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Authors: James Grady

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BOOK: Shadow of the Condor
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The little man's eyes widened. "You mean you think I might be in---

Kevin cut him short. "I don’t think anything. I just want to be very, very careful. You do the same."

When he reached the door, Kevin looked back at the Air Force Intelligence officer. The small man sat staring after him. Kevin turned and walked into the open air. After he reached the street, he slowly shook his head in wonderment, then concentrated on making some sense from the rambling narrative.

The next morning Kevin flew back to
London
. A resident CIA agent who met him at the airport noticed circles under Kevin's eyes. When Kevin ordered him to take him to the local CIA headquarters, the agent knew better than to suggest that his superior should first get some sleep.

The CIA director for the
British Isles
doesn't like to work with L Group. It distorts perspective, he thinks, and makes a mockery of in-house proceedings. The director knew he had no choice, but that didn't stop him from grumbling when Kevin asked to use the special line.

Communications is the heart of espionage. It does an agent absolutely no good to know the opposition's most important secret if he can't communicate that secret to his superiors. Indeed, much of espionage basically boils down to intercepting and redirecting "secret' communications, whether the method is a bugged room, a tapped phone, a microfilmed dossier or a blackmailed diplomat. There are no uncommunicated secrets, for that would mean knowledge by one man. Such knowledge is not "secret," for it is not really known. It is part of the individual.

Kevin needed to communicate with the old man, and he needed to do so as quickly as possible. Kevin was fortunate, for in
London
he operated out of a basically friendly base. The British are extremely cooperative with American intelligence, as long as that cooperation does not encumber their own operations or damage their own interests. British intelligence, first organized in 1573, is very good-when it comes to defining and protecting its own interests, and its assistance to its allies is equally as good. For example, M15, the domestic security branch of British intelligence, paved the way through the appropriate private and government channels when the CIA strung a private telephone line between its
London
headquarters and the American embassy. MI5's assistance was of such a caliber that the line's location is known to very few people indeed. The CIA shows its gratitude by allowing British intelligence to use the line whenever both parties deem it appropriate.

The private telephone line is no ordinary communications device. Specially made at the CIA Langley complex, the wire hooks into a security system which automatically scrambles all conversations and registers all but the most elaborate taps placed on the line. To guard against the more elaborate taps, M15 and the CIA run sporadic checks on the whole system. The private line ties in with a special transatlantic cable. On the American side of the Atlantic lines from the cable run directly to
Langley
. A call can be taken at
Langley
or redirected. through the normal phone system anywhere in the
United States
, providing, of course, the receiving unit can unscramble the call. Kevin's first call to the embassy alerted the night duty man, who in turn arranged with
Washington
for the old man to be ready for the special call. The procedure took less than half an hour.

Even the CIA's technical experts could not screen out all the crackling interference of the transatlantic phone call. The additional interference caused by the scrambling and unscrambling complicated matters considerably. Both parties had to strain to hear, but the Words were audible.

"Kevin," said the old man, "how are you? Are things going well?"

"I' m fine, sir, but things are not going well. I may have something, however, and I need a few things you can provide."

"Could the details wait for a special delivery run?"

Kevin smiled. The old man distrusts all forms of electronic communication', no matter how elaborate the security precautions. "I don't think so, unless you think the whole affair isn't pressing."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. What do you want?"

"I need an official friend, someone who can help me with a large-scale investigation. I would prefer someone with the police, although the Special Branch or [MI] Five or Six would do."

"I think the Special Branch. It's nicely seated between intelligence and police. No sense letting Five and Six directly involve themselves in this. It's already sticky enough as it is. I'll arrange it with an appropriate cover. It should take about four hours to set up. Carl will let you know."

"Fine, I can use the time to sleep. How's our Condor?"

The old man paused briefly before answering. Kevin was sure he smiled as he said, "He's on the way, Kevin, my boy, he's on the way."

4

The Cat only grinned when it saw
Alice
. It looked good-natured, she thought: still it had very long claws and a great many teeth, so she felt that it ought to be treated with respect.

 

Vladimir Serov glanced up briefly from his desk to greet the man his aide ushered in. "Ah, good morning, Comrade Nurich, I'll be with you in a moment." Serov returned his gaze to his desk, pretending to read the papers he held, deliberately allowing Nurich time to relax.

Nurich glanced around the room as he settled himself in the hard wooden chair. Bare walls, he noted, no charts, maps, pictures or decorations. He casually looked at the desk, but Serov held the papers at such an angle that Nurich could not read them. They sat in silence for several minutes, then Serov sighed, closed the manila file (no label, noted Nurich) and said, "Well, now, Comrade Nurich, how are you?"

"I am fine, sir," Nurich replied carefully, his respectful words just a trifle clipped for Servo's taste. Good, thought Serov, disliking him makes it easier. "I hope you are well also," continued Nurich.

"Yes, thank you, I am," said Serov. He began the lie. "We have a very important mission for you to undertake, very important. I realize you have been some time out of the field, but this is very important and you are the only qualified person we can spare."

"I shall do my best, Comrade Serov."

"I know you will. The matter concerns a project of ' a very delicate nature, one which, if it should fail, will cause great embarrassment and danger to the
Soviet Union
. I wish to impress that upon you as much as I can."

"I understand," said Nurich. Whatever it is, he thought, it must be very important. His composure began to wane.

"The mission involves penetration of the
United States
. You are to reconnoiter a missile site just south of the Canadian border. We have no resident agents in the area, and the mission has already suffered one minor setback. A stupid East German courier went over, and an American agent almost aborted the entire mission. Fortunately, our agent in the field was able to kill the American, but the whole run was wasted. Our man did not accomplish his objective, the Americans are alert to our activities in that area and we are getting a good deal of pressure from the director about the way the whole thing was handled.

"Consequently, it has been decided to make another attempt. We hope the Americans will assume we think the area is too dangerous for us to operate in, thereby raising the probabilities for success. Because you have been through the
Western
States
and
Canada
, speak English fluently and have some technical 6xpertise, you will undertake and complete the mission."

"Yes, Comrade."

"You will go to the
United States
via
Berlin
,
London
and
Toronto
. You will cross over to
New York
, and from
New York
you will travel to the mission location as our
New York
control deems best.

"Your mission involves the test of a new, highly sensitive, portable electronic monitor. Our scientists are sure that it can be used to read electronic computer signals in American missile complexes. However, you must be within half a mile of the complex you are monitoring. With the monitored information, our experts are sure they can extrapolate the missions of the missiles, including primary and secondary targets. I don't need to tell you what this could mean in terms of developing Soviet defense. You will test the device, which will be given to you in
America
. You will be trained on a prototype here."

"Yes, Comrade."

"Let me stress one thing," Serov said, leaning across the desk. "This is a vital mission. Extremely vital. You are to avoid capture at all costs. You are to protect the monitor at all costs. Should capture appear imminent, you are to destroy the monitor and escape. You are authorized to, use any means to effect your escape, and should you be captured, we fully expect you to use your safe device [suicide pill]. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Comrade!" replied Nurich, all vestiges of his earlier relaxation long gone.

"Good, Report to my aide. He will take you to your home-site control. You will work largely on your own, reporting to the nearest control in each major area. Each time you shift to a new control, all the old control's authority ceases. Overall control is vested in my aide, and you have the maximum discretionary power. The controls are there to serve you. You will contact a control in
Berlin
,
London
,
New York
and
Chicago
. Except for
Chicago
control, no one knows your mission destination and you will tell no one. Outside of myself, my aide, a few technicians and our superiors, no one knows all the details of the mission.

"In the event of an emergency, you will revert to your controls in the opposite order you met them or follow emergency procedures given you by your
Chicago
control. My aide will brief you on the rest. Good luck, Comrade Nurich."

"Thank you, sir," Nurich said as he stood at attention. "I will complete the mission."

Serov smiled. "I'm sure you will."

One minute later, after Serov's aide had phoned to let his superior know Nurich was no longer in the building, Serov pushed-a small button next to his desk drawers. Within seconds Division Commander Ryzhov entered the room in response to the all clear signal. Ryzhov settled himself in the same chair Nurich had occupied. Unlike Nurich, Ryzhov remained relaxed through his meeting with Serov.

"You did fine, Serov, fine," said the division commander easily, "fine."

Serov didn't share his superiors confidence. "Will he do? Will he really do?"

"Hmmph, of course he'll do. Nurich is a little sniveling worm planted on us by the GRU, but he is also fairly competent. He'll do his best on the 'mission,' and with any luck he will be killed."

"Such a cost," muttered Serov, "such a cost. Nurich, the agents in
London
,
New York
,
Chicago
,
Berlin
, all blown. All for
Gamayun
."

"Comrade Serov," reprimanded Ryzhov lightly but firmly, "keep your perspective. We are saving Gamayun. We are stopping the Americans' curiosity, which, once tantalized, could reach far beyond Gamayun. And at what cost? Agents we know are already blown, agents we have care fully isolated from all our other operations. And
Chicago
, a local recruited years ago who is not blown but who is rapidly growing into a self-destructive monster. We let the Americans gain a few small pawns in a gambit while we mine their king's row. We even get to cause our friends at the GRU a little trouble, which never hurts when you try to keep the military in line."

"You're sure about the machine? I mean, it's all right if they get the monitor?"

"Ah, yes, the electric portable computer monitor, that lively idea conceived at Moscow University which devoured a sizable portion of our budget and 'works,' but is absolutely worthless unless it is used, as the missile is being fired. At that point the monitor is by definition obsolete. However, it 'works' well enough to convince our American friends that testing it is worth all this fuss. If they find it intact or reconstruct it should Nurich destroy it, all to the good. They will probably waste a good deal of time and money duplicating it for their own use, and perhaps we can pick off the agents they send over here to test it.

"But I doubt they'll get a chance to use it. Nurich is good. Even with the setup we've put him in, they'll have a hard time taking him. Alive. Which is just what we want. No, it's a marvelous plan, marvelous. Krumin and I are quite pleased with it, quite pleased, as I am sure you are."

"Of course," replied Serov, "'of course."

 

….

Malcolm lay very still on the bed, listening to his breathing. He had shut the air conditioner off. The motel room was silent except for his own sounds and those that drifted in from outside. He didn't think anyone occupied the rooms on either side, a supposition which he knew should either comfort or alarm him, but he wasn't sure which. Malcolm rearranged the pillows, propping his head up slightly. He looked down across his body to his feet. He wore only pants. The sunlamp-induced tan on his arms ("We mustn't have a survey taker pasty white like an office worker who never gets outside") offset his thin, white torso. His stomach didn't look particularly bard or flat, although the slight paunch he had developed in
Cincinnati
was gone.

Malcolm thought he also had lost some weight on his hips and thighs. He shifted his gaze to his bare feet and waved hello to himself with his toes. He glanced up to his reflection in the mirror above the bureau and thought, Sweet Jesus, Malcolm, what are you doing?

This is the scene where I smoke a cigarette and grimly review the situation, he thought, only I don't smoke and I don't understand the situation well enough to review it. I must be crazy, he thought.- For the next ten minutes he concentrated on his breathing, varying the rhythm, holding his breath, exercising a little control over his life. Very little control, he thought.

The day before, the plane had deposited Malcolm eighty-five miles south of
Shelby
, 'his "operations base community," in
Great Falls
, the same "city"-if fewer than 50,000 people is a true city-which had expanded until it bordered on Malmstrorn Air Force Base and the missile launch control. Following Carl's instructions, Malcolm spent a day at the air base, using the cover of a civilian public relations writer for the Department of Defense preparing a story on missiles.

The base security officer, who had been informed of Malcolm's real identity by General Roth's man, personally conducted a tour of the launch control facilities and several missile sites "to acquaint Malcolm with the situation." General Roth's man had learned Malcolm was working on the murder directly from the general. The general bad insisted on knowing if an agent was placed in the field, and the old man had been unable to ignore his insistence. The general, exactly as the old man had feared, informed his officer at Malmstrom, who had in turn informed the base security officer. The old man was not pleased that so many people knew who Malcolm was, but there was little he could do about it after the fact. Not wanting to alarm Malcolm, the old man decided not to tell him his cover was less than airtight.

The missile orientation bored Malcolm. After his initial glimpse of the long silver cylinder while the briefing officer droned on about megaton killing capacity, Malcolm wanted to go back to his room at the bachelor's officers' quarters. It was a warm spring day, with the dry heat of the Great Plains that Malcolm hadn't felt since a visit to his aunt's
Kansas
farm when he was fifteen. The musty, clean prairie air bothered his nose slightly. He worried about his allergies. But he said nothing, asking-no questions as he was shuttled by helicopter from missile site to missile site. The last stop was the missile site where Parkins' body was found.

General Roth's man gently took Malcolm's arm, guiding him away from the base security officer and the two missile technical officers as the group walked from the helicopter to the fenced silo. "I scheduled this one last," he whispered proudly, "so the crew and any people who found out about the tour wouldn't think it was suspicious you came here."

"Oh," said Malcolm, uncertain what his reply should be.

The eager captain wasn't easily discouraged. "Yes, and if there's anything you need, any questions, any ... special services, just remember old Larry Chambers, I'm your man. I'm with you all the way. Remember."

Malcolm looked at him and smiled. "I will." The captain, blessed with promising fuel for his ambition, eagerly returned the grin.

For the next ten minutes Malcolm, walked around the silo, trying his best to look as though he knew what he was doing. He carefully examined the fence, the rocky ground, the grass and the surrounding area, all of which looked exactly like what they seemed and all of which told him nothing. He frowned for dramatic effect as he sternly walked to the eager Captain Chambers.

Malcolm surveyed the area. The missile silo was behind him. A main access gravel country road ran across the fields about seventy-five yards in front of him, its narrow straightness interrupted only in the small space where Captain Chambers stood, although, thought Malcolm, he was so transparent that the road should have been visible through him. The helicopter and the cluster of bored Air Force personnel blocked Malcolm's view to his right, but he knew it would have been the same as his view to the left: mile after mile of slightly rolling flatlands, checkerboarded gold and brown by wheat fields until at an almost unbelievable distance the sky finally bent to the horizon. Malcolm stepped as close to Captain Chambers as he could. Gazing into the captain's anxious face, Malcolm uttered through tight lips in his best tough-man imitation. "Let's get out of here."

Chambers raced away to give the order, followed slowly by Malcolm, who managed to keep from laughing.

On the return flight Malcolm rode with the pilot. He had the pilot circle the missile silo slowly. As the copter swung out of the south, through the east to face the north, Malcolm noticed a cluster of buildings about five miles north of the silo.

"What's that?" Malcolm had to shout to be heard over the motor's roar.

"What?" shouted the pilot.

"That, over there. Those buildings."

"Oh, that's a town, Whitlash."

"That's Whitlash? There can't be more than a dozen buildings."

The pilot shrugged and grinned. "So it's a small town. Everything can't be
New York
."

BOOK: Shadow of the Condor
2.87Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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