Shadow of the Condor

by James Grady

  Carl deftly handled all the complicated paperwork.

  In New York the Russian agent registered at the Biltmore under his Canadian name of Rene' Erickson, listing the rooming house in Toronto as his home address. That address matched with the one shown on his passport. The Mounties found that Erickson had reserved a room at the boardinghouse three months in advance and had been paying rent through a Toronto bank all that time. Erickson had subscribed to magazines, opened a checking account (although the bank teller couldn't remember what he looked like) and made a few cash purchases in Toronto. The KGB, operating under one of their many contingency plans, had spent a fair amount of time and trouble building a medium-solid identity, just in case an instance arose in which an agent might need one in a hurry. Nurich and the plight of Gamayun provided just such a contingency.

  Erickson's first day in New York followed the pattern he projected, a moderately well-to-do member of Canada's middle class seeing the Big Apple for the first time. Kevin's team covered the Russian in depth, using six men on foot and three cars, all constantly rotated so the quarry would not see the same faces. Despite a sudden snap of spring cold, Erickson spent a good deal of time out of doors, walking around the Times Square and Madison Square Garden areas. He stayed away from the United Nations. During the day he window-shopped (a convenient method for observing anyone standing behind you) and strolled through various stores, looking,~ asking a few questions, never making any purchases. Everyone he talked to was surreptitiously photographed, with their descriptions relayed to backup teams that would then stick with the suspected contact until his identity had been established.

  Kevin marveled at the resources at his disposal. He wondered vaguely how much the whole operation cost and once fantasized approaching the Russian with an offer to let him have whatever it was he wanted, as long as it wouldn't cost the United States more than half of what the counterespionage campaign was running. In 1959 Khrushchev, in a boasting jest, made just such an offer to Allen Dulles. Dulles, less than amused, did not accept the Soviet Premier's suggestion. Kevin also knew the old man wouldn't find his fantasy particularly funny, but then maybe the old man never had to walk the streets of Times Square inadequately clothed on a chilly spring night, trying to stay well in the background of a hunt to avoid crimping the primary surveillance team or blundering into the quarry, all the while fending off the hordes of prostitutes chanting their glassy-eyed monotone commercial: "Want out? Want out? Want out?" Kevin was expending a good deal of effort "just to get the rhythm" of his prey, so when the time came he wouldn't be pouncing on an unknown entity.

  Contrary to popular, television generated belief, "trailing" a suspect. even an unknowing, untrained suspect. is extremely difficult. Kevin was sure the Russian didn't know he was being shadowed, but Kevin was also sure the Russian was professional enough to take all the precautions he could, to do all the little, careful, simple things one can do to frustrate surveillance teams. Like walking quickly and constantly shifting erratically, doubling back, redoubling, stopping in blind corners and turning to see who followed you down the street, checking in windows for reflections-, hopping in and out of elevators and on and off public transportation at the last possible minute. The Russian agent did all of these and more, which confirmed both Kevin's assumption that he was their man and his fears that their man was good. The surveillance task was done without the benefit of electronic tracking devices planted on the suspect. If the mission was this big, one never knew what kind of detection equipment the Russian carried, and the key to the counterintelligence mission was that the Russian would not know he was suspected. In the best of times and the best of places the task would have been arduous. In New York on rainy, cold spring days complete with traffic jams, the task was insane. Kevin knew his only saving grace was the number of trained, intelligent, competent operatives who shared his insanity and stayed with him on the job. While he marveled at its cost, Kevin knew that if he didn1 have access to his virtually unlimited resources, the odds of completing his assignment were less than 30/70, the wrong way.

  A dented turquoise 1965 Dodge Coronet pulled slowly to the curb next to Kevin. He glanced inside, recognized his chief assistant sitting next to the driver and climbed in the car's backseat. The only observant witness to the scene was a government clerk from Denver trying to work up his courage for an affirmative response to one of the dark ladies of the night. The clerk noticed enough only to make sure the incident didn't involve a financial transaction he might find interesting.

  "Two things," said Kevin's assistant as they cruised slowly toward an apartment building by Central Park. "First, our boy made contact."

  "When?" asked Kevin eagerly.

  "This evening, right after dinner when he left his hotel. Our boy spoke briefly to a woman on West Forty-fourth, right in front of the Hotel Mansfield, ostensibly asking directions. As usual, the recon team picked up on her and photographed the whole thing from a distance, although the shots probably aren't, worth shit. These fake vans just aren't all they're cut out to be, if you'll pardon the joke. Anyway, what the subject actually did was. arrange a later rendezvous, or so we assume, because he met her again outside a bar thirty-four minutes later. They strolled up the same street, walking not far from each other and coming together regularly enough to talk, although if you weren't watching for it you might have missed it. After about fifteen minutes of this she slipped him something, additional funds or instructions is my guess, then they went their merry ways."

  "Who is she?" demanded Kevin.

  "One of the FBI boys made her right away when be saw her at the second meeting. Her name is Anna M. Brooks, she lives in Queens, single, forty-five years old, and an executive secretary to a highbrow consulting firm which handles, among others, defense contractors and a number of multinational corporations.

  "The bureau stumbled across her accidentally. They picked up a whole list of leads when that charge d'affaires flipped in 1972, the one who was later forcibly recycled to Budapest after a few contacts with us. From what I gather, the bureau did some uncommonly fine footwork, not enough to be certain on her or what her mission is, but enough to find out things like ' she has unexplainable access to large amounts of cash, some odd habits like walks in strange places at strange hours-and then there's the odd stuff her boss' clients are involved in, nothing very classified, which the agency finds out the Russians acquire slightly in advance of when they would get it through open channels. The bureau keeps an easy eye on her, hoping she'll lead them to bigger game. We've already gotten the

  word that they want a hold put on her when we say it's time to move."

  "They can have her," Kevin said, "providing she's just a minor liaison or courier link with our man and neither knows anything about the other. So now we know they're both dirty. Tell the bureau I want the same kind of box around her that we've got around our boy, and I want it run through us. It should be fairly easy, since she's not on a run. Check her backward and forward. See if we can't put some people in her building and on her at work. Make sure the bureau knows that we want her first if it looks like we need her to nail this down. That means no espionage investigation. Just a nice quiet little grab. But I doubt * we have to worry about that. Until we give the word, she stays like she is.

  "You said there were two things."

  "The other one is the old man. Ws in town, at the Central Park place, and he wants to see you."

  Carl opened the apartment door before Kevin pushed the doorbell. Kevin hadn't noticed. the guard in the foyer somehow signaling the apartment, and Carl's correct anticipation fueled Kevin's perpetual dislike for the man. Kevin looked at the old man's assistant and noted his pale cheeks were slightly flushed. Probably with warmth, thought Kevin bitterly.

  "Good evening, Mr. Powell," Carl murmured politely with (Kevin was sure) a hint of sarcasm, "we've been expecting you."

  Kevin didn't reply as he followed Carl into the apartment.

  Ah, Kevin, my boy," cried the ol
d man as he rose nimbly from the sofa, "come in, come in. You must be cold. Carl, bring Kevin some brandy and some coffee too."

  The old man's warmth and the apartment's comfort mollified Kevin slightly. He took off his overcoat, draping it over a chair as he deliberately ignored Carl's outstretched hand. Carl said nothing as he retired to the kitchen. Kevin thought be saw the old man smile, but his superior made no comment.

  Thank you, sir," said Kevin. "I assume you've beard about our boy making a contact."

  "Indeed I have," replied the old man gleefully as he resumed his perch on the sofa. He motioned for Kevin to sit in the easy chair opposite him. "Indeed I have. It does seem our boy is 'dirty,' as you say in the field. My, these labels change so over the years, don't they? Sometimes I think we and all our counterparts should issue an occupational dictionary, just so everyone knows how to communicate.

  "By the way, I've approved the code name 'Rose' for our Russian friend. I guess I'm still a romantic at heart: I'm hoping he'll blossom into something very big, and since he is 'Red' it somehow seems - appropriate."

  Kevin smiled. Carl had entered the room carrying a tray with a steaming coffeepot, cup and saucer, sugar and cream dispensers, and a small decanter of brandy with a glass,. He set his burden on the coffee table between the old man and Kevin, placing the tray just far enough away from Kevin to make easy access impossible.

  "Will that be all, sir?" Carl said, pointedly addressing the old man.

  The old man smiled. "Yes, I think that will do for now. Please go downstairs to the communications room and check with Washington."

  "Very good, sir."

  Kevin waited until the man had left the room before he helped himself to coffee.

  The old man spoke as Kevin sipped the hot liquid. "Well, now, it seems we're well under way, We have an enemy agent, we have him boxed in, probably unaware of his plight, and from various independent and heretofore reliable sources we have a fairly clear idea of his mission. Correct?"

  "Correct," said Kevin thoughtfully. He knew from the old man's tone that he was leading up to something, and his statements meant more than they said. Kevin carefully waited for the old man to continue.

  "Correct, absolutely, positively correct. And yet it bothers me, and from some of the things you've intimated to me in your reports, I think something bothers you too. Am I right?"

  "I tried to be as complete as I could in my reports, sir,' Kevin replied cautiously. The old man was right, of course, but Kevin had convinced himself his misgivings were groundless. He hadn't thought his doubts had drifted into his reports, but then, he thought, perhaps I deliberately, subconsciously allowed them to slip in.

  "Of course you were, my boy, of course you were. They are excellent reports. But I'm still bothered.. Let's look at it Parkins blunders into something and ends up dead. The general comes to me for help. You backtrack Parkins and find out a little more about what he was doing. One of the agency's sources inside the German KGB operation hears a story which fits Parkins' hypothesis. The CIA agent even tips us to another run, which we intercept and which is bearing more and more fruit. A very smooth operation in London. Today our man dirties himself, blowing a local agent at the same time. Our Rose is obviously a very skilled operative, not just cannon fodder sent as flak. I know you don't know, but yesterday one of the agency's contacts in Czechoslovakia confirmed some sort of run was in progress through Berlin to London, with a high probability the run continued from there. A source we have in the GRU says the KGB expects some activity in the Western United States soon and has alerted its agents in that area in the event support is needed. A bit here, another bit there, little pieces all adding up. And, while we can't see. everything, we're right on top of the picture as they say, right on top."

  "Then what's our problem?" Kevin asked almost disgustedly.

  "I don't know," the old man, replied slowly, "I just don't know. Everything we've found links back into the operation Parkins blew. All that is necessary is for us to intercept the present KGB mission Rose is running at the opportune moment and we will confirm all our hypotheses as well as stop the Russian mission. A neat tidy package, with the only problem we seem to have being keeping our man in our sights until we want to pick him off."

  "Again, so what's our problem, I mean, besides that?"

  "That," said the old man, "is precisely what worries me. This whole thing feels too good. We're confirming what we already know, ratifying ourselves, if you will, and reaping rewards doing it. All this gain bothers me. And I think we're missing something, something right before our eyes that's so big and so blatant that we can't see it."

  "So what do we do?" asked Kevin hopefully.

  "Do? Well, what can we do? We keep on with our present plan. In the event we lose our boy, you fly out to Montana and wait for him to come to you."

  "What about Malcolm? And by the way, how's he doing?"

  The old man smiled. "Ah, yes, our Condor. Well, he seems to be doing fine. At least, he hasn't blown himself to the locals yet. As they say, perhaps this will be a valuable 'learning experience' for him. I'm hoping he'll have to do nothing, and I think he will continue to find nothing. But he is a nice hedge on our bets.

  "I'm putting down another hedge. Our friend the general has been after me to get the Air Force to increase security around the missile sites. I don't like that idea, at least not in that fashion. The Russians might see the Air Force tightening up, and while they might think it is a normal reaction on our part, I don't want to take the chance that we will frighten them into too much caution or even a cancellation of the mission.

  "At the same time I want to have a heavy team in the area, just in case we need to move fast and with a lot of muscle. The Army has some people who worked under the Company before, and I've arranged for them to undergo 'special training' in Montana, using Malmstrom as their base. There will be a team on twenty-four-hour immediate standby-alert at Malmstrom until this thing is cleared up. They're better than the Air Force security people, more dependable, less likelihood of any leaks, and we can always get the Air Force to, back them up with their people. Carl will give you the details as you leave."

  Kevin winced slightly at the old man's last remark. As Kevin set down his empty brandy glass and prepared to go, the old man looked up at him and said, "Kevin, my boy, you don't like Carl, do you?"

  It was more a statement than a question. Kevin didn't know how to respond. "Sir?"

  "Come now, Kevin," the old man repeated; mildly reproachful, "I am neither blind nor stupid. You don't like Carl."

  Kevin carefully studied his superior. He had worked with the old man on a number of previous occasions, occasions preceding Carl's appearance. Kevin thought he understood a little of what motivated the old man and how to deal with him. And, of course, Kevin liked and respected the old man, as much as one person "in the business" could safely like anyone else in the business. Kevin chose blunt honesty. "I can't stand the son of a bitch," he said simply, coolly.

  The old man roared with laughter, then, when his humor had subsided, said, "I thought as much. No, I knew it. Almost everyone feels the same way. Did you know that?"

  "I would imagine so."

  "Personally, although I spend a good deal of time with Carl, I deal with him only on a professional level, if you understand me. I don't regard him as I do say Malcolm or yourself, and I think you know that. I am not unaware,' however, of others' distaste for Carl."

  "I will admit he seems competent," Kevin said begrudgingly.

  "That he is, my boy, that he i& Carl is a whiz, a marvel of competency!"

  "'Although," continued Kevin, "I can1 really judge his work, his field work in intelligence, that is."

  "Ah," said the old man slowly. He leaned back on the sofa, rocking slightly on his hips, "ah, so that's part of it. You don't know what Carl can do and has done. He's not a 'bloodied' member of-the fraternity, so to speak."

  Kevin grunted and grinned slightly. "So to speak, that's part of it.
A small part of it. As far as blood goes, I'm not sure he has any in his veins."

  "Well," said the old man as he rose to lead Kevin to the door, the door beyond which Kevin was sure Carl waited, "let me put your mind at ease about that 'bloodied' bit. As you know, I have to make a great many difficult decisions. This post was originally created as a bureaucratic type of liaison office, and although I've managed to expand a bit from that and thwart those who wish me buried in paper, those duties still demand much of me. Carl is, of course, invaluable there, but it is in the operational end of L Group and what I do that he is most valuable, most valuable.

  "The decisions I face in overseeing missions and operations are difficult, difficult decisions. If I had to compare them with decisions in any other realm, I'm sure you would agree with me that they most closely parallel those of a military commander in wartime. I have to make broad policy decisions as well as the difficult choices in individual instances, decisions and choices which affect the lives of, if you will extend the analogy, soldiers like yourself and our Malcolm, although you are rapidly rising to command rank yourself, rapidly rising.

  "Decisions generate a good deal of detail work: the tiring, boring, unglamorous tasks of confirmation, validation, details and decisions run, as everything is these days, through the government maze of red tape.