by James Grady
Maronick’s companion stood still through the whole episode. When he saw Maronick make his getaway, he too took flight. He ran up East Capitol Street. Less than fifty feet from the scene he climbed into his black Mercedes Benz and sped away. Malcolm raised his head in time to see the license plate of the car.
Malcolm looked down the street to the policemen. They huddled around the body of their comrade. One of them spoke into his belt radio, calling in the description of Maronick and the red Volkswagen and asking for reinforcements and an ambulance. It dawned on Malcolm that they hadn’t seen him yet, or that if they had, they thought of him as only a passerby-witness to a police killing. He looked around him. The people huddled behind parked cars and along the clipped grass were too frightened to yell until he was out of sight. He quickly walked away in the direction the Volkswagen had come. Just before he turned the corner he looked back at the crumpled form on the sidewalk. A policeman was bending over Wendy’s still body. Malcolm swallowed and turned away. Three blocks later he caught a cab and headed downtown. As he sat in the back seat, his body shook slightly, but his mind burned.
“The first step toward becoming a skilful defensive player, then, is to handle the defense in an aggressive spirit. If you do that, you can find subtle defensive resources that other players would not dream of. By seeking active counterplay, you will often upset clever attacking lines. Better yet, you will upset your opponent.”
—Fred Reinfeld, The Complete Chess Course
LL HELL has broken loose, sir.” Powell’s voice reflected the futility he felt.
“What do you mean?” On the other end of the telephone line the old man strained to catch every word.
“The girl has been shot on Capitol Hill. Two witnesses tentatively identified that old photo of Maronick. They also identified the girl’s companion who fled as Malcolm. As far as we can tell, Malcolm wasn’t injured. Maronick got a cop, too.”
“Killing two people in one day makes Maronick rather busy.”
“I didn’t say she was dead, sir.”
After an almost imperceptible pause the tight voice said, “Maronick is not known for missing. She is dead, isn’t she?”
“No, sir, although Maronick didn’t miss by much. Another fraction of an inch and he would have splattered her brain all over the sidewalk. As it is, she has a fairly serious head wound. She’s in the Agency hospital now. They had to do a little surgery. This time I made the security arrangements. We don’t want another Weatherby. She’s unconscious. The doctors say that she’ll probably stay that way for a few days, but they think she’ll eventually be OK.”
The old man’s voice had an eager edge as he asked, “Was she able to tell anyone anything, anything at all?”
“No, sir,” Powell replied disappointedly. “She’s been unconscious since she was shot. I’ve got two of my men in her room. Besides double-checking everyone who comes in, they’re waiting in case she wakes up.
“We’ve got another problem. The police are mad. They want to go after Maronick with everything they’ve got. A dead cop and a wounded girl on Capitol Hill mean more to them than our spy chase. I’ve been able to hold them back, but I don’t think I can for long. If they start looking using the tie-ins they know, the Agency is bound to find out. What should I do?”
After a pause, the old man said, “Let them. Give them a slightly sanitized report of everything we know, enough to give them some leads on Maronick. Tell them to go after him with everything they can muster, and tell them they’ll have lots of help. The only thing we must insist on is first questioning rights once they get him. Insist on that, and tell them I can get authority to back up our claim. Tell them to find Malcolm too. Does it look like Maronick was waiting for them?”
“Not really. We found the boarding house used by Malcolm and the girl. I think Maronick was in the neighborhood and just happened to spot them. If it hadn’t been for the police, he probably would have nailed Condor. There’s one other thing. One witness swears Maronick wasn’t alone. He didn’t get a good look at the other man, but he says the guy was older than Maronick. The older man disappeared.”
“Any confirmation from other witnesses?”
“None, but I tend to believe him. The other man is probably the main double we are after. The Hill is an excellent rendezvous. That could explain Maronick stumbling onto Malcolm and the girl.”
“Yes. Well, send me everything you can on Maronick’s friend. Can the witness make an ID sketch or a license-plate number? Anything?”
“No, nothing definite. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the girl can help us with that if she wakes up soon.”
“Yes,” the old man said softly, “that would be lucky.”
“Do you have any instructions?”
The old man was silent for a few moments, then said, “Put an ad—no, better make it two ads—in the Post. Our boy, wherever he is, will expect to hear from us. But he’s probably not too organized, so put a simple, uncoded ad to run on the same page as the coded one. Tell him to get in touch with us. In the coded ad tell him the girl is alive, the original plan is off, and we’re trying to find some way to bring him in safe. We’ll have to take the chance that he either has or can get a copy of the code book. We can’t say anything important in the uncoded ad because we don’t know who else besides our boy might be reading the Post.”
“Our colleagues will guess something is up when they see the uncoded ad.”
“That’s an unpleasant fact, but we knew we would have to face them eventually. However, I think I can manage them.”
“What do you think Malcolm will do?”
There was another short pause before the old man replied. “I’m not sure,” he said. “A lot depends on what he knows. I’m sure he thinks the girl is dead. He would have responded differently to the situation if he thought she was alive. We may be able to use her somehow, as bait for either Malcolm or the opposition. But we’ll have to wait and see on that.”
“Anything else you want me to do?”
“A good deal, but nothing I can give you instructions for. Keep looking for Malcolm, Maronick, and company, anything which might explain this mess. And keep in touch with me, Kevin. After the meeting with our colleagues, I’ll be at my son’s house for dinner.”
“I think it’s disgusting!” The man from the FBI leaned across the table to glare at the old man. “You knew all along that the murder in Alexandria was connected with this case, yet you didn’t tell us. What’s worse, you kept the police from reporting it and handling it according to form. Disgusting! Why, by now we could have traced Malcolm and the girl down. They would both be safe. We would be hot after the others, provided, of course, that we didn’t already have them. I’ve heard of petty pride, but this is national security! I can assure you, we at the Bureau would not behave in such a manner!”
The old man smiled. He had told them only about the link between Maronick and the murder in Alexandria. Imagine their anger if they realized how much more he knew! He glanced at the puzzled faces. Time to mend fences, or at least to rationalize. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, I can understand your anger. But of course you realize I had a reason for my actions.
“As you all know, I believe there is a leak in the Agency. A substantial leak, I might add. It was and is my opinion that this leak would thwart our efforts on this matter. After all, the end goal—whether we admit it or not—is to plug that very leak. Now, how was I to know that the leak was not in this very group? We are not immune from such dangers.” He paused. The men around the table were too experienced to glance at each other, but the old man could feel the tension rising. He congratulated himself.
“Now then,” he continued, “perhaps I was wrong to conceal so much from the group, but I think not. Not that I’m accusing anyone—or, by the way, that I have abandoned the possibility of the leak’s being here. I still think my move prudent. I also believe it wouldn’t have made much difference, despite what our friend from the FBI says. I think we would still be wher
e we are today. But that is not the question, at least not now. The question is, Where do we go from here and how?”
The Deputy Director looked around the room. No one seemed eager to respond to the old man’s question. Of course, such a situation meant he should pick up the ball. The Deputy dreaded such moments. One always had to be so careful about stepping on toes and offending people. The Deputy felt far more at ease on his field missions when he only had to worry about the enemy. He cleared his throat and used a ploy he hoped the old man expected. “What are your suggestions, sir?”
The old man smiled. Good old Darnsworth. He played the game fairly well, but not very well. In a way he hated to do this to him. He looked away from his old friend and stared into space. “Quite frankly, Deputy, I’m at a loss for suggestions. I really couldn’t say. Of course, I think we should keep on trying to do something.”
Inwardly the Deputy winced. He had the ball again. He looked around the table at a group of men now suddenly not so competent and eager-looking. They looked everywhere but at him, yet he knew they were watching his every move. The Deputy cleared his throat again. He resolved to end the agony as quickly as possible. “As I see it, then, no one has any new ideas. Consequently, I have decided that we will continue to operate in the manner we have been.” (Whatever that means, he thought.) “If there is nothing further …” He paused only momentarily. “… I suggest we adjourn.” The Deputy shuffled his papers, stuffed them into his briefcase, and quickly left the room.
As the others rose to leave, the Army Intelligence representative leaned over to the Navy captain and said, “I feel like the nearsighted virgin on his honeymoon who couldn’t get hard: I can’t see what to do and I can’t do it either.”
The Navy captain looked at his counterpart and said, “I never have that problem.”
Malcolm changed taxis three times before he finally headed for northeast Washington. He left the cab on the fringes of the downtown area and walked around the neighborhood. During his ride around town he formed a plan, rough and vague, but a plan. His first step was to find all-important shelter from the hunters.
It took only twenty minutes. He saw her spot him and discreetly move in a path parallel to his. She crossed the street at the corner. As she stepped up to the sidewalk she “tripped” and fell against him, her body pressed close to his. Her arms ran quickly up and down his sides. He felt her body tense when her hands passed over the gun in his belt. She jerked away and a pair of extraordinarily bright brown eyes darted over his face.
“Cop?” From her voice she couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Malcolm looked down at her stringy dyed blond hair and pale skin. She smelled from the perfume sampler at the corner drugstore.
“No.” Malcolm looked at the frightened face. “Let’s say I’m involved in a high-risk business.” He could see the fear on her face, and he knew she would take a chance.
She leaned against him again, pushing her hips and her chest forward. “What are you doing around here?”
Malcolm smiled. “I want a lay. I’m willing to pay for it. Now, if I’m a cop, the bust is no good, cause I entrapped you. OK?”
She smiled. “Sure, tiger. I understand. What kind of party are we going to have?”
Malcolm looked down at her. Italian, he thought, or maybe Central European. “What do you charge?”
The girl looked at him, judging possibilities. It had been a slow day. “Twenty dollars for a straight lay?” She made it clear she was asking, not demanding.
Malcolm knew he had to get off the streets soon. He looked at the girl. “I’m in no hurry,” he said. “I’ll give you … seventy-five for the whole night. I’ll throw in breakfast if we can use your place.”
The girl tensed. It might take her a whole day and half the night to make that kind of money. She decided to gamble. Slowly she moved her hand into Malcolm’s crotch, covering her action by leaning into him, pushing her breast against his arm. “Hey, honey, that sounds great, but …” She almost lost her nerve. “Could you make it a hundred? Please? I’ll be extra-special good to you.”
Malcolm looked down and nodded. “A hundred dollars. For the full night at your place.” He reached in his pocket and handed her a fifty-dollar bill. “Half now, half afterwards. And don’t think about any kind of setup.”
The girl snatched the money from his hand. “No setup. Just me. And I’ll be real good—real good. My place isn’t far.” She linked her arm in his to guide him down the street.
When they reached the next corner, she whispered, “Just a second, honey, I have to talk to that man.” She released his arm before he could think and hurried to the blind pencil hawker on the corner. Malcolm backed against the wall. His hand shot inside his coat. The gun butt was sweaty.
Malcolm saw the girl slip the man the fifty dollars. He mumbled a few words. She walked quickly to a nearby phone booth, almost oblivious of a boy who jostled her and grinned as her breasts bounced. The sign said Out of Order, but she opened the door anyway. She looked through the book, or so Malcolm thought. He couldn’t see too well, as her back was toward him. She shut the door and quickly returned.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, honey. Just a little business deal. You don’t mind, do you?”
When they came abreast of the blind man, Malcolm stopped and pushed the girl away. He snatched the thick sunglasses off the man’s face. Carefully watching the astonished girl, he looked at the pencil seller. The two empty sockets made him push the glasses back quicker than he had taken them off. He stuffed a ten-dollar bill into the man’s cup. “Forget it, old man.”
The hoarse voice laughed. “It’s done forgotten, mister.”
As they walked away, the girl looked at him. “What did you do that for?”
Malcolm looked down at the puzzled, dull face. “Just checking.”
Her place turned out to be one room with a kitchen-bath area. As soon as they were safely inside, she bolted and locked the door. Malcolm fastened the chain. “Be right with you, honey. Take off your clothes. I’ll fix you up real good right away.” She darted into the curtained-off bathroom area.
Malcolm looked out the window. Three stories up. No one could climb in. Fine. The door was solid and double-locked. He didn’t think anyone had followed them, or even really noticed them. He slowly took off his clothes. He put the gun on the small table next to the bed and covered it with an old Reader’s Digest. The bed squeaked when he lay down. Both his mind and his body ached, but he knew he had to act as normal as possible.
The curtains parted and she came to him, her eyes shining. She wore a long-sleeved black nightgown. The front hung open. Her breasts dangled—long, skinny pencils. The rest of her body matched her breasts, skinny, almost emaciated. Her voice was distant. “Sorry I took so long, sugar. Let’s get down to business.”
She climbed on the bed and pulled his head to her breasts. “There, baby, there you go.” For a few minutes she ran her hands over him, then she said, “Now I’ll take real good care of you.” She moved to the base of the bed and buried her head in his crotch. Minutes later she coaxed his body into a response. She got up and went to the bathroom. She returned holding a jar of Vaseline. “Oh, baby, you were real good, real good, sugar.” She lay down on the bed to apply the lubricant to herself. “There, sugar, all ready for you. All ready for you whenever you want.”
For a long time they lay there. Malcolm finally looked at her. Her body moved slowly, carefully, almost laboriously. She was asleep. He went to the bathroom. On the back of the stained toilet he found the spoon, rubber hose, matches, and homemade syringe. The small plastic bag was still three-quarters full of the white powder. Now he knew why the nightgown had long sleeves.
Malcolm searched the apartment. He found four changes of underwear, three blouses, two skirts, two dresses, a pair of jeans, and a red sweater to match the purple one laying on the floor. A torn raincoat hung in the closet. In a shoe box in the kitchen he found six of the possession return receipts issued upon releas
e from a Washington jail. He also found a two-year-old high-school identification card. Mary Ruth Rosen. Her synagogue address was neatly typed on the back. There was nothing to eat except five Hersheys, some coconut, and a little grapefruit juice. He ate everything. Under the bed he found an empty Mogen David 20/20 wine bottle. He propped it against the door. If his theory worked, it would crash loudly should the door open. He picked up her inert form. She barely stirred. He put her on the torn armchair and threw a blanket over the limp bundle. It wouldn’t make any difference if her body wasn’t comfortable in the night. Malcolm took out his lenses and lay down on the bed. He was asleep in five minutes.
“In almost every game of chess there comes a crisis that must be recognized. In one way or another a player risks something—if he knows what he’s doing, we call it a ‘calculated risk.’
“If you understand the nature of this crisis; if you perceive how you’ve committed yourself to a certain line of play; if you can foresee you’ve committed yourself to a certain line of play; if you can foresee the nature of your coming task and its accompanying difficulties, all’s well. But if this awareness is absent, then the game will be lost for you, and fighting back will do no good.”
—Fred Reinfeld, The Complete Chess Course
ALCOLM woke shortly after seven. He lay quietly until just before eight, his mind going over all the possibilities. In the end he still decided to carry it through. He glanced at the chair. The girl had slid onto the floor during the night. The blanket was wrapped over her head and she was breathing hard.
Malcolm got up. With a good deal of clumsy effort he put her on the bed. She didn’t stir through the whole process.
The bathroom had a leaky hose and nozzle hooked up to the tub, so Malcolm took a tepid shower. He successfully shaved with the slightly used safety razor. He desperately wanted to brush his teeth, but he couldn’t bring himself to use the girl’s toothbrush.