Shadow of the Condor

by James Grady

  "Could the details wait for a special delivery run?"

  Kevin smiled. The old man distrusts all forms of electronic communication', no matter how elaborate the security precautions. "I don't think so, unless you think the whole affair isn't pressing."

  "Yes, I suppose you're right. What do you want?"

  "I need an official friend, someone who can help me with a large-scale investigation. I would prefer someone with the police, although the Special Branch or [MI] Five or Six would do."

  "I think the Special Branch. It's nicely seated between intelligence and police. No sense letting Five and Six directly involve themselves in this. It's already sticky enough as it is. I'll arrange it with an appropriate cover. It should take about four hours to set up. Carl will let you know."

  "Fine, I can use the time to sleep. How's our Condor?"

  The old man paused briefly before answering. Kevin was sure he smiled as he said, "He's on the way, Kevin, my boy, he's on the way."

  4

  The Cat only grinned when it saw Alice. It looked good-natured, she thought: still it had very long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect.

  Vladimir Serov glanced up briefly from his desk to greet the man his aide ushered in. "Ah, good morning, Comrade Nurich, I'll be with you in a moment." Serov returned his gaze to his desk, pretending to read the papers he held, deliberately allowing Nurich time to relax.

  Nurich glanced around the room as he settled himself in the hard wooden chair. Bare walls, he noted, no charts, maps, pictures or decorations. He casually looked at the desk, but Serov held the papers at such an angle that Nurich could not read them. They sat in silence for several minutes, then Serov sighed, closed the manila file (no label, noted Nurich) and said, "Well, now, Comrade Nurich, how are you?"

  "I am fine, sir," Nurich replied carefully, his respectful words just a trifle clipped for Servo's taste. Good, thought Serov, disliking him makes it easier. "I hope you are well also," continued Nurich.

  "Yes, thank you, I am," said Serov. He began the lie. "We have a very important mission for you to undertake, very important. I realize you have been some time out of the field, but this is very important and you are the only qualified person we can spare."

  "I shall do my best, Comrade Serov."

  "I know you will. The matter concerns a project of ' a very delicate nature, one which, if it should fail, will cause great embarrassment and danger to the Soviet Union. I wish to impress that upon you as much as I can."

  "I understand," said Nurich. Whatever it is, he thought, it must be very important. His composure began to wane.

  "The mission involves penetration of the United States. You are to reconnoiter a missile site just south of the Canadian border. We have no resident agents in the area, and the mission has already suffered one minor setback. A stupid East German courier went over, and an American agent almost aborted the entire mission. Fortunately, our agent in the field was able to kill the American, but the whole run was wasted. Our man did not accomplish his objective, the Americans are alert to our activities in that area and we are getting a good deal of pressure from the director about the way the whole thing was handled.

  "Consequently, it has been decided to make another attempt. We hope the Americans will assume we think the area is too dangerous for us to operate in, thereby raising the probabilities for success. Because you have been through the Western States and Canada, speak English fluently and have some technical 6xpertise, you will undertake and complete the mission."

  "Yes, Comrade."

  "You will go to the United States via Berlin, London and Toronto. You will cross over to New York, and from New York you will travel to the mission location as our New York control deems best.

  "Your mission involves the test of a new, highly sensitive, portable electronic monitor. Our scientists are sure that it can be used to read electronic computer signals in American missile complexes. However, you must be within half a mile of the complex you are monitoring. With the monitored information, our experts are sure they can extrapolate the missions of the missiles, including primary and secondary targets. I don't need to tell you what this could mean in terms of developing Soviet defense. You will test the device, which will be given to you in America. You will be trained on a prototype here."

  "Yes, Comrade."

  "Let me stress one thing," Serov said, leaning across the desk. "This is a vital mission. Extremely vital. You are to avoid capture at all costs. You are to protect the monitor at all costs. Should capture appear imminent, you are to destroy the monitor and escape. You are authorized to, use any means to effect your escape, and should you be captured, we fully expect you to use your safe device [suicide pill]. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, Comrade!" replied Nurich, all vestiges of his earlier relaxation long gone.

  "Good, Report to my aide. He will take you to your home-site control. You will work largely on your own, reporting to the nearest control in each major area. Each time you shift to a new control, all the old control's authority ceases. Overall control is vested in my aide, and you have the maximum discretionary power. The controls are there to serve you. You will contact a control in Berlin, London, New York and Chicago. Except for Chicago control, no one knows your mission destination and you will tell no one. Outside of myself, my aide, a few technicians and our superiors, no one knows all the details of the mission.

  "In the event of an emergency, you will revert to your controls in the opposite order you met them or follow emergency procedures given you by your Chicago control. My aide will brief you on the rest. Good luck, Comrade Nurich."

  "Thank you, sir," Nurich said as he stood at attention. "I will complete the mission."

  Serov smiled. "I'm sure you will."

  One minute later, after Serov's aide had phoned to let his superior know Nurich was no longer in the building, Serov pushed-a small button next to his desk drawers. Within seconds Division Commander Ryzhov entered the room in response to the all clear signal. Ryzhov settled himself in the same chair Nurich had occupied. Unlike Nurich, Ryzhov remained relaxed through his meeting with Serov.

  "You did fine, Serov, fine," said the division commander easily, "fine."

  Serov didn't share his superiors confidence. "Will he do? Will he really do?"

  "Hmmph, of course he'll do. Nurich is a little sniveling worm planted on us by the GRU, but he is also fairly competent. He'll do his best on the 'mission,' and with any luck he will be killed."

  "Such a cost," muttered Serov, "such a cost. Nurich, the agents in London, New York, Chicago, Berlin, all blown. All for Gamayun."

  "Comrade Serov," reprimanded Ryzhov lightly but firmly, "keep your perspective. We are saving Gamayun. We are stopping the Americans' curiosity, which, once tantalized, could reach far beyond Gamayun. And at what cost? Agents we know are already blown, agents we have care fully isolated from all our other operations. And Chicago, a local recruited years ago who is not blown but who is rapidly growing into a self-destructive monster. We let the Americans gain a few small pawns in a gambit while we mine their king's row. We even get to cause our friends at the GRU a little trouble, which never hurts when you try to keep the military in line."

  "You're sure about the machine? I mean, it's all right if they get the monitor?"

  "Ah, yes, the electric portable computer monitor, that lively idea conceived at Moscow University which devoured a sizable portion of our budget and 'works,' but is absolutely worthless unless it is used, as the missile is being fired. At that point the monitor is by definition obsolete. However, it 'works' well enough to convince our American friends that testing it is worth all this fuss. If they find it intact or reconstruct it should Nurich destroy it, all to the good. They will probably waste a good deal of time and money duplicating it for their own use, and perhaps we can pick off the agents they send over here to test it.

  "But I doubt they'll get a chance to use it. Nurich is good. Even with the
setup we've put him in, they'll have a hard time taking him. Alive. Which is just what we want. No, it's a marvelous plan, marvelous. Krumin and I are quite pleased with it, quite pleased, as I am sure you are."

  "Of course," replied Serov, "'of course."

  ….

  Malcolm lay very still on the bed, listening to his breathing. He had shut the air conditioner off. The motel room was silent except for his own sounds and those that drifted in from outside. He didn't think anyone occupied the rooms on either side, a supposition which he knew should either comfort or alarm him, but he wasn't sure which. Malcolm rearranged the pillows, propping his head up slightly. He looked down across his body to his feet. He wore only pants. The sunlamp-induced tan on his arms ("We mustn't have a survey taker pasty white like an office worker who never gets outside") offset his thin, white torso. His stomach didn't look particularly bard or flat, although the slight paunch he had developed in Cincinnati was gone.

  Malcolm thought he also had lost some weight on his hips and thighs. He shifted his gaze to his bare feet and waved hello to himself with his toes. He glanced up to his reflection in the mirror above the bureau and thought, Sweet Jesus, Malcolm, what are you doing?

  This is the scene where I smoke a cigarette and grimly review the situation, he thought, only I don't smoke and I don't understand the situation well enough to review it. I must be crazy, he thought.- For the next ten minutes he concentrated on his breathing, varying the rhythm, holding his breath, exercising a little control over his life. Very little control, he thought.

  The day before, the plane had deposited Malcolm eighty-five miles south of Shelby, 'his "operations base community," in Great Falls, the same "city"-if fewer than 50,000 people is a true city-which had expanded until it bordered on Malmstrorn Air Force Base and the missile launch control. Following Carl's instructions, Malcolm spent a day at the air base, using the cover of a civilian public relations writer for the Department of Defense preparing a story on missiles.

  The base security officer, who had been informed of Malcolm's real identity by General Roth's man, personally conducted a tour of the launch control facilities and several missile sites "to acquaint Malcolm with the situation." General Roth's man had learned Malcolm was working on the murder directly from the general. The general bad insisted on knowing if an agent was placed in the field, and the old man had been unable to ignore his insistence. The general, exactly as the old man had feared, informed his officer at Malmstrom, who had in turn informed the base security officer. The old man was not pleased that so many people knew who Malcolm was, but there was little he could do about it after the fact. Not wanting to alarm Malcolm, the old man decided not to tell him his cover was less than airtight.

  The missile orientation bored Malcolm. After his initial glimpse of the long silver cylinder while the briefing officer droned on about megaton killing capacity, Malcolm wanted to go back to his room at the bachelor's officers' quarters. It was a warm spring day, with the dry heat of the Great Plains that Malcolm hadn't felt since a visit to his aunt's Kansas farm when he was fifteen. The musty, clean prairie air bothered his nose slightly. He worried about his allergies. But he said nothing, asking-no questions as he was shuttled by helicopter from missile site to missile site. The last stop was the missile site where Parkins' body was found.

  General Roth's man gently took Malcolm's arm, guiding him away from the base security officer and the two missile technical officers as the group walked from the helicopter to the fenced silo. "I scheduled this one last," he whispered proudly, "so the crew and any people who found out about the tour wouldn't think it was suspicious you came here."

  "Oh," said Malcolm, uncertain what his reply should be.

  The eager captain wasn't easily discouraged. "Yes, and if there's anything you need, any questions, any ... special services, just remember old Larry Chambers, I'm your man. I'm with you all the way. Remember."

  Malcolm looked at him and smiled. "I will." The captain, blessed with promising fuel for his ambition, eagerly returned the grin.

  For the next ten minutes Malcolm, walked around the silo, trying his best to look as though he knew what he was doing. He carefully examined the fence, the rocky ground, the grass and the surrounding area, all of which looked exactly like what they seemed and all of which told him nothing. He frowned for dramatic effect as he sternly walked to the eager Captain Chambers.

  Malcolm surveyed the area. The missile silo was behind him. A main access gravel country road ran across the fields about seventy-five yards in front of him, its narrow straightness interrupted only in the small space where Captain Chambers stood, although, thought Malcolm, he was so transparent that the road should have been visible through him. The helicopter and the cluster of bored Air Force personnel blocked Malcolm's view to his right, but he knew it would have been the same as his view to the left: mile after mile of slightly rolling flatlands, checkerboarded gold and brown by wheat fields until at an almost unbelievable distance the sky finally bent to the horizon. Malcolm stepped as close to Captain Chambers as he could. Gazing into the captain's anxious face, Malcolm uttered through tight lips in his best tough-man imitation. "Let's get out of here."

  Chambers raced away to give the order, followed slowly by Malcolm, who managed to keep from laughing.

  On the return flight Malcolm rode with the pilot. He had the pilot circle the missile silo slowly. As the copter swung out of the south, through the east to face the north, Malcolm noticed a cluster of buildings about five miles north of the silo.

  "What's that?" Malcolm had to shout to be heard over the motor's roar.

  "What?" shouted the pilot.

  "That, over there. Those buildings."

  "Oh, that's a town, Whitlash."

  "That's Whitlash? There can't be more than a dozen buildings."

  The pilot shrugged and grinned. "So it's a small town. Everything can't be New York."

  Malcolm grinned back. "Who lives there?"

  "Hell, I don't know. Just farmers, I guess."

  Malcolm nodded and leaned back, wondering what he would do if the pilot suddenly collapsed.

  Malcolm spent that night alone in his quarters, fending off various entertainment offers. The next morning he took the government jeep he had been assigned through the Department of Defense and headed eighty-five miles north to Shelby, his base community.

  Shelby is a small town, an accidental outgrowth of railroad, agriculture and early-twentieth-century oil exploration. The fewer-than-5,000 populace derives most of its economic survival from agriculture, and its claim to fame is a now enshrined heavyweight boxing match which almost destroyed the town at the turn of the century. Malcolm spent his first day driving around Shelby, trying to learn the area as best he could before checking into a motel. The town looked different from the aerial photographs Carl had shown him, but Malcolm picked out most of the landmarks more easily than he had expected. He ate dinner at a local drive-in, casually watching carloads of bright-eyed, bored teenagers worried about maintaining their composure while they ordered. After his greasy dinner Malcolm drove through the wide, quiet streets slowly, relaxing with the easy evening calm prevailing through the town. He shook his head when he thought of the pictures of Parkins' body.

  "Goin' be staying long?" asked the old woman when he checked into the motel in the middle of the town. Malcolm decided the motels scattered along the main roads connecting with the major interstate highways were too isolated, too easily watched. The motel complex he picked was at least in a neighborhood he could approach or leave without being observed from a long distance.

  "I'll be here awhile," he replied. "I'm taking a government survey."

  "Lots of government people stay here," said his landlady as she led him down the hall. Malcolm's room was in the main building, with ten units on the bottom level, twelve on the top. Malcolm had 16B, a unit - almost in the middle of the upper level. The room resembled other motel rooms with an almost friendly, familiar homelike qual
ity, not spectacular or enjoyable, but predictable. The queen-size bed dominated the main room, its heavy, gaudy red bedspread trailing to the floor on all sides. The bed was only six feet from him as Malcolm stood in the doorway. A shallow walk-in closet took up half the wall to his right. The door to the small bathroom came at midpoint in the same wall. Windows overlooking the street took up the top half of the wall opposite the door. Small tables with built-in lamps flanked the head of the bed on each side. Barely enough room to walk in separated the bed from the bureau against the wall to his left. A small writing desk stood in the left comer at the head of the bed, although Malcolm failed to see how anyone would find room to sit at the desk. A vanity, complete with mirror, and a medium-size color TV set took up most of the wall at the foot of the bed. The walls were all painted a light blue, except for the bathroom, which was dark blue. Bad reproductions of terrible landscapes by unknown artists hung on the left and right walls. Malcolm glanced at the inside of the door. It had a dead bolt and a chain in addition to the door lock. At least that was something.

  "This be okay?" asked the woman.

  "Lovely," Malcolm replied as he took the key from her, Simply lovely. Should I pay now?"

  "Naw, it's late and I want to go to bed. There's pop machines and coffee machines and that stuff just down the hall. You call out direct unless you want long distance, and that goes through the switchboard. Calls come in direct. Please don't call home from your room tonight, ,cause I'm also the switchboard and I want to go to bed. There's a-pay phone down the hall. Night."

  "Good night," Malcolm said. He slowly shook his head as he watched the old lady shuffle down the hall.

  And now here I am, thought Malcolm, in the field. It took him an hour to unpack and check the room with the special equipment Carl had placed in the briefcase. As expected, Malcolm detected no electronic listening devices. He spent ten minutes trying to think of a clever, accessible hiding place for his gun, but 1'h the end he locked it back in the briefcase. Nobody will come for me tonight, he thought, and if they do, I probably will end up shooting myself.