by James Grady
"I am between a hammer and an anvil," he wanted to tell his wife, "between a hammer and an anvil. They use me to make what they want, and if they don't get what they want, if something goes wrong, they will crush me and discard me like a piece of scrap iron." But Serov tells his wife nothing of his work. He tells no one of his worries. One never knows where one's words go.
"Good morning, Comrade Colonel Ryzhov," said Serov nervously, "how are you today?" Serov fell in step with his large superior. The two men walked -slowly. With the limousine and bodyguards following, flanking and preceding them, it looked as if a solemn procession crept through Moscow. The few Russian citizens who passed the parade knew better than to notice.
"Things are not well," replied Ryzhov coldly, deliberately ignoring civilities, "things are not well at all."
So it is to be bad news, thought Serov with some relief. The anxiety which had been mounting since the phone call pulled him from his bed now waned considerably. If it had been a catastrophe, Ryzhov would have had him shot or arrested at once or would have plied him with kindness to throw him off his guard. "What is wrong, Colonel?"
"I'm afraid Gamayun is in trouble, possibly very serious trouble." Ryzhov's voice was calm, but it contained a slightly subdued tone, as if Ryzhov had difficulty controlling himself.
As a bureau chief Serov should have known of any trouble in his bureau long before his superior, but Serov knew all the reports on the special project went first to Ryzhov. At least, thought Serov, he can't blame me for my ignorance. "What is it? I am not aware of any immediate threat."
Ryzhov smiled. "That is because, Comrade Colonel, your $awareness' is somewhat limited. As division commander I have a much wider spectrum of knowledge."
Serov nodded. It was good when Ryzhov bragged abusively.
"Ten days ago a courier from Section Five made an unforgivable mistake. He became drunk, very drunk, in a London bar and engaged in a loud argument with some Englishman concerning, of all things to talk about while intoxicated, nuclear policy. The courier made an oblique reference to Gamayun. As our luck would have it, an American intelligence operative overheard the remark and, on the chance that the 'drunk' might turn out to know something, followed the courier home. I learned just a few hours ago that the American was with U.S. Air Force Intelligence.
The American must have had what they call 'second sight! and a good deal of gall. He followed our courier to 'his flat, pushed himself inside and browbeat our man. The courier was still drunk. His evasions did not satisfy the American. The American bluffed the courier, although it may not have been a complete bluff, by saying that if the courier didn't go over [i.e., defect], he would inform the British authorities. The courier broke. The American pumped him for several hours. Among other things, the American got Krumin's name, sketchy details of his next run to America and what little the courier knew about Krumin and …
"Oh, my God," moaned Serov, momentarily forgetting hit official atheism, "oh, my God."
"Indeed. The tidbits the courier knew were not enough to explain Gamayun or Krumin to the American, but they were enough to let the American deduce when Krumin would pass through London on his way to Gamayun. According to my sources in U.S. intelligence, the American operative was what they call a 'hotshot,' he wanted to handle a grand coup by himself. He found Krumin at the London airport and followed him as far as Toronto. Krumin realized he was compromised and shook the American.
"But somehow the American found Krumin again. Possibly he learned more from the courier than the courier told us. Most assuredly, the American could deduce well. The American was able to follow Krumin to Gamayun. The American was discovered, but escaped very shortly after he was captured. Krumin and a Gamayun operative quickly tracked him down. They had to shoot him in the field and were unable to cover the operation. Now the Americans know something is going on and they have a dead agent they cannot explain."
"The courier," asked Serov, "what about the courier?"
"The courier made other mistakes. His control grew suspicious five days ago and had him examined. The courier was no, better at bluffing us than he was at bluffing the American. It was a wet affair."
"Oh," Serov said emotionlessly. Ryzhov liked to use the old KGB liquid euphemism for executions. "At least that is shut off."
"Yes. The information I have given you is a combination of what we learned from the courier, our U.S. sources and from Krumin."
"What will we do?" Serov’s tone made it clear Ryzhov was in command.
"For the time being, at least, Gamayun is not jeopardized. The courier knew little more than Krumin's name. Why Accounts thought it necessary to give him that information so he could transfer funds to the New York bank is beyond me. Such procedure will not be repeated. However, our immediate problem is to protect Gamayun. This is especially important since Krumin must make another run in the near future.
"We must satisfy the Americans. They have a mystery and a dead agent on their hands. They will undoubtedly devote a good deal of time and effort to unravel the mystery. If we were dealing with the CIA, at least we wouldn't have to worry about melodramatic revenge. But, unfortunately, the American operative was one of that idiot General Roth's men. Amateurs are always difficult We can only hope Roth's superiors supersede him in the affair. Professionals are so much easier to predict. We must help the Americans, and we must help them in such a way that the mystery they unravel is of our choosing.
"And to do that," Ryzhov said, stopping to turn and shake a finger at Serov, "you and I must find them what they call 'a ringer.'
3
Alice thought the whole thing very absurd, but they all looked so grave that she did not dare to laugh; and, as she could not think of anything to say, she simply bowed, and took the thimble, looking as solemn as she could.
Don't think about it, Malcolm thought, just run. Run. Malcolm looked ahead and braced himself. The dirt path dipped through a gully. He had half a mile left after he crossed the gully. He hated the gully, he hated it every time he crossed it. This morning would make the fifth time he had staggered down one side only to have to stagger up the other. He wasn7t as out of breath this time as he had been the other times, he thought as he gasped and inhaled humid Virginia air tinged with spring pollen, but his legs hurt more. It really doesn't make any sense, he thought, why should my wind develop faster than my muscles? But Malcolm needed to devote too much concentration to his running to consider the problem in depth.
From a distant farmhouse three men watched Malcolm scramble up the gully's edge, stagger slightly, then continue to run. The three men watched from the comfort of slightly padded, carefully contoured deck chairs on the farmhouse porch. The chair on the far left held Carl, immaculate as ever. Carl looked-on dispassionately as Malcolm turned the comer on the dirt path, tripped, picked himself up and slowly ran toward the farmhouse. The old man seated in the middle chair audibly clucked his tongue when Malcolm stumbled. He shook his head from side to side, almost keeping rhythm with the distant -figure's flopping arms. The old man turned to the small, compact man sitting to his right and said, "Really, McGiffert, how is he doing?"
Warren McGiffert cleared his throat and leaned forward to address his superior. McGiffert's tight muscles ruffled his slacks and sweater when he moved. At one time McGiffert had been a physical-training instructor for an Army Ranger unit. His Scottish parents had been proud that their son, like them, an immigrant to America, bad found a position of such importance in the army of their adopted country. McGiffert never told his parents that he had left the Army for a job with the same duties at almost twice the salary of a sergeant. They wouldn't have understood, partially because they retained a rural Scottish distaste for "sneaky things and such." McGiffert didn't share their distastes. He had, however, retained a slight Scottish buff, which the basically incompetent Brooklyn public school teachers had thought charming and which they couldn't have corrected even if they had, tried. "Ya' canna expect miracles in two and a ha' days, sir.
Ya canna expect miracles."
The old man smiled and lightly patted McGiffert's taut thigh. "Don't worry, Sergeant, miracles are not in my plans, and I know you haven't had much time with him, but how is he?"
"Well," replied McGiffert thoughtfully, "if he don't have to go again' anybody very good, he'll make out. I've taught him how to break all the normal holds and worked wi' him a little hand-to-hand. His biggest problems are he's out of shape and he doesna have ... well, he's not aggressive, if you know what I mean. He could be a lot better, but he holds back, like he's afraid of hurtin' somebody or gettin' hurt. That could be bad, if you know what I mean."
The old man nodded his head. McGiffert's analysis agreed with Dr. Lofts'. The PT instructor, however, obviously questioned the situation more than the psychiatrist. The old man thought the difference existed because McGiffert still dealt with Malcolm and others in ft profession as individual human beings instead of as operatives. Dr. Lofts looked on the people assigned him by the old man and the other senior officials of the American intelligence community as interesting subjects who present much more of a challenge than the experimental monkeys at the Langley complex.
"He's about average with firearms," continued McGiffert, "better than most wi' a small-bore rifle. He drives all right too, though we ha'n't had much time for that. He's not so good wi'-locks, sabotage and things like that, but he's got a fine head on 'im, a fine head. When we talk about situations, he shows some good ideas. If we could run him through the normal course at the Farm and do something about his aggressiveness, he'd be damn fine, damn fine."
"You've got him for the rest of the day. I want you to concentrate on hand-to-hand, his pistol training and general tips for him. Tonight he learns a little about stars and navigation, plus hitting his books. Tomorrow he goes off. If he should run into trouble, is there anything that might handicap him?"
McGiffert frowned. He wasn't sure what the old man meant. "Well, he wears contacts, you know. Bad vision is always a problem, could kill him if he gets something in his eye at the wrong time. But what worries me most is he might not follow through, might not kick a fallen opposite in the head, if you know what I mean."
"I know exactly what you mean, McGiffert. You've done a fine job. Make sure he's outfitted when he gets on that plane tomorrow, and your part of the mission is over. And don't worry about our Condor. No one has any nasty plans for him. He's merely bait.
"Ah, Malcolm, my boy," the old man said, leaning forward slightly as a wheezing Malcolm staggered up the steps and flopped in a chair facing the trio, "did you enjoy your morning run?"
Malcolm fought to control his breathing for almost a minute. None of the other three men said anything during the pause. Malcolm heard birds in the surrounding woods and people moving inside the house, the cook preparing breakfast, the guards joking with each other. The sun was just rising above the horizon.
Malcolm's evaporating sweat chilled him slightly. He swallowed and said, "Before I came to this godforsaken place I had never run more than a mile and a half at one time, and now you've got McGiffert over there making sure I churn out a fucking two and a half miles a day." Malcolm had to pause to breathe before he continued. "To say nothing of learning the best way to poke a man's eyes out while he tries to strangle you and the fine points of a knee to the groin. You told me all I was out here for was a little 'orientation.' Why all this super-agent stuff?
"I can hear you now: 'Malcolm, my boy, all we're asking you to do is run a little flak for us. No rough stuff. No shooting no terror routines. Just pretend you're taking a little survey for the Defense Mapping Agency and ask a lot of questions. That's all. No danger."
"That crap doesn't jibe with my orientation. What kind of questions am I going to be asking that make it necessary for me to know how to use a sawed-off shotgun?"
The old man smiled. "Perfectly innocent questions, my boy. And that's the way almost everyone will see you, perfectly innocent, although probably somewhat troublesome. But the opposition should know better. They're expecting someone to check on Parkins' death, so we have to supply someone. They're ready for you, waiting-for you.
"Now, don't worry. As I've already explained, the last thing they want is for you to find anything or for anything to happen to you. The most they might possibly do is search your equipment, and I doubt that will happen. They want you to report that everything in Montana is peachy keen and you have no idea how Parkins got himself shot. They may supply a fake story for you to report, but I don't think they're stupid enough for such transparent fagades. No, nothing will happen to you, except that you'll be very carefully watched. Very carefully, which is exactly what we want, for the closer they watch you, the less time and ability they'll have to watch for anyone else."
"Like Kevin," replied Malcolm, his breathing now almost normal. During the first day's ran he had vomited and afterward taken half an hour to regain his wind.
The old man smiled. "Precisely, like Kevin and others whom we will cram in the back way."
"Then why all this heavy stuff?"
"Suppose, Malcolm," the old man said softly, "just suppose something did go wrong. Suppose you did run into a little something. We can't make you superman. Indeed, none of our agents are supermen. In case of trouble, the best thing you can have going for you is a fine mind and instincts, coupled with experience and a good deal of training. You have a fine mind, small and somewhat limited experience. Unfortunately, we don't have enough time to train you adequately, but some basics may just come in handy. 1, for one, am somewhat glad we don't have all that much time to train you. I fear that we might mold you into a competent professional, and in doing so, we might preen away some of your natural abilities. Your greatest asset is you and what others call your luck. I call it your talent."
Malcolm snorted as he shifted in his chair. He hoped to prolong the conversation, thereby cutting into the time he would spend facing McGiffert on the mats, their hands and feet-padded just enough to avoid bruising but not enough to avoid pain.
"Suppose I do stumble onto something when I'm out there by myself, do I call for the cavalry or what?"
"You will, of course, keep us fully informed through the procedures you have been taught. We will keep you abreast of what we know. In the event that you stumble onto something, well, what can I say but; use your own judgment?"
Malcolm grunted. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by the old man.
"We'll have time for all this briefing later. Right 'now, ff I'm not mistaken, you and McGiffert have a before breakfast session on the mats. Is that not correct, McGiffert?"
"Yes, sir!" exclaimed ex-Sergeant- McGiffert as he bounded from his chair. "Let's go, bucko."
Malcolm slowly raised his eyes to the hard-muscled figure standing above him. Malcolm carefully shook his head, sighed and gingerly rose. He followed McGiffert across the farmyard to the training shed at as slow a pace as he dared.
Carl's soft voice barely reached the old man as he sat watching the two figures depart. "It is an interesting proposition, sir. What if Condor should encounter something in the field?"
The old man smiled and waited several seconds before replying. "That, Carl, my boy, is too good luck to hope for. We can't expect to be so fortunate."
Carl wrinkled his forehead slightly as he said, "Yes, sir, but that's not quite what I meant. Suppose Malcolm runs into trouble out there? I know it would be good for us because it would mean we have flushed the opposition. But what about Malcolm? How do you think he, would do?"
The old man looked at the shed. He frowned briefly in thought for some time before replying. "As you say, Carl, it is an interesting proposition."
"Would you care for some coffee, sir?"
Malcolm shook his head no and the stewardess flashed a vacant smile at him. "'Perhaps later, then." Another empty smile and she moved up the aisle to the next row of seats.
Malcolm looked out his window. The bright sun made him squint. Below him humps of clouds formed a de
ceptively solid landscape. Every other direction was blue; cold, crisp, clean, bright blue. The plane had taken some time to climb above the heavy cloud cover, and for several minutes his view had been wisps of thick whiteness. He hadn't opened his eyes until well after takeoff, so he missed a departing view of Washington's monuments.
Flying frightened Malcolm at the same time that it excited him. The thrill and horror of imagining oneself exploding into mush, inexorably sentenced by the laws of gravity, inertia and mortality, made Malcolm tingle each time he boarded an airplane. In the minutes before takeoff the suspense and tension built until he couldn't think, although outwardly he appeared no more nervous than his fellow passengers. Once the plane took off, reached its flight altitude and established level cruising speed, a confident, relieved elation replaced Malcolm's apprehensions. At that point his fate was out of his hands. In a car, walking down the street, or even in a bus Malcolm felt some responsibility for his life. While he was driving or walking, his safety was definitely his responsibility. In a bus he might have a chance to dash to the front and take control after the driver had a heart attack. But here, in a plane cruising miles above the earth, there was absolutely nothing he could do in the event of trouble. He was helpless, powerless and free of all responsibility. It was too late for him to dash to the door and force the stewardess to let him disembark. The plane had been airborne for more than thirty minutes, so it wasn't the ride which kept him tense.
What in the hell are you doing, Ronald Malcolm, he asked himself silently. The whole thing, his decision to accompany Kevin back to Washington, his three days at the small farm, the idea of a "mission," all hadn't seemed real to him until that morning when, shortly before dawn, a quiet, strangely gentle McGiffert roused him from his exhausted sleep for an easy, one-mile job around the farm. They didn't speak as they ran. McGiffert's orders as he quickly, lightly took Malcolm through the major self-defense situations were easy, almost coaxing. It was as if the ex-drill sergeant were still in bed and his clergyman twin brother had taken his place. The old man and Carl had joined them for breakfast. - During the first part of the meal Carl coldly, quickly drilled Malcolm with questions about his cover, but by the time the cook poured the last cup of coffee the tone of the meal had shifted to light conversation, with the old man rambling off anecdotes about his garden, political life in Washington, World War R and other remote subjects.
