by James Grady
“After you’ve had some rest, my assistant will bring you instructions and any further information we receive.”
As Powell got up to go, he said, “Can you give me anything on Maronick?”
The old man said, “I’m having a friend in the French secret service send over a copy of their file on the flight from Paris. It won’t arrive until tomorrow. I could have had it quicker, but I didn’t want to alert the opposition. Outside of what you already know, I can only tell you that physically Maronick is reportedly a very striking man.”
Malcolm began to wake just as Powell left the old man’s office. For a few seconds he lay still, remembering all that had happened. Then a soft voice whispered in his ear, “Are you awake?”
Malcolm rolled over. Wendy rested on one elbow, shyly looking at him. His throat felt better and he sounded almost normal when he said, “Good morning.”
Wendy blushed. “I’m … I’m sorry about yesterday, I mean how mean I was. I just … I just have never seen or done anything like that and the shock …”
Malcolm shut her up with a kiss. “It’s OK. It was pretty horrible.”
“What are we going to do now?” she asked.
“I don’t know for sure. I think we should hole up here for at least a day or two.” He looked around the sparsely furnished room. “It may be a little dull.”
Wendy looked up at him and grinned. “Well, not too dull.” She kissed him lightly, then again. She pulled his mouth down to her small breast.
Half an hour later they still hadn’t decided anything.
“We can’t do that all the time,” Malcolm said at last.
Wendy made a sour face and said, “Why not?” But she sighed acceptance. “I know what we can do!” She leaned half out of the bed and groped on the floor. Malcolm grabbed her arm to keep her from falling.
“What the hell are you doing?” he said.
“I’m looking for my purse. I brought some books we can read out loud. You said you liked Yeats.” She rummaged under the bed. “Malcolm, I can’t find them, they aren’t here. Everything else is in my purse, but the books are missing. I must have … Owww!” Wendy jerked back on the bed and pried herself loose from Malcolm’s suddenly tightened grip. “Malcolm, what are you doing? That hurt …”
“The books. The missing books.” Malcolm turned and looked at her. “There is something about those missing books that’s important! That has to be the reason!”
Wendy was puzzled. “But they’re only poetry books. You can get them almost anywhere. I probably just forgot to bring them.”
“Not those books, the Society’s books, the ones Heidegger found missing!” He told her the story.
Malcolm felt the excitement growing. “If I can tell them about the missing books, it’ll give them something to start on. The reason my section was hit must have been the books. They found out Heidegger was digging up old records. They had to hit everybody in case someone else knew. If I can give the Agency those pieces, maybe they can put the puzzle together. At least I’ll have something more to give them than my story about how people get shot wherever I go. They frown on that.”
“But how will you tell the Agency? Remember what happened the last time you called them?”
Malcolm frowned. “Yes, I see what you mean. But the last time they set up a meeting. Even if the opposition has penetrated the Agency, even if they know what goes over the Panic Line, I still think we’re OK. With all that has gone on, I imagine dozens of people must be involved. At least some of them will be clean. They’ll pass on what I phone in. It should ring some right bells somewhere.” He paused for a moment. “Come on, we have to go back to Washington.”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Wendy’s outstretched hand missed its grasp on Malcolm’s arm as he bounded out of bed and into the bathroom. “Why are we going back there?”
The shower turned on. “Have to. A long-distance phone call can be traced in seconds, a local one takes longer.” The tempo of falling water on metal walls increased.
“But we might get killed!”
“What?”
Wendy yelled, but she tried to be as quiet as possible. “I said we might be killed.”
“Might get killed here too. You scrub my back and I’ll scrub yours.”
“I’m very disappointed, Maronick.” The sharp words cut through the strained air between the two men. The distinguished-looking speaker knew he had made a mistake when he saw the look in his companion’s eyes.
“My name is Levine. You will remember that. I suggest you do not make a slip like that again.” The striking man’s crisp words undercut the other man’s confidence, but the distinguished-looking gentleman tried to hide his discomposure.
“My slip is minor compared to the others that have been happening,” he said.
The man who wished to be called Levine showed no emotion to the average eye. An acute observer who had known him for some time might have detected the slight flush of frustrated anger and embarrassment.
“The operation is not yet over. There have been setbacks, but there has been no failure. Had there been failure, neither of us would be here.” As if to emphasize his point, he gestured toward the crowds milling around them. Sunday is a busy day for tourists at the Capitol building.
The distinguished-looking man regained his confidence. In a firm whisper he said, “Nevertheless there have been setbacks. As you so astutely pointed out, the operation is not yet over. I need not remind you that it was scheduled for completion three days ago. Three days. A good deal can happen in three days. For all our bumbling we have been very lucky. The longer the operation continues, the greater the risk that certain things will come to the fore. We both know how disastrous that could be.”
“Everything possible is being done. We must wait for another chance.”
“And if we don’t get another chance? What then, my fine friend, what then?”
The man called Levine turned and looked at him. Once again the other man felt nervous. Levine said, “Then we make our chance.”
“Well, I certainly hope there will be no more … setbacks.”
“I anticipate none.”
“Good. I shall keep you informed of all the developments in the Agency. I expect you to do the same with me. I think there is nothing further to say.”
“There is one other thing,” Levine said calmly. “Operations such as this sometimes suffer certain kinds of internal setbacks. Usually these … setbacks happen to certain personnel. These setbacks are planned by operation directors, such as yourself, and they are meant to be permanent. The common term for such a setback is double cross. If I were my director, I would be most careful to avoid any such setback, don’t you agree?” The pallor crossing the other man’s face told Levine there was no disagreement. Levine smiled politely, nodded farewell, and walked away. The distinguished man watched him stalk down the marble corridors and out of sight. The gentleman shuddered slightly, then went home to Sunday brunch with his wife, son, and a fidgety new daughter-in-law.
While Malcolm and Wendy dressed and the two men left the Capitol grounds, a telephone truck pulled up to the outer gates at Langley. After the occupants and their mission were cleared, they proceeded to the communications center. The two telephone repairmen were accompanied by a special security officer on loan from another branch. Most of the Agency men were looking for a man called Condor. The security officer had papers identifying him as Major David Burros. His real name was Kevin Powell, and the two telephone repairmen, ostensibly there to check the telephone tracing device, were highly trained Air Force electronics experts flown in from Colorado less than four hours before. After their mission was completed, they would be quarantined for three weeks. In addition to checking the tracing device, they installed some new equipment and made some complicated adjustments in the wiring of the old. Both men tried to keep calm while they worked from wiring diagrams labeled Top Secret. Fifteen minutes after they began work, they electronically signaled a third man in a
phone booth four miles away. He called a number, let it ring until he received another signal, then hung up and walked quickly away. One of the experts nodded at Powell. The three men gathered their tools and left as unobtrusively as they had come.
An hour later Powell sat in a small room in downtown Washington. Two plainclothes policemen sat outside the door. Three of his fellow agents lounged in chairs scattered around the room. There were two chairs at the desk where Powell sat, but one was unoccupied. Powell talked into one of the two telephones on the desk.
“We’re hooked up and ready to go, sir. We’ve tested the device twice. It checked out from our end and our man in the Panic Room said everything was clear there. From now on, all calls made to Condor’s panic number will ring here. If it’s our boy, we’ll have him. If it’s not … Well, let’s hope we can fake it. Of course, we can also nullify the bypass and just listen in.”
The old man’s voice told his delight. “Excellent, my boy, excellent. How’s everything else working out?”
“Marian says the arrangements with the Post should be complete within the hour. I hope you realize how much our ass is in the fire on this. Someday we’ll have to tell the Agency we tapped their Panic Line, and they won’t appreciate that at all.”
The old man chuckled. “Don’t worry about that, Kevin. It’s been in the fire before and it will be there again. Besides, theirs is roasting too, and I imagine they won’t feel too bad if we pull it out for them. Any reports from the field?”
“Negative. Nobody reports a sign of Malcolm or the girl. When our boy goes to ground, he goes to ground.”
“Yes, I was thinking much the same thing myself. I don’t think the opposition has got him. I’m rather proud of his efforts so far. Do you have my itinerary?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll call you if anything happens.” The old man hung up, and Powell settled down for what he hoped would be a short wait.
Wendy and Malcolm arrived in Washington just as the sun was setting. Malcolm drove to the center of the city. He parked the car at the Lincoln Memorial, removed their luggage, and locked the vehicle securely. They came into Washington via Bethesda, Maryland. In Bethesda they purchased some toiletries, clothes, a blond wig, and a large padded “visual disguise and diversionary” bra for Wendy, a roll of electrical tape, some tools, and a box of .357 magnum shells.
Malcolm took a carefully calculated risk. Using Poe’s “Purloined Letter” principle that the most obvious hiding place is often the safest, he and Wendy boarded a bus for Capitol Hill. They rented a tourist room on East Capitol Street less than a quarter of a mile from the Society. The proprietress of the dingy hostel welcomed the Ohio honeymooners. Most of her customers had checked out and headed home after a weekend of sightseeing. She didn’t even care if they had no rings and the girl had a black eye. In order to create a believable image of loving young marrieds (or so Malcolm whispered), the young couple retired early.
“In war it is not men, but the man who counts.”
—Napoleon
SHRILL SCREAM from the red phone jarred Powell from his fitful nap. He grabbed the receiver before a second ring. The other agents in the room began to trace and record the call. Concentrating on listening, Powell only half saw their scurrying figures in the morning light. He took a deep breath and said, “493–7282.”
The muffled voice on the other end seemed far away. “This is Condor.”
Powell began the carefully prepared dialogue. “I read you, Condor. Listen closely. The Agency has been penetrated. We’re not sure who, but we’re pretty sure it’s not you.” Powell cut the beginning of a protest short. “Don’t waste time protesting your innocence. We accept it as a working assumption. Now, why did you shoot Weatherby when they came to pick you up?”
The voice on the other end was incredulous. “Didn’t Sparrow IV tell you? That man—Weatherby?—shot at me! He was parked outside the Society Thursday morning. In the same car.”
“Sparrow IV is dead, shot in the alley.”
“I didn’t …”
“We know. We think Weatherby did. We know about you and the girl.” Powell paused to let this sink in. “We traced you to her apartment and found the corpse. Did you hit him?”
“Barely. He almost got us.”
“Are you injured?”
“No, just a little stiff and woozy.”
“Are you safe?”
“For the time being, fairly.”
Powell leaned forward tensely and asked the hopeless and all-important question. “Do you have any idea why your group was hit?”
“Yes.” Powell’s sweaty hand tightened on the receiver as Malcolm quickly told of the missing books and financial discrepancies Heidegger had discovered.
When Malcolm paused, Powell asked in a puzzled voice, “But you have no idea what it all means?”
“None. Now, what are you going to do about getting us to safety?”
Powell took the plunge. “Well, that’s going to be a little problem. Not just because we don’t want you set up and hit, but because you’re not talking to the Agency.”
Five miles away, in a phone booth at a Holiday Inn, Malcolm’s stomach began to churn. Before he could say anything, Powell spoke again.
“I can’t go into the details. You will simply have to trust us. Because of the penetration of the Agency at what is probably a very high level, we’ve taken over. We plugged into the Panic Line and intercepted your call. Please don’t hang up. We’ve got to blow the double in the Agency and find out what this was all about. You’re our only way, and we want you to help us. You have no choice.”
“Bullshit, man! You might be another security agency, and then again you might not. Even if you are OK, why the hell should I help you? This isn’t my kind of work! I read about this stuff, not do it.”
“Consider the alternatives.” Powell’s voice was cold. “Your luck can’t hold forever, and some very determined and competent people besides us are looking for you. As you said, this isn’t your line of work. Someone will find you. Without us, all you can do is hope that the right someone does find you. If we’re the right someone, then everything is already OK. If we’re not, then at least you know what we want you to do. It’s better than running blind. Any time you don’t like our instructions, don’t follow them. There’s one final clincher. We control your communication link with the Agency. We even have a man on the listed line.” (This was a lie.) “The only other way you can go home is to show up at Langley in person. Do you like the idea of going in there cold?”
Powell paused and got no answer. “I thought not. It won’t be too dangerous. All we basically want is for you to stay hidden and keep rattling the opposition’s cage. Now, here’s what we know so far.” Powell gave Malcolm a concise rundown of all the information he had. Just as he finished, his man in charge of tracing the call came to him and shrugged his shoulders. Puzzled, Powell continued. “Now, there’s another way we can communicate with you. Do you know how to work a book code?”
“Well … You better go over it again.”
“OK. First of all pick up a paperback copy of The Feminine Mystique. There is only one edition. Got that? OK. Now, whenever we want to communicate with you, we will run an ad in the Post. It will appear in the first section, and the heading will read, ‘Today’s Lucky Sweepstakes Winning Numbers Are:’ followed by a series of hyphenated numbers. The first number of each series is the page number, the second is the line number, and the third is the word number. When we can’t find a corresponding word in the book, we’ll use a simple number-alphabet code. A is number one, B is number two, and so on. When we code such a word, the first number will be thirteen. The Post will forward any communication you want to send us if you address it to yourself, care of Lucky Sweepstakes, Box 1, Washington Post. Got it?”
“Fine. Can we still use the Panic Line?”
“We’d rather not. It’s very chancy.”
Powell could see the trace man across the room whispering furiously into ano
ther phone. Powell said, “Do you need anything?”
“No. Now, what is it you want me to do?”
“Can you call the Agency back on your phone?”
“For a conversation as long as this?”
“Definitely not. It should only take a minute or so.”
“I can, but I’ll want to shift to another phone. Not for at least half an hour.”
“OK. Call back and we will let the call go through. Now, here’s what we want you to say.” Powell told him the plan. When both men were satisfied, Powell said, “One more thing. Pick a neighborhood you won’t have to be in.”
Malcolm thought for a moment. “Chevy Chase.”
“OK,” Kevin said. “You will be reported in the Chevy Chase area in exactly one hour. Thirty minutes later a Chevy Chase cop will be wounded while chasing a man and a woman answering your descriptions. That should make everyone concentrate their forces in Chevy Chase, giving you room to move. Is that enough time?”
“Make it an hour later, OK?”
“OK.”
“One more thing. Who am I talking to, I mean personally?”
“Call me Rogers, Malcolm.” The connection went dead. No sooner had Powell placed the phone in the cradle than his trace man ran to him.
“Do you know what that little son of a bitch did? Do you know what he did?” Powell could only shake his head. “I’ll tell you what he did, that little son of a bitch. He drove all over town and wired pay phones together, then called and hooked them all up so they transmitted one call through the lines, but each phone routed the call back through the terminal. We traced the first one in a little over a minute. Our surveillance team got there right away. They found an empty phone booth with homemade Out of Order signs and his wiring job. They had to call back for a trace on the other phone. We’ve gone through three traces already and there are probably more hookups to go, that son of a bitch!”
Powell leaned back and laughed for the first time in days. When he found the part in Malcolm’s dossier that mentioned his summer employment with the telephone company, he laughed again.
