Shadow of the Condor

  "Does that tell you anything?" said Kevin's companion.

  Kevin smiled. "Yes, yes, that tells us a great deal. Leave it, search the rest of the place.'.'

  The work went slowly. The average burglar has to worry about noise and destruction only to the point of not attracting attention. He doesn't have to concern himself with leaving things as he found them. In addition, Kevin and his assistant had to make sure Woodward had not rigged such elementary precautions as a feather wedged in a drawer or prepared any other little devices which a search must disturb. The feather-in-the-drawer trick is simple and effective. A feather (or any similar, light, small material such as a piece of toilet paper) is wedged tightly in the crack of a drawer. If the drawer is opened, the feather falls. A careless, inexperienced or hurried searcher will not notice the feather, but the person who planted it can tell, if it has been disturbed. Such simple tricks catch an amazing number of sloppy old hands and inexperienced neophytes.

  Kevin and his assistant found no such devices in Woodward's apartment. They had no way of knowing that Woodward had given such things up several years before when his security systems reached a level of complexity he couldn't handle.

  It didn't take them long to find Woodward's cache. The lock on the old trunk at the foot of the bed proved no challenge for Kevin's tools. Volume after volume of Stalinist and communist literature filled the lower portion of the trunk. Old clippings from the Chicago papers covering Trotskyite events took up part of the top drawer. They also found several notebooks filled with Woodward's painstaking, diminutive printing. Kevin's assistant wanted to photograph the notebooks, but Kevin shook his head. The photography would take an hour, and the analysts at Langley would need days to sift through the prose looking for useful tidbits. Besides, Kevin was sure the notebooks contained little worth the trouble. The Stalin poster plus the trunk's contents convinced him Woodward was the second of the options listed by the old man, an agent the Russians kept well insulated from their actual operations. No professional agent would have such material around. Kevin was glancing through the clippings when his assistant nudged him. "Look at this."

  Kevin glanced at an unmarked brown box.

  "Cartridges," said his assistant, "about two dozen rounds. We could pinch one in case we have to type it later."

  Kevin shook his head. "No, Woodward probably counts and fondles them every night."

  "Do you think this means he has a gun?"

  'Kevin shrugged. "We haven't found one yet. He may carry it on him. If he does, he's as crazy as this stuff makes him look. And more dangerous than I like to think about."

  Thirty minutes later they left the apartment exactly as they found it. They didn't find a gun.'

  The public parking lot takes up a full quarter of the near North Side Chicago block. It is a busy neighborhood, with the intersection only three blocks from a main commercial street. The afternoon business usually fills the lot. That day was no exception.

  Nurich stood in a laundromat across the street, gazing through the slightly steamed windows. The three shuffling ladies in the laundromat paid no attention to him. The only one who acknowledged his existence was a tiny girl of about four, sitting in the chair where her mother had placed her, picking her nose and staring at Nurich with big brown eyes. She didn't vary her gaze, regardless of whether Nurich watched her or the parking lot. He finally ignored her altogether.

  Nurich's gaze wandered slowly over the cars in the lot, then toward the streets. Woodward had parked the car in the lot thirty minutes before. To Nurich's relief, his Chicago contact had done nothing unusual when leaving the lot. Woodward was also not followed, as far as the Soviet agent could tell. Normally Nurich would not have waited this long to collect the car and leave, but his misgivings about the mission held him back. Once he picked up the car with its machine, he would be definitely committed.

  Perhaps it's just Woodward's craziness, Nurich argued to himself. If that is the case, I have plenty of reason to be worried, but not this nervous and upset. And not in this way.

  He was basically through with Woodward. All that remained was a checkin call from the field to see if his superiors had sent any messages.

  No, thought Nurich, the trouble goes deeper than Woodward: It's the whole crazy mess. But what choice do I have? What choice?

  He sighed, took one last look at the enraptured brown-eyed ragamuffin in red pants and stained polo shirt, then left the laundromat for the parking lot. He paid the attendant, surreptitiously as possible checked the car (he made a detailed inspection of the car and its contents at a deserted rest stop forty miles from Chicago), consulted a city map and drove away. Despite his precautions, he failed to note the three cars which alternated in trailing and flanking his path.

  The surveillance team established a flexible but firm box around Nurich less than fifteen miles after they left Chicago. They used the same basic pattern as they had on the bus: One car preceded Nurich, and the others followed. Since this time the surveillance teams did not know the probable itinerary, Kevin had four cars following the quarry. Just after they drove by Rockford, Kevin used the powerful radio in his car to call CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. The technicians there patched his radio can into the old man's office phone.

  "He's left Chicago, sir, headed toward the Twin Cities," Kevin said. "It's a possible route to Montana. We don't think he's spotted us, although he certainly exercised a great deal of caution in Chicago. If we didn't hav6 all this manpower, he would have lost us a couple of times. I think we can handle things, but just to be sure, units all along the probable route have the car's ID. If we lose him, they might pick him up."

  "Excellent, my boy, excellent." The old man's voice carried across the country with minimal distortion. "Carl tells me the Woodward team reports no change."

  Kevin chose his next words carefully. The radio conversation was all too easy for someone to monitor. "Did you get the memo I sent you regarding Woodward?"

  Three hours after the burglary one of Kevin's assistants boarded a commercial jet, ostensibly reassigned to Washington for light duty because of ill health. He officially carried what Kevin logged as "routine reports" to the old man. The courier also delivered Kevin's unlogged secret report on the burglary and a summation of his projections. Kevin wrote the old man that Woodward was probably a low-level Soviet agent, recruited for minor missions, who might be mentally unstable and armed. Since all of Kevin's assessments were the result of activity officially frowned on by the overseers of the American intelligence community, the assessments officially did not exist. The intelligence. community routinely deals with ' such nonexistent matters, but when, like Kevin's burglary operation, they are to be kept secret from members of the community itself, extra precaution is needed.

  "Yes, yes, I did. While I think it suffered from necessary vagueness, I think it was quite perceptive, quite perceptive."

  Kevin was pleased. "Thank you. I thought you would find it helpful."

  "It makes things more of a puzzle, but Woodward, at least in some respects, fits the pattern of the other contacts. They all seem to be basically touchstones. Rose sees them, moves on and they return to their normal life. Then, a day or so later, he calls them from a phone booth to another phone booth. Clever system, that. We have taps on their private phones, but in their first contact they give him a payphone number and they set up a time for the call. We can't get a tap on the phone in time to eavesdrop. If it weren't for the way the phone company works long-distance calls from pay booths and we didn't have both of them under surveillance, we would never know they talked."

  "Let's hope he uses the same system with Woodward."

  "I think he will. After all, it has worked marvelously. Why change?"

  "Anything else new? Condor turning up anything?"

  "No, but perhaps that will change as Rose gets closer. I doubt it, but one never knows. I have come across one interesting item which may mean nothing, but then again.

  For over six mont
hs the CIA has been working on an aide to the Soviet UN delegation in New York. They seem to think he is not overly happy with the prospect of returning to Mother Russia. They've convinced him he would like to defect and stay here. I'm betting that once they get a firm commitment from him they'll tell him the game has changed, blackmail him with exposure and make him return to Russia as a double. But that's only a guess.

  "Anyway, the aide serves as an assistant to the UN delegation's KGB unit. He's not in the KGB, but they use him anyway. They have similar manpower shortages to the ones we face. He supposedly took the plunge to come over last month, just before Parkins died. The Company has been testing him, asking for bits and pieces of intelligence to prove his, commitment. Also, if my hypothesis is correct, to give them more blackmail material.

  "Yesterday the man reported some concern in KGB circles over a mission currently under way in the Midwest. All he could find out was that the center of activity is now in the Chicago area, but will soon shift farther west. His Company contact is pushing for more, but we don't know how successful that will be."

  "It could be Rose."

  "Yes, it could."

  "That's another little confirming piece showing us we've got a puzzler. I wish it would show us more of the puzzle."

  The old man waited for a long time before he replied. "You know, Kevin, that's very interesting, very interesting."

  Kevin thought he missed an implication, so he told the old man, "I don't follow you, sir." '

  "Oh, it's probably nothing. Just a funny feeling I had about what you said. Just a feeling."

  Malcolm and Sheila rode back to the motel in silence. The dinner with county extension agent Stuart and his family had gone well. Stuart and his wife accepted Malcolm's "assistant" with a minimum of outward skepticism. The few knowing smiles they gave Malcolm bore no malice. Indeed, when Emma dragged Sheila downstairs to show her the new sewing machine, her husband slowly winked with benevolent lechery at Malcolm and said, "That's some fine assistant you got there, Malcolm, some fine assistant. I wouldn't let her get away from me if I were you."

  Malcolm blushed naturally and replied, "I don't intend to.’’

  Much to Malcolm's surprise and relief, the whole day had flowed easily. He woke at six, just after the toilet flushed. With a minimum of conversation, Sheila informed him of the day's plan. She insisted he leave the bathroom door open when he urinated, and Malcolm, with defiant haughtiness, stood as far as possible from the toilet so he could return her scrutiny as she sat on the bed watching the bathroom door. She told Malcolm not to put his contacts in until she was ready. He knew she knew how nearsighted he was without his contacts or glasses. Sheila insisted they shower together. He had wondered how she would always keep him under her scrutiny, and remain clean at the same time.

  The shower was cramped. Both Sheila and Malcolm avoided touching each other and looked at each other's nakedness with an enforced neutrality. Malcolm tried to make a joke about her scrubbing his back, but it left a sour taste in his mouth even before he saw the cold, hostile look cross her face.

  Sheila insisted on going to "her room' and mussing it so that it would look deliberately disturbed. The one suitcase she had left there contained nothing of value but spare clothes she didn't plan on using. Ideally she should have planted some documents building her cover, but they had none.

  They accidentally met Stuart at the truckstop. Normally he breakfasted at home, but his wife had been delayed after early mass and he hated to cook for himself. Malcolm would have preferred to premiere Sheila's cover on a less critical and important audience, but she carried off her role excellently. Malcolm's assistant obviously pleased Stuart within minutes of their meeting, and the dinner invitation flowed from their conversation. Sheila gracefully accepted.

  Malcolm renewed the survey in the quadrant north and east of Whitlash. They hit four farms before they stopped for lunch. Malcolm noticed that he was always the one to suggest moving on, to play the role of superior insisting on working. Sheila slipped into her character of a gregarious, open, American girl not too discreetly traveling with her lover-boss with an ease Malcolm found enviable and somewhat disturbing. He, on the other hand, was brusque, abrupt and even outwardly nervous. After their second stop he commented to her on the ease of her role playing. She told him not to worry, that his nervousness actually was the right thing to display.

  "It will make them go for the obvious secret," she said.

  "You do this as if you've had a lot of practice," Malcolm replied, trying hard to keep the curiosity from his voice.

  Sheila turned to him with a cold stare. Her warmth and enthusiasm always ended as soon as they were alone in the jeep. Very calmly she said, "I have. You've heard Chou needle me about the Air Force security guard we've compromised. I'm part of the compromise. He thinks I'm madly in love with him, pining for him, enslaved by his love and his caresses. I do everything and anything I can to reinforce that impression. Everything. The more he believes it, the more I bind him to us."

  Malcolm drove silently for over a mile before he said, "Do you . . . enjoy that?"

  Sheila's reproachful tones cut through his awkwardness. "You mean do I like going to bed with him? It's required. He's not completely repulsive, although his exaggerated opinion of himself makes him somewhat annoying. I neither like nor dislike it, it's part of my work. Just as chaperoning you is part of my work."

  "I understand that," Malcolm replied softly, "intellectually, logically, I understand that. But I I just can't feel it. I just can't."

  "What is there to feel besides satisfaction when the job is done? Don't tell me I'm going to hear a pubescent lecture on love and romance, not from you."

  Malcolm sighed. "No, no lecture on love from me. I couldn't describe how I feel to you or logically defend it. But I just think that there should be something. Even if it's purely physical."

  "Why? Sex is a need, more mild than hunger, but a need. As such, it can be exploited, used, satisfied or frustrated. It is a tool of our business. In America it seems to be a tool of everybody's business. Don't feel any sorrow for me, Malcolm. You're feeling sorrow for yourself."

  Malcolm made no reply. Except for their survey stops, they spoke very little the rest of the day. ~ i

  Malcolm parked the jeep in the motel lot. When they got out, Sheila walked over and put her arm around him. "lust be calm," she whispered, "it's part of our cover. We're going to the top of the hill."

  In reply, Malcolm gingerly put his arm around her and they strolled to the top of the hill. She said nothing, but stood next to him silently watching the deep reds and pinks of the sunset. Finally Malcolm spoke.

  "It's beautiful. The days are getting longer."

  "Yes. And we've been here long enough to be seen. As we walk back to the motel, you should lean over and whisper to me."

  Malcolm complied.

  Malcolm lay on the bed, watching Sheila make her nightly preparations through his thick-lensed glasses. She opened the small vanity case which went with them everywhere. Be sides Malcolm's gun and her medical kit, the case contained a small but powerful radio. She had called Chou four times during the day at no int * erval Malcolm could determine. They stayed on the air only a few seconds, long enough to exchange obscure code references. She quietly raised Chou again and once more went through - the coded exchange. Malcolm knew that if she missed a checkin, Chou would assume Malcolm had double-crossed them. Malcolm grew angrier each time Sheila checked in. She listened in on his checkin conversations too, but, unlike him, she knew the coded references. Her drug examinations had seen to that.

  Sheila seemed pleased after she signed off. She locked the case, then fastidiously placed it next to the chair after removing Malcolm's casually discarded boots and knapsack. She gave him a warm but mildly reproachful glance before she neatly set his gear by the closet. Her coolness returned as she undressed for the night.

  She had seemed pleased ever since they left the Stuarts. Malcolm thought she ha
d been a little more than gracious. He watched her carefully as she prepared the chair for the night. He finally decided the worst she could do was say no, so he said, "I'll share the bed with you or take turns on sleeping in the chair."

  Sheila stopped unfolding the sheet then turned to him with a questioning look.

  "Listen, no big deal," Malcolm quickly explained. "I saw how stiff you were today. A couple more nights of that chair and you'll be a cripple. Then what about our cover and mission? I don't care if you cripple yourself, honestly, I don't. But I don't want to blow this, so I'll switch or share, either one. I promise not to suffocate you with the pillow or whatever. Hell," he lied, "I've passed by several easy chances to get you already. Why should I bother with Jt tonight?"

  Sheila thought for several seconds, then neatly refolded the sheet and returned it to the closet. She unlocked the vanity case, removed something, then closed the case again. Without a word she turned and walked to the bathroom.

  Well, so much for that, thought Malcolm. Don't show your curiosity and press her for a reply. Make her tell you. To show his disdain, he took off his glasses and settled under the sheets, closed his eyes and pretended to be trying to sleep. He heard her running water in the bathroom, but she still said nothing. Finally, seconds before his curiosity would have defeated him, she spoke.

  "Here, take this."

  Malcolm sat up and opened his eyes. She stood in front of him, holding a pill in her right hand and a glass of water in her left. She had exchanged her sleeping shirt for a T-shirt. Malcolm was sure she didn't wear her'gun under the white cotton garment. "What is it?" he asked.

  "A mild sleeping pill, not enough to really knock you out, but as deeply as you sleep, it should keep you under unless someone or something works hard at waking you. With this as a safety edge, I won't need to worry about sleeping with you."