Shadow of the Condor

by James Grady

  "Carl is invaluable in this area. Those social scientists and managerial study types who run around putting labels on the ordinary so they can be paid for discovering the obvious would call Carl a facilitator in the decision-making process. Horrible, awkward phrase, isn't it? Carl helps me get things done.

  "He is especially helpful with decisions in sticky matters such as this. The policy I decide forces me to make very hard choices. Such choices, difficult as they are at the best of times, are almost impossible when it comes to those times in which the 'bloodied' syndrome you spoke of, the experience in espionage, involves actual blood, actual lives. I'm not talking about your normal casualties routinely encountered in the business. Those are, of course, natural events. I'm talking about those special instances, those particularly hard cases where termination, with extreme prejudice, if you will, is required. It is in those special instances and others like them that Carl is invaluable."

  Kevin's skepticism came through in his tone. "You can't mean Carl is a termination expert. I can see him enjoying killing people, enjoying it a lot, getting all sorts of kicks, but I can't see him as an assassin. He's not the type to like the risks."

  "Oh, no," replied the old man, "Carl is not what you call a field man. He stays on top of such events and sees that certain things get done." The old man opened the door, shook bands with Kevin in a fond farewell, then, before closing the door, said, "Carl processes the papers."

  7

  "When I use a word," Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, "it means just what I choose it to mean neither more nor less."

  "The question is," said Alice, "whether you can make words mean so many different things."

  "The question is," said Humpty Dumpty, "which is to be master-that's all."

  The old man returned to Washington on the next morning's 8:30 A.M. shuttle flight. At eleven he attended a briefing session for the Staff Liaison Board. Such briefing sessions follow a loose schedule dependent mainly on world intelligence and security events. When a rare air of relative calm prevails throughout the world, the briefings might dwindle to as few as one a week. In times of crisis, especially if the United States is directly involved in the crisis, as it almost always is, the briefings occur at least daily., Since the world suffered from an absence of major crises that week, the morning's briefing session was the first in three days. A full-scale meeting of the important Forty Committee was scheduled for late that afternoon, and SLB wanted to be sure all was in readiness for the real show.

  A representative from the State Department chaired the SLB meeting that morning. Although the old man headed L and as such was the most important member of SLB, the chairmanship of SLB meetings rotated, with the representative of whichever agency was most involved with the day's pressing events sitting at the helm. On a "quiet" day, a day without any major pressing item, the chairmanship usually falls to the State Department. In the early 1970's that honor was a token gesture of kindness from the other agencies to the State Department. In those days Henry Kissinger ran America's foreign policy from the basement of the White House, while the State Department served as an impotent, smiling puppet, a government organ with functions in name only. AM that changed when Kissinger became official Secretary of State, and by 1974 the State Department had regained much of its lost prestige and power. In partial recognition of the changing times and out of respectful inertia, the SLB members informally agreed to let State chair all "nonspecific" meetings.

  The State Department's staff representative was new to the intelligence business. He had formerly been an African agricultural economic expert, but as a result of his patient and diligent (if unimaginative) work and the reshuffling following a bureaucratic squabble in which he had not taken part, he found himself promoted to a new job assisting a subcabinet-level official. The new job and prestige pleased him. In addition to the money and status, his duties were neither too arduous nor too challenging. He handled the administrative matters dealing with intelligence in much the same manner as he handled the agricultural data from the African nations, although admittedly he knew very little about the content of the intelligence data, whereas he had understood tropical crop cycles.

  "Well, now," said the man from State after a Naval Intelligence representative concluded a routine presentation on Chinese and Soviet naval developments, "we've had all our routine reports. Does anyone have anything else he'd like to bring up?"

  "I have something I'd like to inquire about," boomed General Arnold Roth's voice from the far end of the table. The general normally does not attend -the SLB meetings, largely because the overall commander of Air Force Intelligence discourages the commander of the Special Operations Division from doing so. The old man attended all the meetings, and he knew something interesting would happen when he saw the general enter the room that morning. The old man smiled.

  "As most of you know," General Roth continued, speaking more loudly than necessary, "following my mission guide-lines and regulations, and as the Forty Committee agreed, I turned over a case my people were working on directly to L Group. Now, since then I've hardly heard anything of what's being done about this matter, and I would like to go on record right now to that effect."

  The man from State frowned. Before he had time to worry further, the old man picked up the gauntlet.

  "General," the old man said soothingly, "I'm sure you've been keeping up with the daily reports we've sent you. As you know, there is little substantive to report. We are on the trail of a Russian operative who is probably involved in the matter your people blundered into. As soon as we have all the details and are in complete command of the situation, we will take action in line with what Forty deems pertinent. Your role will be determined, of course, by Forty itself, and if you have any quarrels with the way Forty is handling the matter that you asked them to take on, I suggest you take 'it up directly with them."

  The general scowled. The rest of the men around the table repressed either knowing grins or disgusted frowns. Everyone in the room was. aware of the general and his capacity for making himself 'a bothersome thorn. The representative from the Office of Management and Budget, partially to score points with the old man and partially~ to speed the meeting's adjournment, came to the old man's defense.

  "I can understand the general being somewhat concerned," said the man from OMB. "After all, he has had a major hand in this operation. However, I'm sure he doesn't need to worry about this matter. We at OMB have every -confidence in L Group. Strictly from a managerial viewpoint, we're rather pleased with the whole operation. While it's true that a good deal of outlay is involved, it's all being accounted for quite nicely. I might add, sir," the OMB representative commented, directly addressing the old man, "your assistant has been most able in helping us oversee this matter. Most able."

  The old man nodded his thanks,

  "The two aspects which particularly please us," the OMB man continued, "are the payoff and dovetail angles. From all indications to date, we should have some sort of product to show for our efforts. Not just data, but something really hard, like that Russian agent. He's a totally successful result that appropriations committees can understand. Besides, the whole thing is sexy enough that it will tickle their fancy. And when we can show them how the outlays we've expended and invested in that. . . .", The accountant paused, sifted through his papers until he found the appropriate sheet, peered over the glasses which had almost slipped off his nose, then continued, saying that Condor fellow dovetails into this present operation, well, it makes a pretty picture in the books, and God knows we don't have enough of those. All I've got to say is we over at OMB are glad L Group picked up and is moving on this like they are."

  The old man nodded politely to the OMB representative, then turned to smile triumphantly at the general. The general scowled, but made no reply besides a grunt.

  "What about the plausible deniability factor?" chimed in the man from State. He felt that as chairman he should say something on every matter and he
was very pleased with himself for remembering the correct euphemism for an excusing lie.

  The old man smiled at the chairman. He really would have to do a little more work on keeping that neophyte in line. The old man replied, "In this instance I'm not sure a factual analysis of our methods will be a f actor at any point. We obviously took the precaution of cleaning all our personnel through the bureau. Forty is satisfied that our cover is adequate and possibly not even necessary. In any event, the situation is well covered."

  "Well, then," said the chairman from State, "I assume everyone is satisfied. I'm sure our colleague will keep us, our respective branches and Forty fully informed in this matter. If there's nothing further, shall we consider this matter adequately covered for the time being and adjourn?"

  ….

  Malcolm lowered his cup of coffee to Neil and Fran Robinson's kitchen table in Whitlash, Montana, as the man from State brought his gavel down to adjourn the SLB meeting in Washington. The Robinson household was Malcolm's first stop of the day, a visit he hoped would prove very important. Only one farm separated the "town" of Whitlash from the missile site. The farm was not in direct line with the town and the site, but it was closer to the missile than any other group of buildings. Malcolm knew Parkins might have come from the farm, choosing to run (from what? he wondered) toward the brilliantly lit missile site rather than toward the probably dark and unseen cluster of buildings which comprised Whitlash. The Bell brothers' Louis and Daniel, owned that farm When Malcolm interviewed the Bells, they told him they were "away" on his "randomly chosen survey date." They told Malcolm almost nothing else. He had spent most of his time with the middle-aged brothers speaking toward silent, hostile faces. Now he wanted confirmation of their story, and he hoped the Robinson family would provide it.

  Malcolm arrived "early" enough to find all the Robinsons at home. The father, Neil, and the nephew, Pete, the two males who lived full time on the farm, were in from the fields for a break and to pick up some tools. Neil's wife, Fran, busied herself with baking chores, humming all the while as Malcolm sat at the large kitchen table sharing coffee with Neil, Pete, Dave Livingston (a visiting in-law from Kansas) and Grandmother Clara Stowe, a surprisingly spry old woman whom Malcolm guessed to be in her seventies, although considering her superb physical condition, he couldn't be sure. Her daughter, Fran, appeared to be in her mid-forties; her son-in-law, Neil, looked about fifty. Nephew Pete gave the impression of a superb thirty-five. Dave Livingston, the visiting in-law, fit somewhere in the middle-age bracket also.

  Malcolm liked his hosts. As with the other farm families he had visited, they knew all about him. At least, thought Malcolm somewhat guiltily, they know all about my cover. They seemed eager to help and gave him far more than he asked for. Especially Neil. The lean, tanned head of the family. took his place as spokesman for his kinfolk, and h e seemed starved for a new audience to listen to all the old stories his family and friends had probably suffered through hundreds of times. He gestured with his dirt-caked hands as he spoke.

  "Hell, Malcolm, ain’t nothing really new about this farming business next to them missiles. We just take it as it comes. Livingstons always have, ever since they came out here and homesteaded this land years ago. In all that-time we've been a lot of things. We didn't like losing the land to the missiles, but if it's not one thing, it's another, so what the hell. Don't bother us none. Don't think it bothers anyone around here."

  "Neil Robinson," chastised his mother-in-law, "now don't you go on so and bother Mr. Malcolm here with our dull family history. He don't. need to know all about the Livingstons or Stowes either. Probably bore him to tears unless we let one of the family skeletons out of the closet."

  Malcolm joined the family laughter. Neil Robinson, Malcolm noticed, didn't find his mother-in-law's admonition humorous. Oh, he smiled, but Malcolm saw his lips draw tight as he grinned, and a nervous twitch moved in the comer of his eye.

  "I guess you're right, Ma. I guess you're right." Neil stood slowly and walked to the refrigerator. He opened it and removed a short, stubby bottle. "Guess I'll wander over and see the Kincaids, see if Matt needs any help with that tractor he's tearing down. Nice talking to you."

  Head bowed, beer in hand, Neil slowly left the house. The kitchen was silent for several seconds after the screen door slammed. Malcolm had noticed a case of beer bottles stacked outside the door when he drove up, but until now he hadn't given it a second thought. No one looked at him and he looked at no one. Neil's wife banged some pots and pans behind them, then announced to no one in particular, "I think I'll go upstairs and make some beds." She scurried from the room. Malcolm heard her feet running upstairs. The silence returned.

  "You'll have to forgive Neil and Fran." It was Dave Livingston who broke the silence. His smooth tones implied what Malcolm had guessed. "Neil . well, Neil has a problem."

  Malcolm nodded his head, remembering his boyhood and an uncle's sporadic, confusing visits.

  "Yes, well, ah," Malcolm continued, nervously moving from the awkward moment to business, "well, about the survey's target date. You've all told me what you did that day and night and it seems normal enough. I was wondering if maybe you could tell me what you remember your neighbors doing. I've already talked to them, asked them the same questions. Sometimes we tend to notice more what other people are doing than what we do ourselves."

  "Ain't it the truth," chimed in the nephew, Pete. He slowly pushed himself away from the table and said, "I think I'll see how Neil is."

  "Well," said Dave, extending his legs and leaning back in the chair, "let me see. I was around the house all day, so I probably can account for most of what our neighbors did. When I'm on vacation like this I have time on my hands I'm not used to having, so I watch people and things, although in a town with three households there isn't much to watch. It's a nice change from the franchising business. "The only people in town besides us are the Kincaids across the way and Old Man Gorton, who runs the store and gas station at the bend in the road. Don't ask me how he keeps alive. Social Security gives him all his money. I don't think the gas shortage affected him at all because nobody buys gas from him except for the occasional trucker or tourist who gets lost and crosses over the border at the station north of here instead of using the main highway entrance at Sweetgrass. Oh, we all get what we call a 'charity Ml-up' every now and then, but nothing spectacular."

  "Neil's been trying to buy him out for years so he could move into town where he can get proper care," added Grandmother Stowe, not hiding her criticism of her contemporary. "Hell, he ain't got nobody to look after him, he's damn near blind and can barely hear. We spend a lot. of time watching him so he won't get into trouble."

  "He spent the whole day like always," continued Dave, 64sitting in his window until dusk, then going to bed. He probably took some time out for meals and pit stops, but I bet he wasn't hardly ever out of his chair. What did he tell you?"

  Malcolm grinned. "Not much. He didn't understand most of what I said, although I think he feigned more ignorance than he has. I don't think he likes the government."

  Dave grinned back. "Not many people do."

  "What about your neighbors, the Kincaids?" Malcolm continued.

  Dave frowned. "Well, there's only the two of them, Shirley and Matt. I imagine Matt worked all day. I saw him a couple of times. I think he was getting their truck ready. Shirley drove into town once."

  Malcolm nodded. He had heard all about the Kincaid truck troubles from Shirley Kincaid, a pretty if slightly frazzled-looking woman in her early thirties; Time for the big one, he thought. "How about any of your neighbors? I guess the closest ones are the Bells, the two brothers down the road. Do you happen to remember anything about what they did that day and night? Did you see them or anything at their farm at all?"

  Dave glanced quickly at Grandmother Stowe. She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. Dave spoke. "Well, now, we don't associate much with the 'brothers' Bell. They keep to themselves, which is fin
e with us."

  Malcolm licked his lips. Maybe, just maybe. "Me Bells aren't friendly?"

  Dave snickered. "Well, let's just say they're not our kind of people."

  "How do you mean?" Malcolm's heart quickened.

  "Well" Dave leaned forward as if he didn't want the older lady to hear---"let's just say that ever since they moved here back in the sixties, they haven't been too friendly to anyone but each other, and there's talk that maybe they're somethin' besides brothers and partners."

  "I don't understand."

  Dave opened his mouth to speak, but the old woman interrupted him. "Now, Dave, don't go spreading gossip."

  "Hell," Dave said mildly, "he'll hear it sooner or later if he sticks around here, so he might as well get it from us. The truth is," Dave whispered, "well, we all figure the Bell brothers aren't brothers."

  "What are they?" Malcolm whispered back, vaguely conscious of the ridiculousness of their whispering.

  "They're queerer than bell," David proclaimed flatly,

  He then leaned back in his chair.

  "Oh."

  Dave grinned. "Anything else we can help you with? Want some more coffee? Got some more questions?"

  Malcolm thanked him, said no, bid his good-byes and left. Outside he climbed into his jeep and sat a moment.

  The Robinson house was on his left, with a few buildings for storage and a garage strung out farther down the same side of the road he faced. Old Man Gorton's house sat at the west end of the street, its two gas pumps marking the 'end of the road, the nozzle on one pointing to where the gravel road curved southward, the nozzle on the other pointing to the more rugged dirt road which curved north to the Canadian border and a border station used occasionally by truckers hoping to avoid the ICC scales on the main highway. County extension agent Stuart had told Malcolm that during Prohibition bootleggers used this road and others like it to foil the few ambitious and honest revenue agents who tried to block liquor smuggling. To Malcolm's right, across the main road from the Robinson house, were the buildings belonging to the Kincaid family, a house, storage shed, garage and a small tool shed. The only other buildings in what had once been a thriving town were behind Malcolm, empty wooden shells boarded up against vandals who never came. No more than twenty buildings marked Whitlash as more than another bend in a deserted -country road.