by James Grady
The oak tree proved simple to climb and the window was unlocked. Malcolm unslung the rifle. He worked the bolt to arm the weapon. Slowly, quietly, he tiptoed to the dark hall, down the carpeted hallway to the head of the stairs. He heard Tchaikovsky’s “1812” Overture booming from the room where he had been questioned. Every now and then a triumphant hum would come from a familiar voice. Slowly Malcolm went down the stairs.
Atwood had his back to the door when Malcolm entered the room. He was choosing another record from the rack in the wall. His hand paused on Beethoven’s Fifth.
Malcolm very calmly raised the rifle, clicked off the safety, took aim, and fired. Hours of practice on gophers, rabbits, and tin cans guided the bullet home. It shattered Atwood’s right knee, bringing him screaming to the floor.
Terror and pain filled the old man’s eyes. He rolled over in time to see Malcolm work the action again. He screamed as Malcolm’s second bullet shattered his other knee. His mouth framed the question, “Why?”
“Your question is futile. Let’s just say I didn’t want you going anywhere for a while.”
Malcolm moved in a frenzy of activity. He tied towels around the moaning man’s knees to slow the bleeding; then he tied his hands to an end table. He ran upstairs and aimlessly rifled rooms, burning up the energy coursing through his blood. He fought hard and was able to control his mind. Maronick chose his drugs well, he thought. Atwood the planner, the director, the thinker was downstairs, Malcolm thought, in pain and harmless. The secondary members of the cell were all dead. Maronick was the only one left, Maronick the enforcer, Maronick the killer. Malcolm thought briefly of the voices on the other end of the Panic Line, the professionals, professionals like Maronick. No, he thought, so far it has been me. Them against me. Maronick had made it even more personal when he killed Wendy. To the professionals it was just a job. They didn’t care. Hazy details of a plan formed around his ideas and wants. He ran to Atwood’s bedroom, where he exchanged his tattered clothes for one of several suits. Then he visited the kitchen and devoured some cold chicken and pie. He went back to the room where Atwood lay, took a quick look around, then dashed to his car for the long drive.
Atwood lay very still for some time after Malcolm had left. Slowly, weakly, he tried to pull himself and the table across the floor. He was too weak. All he succeeded in doing was knocking a picture off the table. It fell face up. The glass didn’t break into shreds he could use to cut his bonds. He resigned himself to his fate. He slumped prone, resting for whatever might lie ahead. He looked briefly at the picture and sighed. It was of him. In his uniform of a captain in the United States Navy.
“Employees must wash their hands before leaving.”
—Traditional rest-room sign
ITCHELL had reached what Agency psychiatrists call the Crisis Acclimatization Level, or Zombie Stage 4. For six days he had been stretched as tight as any spring could be stretched. He adjusted to this state and now accepted the hypertension and hyperactivity as normal. In this state he would be extremely competent and extremely effective as long as any challenge fell within the context of the conditions causing the state. Any foreign stimulus would shatter his tensed composure and tear him apart at the seams. One of the symptoms of this state is the ignorance of the subject. Mitchell merely felt a little nervous. His rational process told him he must have overcome the exhaustion and tension with a sort of second wind. That was why he was still awake at 4:20 in the morning. Disheveled and smelly from six days without bathing, he sat behind his desk going over reports for the hundredth time. He hummed softly. He had no idea that the two additional security men standing by the coffee urn were for him. One was his backup and the other was a psychiatrist protégé of Dr. Lofts. The psychiatrist was there to watch Mitchell as well as monitor any of Malcolm’s calls.
Brrring!
The call jerked all the men in the room out of relaxation. Mitchell calmly held up one hand to reassure them while he used the other hand to pick up the receiver. His easy movements had the quiet quickness of a natural athlete or a well-oiled machine.
“493–7282.”
“This is Condor. It’s almost over.”
“I see. Then why don’t you …”
“I said almost. Now listen, and get it right. Maronick, Weatherby, and their gang were working under a man called Atwood. They were trying to cover their tracks from a smuggling operation they pulled off in 1968. They used Agency facilities and Heidegger found out. The rest just sort of came naturally.
“I’ve got one chore left. If I don’t succeed, you’ll know about it. At any rate, I’ve mailed some stuff to my bank. You better pick it up. It will be there this morning.
“You better send a pretty good team to Atwood’s right away. He lives at 42 Elwood Lane, Chevy Chase.” (Mitchell’s second picked up a red phone and began to speak softly. In another part of the building men raced toward waiting cars. A second group raced toward a Cobra combat helicopter kept perpetually ready on the building roof.) “Send a doctor with them. Two of Maronick’s men are in the woods behind the house, but they’re dead. Wish me luck.”
The phone clicked before Mitchell could speak. He looked at his trace man and got a negative shake of the head.
The room burst into activity. Phones were lifted and all through Washington people woke to the shrill ring of a special bell. Typewriters clicked, messengers ran from the room. Those who could find nothing definite to do paced. The excitement around him did not touch Mitchell. He sat at his desk, calmly running through the developed procedure. His forehead and palms were dry, but deep in his eyes a curious light burned.
Malcolm depressed the phone hook and inserted another dime. The buzzer only sounded twice.
The girl had been selected for her soft, cheery voice. “Good morning. TWA. May I help you?”
“Yes, my name is Henry Cooper. My brother is flying out today for an overdue vacation. Getting away from it all, you understand. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going for sure because he hadn’t made up his mind. What we want to do is give him a last-minute going-away present. He’s already left his apartment, but we think he’s on Flight 27, leaving at six. Could you tell me if he has a reservation?”
There was a slight pause, then, “Yes, Mr. Cooper, your brother has booked a reservation on that flight for … Chicago. He hasn’t picked up his ticket yet.”
“Fine, I really appreciate this. Could you do me another favor and not tell him we called? The surprise is named Wendy, and there’s a chance she’ll be either flying with him or taking the next plane.”
“Of course, Mr. Cooper. Shall I make a reservation for the lady?”
“No, thank you. I think we better wait and see how it works out at the airport. The plane leaves at six, right?”
“Right.”
“Fine, we’ll be there. Thank you.”
“Thank you, sir, for thinking of TWA.”
Malcolm stepped out of the phone booth. He brushed some lint off his sleeve. Atwood’s uniform fitted him fairly well, though it was somewhat bulky. The shoes were a loose fit and his feet tended to slip in them. The highly polished leather creaked as he walked from the parking lot into the main lobby of National Airport. He carried the raincoat draped over his arm and pulled the hat low over his forehead.
Malcolm dropped an unstamped envelope addressed to the CIA in a mailbox. The letter contained all he knew, including Maronick’s alias and flight number. The Condor hoped he wouldn’t have to rely on the U.S. postal system.
The terminal was beginning to fill with the bustling people who would pass through it during the day. A wheezing janitor swept cigarette butts off the red rug. A mother tried to coax a bored infant into submission. A nervous coed sat wondering if her roommate’s half-fare card would work. Three young Marines headed home to Michigan wondered if she would work. A retired wealthy executive and a penniless wino slept in adjoining chairs, both waiting for daughters to fly in from Detroit. A Fuller Brush executive sat perfectly
still, bracing himself for the effects of a jet flight on a gin hangover. The programmer for the piped-in music had decided to jazz up the early-morning hours, and a nameless orchestra played watered-down Beatle music.
Malcolm strode to a set of chairs within hearing range of the TWA desk. He sat next to the three Marines, who respectfully ignored his existence. He held a magazine so it obscured most of his face. His eyes never left the TWA desk. His right hand slipped inside the Navy jacket to bring the silenced automatic out. He slipped his gun-heavy hand under the raincoat and settled back to wait.
At precisely 5:30 Maronick walked confidently through the main doors. The striking gentleman had developed a slight limp, the kind observers invariably try to avoid looking at and the kind they always watch. The limp dominates their impression and their mind blurs the other details their eyes record. A uniform often accomplishes the same thing.
Maronick had grown a mustache with the help of a theatrical-supply house, and when he stopped at the TWA desk Malcolm did not recognize him. But Maronick’s soft voice drew his attention, and he strained to hear the conversation.
“My name is James Cooper. I believe you have a reservation for me.”
The desk clerk flipped her head slightly to place the wandering auburn lock where it belonged. “Yes, Mr. Cooper, Flight 27 to Chicago. You have about fifteen minutes until boarding time.”
“Fine.” Maronick paid for his ticket, checked his one bag, and walked aimlessly away from the counter. Almost empty, he thought. Good. A few servicemen, everything normal; mother and baby, normal; old drunks, normal; college girl, normal. No large preponderance of men standing around busily doing nothing. No one scurrying to phones, including the girl behind the desk. Everything normal. He relaxed even more and began to stroll, checking the terminal and giving his legs the exercise they would miss on the long flight. He didn’t notice the Navy captain who slowly joined him at a distance of twenty paces.
Malcolm almost changed his mind when he saw Maronick looking so confident and capable. But it was too late for that. Help might not arrive in time and Maronick might get away. Besides, this was something Malcolm had to do himself. He fought down the drug-edged nervousness. He would get only one chance.
National Airport, while not breath-takingly beautiful, is attractive. Maronick allowed himself to admire the symmetry of the corridors he passed through. Fine colors, smooth lines.
Suddenly he stopped. Malcolm barely had time to dodge behind a rack of comic books. The proprietress gave him a withering glance but said nothing. Maronick checked his watch and held a quick debate with himself. He would just have time. He began to move again, substituting a brisk walk for his leisurely stroll. Malcolm followed his example, carefully avoiding loud footsteps on the marble stretches. Maronick took a sudden right and passed through a door, which swung shut behind him.
Malcolm trotted to the door. His hand holding the gun under the raincoat was sweating from the heat, the drug, and his nerves. He stopped outside the brown door. Gentlemen. He looked around him. No one. Now or never. Being careful to keep the gun between his body and the door, he pulled the weapon out from under the coat. He tossed the heavy raincoat to a nearby chair. Finally, his heart beating against his chest, he leaned on the door.
It opened easily and quietly. One inch. Malcolm could see the glistening white brightness of the room. Mirrors sparkled on the wall to his far left. He opened the door a foot. The wall with the door had a line of three shiny sinks. He could see four urinals on the opposite wall, and he could make out the corner of one stall. No one stood at the sinks or the urinals. Lemony disinfectant tingled his nose. He pushed the door open and stepped in. It closed behind him with a soft woosh and he leaned heavily against it.
The room was brighter than the spring day outside the building. The piped-in music found no material capable of absorbing its volume, so the sound echoed off the tile walls—cold, crisp, blaring notes. There were three stalls opposite Malcolm. In the one on the far left he could see shoes, toes pointed toward him. Their polish added to the brightness of the room. The flute in the little box on the ceiling posed a gay musical question and the piano answered. Malcolm slowly raised the gun. The sound of toilet paper turning a spindle cued the band. The flute piped a more melancholy note as it inquired once more. A tiny click from the gun’s safety preceded the sound of tearing paper and the piano’s soft reply.
The gun jumped in Malcolm’s hand. A hole tore through the thin metal stall door. Inside the stall the legs jerked, then pushed upward. Maronick, slightly wounded in the neck, desperately reached for the gun in his back pocket, but his pants were around his ankles. Maronick normally carried his gun holstered either at his belt or under his arm, but he had planned to ditch the weapon before passing through the security screening at the airport. There would probably be no need of a gun at this stage of the plan, especially at a large, crowded airport, but the cautious Maronick put his gun in his back pocket, unobtrusive but sometimes awkward to reach, just in case.
Malcolm fired again. Another bullet tore through screeching metal to bury itself in Maronick’s chest and fling his body against the wall. Malcolm fired again, and again and again and again. The gun spat the spent cartridge cases onto the tile floor. Bitter cordite mixed with the lemony smell. Malcolm’s third bullet ripped a hole through Maronick’s stomach. Maronick sobbed softly, and fell down along the right side of the metal cage. His weakening arm depressed the plunger. The woosh of water and waste momentarily drowned out his sobs and the coughs from the gun. As Malcolm fired the fourth time, a passing stewardess hearing the muffled cough remembered it was cold season. She vowed to buy some vitamins. That bullet missed Maronick’s sinking form. The lead shattered on the tile wall, sending little pieces of shrapnel into the metal walls and tile roof. A few hit Maronick’s back, but they made no difference. Malcolm’s fifth bullet buried itself in Maronick’s left hip, positioning the dying man on the stool.
Malcolm could see the arms and feet of a man slumped on a toilet. A few red flecks stained the tile pattern. Slowly, almost deliberately, Maronick’s body began to slide off the toilet. Malcolm had to be sure before he confronted the man’s face, so he squeezed the trigger for the last two rounds. An awkward knee on a naked and surprisingly hairless leg jammed against a stall post. The body shifted slightly as it settled to the floor. Malcolm could see enough of the pale face. Death replaced Maronick’s striking appearance with a rather common, glassy dullness. Malcolm dropped the gun to the floor. It skidded to a stop near the body.
It took Malcolm a few minutes to find a phone booth. Finally a pretty oriental stewardess helped the rather dazed naval officer. He even had to borrow a dime from her.
“493–7282.” Mitchell’s voice wavered slightly.
Malcolm took his time. In a very tired voice he said, “This is Malcolm. It’s over. Maronick is dead. Why don’t you send somebody to pick me up? I’m at National Airport. So is Maronick. I’m the guy in the Navy uniform by the Northwest terminal.”
Three carloads of agents arrived two minutes ahead of the squad car summoned by the janitor who had found more than dirty toilets in his rest room.
“The whole is equal to the sum of its parts.”
—Traditional mathematical concept
T WAS LIKE shooting birds in a cage.” The three men sipped their coffee. Powell looked at the smiling old man and Dr. Lofts. “Maronick didn’t stand a chance.”
The old man looked at the doctor. “Do you have any explanation for Malcolm’s actions?”
The large man considered his answer, then said, “Without having talked to him at great length, no. Given his experiences of the last few days, especially the deaths of his friends and his belief that the girl was dead, his upbringing, training, and the general situation he found himself in, to say nothing of the drug’s possible effect, I think his reaction was logical.”
Powell nodded. He turned to his superior and said, “How’s Atwood?”
“Oh,
he will live, for a while at least. I always wondered about his oafishness. He did too well to be the idiot he played. He can be replaced. How are we handling Maronick’s death?”
Powell grinned. “Very carefully. The police don’t like it, but we’ve pressured them into accepting the idea that the Capitol Hill Killer committed suicide in the men’s room of National Airport. Of course, we had to bribe the janitor to forget what he saw. No real problems, however.”
A phone by the old man’s elbow rang. He listened for a few moments, then hung up. He pushed the button next to the phone and the door opened.
Malcolm was coming down from the drug. He had spent three hours bordering on hysteria, and during that time he had talked continually. Powell, Dr. Lofts, and the old man heard six days compressed into three hours. They told him Wendy was alive after he finished, and when they took him to see her he was dazed by exhaustion. He stared at the peacefully sleeping form in the bright, antiseptic room and seemed not to be aware of the nurse standing beside him. “Everything will be fine.” She said it twice but got no reaction. All Malcolm could see of Wendy was a small head swathed in bandages and a sheet-covered form connected by wires and plastic tubing to a complicated machine. “My God,” he whispered with mixed relief and regret, “my God.” They let him stand there in silence for several minutes before they sent him out to be cleaned up. Now he had on clothes from his apartment, but he looked strange even in them.
“Ah, Malcolm, dear boy, sit down. We won’t keep you long.” The old man was at his charming best, but he failed to affect Malcolm.
“Now, we don’t want you to worry about a thing. Everything is taken care of. After you’ve had a nice long rest, we want you to come back and talk to us. You will do that, won’t you, my boy?”
