Six Days of the Condor

by James Grady

  Malcolm looked at the sleeping form before he left the apartment. Their agreement had been for a hundred dollars, and he had only paid her fifty. He knew where that money went. Reluctantly, he laid the other fifty dollars on the dresser. It wasn’t his money anyway.

  Three blocks away he found a Hot Shoppe where he breakfasted in the boisterous company of neighbors on their way to work. After he left the restaurant he went to a drugstore. In the privacy of a Gulf station rest room he brushed his teeth. It was 9:38.

  He found a phone booth. With change from the Gulf station he made his calls. The first one was to Information and the second one connected him with a small office in Baltimore.

  “Bureau of Motor Vehicle Registration. May I help you?”

  “Yes,” Malcolm replied. “My name is Winthrop Estes, of Alexandria. I was wondering if you could help me pay back a favor.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “You see, yesterday as I was driving home from work, my battery tipped over right in the middle of the street. I got it hooked up again, but there wasn’t enough charge to fire the engine. Just as I was about to give up and try to push the thing out of the way, this man in a Mercedes Benz pulled up behind me. At great risk to his own car, he gave me the push necessary to get mine started. Before I had a chance to even thank him, he drove away. All I got was his license number. Now, I would at least like to send him a thank-you note or buy him a drink or something. Neighborly things like that don’t happen very often in D.C.”

  The man on the other end of the line was touched. “They certainly don’t. With his Mercedes! Phew, that’s some nice guy! Let me guess. He had Maryland plates and you want me to check and see who he is, right?”

  “Right. Can you do it?”

  “Well … Technically no, but for something like this, what’s a little technicality? Do you have the number?”

  “Maryland 6E–49387.”

  “6E–49387. Right. Hold on just one second and I’ll have it.” Malcolm heard the receiver clunk on a hard surface. In the background, footsteps faded into a low office murmur of typewriters and obscure voices, then grew stronger. “Mr. Estes? We’ve got it. Black Mercedes sedan, registered to a Robert T. Atwood, 42 Elwood—that’s E-l-w-o-o-d—Lane, Chevy Chase. Those people must really be loaded. That’s the country-squire suburb. He could probably afford a scratch or two on his car. Funny, those people usually don’t give a damn, if you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean. Listen, thanks a lot.”

  “Hey, don’t thank me. For something like this, glad to do it. Only don’t let it get around, know what I mean? Might tell Atwood the same thing, OK?”

  “OK.”

  “You sure you got it? Robert Atwood, 42 Elwood Lane, Chevy Chase?”

  “I’ve got it. Thanks again.” Malcolm hung up and stuffed the piece of paper with the address on it into his pocket. He wouldn’t need it to remember Mr. Atwood. For no real reason, he strolled back to the Hot Shoppe for coffee. As far as his watchful eyes could tell, no one noticed him.

  The morning Post lay on the counter. On impulse he began to thumb through it. It was on page 12. They hadn’t taken any chances. The three-inch ad was set in bold type and read, “Condor call home.”

  Malcolm smiled, hardly glancing at the coded sweepstakes ad. If he called in, they would tell him to come home or at least lie low. That wasn’t what he intended. There was nothing they could say in the coded message that could make any difference to him. Not now. Their instructions had lost all value yesterday on Capitol Hill.

  Malcolm frowned. If his plan went wrong, the whole thing might end unsatisfactorily. Undoubtedly that end would also mean Malcolm’s death, but that didn’t bother him too much. What bothered him was the horrible waste factor that failure would mean. He had to tell someone, somehow, just in case. But he couldn’t let anyone know, not until he had tried. That meant delay. He had to find a way of delayed communication.

  The sign flashing across the street gave him the inspiration. With the materials he had at hand he began to write. Twenty minutes later he stuffed curt synopses of the last five days and a prognosis for the future into three small envelopes begged from the waitress. The napkins went to the FBI. The pieces of junk paper from his wallet filled the envelope addressed to the CIA. The map of D.C. he had picked up at the Gulf station went to the Post. These three envelopes went into a large manila envelope he bought at the drugstore. Malcolm stuck the big envelope in a mailbox. Pickup was scheduled for 2:00 P.M. The big envelope was addressed to Malcolm’s bank, which for some reason closed at 2:00 P.M. on Tuesdays. Malcolm reckoned it would take the bank until at least tomorrow to find and mail the letters. He had a minimum of twenty-four hours to operate in, and he had passed on what he knew. He considered himself free of obligations.

  While Malcolm spent the rest of the day standing in the perpetually long line at the Washington Monument, security and law-enforcement agencies all over the city were quietly going bananas. Detectives and agents tripped over each other and false reports of Malcolm. Three separate carloads of officials from three separate agencies arrived simultaneously at the same boarding house to check out three separate leads, all of which were false. The proprietress of the boarding house still had no idea what happened after the officials angrily drove away. A congressional intern who vaguely resembled Malcolm’s description was picked up and detained by an FBI patrol. Thirty minutes after the intern was identified and released from federal custody, he was arrested by Washington police and again detained. Reporters harassed already nervous officials about the exciting Capitol Hill shootout. Congressmen, senators, and political hacks of every shade kept calling the agencies and each other, inquiring about the rumored security leak. Of course, everyone refused to discuss it over the phone, but the senator-congressman-department chief wanted to be personally briefed. Kevin Powell was trying once again to play Condor and retrace Malcolm. As he walked along East Capitol Street, puzzling, perturbing questions kept disturbing the lovely spring day. He received no answers from the trees and buildings, and at 11:00 he gave up the chase to meet the director of the hunt.

  Powell was late, but when he walked quickly into the room he did not receive a reproachful glance from the old man. Indeed, the old man’s congeniality seemed at a new height. At first Powell thought the warmth was contrived for the benefit of the stranger who sat with them at the small table, but he gradually decided it was genuine.

  The stranger was one of the biggest men Powell had ever seen. It was hard to judge his height while he sat, but Powell guessed he was at least six feet seven. The man had a massive frame, with at least three hundred pounds of flesh supplying extra padding beneath the expensively tailored suit. The thick black hair was neatly greased down. Powell noticed the man’s little piggy eyes quietly, carefully taking stock of him.

  “Ah, Kevin,” said the old man, “how good of you to join us. I don’t believe you know Dr. Lofts.”

  Powell didn’t know Dr. Lofts personally, but he knew the man’s work. Dr. Crawford Lofts was probably the foremost psychological diagnostician in the world, yet his reputation was known only in very tightly controlled circles. Dr. Lofts headed the Psychiatric Evaluation Team for the Agency. PET came into its own when its evaluation of the Soviet Premier convinced President Kennedy that he should go ahead with the Cuban blockade. Ever since then, PET had been given unlimited resources to compile its evaluation of major world leaders and selected individuals.

  After ordering coffee for Powell, the old man turned and said, “Dr. Lofts has been working on our Condor. For the last few days he has talked to people, reviewed our boy’s work and dossiers, even lived in his apartment. Trying to build an action profile, I believe they call it. You can explain it better, Doctor.”

  The softness of Loft’s voice surprised Powell. “I think you’ve about said it, old friend. Basically, I’m trying to find out what Malcolm would do, given the background he has. About all I can say is that he wi
ll improvise fantastically and ignore whatever you tell him unless it fits into what he wants.” Dr. Lofts did not babble about his work at every opportunity. This too surprised Powell, and he was unprepared when Lofts stopped talking.

  “Uh, what are you doing about it?” Powell stammered, feeling very foolish when he heard his improvised thoughts expressed out loud.

  The Doctor rose to go. At least six-seven. “I’ve got field workers scattered at points throughout the city where Malcolm might turn up. If you’ll excuse me, I want to get back to supervising them.” With a curt, polite nod to the old man and Powell, Dr. Lofts lumbered from the room.

  Powell looked at the old man. “Do you think he has much of a chance?”

  “No, no more than anyone else. That’s what he thinks, too. Too many variables for him to do much more than guess. The realization of that limitation is what makes him good.”

  “Then why bring him in? We can get all the manpower we want without having to pull in PET.”

  The old man’s eyes twinkled, but there was coldness in his voice. “Because, my dear boy, it never hurts to have a lot of hunters if the hunters are hunting in different ways. I want Malcolm very badly, and I don’t want to miss a trick. Now, how are you coming from your end.”

  Powell told him, and the answer was the same as it had been from the beginning: no progress.

  At 4:30 Malcolm decided it was time to steal a car. He had considered many other ways of obtaining transportation, but crossed them off his list as too risky. Providence combined with the American Legion and a Kentucky distillery to solve Malcolm’s problem.

  If it hadn’t been for the American Legion and their National Conference on Youth and Drugs, Alvin Phillips would never have been in Washington, let alone at the Washington Monument. He was chosen by the Indiana state commander to attend the expense-paid national conference to learn all he could about the evils of drug abuse among the young. While at the conference, he had been given a pass which would enable him to avoid the lines at the Monument and go straight to the top. He lost this pass the night before, but he felt obligated to at least see the Monument for the folks back home.

  If it hadn’t been for a certain Kentucky distillery, Alvin would not have been in his present state of intoxication. The distillery kindly provided all conference participants with a complimentary fifth of their best whiskey. Alvin had become so upset by the previous day’s film describing how drugs often led to illicit sex among nubile teen-age girls that the night before he drank the entire bottle by himself in his Holiday Inn room. He liked the whiskey so much that he bought another fifth to help him through the conference and “kill the dog that bit him.” He finished most of that fifth by the time the meetings broke up and he managed to navigate to the Monument.

  Malcolm didn’t find Alvin, Alvin found the line. Once there, he made it plain to all who could hear that he was standing in this hot God damn sun out of patriotic duty. He didn’t have to be here, he could have gone right to the God damn top, except for that God damn hustling floozy who lifted his wallet and the God damn pass. He sure fooled her God damn ass with those traveler’s checks—best God damn things you could buy. She sure had God damn big jugs, though. God damn it, all he wanted to do was take her for a ride in his new car.

  When Malcolm heard the word “car,” he immediately developed a dislike for cheap God damn floozies and a strong affection for the American Legion, Indiana, Kentucky whiskey, and Alvin’s brand-new Chrysler. After a few short introductory comments, he let Alvin know he was talking to a fellow veteran of American wars, one whose hobby just happened to be automobiles. Have another drink, Alvin, old buddy.

  “S’at right? You really dig cars?” The mention of important matters pulled Alvin part way out of the bottle. It didn’t take a lot of effort for bosom companionship to slide him back down. “You wanna see a real good ‘un? Got me bran’-new one. Jus’ drove ’t here from Indiana. Ever been to Indiana? Gotta come, come see me. An’ the old lady. She ain’t much to look at—we’re forry-four, you know. I don’t look forry-four, do I? Where was I? Oh yeah, ol’ lady. Good woman. A li’l fat, but what the hell, I always say …”

  By this time Malcolm had maneuvered Alvin away from the crowd and into a parking lot. He had also shared half a dozen swigs from the bottle Alvin carefully kept hidden under his soggy suit coat. Malcolm would raise the bottle to his closed lips and move his Adam’s apple in appreciation. He didn’t want alcohol slowing him down for the night. When Alvin took his turn, he more than made up for Malcolm’s abstention. By the time they reached the parking lot, only two inches remained in the bottle.

  Malcolm and Alvin talked about those God damn kids and their God damn drugs. Especially the girls, the teen-age girls, just like the cheerleaders in Indiana, hooked on that marijuana and ready to do anything, “anything,” for that God damn drug. Anything. Malcolm casually mentioned that he knew where two such girls were hanging around, just waiting to do anything for that God damn marijuana. Alvin stopped him and plaintively said, “Really?” Alvin thought very hard when Malcolm (“John”) assured him that such was the case. Malcolm let the discussion lag, then he helped Alvin suggest meeting these two girls so Alvin could tell the folks back in Indiana what it was really like. Really like. Since the girls were in kind of a public place, it probably would be best if “John” went and picked them up and brought them back here. Then they could all go to Alvin’s room and talk. Better to talk to them there than here. Find out why they’d do anything, anything, for that God damn marijuana. Alvin gave Malcolm the keys just as they reached the shiny new car.

  “Got lotsa gas, lotsa gas. Sure ya don’t need any money?” Alvin fumbled with his clothes and extracted a weather-beaten wallet. “Take watcha need, bitch last night only got traveler’s checks.” Malcolm took the wallet. While Alvin shakily tipped the bottle to his lips, his new friend removed all identification papers from the wallet, including a card with his car license number. He gave the wallet back to Alvin.

  “Here,” he said. “I don’t think they’ll want any money. Not now.” He smiled briefly, secretively. When Alvin saw the smile his heart beat a shade faster. He was too far gone to show much facial expression.

  Malcolm unlocked the car. A crumpled blue cap lay on the front seat. On the floor was a six-pack of beer Alvin had brought to help ease the heat. Malcolm put the cap on his friend’s head and exchanged the now empty whiskey bottle for the six-pack of beer. He looked at the flushed face and blurred eyes. Two hours in the sun and Alvin should pass out. Malcolm smiled and pointed to a grassy mall.

  “When I come back with the girls, we’ll meet you over there, then go to your room. You’ll recognize us because they both have big jugs. I’ll be back with them just after you finish the six-pack. Don’t worry about a thing.” With a kindly push he sent Alvin staggering off to the park and the tender mercies of the city. When he pulled out of the parking lot, he glanced at the rearview mirror in time to see Alvin lurch to a sitting position on a portion of grass well away from anyone else. Malcolm turned the corner as Alvin opened a beer can and took a long, slow swig.

  The car had almost a full tank of gas. Malcolm drove to the expressway circling the city. He stopped briefly at a drive-in restaurant in Chevy Chase for a cheeseburger and use of the rest room. In addition to relieving himself, he checked his gun.

  Number 42 Elwood Lane was indeed a country estate. The house was barely visible from the road. Direct access to it was through a private lane closed off by a stout iron gate. The closest neighboring house was at least a mile away. Dense woods surrounded the house on three sides. The land between the house and the road was partially cleared. From Malcolm’s brief glance he could tell that the house was large, but he didn’t stop for a closer look. That would be foolish.

  From a small gas station just up the road he obtained a map of the area. The woods behind the house were uninhabited hills. When he told the gas-station attendant he was a vacationing ornithologist and that he mig
ht have seen a very rare thrush, the attendant helped him by describing some unmapped country roads which might lead to the bird’s nesting area. One such road ran behind 42 Elwood Lane.

  Because of the attendant’s anxious help, Malcolm found the proper road. Bumpy, unpaved, and with only traces of gravel, the road wound around hills, through gullies, and over ancient cowpaths. The woods were so dense that at times Malcolm could see only twenty feet from the road. His luck held, though, and when he topped a hill he saw the house above the trees to his left, at least a mile away. Malcolm pulled the car off the road, bouncing and lurching into a small clearing.

  The woods were quiet, the sky was just turning pink. Malcolm quickly pushed his way through the trees. He knew he had to get close to the house before all light faded or he would never find it.

  It took him half an hour of hard work. As the day shifted from sunset to twilight, he reached the top of a small hill. The house was just below him, three hundred yards away. Malcolm dropped to the ground, trying to catch his breath in the crisp, fresh air. He wanted to memorize all he could see in the fading light. Through the windows of the house he caught fleeting glimpses of moving figures. The yard was big, surrounded by a rock wall. There was a small shed behind the house.

  He would wait until dark.

  Inside the house Robert Atwood sat back in his favorite easy chair. While his body relaxed, his mind worked. He did not want to meet with Maronick and his men tonight, especially not here. He knew the pressure was on them, and he knew they would press him for some sort of alternate solution. At present Atwood didn’t have one. The latest series of events had changed the picture considerably. So much depended on the girl. If she regained consciousness and was able to identify him … well, that would be unfortunate. It was too risky to send Maronick after her, the security precautions were too tight. Atwood smiled. On the other hand, the girl’s survival might pose some interesting and favorable developments, especially in dealing with Maronick. Atwood’s smile broadened. The infallible Maronick had missed. True, not by much, but he had missed. Perhaps the girl, a living witness, might be useful against Maronick. Just how Atwood wasn’t sure, but he decided it might be best if Maronick continued thinking the girl was dead. She could be played later in the game. For the time being Maronick must concentrate on finding Malcolm.