking, and that’s very good. It’s the one thing we’ve never been able to train our people to do, and it’s one thing these massive organizations tend to discourage. It’s far better to have you thinking and proposing schemes which, shall we say, are hastily considered and poorly conceived, here in the office, than it is for you to be a robot in the street reacting blindly. That gets everyone into trouble, and it’s a good way to wind up dead. Keep thinking, Kevin, but be a little more thorough.”
“So the plan is still to find Malcolm and bring him home safe, right?”
The old man smiled. “Not exactly. I’ve done a lot of thinking about our boy Malcolm. He is our key. They, whoever they are, want our boy dead, and want him dead badly. If we can keep him alive, and if we can make him troublesome enough to them so that they center their activities on his demise, then we have turned Condor into a key. Maronick and company, by concentrating on Malcolm, make themselves into their own lock. If we are careful and just a shade lucky, we can use the key to open the lock. Oh, we still have to find our Condor, and quickly, before anyone else does. I’m making some additional arrangements to aid us along that line too. But when we find him, we prime him.