Shadow of the Condor

by Grady, James

  Chou frowned at the picture, then tossed it back on the bed. "I still think he's too young for Krumin. Besides, a mission like that just isn't his style."

  "What is Krumin's style?" asked Malcolm. "What do you think he's doing here? How does it tie in with the Robinsons, the Kincaids and that man they killed last night?"

  Chou smiled at Malcolm. "Oh, my impatient friend. So snappy, so aggressive. I think I liked you much better before, when you had your personality but you knew your place.

  "Times change."

  "Indeed they do," replied Chou, "indeed they do. I think I can answer most of your questions. But I won't, at least not yet. We need one more little test before I'm ready to tell you and before we're ready to act. I may be wrong, perhaps we shouldn't be waiting so, but I think not. I think not."

  "I think-"

  "Don't interrupted Chou. "Don't think, don't form your opinions, don't extend your logic. You aren't good enough to handle that yet."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Your 'poker face' ability, or rather the lack of it. You're not used to living in a world of double and triple lies, not yet. I'm sure one reason your superiors tell you as little as they do is they know you function better when you don't completely understand what is going on. You're the kind of person who is easily betrayed by his knowledge. So don't try to extend it just now."

  "So what do we do?" asked Malcolm after a pause.

  "Today? Nothing." Chou rose and walked to the door. "I think there has been enough activity for one time period. Let us wait until the calm after the storm. Tomorrow, a nice, pleasant spring Sunday. Tomorrow we act.

  A pleasant interlude a nice escape from the games she must play with that stupid airman.

  "Radio me if anything develops. And don't stray too far from this bedroom. I'll want to find you quickly when I return."

  Malcolm closed the door behind Chou. He stared at the smoothly painted wood, listening to Chou's footsteps grow fainter and fainter in the carpeted hall.

  "He knows," Sheila said dully. "He knows about us."

  …..

  I really am old, thought Serov as he staggered from his cot to answer the phone. Once there was a time when I would have flown off the bed and caught the phone before it finished its second ring. Now I'm groggy when I open my eyes, it takes me a ring to pull myself together and two more rings to cross my office. Counting the ring which wakes me up, that makes four rings before I'm getting the message. Yes, he thought as he lifted the receiver, interrupting the start of the fifth ring, I'm old.

  "Serov." At least, thought the bureau chief, I don't sound old.

  "Comrade Serov," the voice at the other end said firmly, "I’m afraid I have some rather bad news for you."

  Serov's stomach churned, the acid fires building. It was Commander Ryzhov.

  "Yes," continued Ryzhov drolly' "as you know, another operation group has a very highly placed double in the American FBI. They use him rarely, and he communicates to his control only items of the utmost importance. One hour ago he reported that American security troops killed a Russian saboteur-spy after interrupting his mission near a missile in the northern border state of Montana. The Russian agent carried a machine which, unfortunately for the Americans, was destroyed by him just before he died. The Americans have also detained two of their citizens who allegedly helped this Russian spy, and yet a third American was killed in a gunfight with Chicago authorities. Our FBI contact reports his superiors are quite pleased with the way they have thwarted another Soviet spy ring. There are still some policy matters to be settled, such as whether they will have a public trial and mass publicity or settle for a quiet exchange, but the Americans are ecstatic at their success."

  Serov's heart pounded with joy. He wanted to shout his happiness, but he wasn't sure how Ryzhov would take such an outburst, nor was Serov sure who might have a tap on the line. Instead, he decided to match his superior's droll sarcasm. "It is indeed a pity that we failed."

  "Yes, yes, it is. I assume you will see to it that proper noises along such lines are made at the proper points!'

  "Of course, of course."

  "I have already informed Krumin. And, Serov

  "Yes, sir?" Serov asked nervously.

  ‘’. . I won't forget the excellent work you've done m this matter. Neither will others."

  "Thank you sir, thank you. I tried my best."

  "It was good enough." The line clicked silent.

  Serov returned the receiver to its cradle, closed his eyes and allowed himself a long sigh of relief. It's over, he thought, except for getting the proper leaks back through the double agents. In another few hours I can go home.

  He sighed again, then picked up the phone, his energy revitalized by his happiness.

  "You don't seem pleased, sir," Kevin commented,, his eyes bloodshot from the lack of sleep but still alert enough to detect the subtleties in the old man's demeanor. "I realize it would have been nicer if we could have captured the Russian and his machine, but at least we stopped him."

  "Yes," sighed the old man reluctantly, "at least there is that." He lowered his coffee cup to the table and stared at the plate of half-eaten fried eggs. He never liked Sunday working breakfasts at the office.

  Kevin didn't know what to say. He had flown back from Montana late Saturday night on a military transport plane after attending to minor housekeeping chores. The transport plane also carried the Russian7s body and the debris of the machine. Both were undergoing intensive examination by CIA technicians. The preliminary reports were interesting: The Russian's fingerprints were not on Me with any of the intelligence agencies, nor had he been identified through examining the thousands of photographs of known and suspected Russian agents. But the CIA pathologist, who knew the details his employers had on this "case," had gone so far as to paste an index card with Krumin (Code name: Rose) typed in neat letters on the table which held the Soviet agent's mortal remains.

  "There's something about this that bothers me," the old man said at last, "something that I can't place or identify. It's very seldom we have everything we want or need to know. We have a good deal more in 'this instance than in most. But something doesn't seem right."

  "Is there anything I can do?" Kevin asked hastily. He looked across the room as he spoke. He was sure Carl lurked behind the slightly open door, eavesdropping.

  "No, my boy, nothing," the old man consoled. "You did a marvelous job, simply marvelous. As soon as Condor gets back and you've had a chance to talk with him, I want you to take some time off. Then you, Dr. Lofts and I will take our Condor under our wings and see if we can't build him up a little more. He's had a nice, easy mission so far, nothing dangerous. The experience must have been very good for him. Couple that with what we do have from this little affair, and the picture seems much brighter, much brighter."

  …..

  Malcolm pulled the emergency brake tight, then settled back in his seat with his hands on the jeep's steering wheel. Bright sunlight and government wax combined to reflect the small-town images of Whitlash off the jeep's hood.

  "Beautiful Sunday," Chou had said when he woke them early that morning, "calm, peaceful, beautiful. A perfect day, a day to rest after a crisis' end. What better day for you to go muddle things up once more, eh, Malcolm? What better day for a Condor to fly?"

  Malcolm slowly climbed out of the jeep. He walked to the car behind him. Sheila rolled down the window as he leaned over to talk to her. He used his body to screen the motion of their hands touching from the house behind him.

  "Be very careful," she told him, "do exactly as Chou said. You should be in no danger. If you do run into trouble, remember, we're not far away. If you're not back on the road in thirty minutes, we'll come in after you. If something goes wrong, just hold out thirty minutes."

  Malcolm smiled. "I'll see you in less than half an hour."

  He turned and walked up the stairs to the Robinsons’ front door. Behind him, Sheila pulled her car from the curb
and drove away.

  "Why, Mr. Malcolm," said Grandmother Stowe as she opened the door and led Malcolm into the kitchen, "this is a pleasant surprise. We weren’t sure who it was when you and that lady drove up. We certainly weren't expecting company, but you're more than welcome."

  "Thank you," Malcolm said. He walked in the front door, through the living room and into the kitchen. He took the seat offered by Fran Robinson, who had a puzzled smile marring her look of housewifely hospitality.

  "Is everyone home?" Malcolm, asked as pleasantly as be could.

  Fran Robinson glanced quickly at her mother before replying. "Well, yes. Pete is working in the shed. My husband, Neil, is lying down upstairs. He doesn't feel too well. And his brother-in-law, Dave, you remember, Dave Livingston, he was visiting us the last time you were here with . . . with your questions, well, he's up there.

  Oh, Dave! I didn't hear you come down;"

  Dave Livingston stood in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. Malcolm thought the look on his face might be a smile, but if it was, the smile took some of Livingston's youth away from him. It was a middle-aged man who replied to Fran's greeting.

  "I'm very quiet. Neil is back to sleep now. How are you, Malcolm?" Livingston asked, crossing the kitchen. He sat across the kitchen table from Malcolm. "I didn't think we would see you again so soon. Are there some questions from the survey you forgot to ask?"

  "Dave, dear," interrupted Grandmother Stowe sweetly, "did you notice that this time Mr. Malcolm didn't come alone? When he drove up, another person, a nice young girl, followed him in her own car. She drove away, though, but not before I saw our Malcolm flirt with her."

  Malcolm smiled at the teasing remark. Very smoothly done, he thought, and I had better expand on it. "She's an old friend. She wanted to come with me, but I made her agree to meet me elsewhere in ... oh, in just a few min. utes. She'll be quite upset if I'm late."

  "I imagine she would be," Dave replied thoughtfully. He changed his smile slightly. Some of his youth returned, but

  Malcolm didn't like what it brought along for the ride. .

  "As a matter of fact," Malcolm continued, following Chou's advice to get in, plant the bomb, then get out, "I did come back on something sort of related to business."

  "Really," Dave said thoughtfully. "Is there more to your survey?"

  "Officially my survey is completed," Malcolm said. Don't lose eye contact, he thought. "But there are a few points which I personally found fascinating."

  "Perhaps I can help you." Livingston's tone was inviting.

  "I think you might be able to," accepted Malcolm. "The main point which fascinated me, was history, but then I'm a history buff. It's a shame Neil isn't here because I got the idea from him."

  Malcolm saw Fran and Grandmother Stowe exchange a quick, questioning glance. Livingston's eyes never left Malcolm's face. Malcolm continued.

  "I got to thinking that what this survey lacked was historical depth. We look at it too much in relation to what is immediately happening around us. The quickness of events tends to blind us to the framework in which they occur. We look at you people here today, but we ignore where you were yesterday or the day before. I think that's a shame. "Especially in your family's instance. I was so fascinated by Neil's allusions to the homesteading days, and you know, the more I thought about the historical perspective, the more his story kept coming back to me. Then Friday, quite by chance, for the survey closed yesterday, I came across some stories in old newspapers at the library. "Unfortunately, the paper runs back only to the post-World War Two days. But I browsed through them anyway, and I found a story on you-Robinsons! Now I think that's simply amazing-there you were, in black and white! "But the story bothers me. When I was here before, Neil kept talking about the homesteading days of your family, how they came out here from Pennsylvania and homesteaded this very farm. But the story said you bought the farm from some other people. I found that so interesting I thought I would drop by and see if you could help satisfy my curiosity before I leave for D.C. tomorrow."

  Malcolm wanted to watch the women's faces as he sat through the awkward silence, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off Livingston. The man stared calmly back.

  Grandmother Stowe broke the silence. "Oh, that Neil and his teasing! Why ... he was just setting you up, trying to pull your leg. If you'd have stuck around, he would have bored you to tears with white lie's about the Robinsons being big cowboys. We have an awful time with him that way.

  "The truth is," she continued, "we did come out here in the 1950's, but it's been so long we tend to think of this as our home. Before that we lived in Pennsylvania. Why, we're about the only ones in our family who up and left that area. We'd been there for a long time when we came out here."

  Malcolm shifted his gaze to look at the old woman. The dish towel was twisted around her band. "You know," he said with as much relief as he could pretend, "I kind of thought it might be something like that, a tall-story routine."

  Fran Robinson nervously laughed.

  "Would you like to stay for dinner Livingston asked politely. "I'm sure Neil will be better by then and he can tell you all sorts of stories."

  ‘’No, thank you," Malcolm replied as he rose and walked to the door, "I have to be on my way. My friend is waiting." When he reached the door, he turned and looked at the three relatives who stood frozen in a tableau. "If I don't get a chance to see you again, farewell, and thank you for all your help. You've been very cooperative."

  Livingston stood after the door banged shut. He absently picked up the cup of coffee Fran Robinson had poured and Malcolm had ignored. Davie walked to the sink and emptied the cup down the drain while he watched Malcolm drive away. When the jeep had vanished around the bend, Livingston turned to face the two silent women. He smiled slightly. His smile became a sneer, then he furiously whipped his arm back and hurled the empty coffee cup across the -kitchen. It shattered against the far wall, leaving a mar which wouldn't wash away.

  Malcolm glanced at his watch: nine minutes past midnight. The night air had retained the day's warmth. He was glad he had not worn a sweater under his jacket. He knew it was too late to regret being where he was, so he tried to cheer himself by finding good things in his predicament.

  He leaned back against the roof. Stars filled the sky above his head. He couldn't remember ever having seen so many, so brightly. At least not since his youth. Malcolm glanced across the roof to where Chou lay. It would soon be time to relieve the Chinese. Malcolm toyed with the idea of pitching him over the edge into the blackness. But Malcolm knew whose body would actually hurtle the four and a half stories to the sidewalk if he should be foolish enough to attempt anything. Besides, thought Malcolm, it's too late for that kind of thing.

  Malcolm and Chou were on the courthouse roof. From their vantage point they could see almost all the town. Immediately below them on their side of the street lay the library to their left, and at the top of the hill to their right, just bordering on the courthouse parking lot, stood a large deserted house. Malcolm's motel was across the street from them, with the main office and the stairs leading to Malcolm's unit clearly visible.

  Malcolm and Chou had broken into the courthouse At-most immediately on their return to Shelby. The building is deserted on Sunday. It took Chou little time to pick the lock on the main door and the trapdoor leading to the roof. Malcolm was sure Chou's familiarity came from an earlier reconnaissance. Chou was like that. If at all possible, he left no details to chance. Malcolm briefly worried for Sheila, but he knew she was probably safe at her vantage point in a tool shed facing the motel's rear.

  Malcolm rendezvoused with Chou and Sheila-at the main highway five minutes after he left the Robinsons. They had driven to a neighborhood in Shelby's west side, parked the vehicle and walked back to the motel. During the walk Chou had lectured.

  "There are numerous possibilities, of course. However, one thing is fairly obvious. Something is wrong at or with the Robinsons an
d probably also the Kincaids. Given the other information we have, it is logical to assume that our friend Krumin is somehow involved. I think that Livingston, the in-law who visits from time to time, is the elusive Krumin.

  "I am only guessing here, but I think the whole thing, the Soviet killed at the missile site and all of that, is probably linked to Krumin, but in a tangential way. At any rate, dying as he did the Russian certainly removed our friends in Whitlash from the security of American security agencies. Isn't it interesting the way that worked out?"

  "So?" Malcolm said. "Suppose Livingston is Krumin. What then? I'm not stupid enough to think you're going to let me call my people."

  "Quite right," replied Chou benevolently, "at least not yet. After I am finished with Krumin, he is all yours."

  "And when will that be?"

  "You're jumping ahead of yourself, my boy. Suppose the Robinsons' story is true? I doubt it~ but we can't be sure. Let's say, though, that Livingston is Krumin. What is he doing here? Why are the Robinsons helping him? Are the Kincaids involved? Before we can act against Krumin, we have to know just a bit more or he will bite off our hand as we go to touch him. If I could risk using your superiors and their resources, we could find an this out very easily, very quickly. But I don1 dare do that. Your superiors are too difficult to manipulate. No, we must rely on our own resources to tell us what we need to know. Our own resources and the help of our suspected Mr. Krumin.

  "I sent you there today with those specific questions for a reason other than to get their easily concocted lie. I wanted to stir them up.

  "Krumin knew before that you were an agent. He would have had to be a fool not to, and he is no fool. I'm also sure he knows of the other Russian7s death. He usually has a fairly tight communications chain with his superiors. No doubt the Robinson home contains a long-range radio capable of high-speed transmission and reception. If not, there's always the handy little phone in every household linking him to the site that does have a radio.