Three Days of the Condor (16 page)

When they came abreast of the blind man, Malcolm stopped and pushed the girl away. He snatched the thick sunglasses off the man's face. Carefully watching the astonished girl, he looked at the pencil seller. The two empty sockets made him push the glasses back quicker than he had taken them off. He stuffed a ten-dollar bill into the man's cup. "Forget it, old man."

The hoarse voice laughed. "It's done forgotten, mister."

As they walked away, the girl looked at him. "What did you do that for?"

Malcolm looked down at the puzzled, dull face. "Just checking."

Her place turned out to be one room with a kitchen-bath area. As soon as they were safely inside, she bolted and locked the door. Malcolm fastened the chain. "Be right with you, honey. Take off your clothes. I'll fix you up real good right away." She darted into the curtained-off bathroom area.

Malcolm looked out the window. Three stories up. No one could climb in. Fine. The door was solid and double-locked. He didn't think anyone had followed them, or even really noticed them. He slowly took off his clothes. He put the gun on the small table next to the bed and covered it with an old
Reader's Digest.
The bed squeaked when he lay down. Both his mind and his body ached, but he knew he had to act as normal as possible.

The curtains parted and she came to him, her eyes shining. She wore a long-sleeved black nightgown. The front hung open. Her breasts dangled— long, skinny pencils. The rest of her body matched her breasts, skinny, almost emaciated. Her voice was distant. "Sorry I took so long, sugar. Let's get down to business."

She climbed on the bed and pulled his head to her breasts. "There, baby, there you go." For a few minutes she ran her hands over him, then she said, "Now I'll take real good care of you." She moved to the base of the bed and buried her head in his crotch. Minutes later she coaxed his body into a response. She got up and went to the bathroom. She returned holding a jar of Vaseline. "Oh, baby, you were real good, real good, sugar." She lay down on the bed to apply the lubricant to herself. "There, sugar, all ready for you. All ready for you whenever you want."

For a long time they lay there. Malcolm finally looked at her. Her body moved slowly, carefully, almost laboriously. She was asleep. He went to the bathroom. On the back of the stained toilet he found the spoon, rubber hose, matches, and homemade syringe. The small plastic bag was still three-quarters full of the white powder. Now he knew why the nightgown had long sleeves.

Malcolm searched the apartment. He found four changes of underwear, three blouses, two skirts, two dresses, a pair of jeans, and a red sweater to match the purple one laying on the floor. A torn raincoat hung in the closet. In a shoe box in the kitchen he found six of the possession return receipts issued upon release from a Washington jail. He also found a two-year-old high-school identification card. Mary Ruth Rosen. Her synagogue address was neatly typed on the back. There was nothing to eat except five Hersheys, some coconut, and a little grapefruit juice. He ate everything. Under the bed he found an empty Mogen David 20/20 wine bottle. He propped it against the door. If his theory worked, it would crash loudly should the door open. He picked up her inert form. She barely stirred. He put her on the torn armchair and threw a blanket over the limp bundle. It wouldn't make any difference if her body wasn't comfortable in the night. Malcolm took out his lenses and lay down on the bed. He was asleep in five minutes.

In almost every game of chess there comes a crisis that must be recognized. In one way or another a player risks something— if he knows what he's doing, we call it a
'
calculated risk.'

If you understand the nature of this crisis; if you perceive how you've committed yourself to a certain line of play; if you can foresee you've committed yourself to a certain line of play; if you can foresee the nature of your coming task and its accompanying difficulties, all's well. But if this awareness is absent, then the game will be lost for you, and fighting back will do no good.

—Fred Reinfeld, The Complete Chess Course

Chapter 9

Tuesday, Morning through Early Evening

Malcolm woke shortly after seven. He lay quietly until just before eight, his mind going over all the possibilities. In the end he still decided to carry it through. He glanced at the chair. The girl had slid onto the floor during the night. The blanket was wrapped over her head and she was breathing hard.

Malcolm got up. With a good deal of clumsy effort he put her on the bed. She didn't stir through the whole process.

The bathroom had a leaky hose and nozzle hooked up to the tub, so Malcolm took a tepid shower. He successfully shaved with the slightly used safety razor. He desperately wanted to brush his teeth, but he couldn't bring himself to use the girl's toothbrush.

Malcolm looked at the sleeping form before he left the apartment. Their agreement had been for a hundred dollars, and he had only paid her fifty. He knew where that money went. Reluctantly, he laid the other fifty dollars on the dresser. It wasn't his money anyway.

Three blocks away he found a Hot Shoppe where he breakfasted in the boisterous company of neighbors on their way to work. After he left the restaurant he went to a drugstore. In the privacy of a Gulf station rest room he brushed his teeth. It was 9:38.

He found a phone booth. With change from the Gulf station he made his calls. The first one was to Information and the second one connected him with a small office in Baltimore.

"Bureau of Motor Vehicle Registration. May I help you?"

"Yes." Malcolm replied. "My name is Winthrop Estes, of Alexandria. I was wondering if you could help me pay back a favor."

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"You see, yesterday as I was driving home from work my battery tipped over right in the middle of the street. I got it hooked up again, but there wasn't enough charge to fire the engine. Just as I was about to give up and try to push the thing out of the way, this man in a Mercedes Benz pulled up behind me. At great risk to his own car, he gave me the push necessary to get mine started. Before I had a chance to even thank him, he drove away. All I got was his license number. Now, I would at least like to send him a thankyou note or buy him a drink or something. Neighborly things like that don't happen very often in D.C."

The man on the other end of the line was touched. "They certainly don't. With his Mercedes! Phew, that's some nice guy! Let me guess. He had Maryland plates and you want me to check and see who he is, right?"

"Right. Can you do it?"

"Well… Technically no, but for something like this, what's little technicality? Do you have the number?"

"Maryland 6E-49387."

"6E-49387. Right. Hold on just one second and I'll have it." Malcolm heard the receiver clunk on a hard surface. In the background, footsteps faded into a low office murmur of typewriters and obscure voices, then grew stronger. "Mr. Estes? We've got it. Black Mercedes sedan, registered to a Robert T. Atwood, 42 Elwood— that's E-l-w-o-o-d— Lane, Chevy Chase. Those people must really be loaded. That's
the
country-squire suburb. He could probably afford a scratch or two on his car. Funny, those people usually don't give a damn, if you know what I mean."

"I know what you mean. Listen, thanks a lot."

"Hey, don't thank me. For something like this, glad to do it. Only don't let it get around, know what I mean? Might tell Atwood the same thing, OK?"

"OK."

"You sure you got it? Robert Atwood, 42 Elwood Lane, Chevy Chase?"

"I've got it. Thanks again." Malcolm hung up and stuffed the piece of paper with the address on it into his pocket. He wouldn't need it to remember Mr. Atwood. For no real reason, he strolled back to the Hot Shoppe for coffee. As far as his watchful eyes could tell, no one noticed him.

The morning
Post
lay on the counter. On impulse he began to thumb through it. It was on page 12. They hadn't taken any chances. The three-inch ad was set in bold type and read, "Condor call home."

Malcolm smiled, hardly glancing at the coded sweepstakes ad. If he called in, they would tell him to come home or at least lie low. That wasn't what he intended. There was nothing they could say in the coded message that could make any difference to him. Not now. Their instructions had lost all value yesterday on Capitol Hill.

Malcolm frowned. If plan went wrong, the whole thing might end unsatisfactorily. Undoubtedly that end would also mean Malcolm's death, but that didn't bother him too much. What bothered him was the horrible waste factor that failure mean. He had to tell someone, somehow, just in case. But he couldn't let anyone know, not until he had tried. That meant delay. He had to find a way of delayed communication.

The sign flashing across the street gave him the inspiration. With the materials he had at hand he began to write. Twenty minutes later he stuffed curt synopses of the last five days and a prognosis for the future into three small envelopes begged from the waitress. The napkins went to the FBI. The pieces of junk paper from his wallet filled the envelope addressed to the CIA. The map of D.C. he had picked up at the Gulf station went to the
Post
. These three envelopes went into a large manila envelope he bought at the drugstore. Malcolm stuck the big envelope in a mailbox. Pickup was scheduled for 2:00 p.m. The big envelope was addressed to Malcolm's bank, which for some reason closed at 2:00 p.m. on Tuesdays. Malcolm reckoned it would take the bank until at least tomorrow to find and mail the letters. He had a minimum of twenty-four hours to operate in, and he had passed on what he knew. He considered himself free of obligations.

* * *

While Malcolm spent the rest of the day standing in the perpetually long line at the Washington Monument, security and law-enforcement agencies all over the city were quietly going bananas. Detectives and agents tripped over each other and false reports of Malcolm. Three separate carloads of officials from three separate agencies arrived simultaneously at the same boarding house check out three separate leads, all of which were false. The proprietress of the boarding house still had no idea what happened after the officials angrily drove away. A congressional intern who vaguely resembled Malcolm's description was picked up and detained by an FBI patrol. Thirty minutes after the intern was identified and released from federal custody, he was arrested by Washington police and again detained. Reporters harassed already nervous officials about the exciting Capitol Hill shootout. Congressmen, senators, and political hacks of every shade kept calling the agencies and each other, inquiring about the rumored security leak. Of course, everyone refused to discuss it over the phone, but the senator- congressman-department chief wanted to be personally briefed. Kevin Powell was trying once again to play Condor and retrace Malcolm. As he walked along East Capitol Street, puzzling, perturbing questions kept disturbing the lovely spring day. He received no answers from the trees and buildings, and at 11:00 he gave up the chase to meet the director of the hunt.

Powell was late, but when he walked quickly into the room he did not receive a reproachful glance from the old man. Indeed, the old man's congeniality seemed at a new height. At first Powell thought the warmth was contrived for the benefit of the stranger who sat with them at the small table, but he gradually decided it was genuine.

The stranger was one of the biggest men Powell had ever seen. It was hard to judge his height while he sat, but Powell guessed he was at least six feet seven. The man had a massive frame, with at least three hundred pounds of flesh supplying extra padding beneath the expensively tailored suit. The thick black hair was neatly greased down. Powell noticed the man's little piggy eyes quietly, carefully taking stock of him.

"Ah, Kevin," said the old man, "how good of you to join us. I don't believe you know Dr. Lofts."

Powell didn't know Dr. Lofts personally, but he knew the man's work. Dr. Crawford Lofts was probably the foremost psychological diagnostician in the world, yet his reputation was known only in very tightly controlled circles. Dr. Lofts headed the Psychiatric Evaluation Team for the Agency. PET came into its own when its evaluation of the Soviet Premier convinced President Kennedy that he should go ahead with the Cuban blockade. Ever since then, PET had been given unlimited resources to compile its evaluation of major world leaders and selected individuals.

After ordering coffee for Powell, the old man turned and said, "Dr. Lofts has been working on our Condor. For the last few days he has talked to people, reviewed our boy's work and dossiers, even lived in his apartment. Trying to build an action profile, I believe they call it. You can explain it better, Doctor."

The softness of Loft's voice surprised Powell. "I think you've about said it, old friend. Basically, I'm trying to find out what Malcolm would do, given the background he has. About all I can say is that he will improvise fantastically and ignore whatever you tell him unless it filts into what he wants." Dr. Lofts did not babble about his work at every opportunity. This too surprised Powell, and he was unprepared when Lofts stopped talking.

"Uh, what are you doing about it?" Powell stammered, feeling very foolish when he heard his improvised thoughts expressed out loud.

The Doctor rose to go. At least six-seven. "I've got field workers scattered at points throughout the city where Malcolm might turn up. If you'll excuse me, I want to get back to supervising them." With a curt, polite nod to the old man and Powell, Dr. Lofts lumbered from the room.

Powell looked at the old man. "Do you think he has much of a chance?"

"No, no more than anyone else. That's what he thinks, too. Too many variables for him to do much more than guess. The realization of that limitation is what makes him good."

"Then why bring him in? We can get all the manpower we want without having to pull in PET."

The old man's eyes twinkled, but there was coldness in his voice. "Because, my dear boy, it never hurts to have a lot of hunters if the hunters are hunting in different ways. I want Malcolm very badly, and I don't want to miss a trick. Now, how are you coming from your end."