Shadow of the Condor (5 page)

Malcolm stepped inside the room. Kevin quietly closed the door behind him.

What the good doctor is saying," the old man had told Kevin the day before, "is that our Malcolm, our Condor, has no place to go but to us. He had to come to us, to work with us. Events are programmed that way. He has no other choice, and whether you attributed that to guilt over the deaths and taking our money, alienation, isolation, a strong sense of duty, boredom, a yearning for excitement or whatever, it all boils down to the same thing: He will do it. Am I correct, Doctor?"

Dr. Lofts looked across the room at Kevin. The huge doctor is the chief psychiatrist for the CIA. His specialty is medically termed "behavior prognosis." The agency gives Dr.- Lofts the man to study and Dr. Lofts projects what the man would do in a given situation. Dr. Lofts and his team came into prominence when their evaluation of Nikita Khrushchev helped John Kennedy decide for the 'Cuban blockade. The doctor smiled. "I enjoy the way you cut through the medical folderol. Yes, I agree with you, Malcolm's ready to come over.

"Look at the signs. When he first moved to
Cincinnati
, he attended classes regularly, did all his assigned work and more. He ignored his hobby of escape through-violent fiction, a reaction to his involvement with the real thing. He tried to socialize with the other graduate students and professors, although that attempt was very brief. Now, almost a year later, he seldom goes to classes, the surveillance check shows him reading his type of fiction again and he sees almost no one. The world he found in
Cincinnati
doesn't correspond to the world he lived in so intensely for that brief period of time. He finds this new world dull and somewhat inane. Couple that with his guilt and feelings of duty, his natural inclination toward alienation, and he's ready to give us a try, if, and I must, emphasize again, if we don't push him into something too big, too deep, too arduous. That is very important, very important.

I should also should add," the doctor continued, "that our boy has a rather romantic view of what he would call 'absurd fate.' He'll come because he knows he'll come."

"What is the plan, sir?" Kevin asked the old man. "You haven't told me what I'm to do, let alone what Condor will be doing."

The old man smiled. "That's partially because I'm not sure how things will be done. Your job is simple. Backtrack Parkins, find out where he went and, if possible, why he went there. Then you do the same. Somewhere along the line I hope you'll tumble onto something or someone will tumble onto you. I wish you luck because Parkins evidently covered himself well. All the normal tracking procedures have failed. Be very careful because the opposition, whoever they are, will not want you bothering them as Parkins did.

"Malcolm's task is even simpler. As you know, I've been saving him until he's ready. He has such a lot of talent. I felt a little Long-term investment was in order on the chance that someday we could make him into -something very valuable. Because he's ready and -because action in his account will help justify the financial outlays we've had to make for our investment, we'll let him do the prying in
Montana
. A nice cover, nothing so elaborate that the opposition won't know who he is, but nothing so simple that the populace will figure out that he isn't what he seems. For the record, he'll be working for the bureau on loan to us. If my guess is right, he won't run into any trouble from the opposition. They won't want to stir things up after killing Parkins. Malcolm as our Condor may also draw their attention, allowing you, Kevin, a better chance to sneak in the back door."

"Will you provide any backup for Malcolm? If things get tough?"

"Well," continued the old man, "that will be difficult. It's a rural area. We can't move in too many strangers or the natives will know something is wrong and his cover will be blown. Some agency men will be staying at the air base eighty miles away from the town Condor will use as an operations center, but I don't think we can get anyone closer than that. You should have backtracked Parkins to that area in a week or ten days. Then the opposition will concentrate on you, and you can take care of yourself."

"Do you really think Malcolm can handle it, even if nothing goes wrong? Parkins' death makes this a little more than routine."

The old man smiled. Well, in any event, it will be interesting. Very interesting."

Kevin blinked his eyes after he relived that memory. He looked across the plane aisle to where Malcolm sat nodding. Malcolm's hour-long explanation that afternoon must have exhausted him, thought Kevin. For sixty minutes Malcolm had talked, sometimes slowly, sometimes shrilly. He shifted from dispassionate analysis of his "debt" to almost hysterical ramblings when he recounted his memories and fantasies. In the end he had looked at Kevin and said, "It really doesn1 make any difference, does it? I'm going because I have to go, I have to know, and the only way I'll know is by going."

"What do you want to know?" Kevin had asked.

"I don't know," Malcolm replied, "I don't know."

Early risers were just beginning to make their way through
Moscow
streets when Malcolm and Kevin were approaching
Washington
. One of the few Russians who walked briskly through the early morning was Nicholaus Ryzhov, a physical prototype for the bearlike Russian peasant. His proletariat ancestry showed in his lumbering workingman's walk and on his heavy muscled frame, which even at age sixty-three was hard and tough. But Ryzhov's clothes were cut more expensively than most of his fellow Russians', and he was no longer a peasant. He was a very important division commander in the committee for State Security of the Council of Ministers of the
Soviet Union
, the Komitet Gosudarstvennoye Bezopastnosti, better known as the KGB. Although the KGB is a civilian organization, its officers often hold military rank. When he took over his duties as a division commander, smooth-faced, tight-skinned, gray-haired Ryzhov chose to be a colonel. He could have been a general if he wished. Ryzhov strode on oblivious to the chilly morning. His bodyguards, who followed, flanked and preceded him at discreet distances, shivered, very, very silently cursing their chief's love of long, early morning walks.

The KGB is one of two major government branches in 'the
Soviet Union
concerned with espionage, the other branch being the KGB's smaller rival, the GRU, military intelligence. The KGB traces its roots as far back as 1881 and the Okhrana, the Department of State Protection, used by the czars as a secret police and intelligence agency. Less than two years after its inception the czarist espionage unit sent agents to the United States to keep track of Vladimir Legaev, an Okhrana defector who fled Mother Russia and became an American college professor. The czarist Okhrana also kept track of potential troublemaking Russians who stayed at home. For example, an Okhrana file card, dated May 1, 1904, notes that the second and third toes of one Joseph Stalin's left foot were grown together, producing a webbed-foot effect.

The secret police and intelligence system which in post-revolutionary days replaced the Okhrana operated in basically the same fashion as its czarist predecessor, but under a variety of changing names and initials, including the Cheka (Chrezvychainaya, Komissiya po Borbe s Kontr revolutisiei i Sabotazhem, ie., the Extraordinary Commission for Combating Counterrevolution and Sabotage), born December 20, 1917. Some Russians still refer to KGB agents as Chekists. In 1938, one Lavrenti Pavlovich Beria took the reins of the then NKVD, a position he held firmly until he was retired via bullet sometime late in 1953. Western intelligence sources disagree on the exact date of Beria's retirement. Russian civilian intelligence organized as the KGB was created the year after Beria’s retirement, on March 13, 1954. Like all its predecessors, the KGB operates out of Lubianka, the massive Siamese-twin stone building, half prison, half KGB administrative headquarters.

Ryzhov liked to walk to work early. He relished the freedom to choose his working hours, to walk where he wanted, when he wanted. Many of his predecessors had their walking days abruptly cut short, many others are told where, when and even how to walk by jailers. Ryzhov liked the crisp, clean, fresh, almost country like morning air. By midmorning traffic and factory smoke tinges the air with odors unpleasant to his peasant nose. Not as unpleasant as those of
Los Angeles
or other Western cities which he has visited, but unpleasant enough.

That day Ryzhov didn't have time to dwell on his normal reveries.

Unlike Malcolm, Ryzhov knew exactly what he wanted to know. He wanted to know that everything in his project was well, he wanted to know that beyond the slightest shadow of "practical doubt," the term Russian intelligence bureaucrats use to describe the limits of the unthinkable. But Ryzhov knew everything in that project was not well, just as he knew it would be up to him to make it well.

The black limousine pulled slowly, respectfully to a stop in front of the toy store across the street from Lubianka and twenty feet from Ryzhov. The chauffeur bounded out to open the passenger door for Ryzhov, but the big man shook his head and instead motioned for the car's passenger to join him on the sidewalk. The short, slightly portly, middle-aged man who nervously emerged from the car was Vladimir Serov, like Ryzhov, a colonel in the KGB, although the smaller Serov is nowhere near Ryzhov in actual rank. Ryzhov commands the division, Serov merely runs one bureau in the division. True, it is an important bureau, the bureau which nominally oversaw Ryzhov's pet project, but it is only a bureau. Given the normal constrictions of KGB operation, Serov runs his bureau with a fair degree of independence, except when it came to Ryzhov's pet project, Gamayun. There Serov commanded in name only, taking orders directly from Krumin, the agent he supposedly commanded, or from Ryzhov, the division commander, who normally should not bother with individual projects. Serov did not like working between his agent, Krumin, and his commander, Ryzhov. He knew the relationship between the two men was complex, and he knew that both men considered him a mere tool in the -overall project. If anything were to go wrong, it probably would not be agent Krumin or Division Commander Ryzhov who would be blamed and punished. It would be Bureau Chief Vladimir Serov.

"I am between a hammer and an anvil," he wanted to tell his wife, "between a hammer and an anvil. They use me to make what they want, and if they don't get what they want, if something goes wrong, they will crush me and discard me like a piece of scrap iron." But Serov tells his wife nothing of his work. He tells no one of his worries. One never knows where one's words go.

"Good morning, Comrade Colonel Ryzhov," said Serov nervously, "how are you today?" Serov fell in step with his large superior. The two men walked -slowly. With the limousine and bodyguards following, flanking and preceding them, it looked as if a solemn procession crept through
Moscow
. The few Russian citizens who passed the parade knew better than to notice.

"Things are not well," replied Ryzhov coldly, deliberately ignoring civilities, "things are not well at all."

So it is to be bad news, thought Serov with some relief. The anxiety which had been mounting since the phone call pulled him from his bed now waned considerably. If it had been a catastrophe, Ryzhov would have had him shot or arrested at once or would have plied him with kindness to throw him off his guard. "What is wrong, Colonel?"

"I'm afraid Gamayun is in trouble, possibly very serious trouble." Ryzhov's voice was calm, but it contained a slightly subdued tone, as if Ryzhov had difficulty controlling himself.

As a bureau chief Serov should have known of any trouble in his bureau long before his superior, but Serov knew all the reports on the special project went first to Ryzhov. At least, thought Serov, he can't blame me for my ignorance. "What is it? I am not aware of any immediate threat."

Ryzhov smiled. "That is because, Comrade Colonel, your $awareness' is somewhat limited. As division commander I have a much wider spectrum of knowledge."

Serov nodded. It was good when Ryzhov bragged abusively.

"Ten days ago a courier from Section Five made an unforgivable mistake. He became drunk, very drunk, in a
London
bar and engaged in a loud argument with some Englishman concerning, of all things to talk about while intoxicated, nuclear policy. The courier made an oblique reference to Gamayun. As our luck would have it, an American intelligence operative overheard the remark and, on the chance that the 'drunk' might turn out to know something, followed the courier home. I learned just a few hours ago that the American was with U.S. Air Force Intelligence.

The American must have had what they call 'second sight! and a good deal of gall. He followed our courier to 'his flat, pushed himself inside and browbeat our man. The courier was still drunk. His evasions did not satisfy the American. The American bluffed the courier, although it may not have been a complete bluff, by saying that if the courier didn't go over [i.e., defect], he would inform the British authorities. The courier broke. The American pumped him for several hours. Among other things, the American got Krumin's name, sketchy details of his next run to
America
and what little the courier knew about Krumin and …

"Oh, my God," moaned Serov, momentarily forgetting hit official atheism, "oh, my God."

"Indeed. The tidbits the courier knew were not enough to explain Gamayun or Krumin to the American, but they were enough to let the American deduce when Krumin would pass through
London
on his way to Gamayun. According to my sources in
U.S.
intelligence, the American operative was what they call a 'hotshot,' he wanted to handle a grand coup by himself. He found Krumin at the
London
airport and followed him as far as
Toronto
. Krumin realized he was compromised and shook the American.