Shadow of the Condor

by Grady, James

  "Because we all want the same thing, indirectly. All the Americans know is that there is a Soviet operation under way, a Soviet agent is headed in this direction and their dead man is somehow connected to a Soviet agent named Krumin. We want Krumin, they want Krumin. I think we can persuade this 'Condor' to help us."

  "Are you going to check with Control?"

  "Immediately. We can hold the American until tonight. If he fails to report in, he'might as well be dead. I don't want his superiors in on this. They would be too interested in us and too inclined to do things their own way."

  "How long do we have to control him for your plan?

  "Perhaps a week, ten days. Things are moving too quickly to mean much longer than that."

  The girl didn't bother to conceal heir' skepticism. "You think we can do it?"

  "But of course. We can do it. Now, get to work. I should be back by four thirty."

  "What if they don't accept your idea?"

  The man frowned. "Well, it won't be as interesting, but we will simply go with the original plan."

  The man whistled as he bounced down the stairs. He grabbed a jacket, then left the house. The girl watched his departure from the upstairs window. She sighed as he drove out of sight, then stood silently staring out the window for several seconds. Finally she walked over to the bureau for her tools. Two minutes after she slipped the hypodermic into Malcolm's-arm he groaned while reaching the stage of dreamlike semi-consciousness. She asked her questions very slowly.

  Dreams kept mingling in Malcolm's mind; ugly, disgusting fantasies blending together in an emotional mishmash somewhere between disturbing and frightening. The dreams took an inordinately long time, an exhausting time, during which that part of him that clung to rationality had no control and only confused perception. His first conscious, controlled thoughts startled him almost to the point of crying out.

  I'm back, he thought, although he wasn't sure where he had been. It was like fading in and out of a very bad drunk. His body felt sluggish. The image of the girl by the roadside returned, followed by the memories of his "mission," his work. Immediately he forced himself to lie perfectly still, trying to remember how he had acted and looked during his stupor so he could imitate the state and keep secret his consciousness. He kept his eyes shut. He surreptitiously flexed his muscles. His body seemed unharmed except for a sore throbbing at the back of his neck. He knew his contacts were still in his eyes. He lay on his back, his legs spread-eagled and fastened to something so he could move them no more than a few inches. His wrists were handcuffed together, and he felt a. small chain running across his fingers. Undoubtedly it fastened somewhere, thus effectively restraining his arm motion. His head tilted to the right; he felt cool-softness against his cheek. Bed sheets, he-thought. That might be a pillow by the top of my head. He was sure that none of his clothes had been removed except for his long-sleeved shirt and his shoes.

  Malcolm concentrated on sound. A faint hum came from somewhere in the room. In another part of the building, muted by doors and walls, he heard human motion and low music. A radio? He strained his ears, but no one seemed near him. Carefully not drawing deep, noisy breaths, Malcolm smelled. He smelled himself, the sour, tangy odor of dried sweat. I'm not hot, he thought, why did I sweat so much? He inhaled again. Household dust, disinfectants, a strange odor reminiscent of doctors' offices, food being cooked, and coffee.

  Slowly, carefully, Malcolm opened his right eye, hoping that since that side of his face was pressed to the cool surface, he could see a little without giving away his consciousness.

  It was a bed. He looked out across the white-sheeted plain to the white-walled room. A small room. From where he lay he could see the open door and a hallway leading to some stairs. A small dark brown bureau stood to the left of the open door. Malcolm saw two drawers and assumed there were two more below them, out of his line of vision. A large electric clock with luminous hands and dial squatted on the bureau's top. The room was light enough that Malcolm didn't need the glow to read the time: 4:45. The same afternoon? he wondered. The clock emitted the low hum he heard.

  Malcolm continued his sleeping charade for over a minute. He learned nothing new, but he grew increasingly uncomfortable, both physically and mentally. He couldn't remember if he should shift his limbs to ease the cramps, so he forced them to remain motionless. He also began to worry more and more. He had no idea who had kidnapped him or why, although-it was logical to assume that it might be the same people who had killed Parkins. All of which bothered Malcolm. He had finally also identified his strange physical sensation and his mental confusion. Once before Malcolm had been interrogated through the use of drugs. He felt a similar aftermath sensation now. In all probability whoever had snatched him had also wrung everything he knew from his drug-prompted mind, especially since Malcolm had been in their hands at least half a day.

  Which, of course, brought up another disturbing question. Malcolm didn't know enough about anything to warrant intensive, prolonged interrogation. A skilled intervew6r could learn all he would want from Malcolm in a very short time. Therefore it did not make sense to Malcolm that he was alive. As far as he could reason, be was a liability. Admittedly, he thought wryly, not a very threatening liability, but nevertheless, at least a problem. One bullet could solve that problem economically.

  Oh, well he thought, I might as well officially rejoin the living foe as long as I can. He 8pened his eyes, rolled his head until he lay flat on the bed and stretched his cramped muscles as far as his bonds allowed.

  "I thought you had been faking it for the last few minutes," said a soft, cultured voice to Malcolm's left.

  Startled, Malcolm quickly turned his head to the speaker. He thought he had been alone in the room. The words came from a lean man of medium height seated casually in a brown wooden captain's chair to Malcolm's left. The man's complexion was brown, although a much softer, lighter hue than the walnut stain, almost as if the man had an early spring tan. But something about the color made it obvious the tan came from genes and not the sun. The man had a slender face, slightly too slender to be good-looking., The nose was average size, the mouth was pleasantly shaped and the ears were neatly arranged. Soft black hair cut slightly longer than a crew cut framed the man's smiling countenance. Above all Malcolm noticed the man's eyes: They tilted slightly upward from parallel. Their pupils were large. Gray tinged the eyes' bluish color. No red veins crisscrossed the whites.

  "At the outset," the man continued, "let me say several things. To begin with, you are securely immobilized. Straining, yourself against the bonds would do no good. Even if you were not encumbered by the handcuffs and ropes, resistance or escape attempts would be futile and fatal. You, will remain physically encumbered only as long as I assume thoughts of such attempts might seem reasonable to you. Foiling your efforts would prove only momentarily interesting, not at all challenging, and counterproductive in the long run. Please do not irritate me by being a bore and trying to attack one of us or attempting to escape."

  Malcolm swallowed to lubricate his dry throat before he spoke. "I've never liked being a bore."

  "Very good!" exclaimed the man delightedly, "very, very good! I thought you might have a sense of humor, Malcolm. You would have had to have one to be where you are today. But a wit too? It's almost too good to be true."

  Play to him, thought Malcolm, humor him. "Well, I'm glad you enjoy it. I'll do my best to keep the ball rolling merrily along."

  "Oh, I hope so, it will make our association so much more interesting and enjoyable, for both of us. We can part with so many pleasant memories that way. But of course, all that is hard for you to contemplate at this stage, lying there in ignorance as you are. Your muscles must be cramped. Can you walk downstairs, or would you prefer to talk up here?"

  See as much of the house as possible, thought Malcolm. "I'd like to try walking. Besides, I have to go to the bathroom."

  "Of course," murmured his host, "of course." With effortless grace
he stood quickly and leaned over the bed. He wore an open sweater over a tieless shirt. Malcolm detected a bulge underneath the sweater's left side. The man untied the ropes from Malcolm's ankles, then unfastened the chain which connected the handcuffs to the left bedpost. He left the handcuffs on Malcolm's wrists.

  His captor had to come quite close to Malcolm in order to remove the bonds. Malcolm briefly considered kicking to the man's head or attempting to strike him with his clenched hands. But the man's warning speech contained an unchallengeable air of confidence. The man moved too well, too smoothly, and he seemed all too aware of Malcolm's thoughts. Malcolm was sure that even given an equal chance, this strange brown-skinned man would have no trouble defeating him in any kind of combat. Malcolm felt like a small plump mouse amusing a very sleek weasel. It wasn't a comforting feeling cuffed hands, gesturing a mute question. The man smiled regretfully, but shook his head no. The handcuffs stayed on.

  Going to the bathroom proved an awkward, barely possible task for fettered Malcolm. He was sure his captor declined to remove the handcuffs in order to humiliate and inconvenience him more than to keep control. Malcolm regarded his disheveled appearance in the mirror after finishing his task and awkwardly adjusting his clothing. His eyes were red from sleeping too long with his contacts in, and his skin was paler than it had been that morning. Otherwise he looked normal---tired, disheveled and dirty, but normal.

  Sweet Jesus, he thought, I even feel somewhat normal. Why aren't I screaming? Why am I only nervous instead of panicky? He shook his head and found no answers. Outside the door he heard his host humming. The tone and tempo of the music changed slightly, indicating, Malcolm thought, slight displeasure and impatience with my taking so long. Subtle, slightly ambiguous, but effective, very effective.

  Malcolm tried to characterize the man on the other side of the door, make him more human, make him easier to deal with and comprehend. He's a hybrid, Malcolm suddenly thought, a freak mixture, a cross between . . . between the old man, Kevin and Carl, parts of each one rolled together. That "humanization" gave Malcolm no comfort. He shuddered, then opened the door.

  His host smiled at him. Malcolm tried an experiment and said, "Bet you thought I fell in."

  The man's smile broadened from general to specific, genuine amusement. He even laughed slightly. "Well, not quite. It's lucky for you that you didn't. Swimming with those handcuffs on could have been quite awkward."

  "Yes, it could have," replied Malcolm.

  "Shall we join my colleague?"

  The girl was downstairs in the kitchen, slicing meat and preparing an early dinner. She lifted her eyes from the cutting board to return Malcolm's gaze, then lowered them to complete her task. Malcolm had the uneasy feeling she looked at him with exactly the same manner she regarded the meat she sliced. He followed the man's gesture and sat at the kitchen table.

  The girl finished her task and silently brought Malcolm a cup of coffee. She glanced at the man, but he shook his head no. He nodded toward another chair and she obeyed the command by sitting down. The man waited politely until Malcolm had finished his first cup, then, while refilling his guest's cup from the pot the girl had placed on the table, the man said, "I suppose you have several questions."

  Malcolm thought before answering. Make it cute, he thought, but not too cute. "Do I get to use truth serum too?"

  The man smiled, amused but not overly pleased. Humor has its limits and its appropriate timing. "Unfortunately for you, you must simply trust us by judging your own unaided instincts."

  Malcolm shrugged. "I guess I'm stuck. You probably know the kind of questions I want to ask. Wouldn't it save time and be a lot easier if you told me things without me asking for them? I'll probably have other questions, but at least you can tell your story in a coherent, uninterrupted fashion."

  The man graciously nodded his head. "An excellent suggestion. Condor-what a horrible code name. Morbid. Sometimes the lack of imagination on your superiors' part appalls me. Such bad taste. But all that should be saved for another time. My name is Chou. My companion is called Sheila Ming. Actually, those are not our real names, but even if we were to give you our real names, we would still 'Anglicize' them since I doubt you could adequately pronounce them without a great deal of effort and their mispronunciation would prove very irritable. We are intelligence agents of the People's Republic of China, and you are our captive at a house just across the Canadian border from Montana.

  "'Perhaps it would be best to begin several years ago. As you know, relations between the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, that huge country you Americans simplify as Russia, and our country have been strained for decades. Actually, they've been strained since China first unified itself following World War Two and that crazy general's rather disgusting, ignoble retreat. There have been the periodic easing and tightening of tensions. Although the two countries are by and large 'allies,' an oftentimes belligerent situation exists. This belligerence quite naturally manifests itself in what one of your fictional writers would probably call the dark world of espionage. We must really have a long discussion about that literary genre. Like you, I have studied it extensively, although not 'professionally.'

  "Over the years we have worked with Soviet intelligence apparatuses on numerous projects. We have also spent a good deal of time thwarting their efforts to spy on and meddle in our affairs. At times our intelligence units come as close to open conflict with Soviet agents as they do with the CIA. But usually we stick to the more mutually palatable and minimally destabilizing activities such as diplomatic expulsions, checking maneuver s and quiet pressure. Just after your new year of 1974 'started, our two countries went through a whole series of such endeavors, including mutual diplomatic expulsions.

  "During that time we discovered some very interesting things. We obtained some knowledge from a Soviet agent which we had seen only glimpses of before. We were able to obtain it in such a way that we doubt his superiors know we have it. I won't bore you with unnecessary details.

  "Since 1964 a number of rather nasty events have been occurring in and around our security endeavors. Suffice it to say that we were not pleased. The Soviet agent we captured told us, after some persuading a good deal which tied most of these incidents together and helped place them in a logical framework. And he gave us a name, the name of the Soviet case officer who directed the operations and agents in most of these activities. That name was Krumin.

  "Yes, Krumin. From our interrogation we know that the name is not unknown to you. It ties in with the mysterious death of your agent Parkins. Exactly how it ties in we are no more sure of than you, but it does. Other information the Soviet gave us helps confirm the connection.

  "The Soviet agent was a middle-level cutout, one who had been in the business for years, as far back as the early days of World War Two. He had a long memory and saw a good deal. He told us many interesting things unrelated to the nasty incidents which were our major concern. Unfortunately, Krumin seems to be very security-conscious, and the agent knew only sketchy details. But they were enough.

  "Krumin appears to be a floater, a type of troubleshooter, but one who initiates his own trouble. He operates all over the globe directly against the USSR's foes. The agent thinks he has little Third World involvement. He's something of a specialist, but in his own area, and that specific area, of course, was unknown to the Soviet. He did have one priceless gem that he gave us: Krumin has an operation going in the United States, an operation in this general region. More than that, Krumin is scheduled to spend a good deal of this year on site attending to that operation. The agent we captured helped prepare some of the logistics for Krumin.

  "We have no description of Krumin, other than he is not young, no idea what his mission is in the United States, no idea of his American apparatus. We do think he is either in America or on his way. That is why we are here.

  "My superiors are very displeased with Krumin's nasty activities in China. Very displeased. To register that displeasure
through protests to the Soviet Union would be absurd. Not only would it do no good, it would show a weakness, a cringing on our part. So we must meet Krumin's challenge in the arena in which it is offered. That is our mission.

  "Sheila has been operating in Canada for nearly two years now. She entered on a special visa as a refugee of part-Japanese descent. We were able to provide her with a set of Canadian relatives, distant but plausible. The relatives are old, innocent civilians. They do not question her identity. They are living in what you would call 'an old folks' home' in Lethbridge. Their distant great-niece visits them once a week and studies for her Canadian citizenship. She lives here on their old farm, raising vegetables for restaurants. I entered illegally one month ago and now am established as a visiting relative, one whom it took her no trouble to get the senile old folks to accept. Luckily this area of Canada has a large Oriental population. Unfortunately most of it is Japanese, but we manage to blend in. 'Looking alike' in Western eyes is not always a disadvantage. It is so difficult for us to blend in your country anywhere but San Francisco or New York. I understand your agents have similar problems in China and Africa.

  "My mission is simple: Find Krumin and learn every thing about his Chinese operations. With that knowledge we can render him impotent and thwart the Soviets in a very pointed, effective, embarrassing manner.

  "Until recently we have had absolutely no luck. While it is difficult for us to operate in Montana, we have made a number of contacts and we know what kind of operations Krumin ran in China. No similar operations have occurred in Montana. Until, of course, Mr. Parkins died.

  "Sheila, using, ah, several methods, long ago compromised an airman stationed at Malmstrom. Motivated by profit and, shall we say, intangible rewards, he provides us with a good deal of information."

  Malcolm glanced at the girl., Chou's comments carried a sadistic needling overtone, but she showed no reaction. After pausing to let his words sink in, Chou continued.