by James Grady
Malcolm slowly looked at the three men. To them his voice seemed very old, very tired. To him it seemed new. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”
The old man smiled, patted him on the back, and, mumbling platitudes, led him to the door. When he returned to his seat, Powell looked at him and said, “Well, sir, that’s the end of our Condor.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t be so sure, Kevin, my boy, don’t be so sure.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1974 by W.W. Norton & Company, Inc.
cover design by Georgia Morrissey
This edition published in 2011 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media
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