Three Days of the Condor

by James Grady

  "So there's your problem. Take a man or two, men who can put themselves in the right frame of mind. Start from where he was last seen. Then, my boy, get yourself hidden the way he has."

  Just before Powell opened the door, he looked at the smiling old man and said, "There's one other thing that's strange about this whole business, sir. Malcolm was never trained as a field agent. He's a researcher, yet look how well he's made out."

  "Yes, that is rather strange," answered the old man. He smiled and said, "You know, I'm getting rather keen to meet our boy Malcolm. Find him for me, Kevin, find him for me quickly."

  Malcolm needed a cup of coffee. The hot liquid would make his throat feel better and the caffeine would pep him up. He grinned slowly, being careful not to stretch tender neck muscles. With Wendy, a man needed a lot of pep. He went downstairs to the kitchen. He had just put a pot on to boil when the doorbell rang.

  Malcolm froze. The gun was upstairs, right next to his bed where he could reach it in a hurry, provided, of course, that he was in bed. Quietly, Malcolm tiptoed to the door. The bell rang again. He sighed with relief when he saw through the one-way glass peephole that it was only a bored-looking mailman, his bag slung over one shoulder, a package in one hand. Then he became annoyed. If he didn't answer the door, the mailman might keep coming back until he delivered his package. Malcolm looked down at his body. He only had on jockey shorts and a T shirt. Oh well, he thought, the mailman's probably seen it all before. He opened the door.

  "Good morning, sir, how are you today?"

  The mailman's cheer seemed to infect Malcolm. He smiled back, and said hoarsely, "Got a little cold. What can I do for you?"

  "Got a package here for a Miss…" The mailman paused and slyly smiled at Malcolm. "A Miss Wendy Ross. Special delivery, return receipt requested."

  "She's not here right now. Could you come back later?"

  The mailman scractched his head. "Well, could, but it would sure be easier if you signed for it. Hell, government don't care who signs, long as it's signed."

  "OK," said Malcolm. "Do you have a pen?"

  The mailman slapped his pockets unsuccessfully.

  "Come on in," Malcolm said. "I'll get one."

  The mailman smiled as he entered the room. He closed the door behind him. "You're making my day a lot easier by going to all this trouble," he said.

  Malcolm shrugged. "Think nothing of it." He turned and went into the kitchen to find a pen. As he walked through the door, his mind abstractedly noted that the mailman had put the package down and was unslinging his pouch.

  The mailman was very happy. His orders had been to determine whether Malcolm was in the apartment, to reconnoiter the building, and to make a hit only if it could be done with absolute safety and certainty. He knew a bonus would follow his successful display of initiative in hitting Malcolm. The girl would come later. He pulled the silenced sten gun out of his pouch.

  Just before Malcolm came around the corner from the kitchen he heard the click when the mailman armed the sten gun. Malcolm hadn't found a pen. In one hand he carried the coffeepot and in the other an empty cup. He thought the nice mailman might like some refreshment. That Malcolm didn't die then may be credited to the fact that when he turned the corner and saw the gun swinging toward him he didn't stop to think. He threw the pot of boiling coffee and the empty cup straight at the mailman.

  The mailman hadn't heard Malcolm coming. His first thought centered on the objects flying toward his face. He threw up his arms, covering his head with the gun. The coffeepot bounced off the gun, but the lid flew off and hot coffee splashed down on bare arms and an upturned face.

  Screaming, the mailman threw the gun away from him. It skidded across the floor, stopping under the table holding Wendy's stereo. Malcolm made a desperate dive for it, only to be tripped by a black loafer. He fell to his hands and staggered up. He quickly looked over his shoulder and ducked. The mailman flew over Malcolm's head. Had the flying side kick connected, the back of Malcolm's head would have shattered and in all probability his neck would have snapped.

  Even though he hadn't practiced in a dojo for six months, the mailman executed the difficult landing perfectly. However, he landed on the scatter rug Wendy's grandmother had given her as a birthday present. The rug slid along the waxed floor and the mailman fell to his hands. He bounced up twice as fast as Malcolm.

  The two men stared at each other. Malcolm had at least ten feet to travel before he could reach the gun on his right. He could probably beat the mailman to the table, but before he could pull the gun out the man would be all over his back. Malcolm was closest to the door, but it was closed. He knew he wouldn't have the precious seconds it would take to open it.

  The mailman looked at Malcolm and smiled. With the toe of his shoe he tested the hardwood floor. Slick. With deft, practiced movements he slipped his feet out of the loafers. He wore slipperlike socks. These too came off when he rubbed his feet on the floor. The mailman came prepared to walk quietly, barefoot, and his preparations served him in an unexpected manner. His bare feet hugged the floor.

  Malcolm looked at his smiling opponent and began to accept death. He had no way of knowing the man's brown belt proficiency, but he knew he didn't stand a chance. Malcolm's knowledge of martial arts was almost negligible. He had read fight scenes in numerous books and seen them in the movies. He had had two fights as a child, won one, lost one. His physical education instructor in college had spent three hours teaching the class some cute tricks he had learned in the Marines. Reason made Malcolm try to copy the man's stance, legs bent, fists clenched, left arm in front and bent perpendicular to the floor, right arm held close to the waist.

  Very slowly the mailman began to shuffle across the fifteen feet that separated him from his prey. Malcolm began to circle toward his right, vaguely wondering why he bothered. When the mailman was six feet from Malcolm he made his move. He yelled and with his left arm feinted a backhand snap at Malcolm's face. As the mailman anticipated, Malcolm ducked quickly to his right side. When the mailman brought his left hand back, he dropped his left shoulder and whirled to his right on the ball of his left foot. At the end of the three-quarters circle his right leg shot to meet Malcolm's ducking head.

  But six months is too long to be out of practice and expect perfect results, even when fighting an untrained amateur. The kick missed Malcolm's face, but thudded into his left shoulder. The blow knocked Malcolm into the wall. When he bounced off he barely dodged the swinging hand chop follow-through blow.

  The mailman was very angry with himself. He had missed twice. True, his opponent was injured, but he should have been dead. The mailman knew he must get back into practice before he met an opponent who knew what to do.

  A good karate instructor will emphasize that karate is three-quarters mental. The mailman knew this, so he devoted his entire mind to the death of his opponent. He concentrated so deeply he failed to hear Wendy as she opened and shut the door, quietly so as not to disturb Malcolm's sleeping. She had forgotten her checkbook.

  Wendy was dreaming. It wasn't real, these two men standing in her living room. One her Malcolm, his left arm twitching to life at his side. The other a short, stocky stranger standing so strangely, his back toward her. Then she heard the stranger very softly say, "You've caused enough trouble!" and she knew it was all frighteningly real. As the stranger began to shuffle toward Malcolm, she carefully reached around the kitchen corner, and took a long carving knife from a sparkling set held on the wall by a magnet. She walked toward the stranger.

  The mailman heard the click of heels on the hardwood floor. He quickly feinted toward Malcolm and whirled to face the new challenge. When he saw the frightened girl standing with a knife clutched awkwardly in her right hand, the worry that had been building in his brain ceased. He quickly shuffled toward her, dodging and dipping as she backed away trembling. He let her back up until she was about to run into the couch, then he made his move. His left foot snapped forward in a roundhouse
kick and the knife flew from her numbed hand. His left knuckles split the skin just beneath her left cheekbone in a vicious backhand strike. Wendy sank, stunned, to the couch.

  But the mailman had forgotten an important maxim of multiple-attackers situations. A man being attacked by two or more opponents must keep moving, delivering quick, alternate attacks to each of his opponents. If he stops to concentrate on one before all of his opponents have been neutralized, he leaves himself exposed. The mailman should have whirled to attack Malcolm immediately after the kick. Instead he went for the coup de grâce on Wendy.

  By the time the mailman had delivered his backhand blow to Wendy, Malcolm had the sten gun in his hand. He could use his left arm only to prop the barrel up, but he lined the gun up just as the mailman raised his left hand for the final downward chop.

  "Don't!"

  The mailman whirled toward his other opponent just as Malcolm pulled the trigger. The coughing sounds hadn't stopped before the mailman's chest blossomed with a red, spurting row. The body flew over the couch and thudded on the floor.

  Malcolm picked Wendy up. Her left eye began to puff shut and a trickle of blood ran down her cheek. She sobbed quietly, "My God, my God, my God."

  It took Malcolm five minutes to calm her down. He peered cautiously through the blinds. No one was in sight. The yellow van across the street looked empty. He left Wendy downstairs with the machine gun huddled in her arms pointed at the door. He told her to shoot anything that came through. He quickly dressed, and packed his money, his clothes, and the items Wendy had bought him in one of her spare suitcases. When he came downstairs, she was more rational. He sent her upstairs to pack. While she was gone, he searched the corpse and found nothing. When she came down ten minutes later, her face had been washed and she carried a suitcase.

  Malcolm took a deep breath and opened the door. He had a coat draped over his revolver. He couldn't bring himself to take the sten gun. He knew what it had done. No one shot him. He walked to the car. Still no bullets. No one was even visible. He nodded to Wendy. She ran to the car dragging their bags. They got in and he quietly drove away.

  Powell was tired. He and two other Washington detectives were covering covered ground, walking along all the streets in the area where Malcolm had last been sighted. They questioned people at every building. All they found were people who had been questioned before. Powell was leaning against a light pole trying to find a new idea, when he saw one of his men hurrying toward him.

  The man was Detective Andrew Walsh, Homicide. He grabbed Powell's arm to steady himself. "I think I've found something, sir." Walsh, paused to catch his breath. "You know how we've found a lot of people who were questioned before? Well, I found one, a parking-lot attendant, who told the cop who questioned him something that isn't in the official reports."

  "For Christ's sake, what?" Powell was no longer tired.

  "He made Malcolm, off a picture this cop showed him. More than that, he told him he saw Malcolm get into a car with this girl. Here's the girl's name and address."

  "When did all this happen?" Powell began to feel cold and uneasy.

  "Yesterday afternoon."

  "Come on!" Powell ran down the street to the car, a panting policeman in his wake.

  They had driven three blocks when the phone on the dash buzzed. Powell answered. "Yes?"

  "Sir, the medical survey team reports a Dr. Robert Knudsen identified Condor's picture as the man he treated for strep throat yesterday. He treated the suspect at the apartment of a Wendy Ross, R-o…"

  Powell cut the dispatcher short. "We're on our way to her apartment now. I want all units to converge on the area, but do not approach the house until I get there. Tell them to get there as quickly but as quietly as they can. Now give me the chief."

  A full minute passed before Powell heard the light voice come over the phone. "Yes, Kevin, what do you have?"

  "We're on our way to Malcolm's hideout. Both groups hit on it at about the same time. I'll give you details later. There's one other thing: somebody with official credentials has been looking for Malcolm and not reporting what he finds."

  There was a long pause, then the old man said, "This could explain many things, my boy. Many things. Be very careful. I hope you're in time." The line went dead. Powell hung up, and resigned himself to the conclusion that he was probably much too late.

  Ten minutes later Powell and three detectives rang Wendy's doorbell. They waited a minute, then the biggest man kicked the door in. Five minutes later Powell summed up what he found to the old man.

  "The stranger is unidentifiable from here. His postman's uniform is a fake. The silenced sten gun was probably used during the hit on the Society. The way I see it, he and someone else, probably our boy Malcolm, were fighting. Malcolm beat him to the gun. I'm sure it's the mailman's because his pouch is rigged to carry it. Our boy's luck seems to be holding very well. We've found a picture of the girl, and we've got her car license number. How do you want to handle it?"

  "Have the police put out an APB on her for… murder. That'll throw our friend who's monitoring us and using our credentials. Right now, I want to know who the dead man is, and I want to know fast. Send his photo and prints to every agency with a priority rush order. Do not include any other information. Start your teams looking for Malcolm and the girl. Then I guess we have to wait."

  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 Parisburg, 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

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  Sunday

  * * *

  "Ah, 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." Despi
te 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 indentified 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.