by James Grady
Malcolm left the phone booth and walked to the parking lot. In a rented U-Haul pickup with Florida plates a chesty blonde wearing sunglasses sat chewing gum. Malcolm stood in the shade for a few moments while he checked the lot. Then he walked over and climbed in the truck. He gave Wendy the thumbs-up sign, then began to chuckle.
“Hey,” she said, “what is it? What’s so funny?”
“You are, you dummy.”
“Well, the wig and the falsies were your idea! I can’t help it if …” His protesting hand cut her short.
“That’s only part of it,” he said, still laughing. “If you could only see yourself.”
“Well, I can’t help it if I’m good.” She slumped in the seat. “What did they say?”
As they drove to another phone booth, Malcolm told her.
Mitchell had been manning the Panic phone since the first call. His cot lay a few feet from his desk. He hadn’t seen the sun since Thursday. He hadn’t showered. When he went to the bathroom the phone followed. The head of the Panic Section was debating whether to give him pep shots. The Deputy Director had decided to keep Mitchell on the phone, as he stood a better chance than a new man of recognizing Malcolm should he call again. Mitchell was tired, but he was still a tough man. Right now he was a tough determined man. He was raising his ten-o’clock coffee to his lips when the phone rang. He spilled the coffee as he grabbed the receiver.
“493–7282.”
“This is Condor.”
“Where the hell …”
“Shut up. I know you’re tracing this call, so there isn’t much time. I would stay on your line, but the Agency has been penetrated.”
“What!”
“Somebody out there is a double. The man in the alley”—Malcolm almost slipped and said “Weatherby”—“shot at me first. I recognized him from when he was parked in front of the Society Thursday morning. The other man in the alley must have told you that, though, so …” Malcolm slowed, anticipating interruption. He got it.
“Sparrow IV was shot. You …”
“I didn’t do it! Why would I want to do it? Then you didn’t know?”
“All we know is we have two more dead people than when you first called.”
“I might have killed the man who shot at me, but I didn’t kill Maronick.”
“Who?”
“Maronick, the man called Sparrow IV.”
“That wasn’t Sparrow IV’s name.”
“It wasn’t? The man I shot yelled for Maronick after he hit the ground. I figured Maronick was Sparrow IV.” (Easy, thought Malcolm, don’t overdo it.) “Never mind that now, time is running short. Whoever hit us was after something Heidegger knew. He told all of us about something strange he found in the records. He said he was going to tell somebody out at Langley. That’s why I figure there is a double. Heidegger told the wrong man.
“Listen, I’ve stumbled onto something. I think I might be able to figure some more out. I found something at Heidegger’s place. I think I can work it out if you give me time. I know you must be looking for me. I’m afraid to come in or let you find me. Can you pull the heat off me until I figure out what I know that makes the opposition want me dead?”
Mitchell paused for a moment. The trace man frantically signaled him to keep Malcolm talking. “I don’t know if we can or not. Maybe if …”
“There’s no more time. I’ll call you back when I find out some more.” The line went dead. Mitchell looked at his trace man and got a negative shake of the head.
“How the hell do you figure that?”
Mitchell looked at the speaker, a security guard. The man in the wheelchair shook his head. “I don’t, but it’s not my job to figure it. Not this one.” Mitchell looked around the room. His glance stopped when it came to a man he recognized as a veteran agent. “Jason, does the name Maronick mean anything to you?”
The nondescript man called Jason slowly nodded his head. “It rings a bell.”
“Me too,” said Mitchell. He picked up a phone. “Records? I want everything you got on people called Maronick, any spelling you can think of. We’ll probably want several copies before the day is out, so hop to it.” He broke the connection, then dialed the number of the Deputy Director.
While Mitchell waited to be connected with the Deputy Director, Powell connected with the old man. “Our boy did fine, sir.”
“I’m delighted to hear that, Kevin, delighted.”
In a lighter voice Powell said, “Just enough truth mingled with some teasing tidbits. It’ll start the Agency rolling the right way, but hopefully they won’t catch up to us. If you’re right, our friend Maronick may begin to feel nervous. They’ll be more anxious than ever to find our Condor. Anything new on your end?”
“Nothing. Our people are still digging into the past of all concerned. Outside of us, only the police know about the connection between Malcolm and the man killed in the girl’s apartment. The police are officially listing it and her disappearance as parts of a normal murder case. When the time is right, that little tidbit will fall into appropriate hands. As far as I can tell, everything is going exactly according to plan. Now I suppose I’ll have to go to another dreary meeting with a straight face, gently prodding our friends in the right direction. I think it best if you stay on the line, monitoring, not intercepting, but be ready to move any time.”
“Right, sir.” Powell hung up. He looked at the grinning men in the room and settled back to enjoy a cup of coffee.
“I’ll be damned if I can make head or tail of it!” The Navy captain thumped his hand on the table to emphasize his point, then leaned back in his spacious padded chair. The room was stuffy. Sweat stains grew under the Captain’s armpits. Of all the times for the air conditioning to break down, he thought.
The Deputy Director said patiently, “None of us are really too sure what it means, either, Captain.” He cleared his throat to take up where he had been cut off. “As I was saying, except for the information we received from Condor—however accurate it may be—we are really no further than at our last meeting.”
The Captain leaned to his right and embarrassed the man from the FBI sitting next to him by whispering, “Then why call the God damn meeting?” The withering glance from the Deputy Director had no effect on the Captain.
The Deputy continued. “As you know, Maronick’s file is missing. We’ve requested copies of England’s files. An Air Force jet should have them here in three hours. I would like any comments you gentlemen might have.”
The man from the FBI spoke immediately. “I think Condor is partially right. The CIA has been penetrated.” His colleague from the Agency squirmed. “However, I think we should put it in the past tense and say ‘had’ been penetrated. Obviously Weatherby was the double. He probably used the Society as some sort of courier system and Heidegger stumbled onto it. When Weatherby found out, the Society had to be hit. Condor was a loose end that had to be tied up. Weatherby goofed. There are probably some members of his cell still running around, but I think fate has sealed the leak. As I see it, the important thing for us to do now is bring in Condor. With the information he can give us, we can try to pick up those few remaining men—including this Maronick, if he exists—and find out how much information we’ve lost.”
The Deputy Director looked around the room. Just as he was about to close the meeting, the old man caught his eye.
“Might I make an observation or two, Deputy?”
“Of course, sir. Your comments are always welcome.”
The men in the room shifted slightly to pay better attention. The Captain shifted too, though obviously out of frustrated politeness.
Before he spoke, the old man looked curiously at the representative from the FBI. “I must say I disagree with our colleague from the Bureau. His explanation is very plausible, but there are one or two discrepancies I find disturbing. If Weatherby was the top agent, then how and why did he die? I know it’s a debatable question, at least until the lab men finish those exhau
stive tests they’ve been making. I’m sure they will find he was killed. That kind of order would have to come down from a high source. Besides, I feel there is something wrong with the whole double agent–courier explanation. Nothing for sure, just a hunch. I think we should continue pretty much as we have been, with two slight changes.
“One, pry into the background of all concerned and look for crossing paths. Who knows what we may find? Two, let’s give the Condor a chance to fly. He may find something yet. Loosen up the hunt for him, and concentrate on the background search. I have some other ideas I would like to work on for your next meeting, if you don’t mind. That’s all I have now. Thank you, Deputy.”
“Thank you, sir. Of course, gentlemen, the ultimate decision lies with the director of the Agency. However, I’ve been assured our recommendations will carry weight. Until we have a definite decision, I plan to continue as we have been.”
The old man looked at the Deputy Director and said, “You may be sure we shall give you whatever assistance we can.”
Immediately the FBI man snapped, “That goes for us too!” He glared at the old man and received a curious smile in reply.
“Gentlemen,” said the Deputy Director, “I would like to thank all of you for the assistance you have given us, now as well as in the past. Thank you all for coming. You’ll be notified of the next meeting. Good day.”
As the men were leaving, the FBI man glanced at the old man. He found himself staring into a pair of bright, curious eyes. He quickly left the room. On the way out, the Navy captain turned to mutter to a representative from the Treasury Department, “Jesus, I wish I had stayed on line duty! These dull meetings wear me out.” He snorted, put on his naval cap, and strode from the room. The Deputy was the last to leave.
“I don’t like this at all.”
The two men strolled along the Capitol grounds just on the edges of the shifting crowds. The afternoon tourist rush was waning, and some government workers were leaving work early. Monday is a slow day for Congress.
“I don’t like it, either, my fine friend, but we have to contend with the situation as it is, not as we wish it.” The older man surveyed his striking companion and continued, “However, we at least know a little more than before. For example, we know now how important it is that Condor dies.”
“I think he shouldn’t be the only one.” The rare Washington wind carried the striking man’s voice to his companion, who shivered in spite of the warm weather.
“What do you mean?”
The reply was tinged with disgust. “It doesn’t make sense. Weatherby was a tough, experienced agent. Even though he was shot, he managed to kill Sparrow IV. Do you really believe a man like that would yell out my name? Even if he made a slip, why would he yell for me? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Pray tell, then, what does make sense?”
“I can’t say for sure. But there’s something we don’t know going on. Or at least something I don’t know.”
Nervous shock trembled in the distinguished man’s voice. “Surely you’re not suggesting I’m withholding information from you?”
The wind filled the long pause. Slowly, Levine-Maronick answered. “I don’t know. I doubt it, but the possibility exists. Don’t bother to protest. I’m not moving on the possibility. But I want you to remember our last conversation.”
The men walked in silence for several minutes. They left the Capitol grounds and began to stroll leisurely past the Supreme Court Building on East Capitol Street. Finally the older man broke the silence. “Do your men have anything new?”
“Nothing. We’ve been monitoring all the police calls and communications between the Agency and Bureau teams. With only three of us, we can’t do much field work. My plan is to intercept the group that picks Condor up before they get him to a safe house. Can you arrange for him to be brought to a certain one, or at least find out what advance plans they’ve made? It will cut down on the odds quite a bit.” The older man nodded, and Maronick continued.
“Another thing that strikes me wrong is Lloyd. The police haven’t linked him with this thing yet, as far as I can tell. Condor’s prints must have been all over that place, yet the police either haven’t lifted them—which I doubt—or reported them on the APB. I don’t like that at all. It doesn’t fit. Could you check on that in such a way that you don’t stir them into activity?”
The older man nodded again. The two men continued their stroll, apparently headed home from work. By now they were three blocks from the Capitol, well into the residential area. Two blocks down the street a city bus pulled over to the side, belched diesel smoke, and deposited a small group of commuters on the sidewalk. As the bus pulled away, two of the commuters detached themselves from the group and headed toward the Capitol.
Malcolm had debated about turning in the rented pickup. It gave them relatively private transportation, but it was conspicuous. Pickups are not common in Washington, especially pickups emblazoned with “Alfonso’s U-Haul, Miami Beach.” The truck also ran up a bill, and Malcolm wanted to keep as much of his money in reserve as he could. He decided public transportation would suffice for the few movements he planned. Wendy halfheartedly agreed. She liked driving the pickup.
It happened when they were almost abreast of the two men walking toward them on the other side of the street. The gust of wind proved too strong for the bobby pin holding Wendy’s loose wig. It jerked the blond mass of hair from her head, throwing it into the street. The wig skidded to a stop and lay in an ignoble heap almost in the center of the road.
Excited and shocked, Wendy cried out, “Malcolm, my wig! Get it, get it!” Her shrill voice carried above the wind and the slight traffic. Across the street Levine-Maronick pulled his companion to an abrupt halt.
Malcolm knew Wendy had made a mistake by calling out his name. He silenced her with a gesture as he stepped between the parked cars and into the street on a retrieval mission. He noticed the two men across the street watching him, so he tried to appear nonchalant, perhaps embarrassed for his wife.
Levine-Maronick moved slowly but deliberately, his keen eyes straining at the couple across the street, his mind making point-by-point comparisons. He was experienced enough to ignore the shock of fantastic coincidence and concentrate on the moment. His left hand unbuttoned his suit coat. Out of the corner of his eye and in the back of his mind Malcolm saw and registered all this, but his attention centered on the lump of hair at his feet. Wendy reached him just as he straightened up with the wig in his hands.
“Oh, shit, the damned thing is probably ruined.” Wendy grabbed the tangled mass from Malcolm. “I’m glad we don’t have far to go. Next time I’ll use two …”
Maronick’s companion had been out of the field too long. He stood on the sidewalk, staring at the couple across the street. His intent gaze attracted Malcolm’s attention just as the man incredulously mouthed a word. Malcolm wasn’t sure of what the man said, but he knew something was wrong. He shifted his attention to the man’s companion, who had emerged from behind a parked car and begun to cross the street. Malcolm noticed the unbuttoned coat, the waiting hand flat against the stomach.
“Run!” He pushed Wendy away from him and dove over the parked sports car. As he hit the sidewalk, he hoped he was making a fool of himself.
Maronick knew better than to run across an open area charging a probably armed man hiding behind bulletproof cover. He wanted to flush his quarry for a clear shot. He also knew part of his quarry was escaping. That had to be prevented. When his arm stopped moving, his body had snapped into the classic shooting stance, rigid, balanced. The stubby revolver in his right hand barked once.
Wendy had taken four very quick steps when it occurred to her she didn’t know why she was running. This is silly, she thought, but she slowed only slightly. She dodged between two parked cars and slowed to a jog. Four feet from the shelter of a row of tour buses she turned her head, looking over her left shoulder for Malcolm.
The steel-jacketed bull
et caught her at the base of the skull. It spun her up and around, slowly, like a marionette ballerina turning on one tiny foot.
Malcolm knew what the shot meant, but he still had to look. He forced his head to the left and saw the strange, crumpled form on the sidewalk twenty feet away. She was dead. He knew she was dead. He had seen too many dead people in the last few days to miss that look. A stream of blood trickled downhill toward him. The wig was still clutched in her hand.
Malcolm had his gun out. He raised his head and Maronick’s revolver cracked again. The bullet screeched across the car’s hood. Malcolm ducked. Maronick quickly began to angle across the street. He had four rounds left, and he allowed two of them for further harassing fire.
Capitol Hill in Washington has two ironic qualities: it has both one of the highest crime rates and one of the highest concentrations of policemen in the city. Maronick’s shots and the screams of frightened tourists brought one of the traffic policemen on the run. He was a short, portly man named Arthur Stebbins. In five more years he planned to retire. He lurched toward the scene of a possible crime with full confidence that a score of fellow officers were only seconds behind him. The first thing he saw was a man edging across the street, a gun in his hand. This was also the last thing he saw, for Maronick’s bullet caught him square in the chest.
Maronick knew he was in trouble. He had hoped for another minute before the police arrived. By that time Condor would have been dead, and he could be far away. Now he saw two more blue forms a block away. They were tugging at their belts. Maronick swiftly calculated the odds, then turned, looking for a way out.
At this instant a rather bored congressional aide heading home from the Rayburn House Office Building drove up the side street just behind Maronick. The aide stopped his red Volkswagen beetle to check for traffic on the main artery. Like many motorists, he paid little attention to the areas he passed through. He barely realized what happened when Maronick jerked his door open, pulled him from the car, whipped the pistol across his face, and then sped away in the beetle.