Shadow of the Condor (17 page)

Kevin slouched in his seat. The driver increased his speed,- passing the few cars on the expressway. In two minutes they caught up to the truck just as they reached
Cincinnati
's city limits. Carefully keeping the microphone out of sight, Kevin verified with Unit 2 that it was indeed the suspect truck. Then he ordered his driver to drop back.

Kevin glanced into the rearview mirror. He saw his assistant in the backseat nervously looking in-the mirror also. Kevin smiled, shook his head and said, "That was what you call close."

After jumping off the bus, Nurich quickly strode back to the truck stop. He entered the restaurant's side door and walked past the counter, barely stopping his motion to scoop up his bag. Without -a glance at anyone he walked through the restaurant's connecting door to the service station, out the service station side door, and strolled across the pavement to where a semi-truck stood idling. He walked to the passenger's side and jerked the door open. He looked up at the fat, nervous truck driver and said, "Mr. Pulaski? I'm Mr. Jones, and I believe you're waiting for me. Shall we get going? We have a long journey."

Nurich tossed his bag into the compartment and climbed into the passenger's seat. The truck driver swallowed. His jowls shook as he engaged the clutch to move his big rig toward the interstate.

Mr. Pulaski wished he believed in St. Christopher, even if the saint had been busted.

"What do you mean by that?" said the Caterpillar sternly. "Explain yourself!"

"I can't explain myself I'm afraid, Sir," said
Alice
, "because I'm not myself, you see."

"I don't see," said the Caterpillar.

"I'm afraid I can't put it more clearly,"
Alice
replied very politely, "for I can't understand it myself to begin with; and being so many different sizes in a day is very confusing."

"It isn't," said the Caterpillar.

"Well, perhaps you haven't found it so yet," said Alice; "but when you have to turn into a chrysalis-you will some day, you know-and then after that into a butterfly, I should think you'll feel it a little queer, won't you?"

"Not a bit," said the Caterpillar.

"Well, perhaps your feelings may be different," said
Alice
, "all I know is, it would feel very queer to me."

"You!" said the Caterpillar contemptuously. "Who are you?

He enjoyed puzzles. He always had. It was so interesting to see the way they unraveled, almost with a will of their own. Almost any kind of puzzle fascinated, him, from the standard American parlor games to the intricacies of history. But then so much of life fascinated him. He looked at Malcolm's unconscious form stretched out on the bed. Fascinating, he thought, simply fascinating. And even more fascinating was the wondrous way the puzzle unraveled. His gaze shifted to Malcolm's exposed forearm. Three red spots showed on Malcolm's light tan. Across the room the girl rearranged her instruments on top of the bureau. He had to admit she was competent. She administered just the right mixtures in just the right amounts. He hadn't needed to challenge her once, which was lucky, for while applied chemotherapy fascinated him, he hadn't devoted much time to learning the intricacies the Center taught the girl. His specialty lay in another area.

The girl turned to face him. She said nothing, but she clearly awaited orders.

"I think," he said slowly, speaking in English, "that the situation has changed enough to warrant a conference with our control."

His words surprised the girl. "Why?" she said. "He'll have no new suggestions. By the time he could get to the director it would be too late for them to formulate a new plan."

"I know," replied her companion. He smiled. "But our control does have the authority to approve a contingency plan I request."

The girl said nothing, but he sensed she wasn't pleased. She's just not interested enough in life, he thought. How very fortunate that he was in charge! He changed his inflection only slightly, but an air of command rang through his words. "You will keep him here until I return. Use the time while I am gone to learn everything you can about him. Not the facts, but his personality, what he likes and doesn't like, what he fears. Above all, what he fears. I don't expect a miracle of psychoanalysis from you, but I want you to know him quite well. It might help to pull a few obnoxious personal secrets from him. They can always be thrown at him in important moments."

"You plan to let him live?"

"More than that, Comrade, much more than that. I plan to use him."

"How? I doubt we can bribe or convert him. We might frighten him long enough to get a little something out of him, but he is almost worthless. He's not even a professional. Why would he want to help us?"

"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."