Shadow of the Condor (21 page)

"Letting what out?"

"That your 'assistant' unofficially came to be with you, not as a working associate, but as your lover. They would accept that."

Malcolm leaned back in his chair, his solitaire game forgotten. He saw Sheila register no surprise, no emotion at all. Finally Malcolm said, "You've got to be kidding."

"On the contrary," replied Chou, "it is a brilliant plan. One known 'secret' hiding the real thing. Am old technique. If you two work at it, you should have no trouble carrying it off. We have several hours to build you cover stories. Plenty of time, since you don't have to divulge a good deal of information about yourselves in order to make your story stick."

"What if it doesn't work?" Malcolm asked, hoping his skepticism would dissuade Chou.,

Chou ignored Malcolm's pessimism. "It will work. Of course," he continued, "if you don't think the plan is workable and you won't make the all-out concerted effort, then we are forced to revert to the original plan." Chou slowly, deliberately unbuttoned the bottom button on his jean jacket. The jacket fell open.

Malcolm wasted no time replying. "Well, anything is better than that old original plan."

Chou smiled. "I thought you would find the situation so. Now, let us begin building your lives. Sheila, since you are familiar with
San Francisco
, and Americans associate Orientals with that city anyway, let's make you a native of there, although you traveled a good deal. You are approximately Malcolm's age and you met. . . . When? Briefly in college? I think so, and then a year ago when you also came to work for the DMA. Now, how did you meet, where, when, your first date, your mutual likes and dislikes, places you've seen together, a few juicy and humorous experiences? Malcolm, suggestions?"

They spent four hours building a cover story. Then, after Sheila packed, they set off in two vehicles, Malcolm's jeep and Chou's car, retracing their illegal border crossing. They saw no one. It was almost dark when Chou stopped alongside a deserted country gravel road several miles from the main highway leading to
Shelby
. The three mountainous buttes known as the Sweetgrass hills rose behind them to the north, their blue hues fading to black as the sun sank lower. Chou walked back from his car to the jeep, motioning for Malcolm to roll down the window. Chou glanced briefly at Sheila, who sat in the jeep's passenger seat.

"And now, my new friend and comrade," Chou said to Malcolm, "the hours of truth begin. You know Shiela has a radio check schedule with me at various erratic times. You know if anything goes wrong, I'll be there to cause you as much grief as possible. You also know you have nothing to lose working with us and everything to gain. Because'of all that, and because you are under my comrade's delicate and competent care, I trust you out of my sight. Please don't disappoint me, I beg you. I find you quite amusing alive, and it would be so discouraging for me to meet your next gaze with a bullet."

Chou paused for effect, then looked at Sheila. "Take care of everything, Comrade." He gently slapped the jeep and walked to his car.

Malcolm sat still several minutes after Chou had driven back toward
Canada
. Finally he looked at Sheila. She stared straight ahead, her eyes impassively looking out the windshield into the darkness. Malcolm sighed, started the motor, and drove down the road to the main highway. He turned on the radio. The powerful radio station played rock music from
Oklahoma City
. As they headed toward
Shelby
, he kept Sheila informed about the songs to add to her $$cultural-background cover." She listened, but said nothing.

Their first test came when they checked Sheila into the motel. Malcolm thought his genuine nervousness did more to build the cover than the story's inherent, deliberate flaws. The proprietress listened intently to his whole talk, then gave Sheila the room next to his. Their landlady leered at them as they headed up the stairs. Sheila managed to conjure a blush from somewhere, and Malcolm's confidence grew with each step.

They stayed in her room * long enough to deposit one of her two main bags. Sheila also brought a smaller third bag containing her toiletries, her equipment and her radio. She, followed Malcolm to his room.

The first thing she did was to take his gun from the briefcase, unload it, then lock both the gun and his ammunition in her very special combination-lock overnight case. She did not turn her back on Malcolm until the gun was safely stored. Then, almost as if she were challenging him to try something, she deliberately ignored him while she familiarized herself with the room. Finally she faced him again.

"I'll live out of the big bag we brought here," Sheila told him, "just as though we were trying to hide my sleeping here. We'll keep it -and my kit bag in the closet behind your luggage. The maid is sure to find it when she looks. She will correctly figure we left the other-bag in my room as a dodge."

"All right," replied Malcolm. He stood looking at her as she laid out the clothes she would wear in the morning. He knew she was conscious of his stare. Coldly, without a perceptible pause in her rhythm, she pulled the sweat shirt off. She -wore a bra and, beneath it, strapped around her back, a small holster carrying an automatic pistol no bigger than her hand. The holster was not noticeable under a loose-fitting garment pushed out by the thrust of her medium-sized breasts. She picked her bras to give her the most forward thrust. She stepped out of her tennis shoes, then calmly took off her -jeans.

Clad in her panties, holster and bra, Sheila turned to face Malcolm in three-quarter profile. He stood staring, numb. Her face was expressionless as she unfastened her bra and laid it neatly on top of her clothes. Her broad, brown breasts jiggled as she leaned forward. She had large, centrally placed, very dark nipples. Impassively she picked up a soft denim shirt and slipped it on. She didn't button it. Finally she looked directly at Malcolm and said, "Let us get some things very clear. We are here professionally, partners. I do not particularly relish the situation, nor, I imagine, do you. I am your guard as much as I am your companion. I do not have Chou's killing abilities or his inclinations for quick action in that area. But given the slightest provocation, the slightest hint that you are betraying the agreement we made, I will kill you without a moment's hesitation. I am highly trained in that area. You would pose no problem.

"We are also a man and a woman, playing a role as sexual partners. That is precisely what we shall do: play the role. We could have been assigned numerous other roles in other situations. The, fact of our sexes is immaterial. In public I shall appear as your doting lover, not too doting, but convincingly so. You shall adopt a similar stance. In private we will-maintain our professional status.

"I shall sleep in the chair, using the extra bedding. I warn you, I am an extremely light sleeper. As you can see, I carry my gun at all times. Please do not make me use it. To the degree that it is necessary and unavoidable, I trust you. I would not suggest you make me venture beyond that. Now I suggest you take out your contacts and prepare for bed in whatever other ways you find necessary. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

"In that direction," the Cat said, waving its right paw round, "lives a Hatter: and in that direction," waving the other paw, "lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad."

"But I don't want to go among mad people,"
Alice
remarked.

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat. "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

"How do you know I'm mad?" said
Alice
.

"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here."

He's crazy, thought Nurich, he's stark raving mad. 1`he realization did little to comfort him. Sweat formed on Nurich's forehead despite the chill in the room. He nodded to reassure his furiously whispering companion.

"For years I've been waiting for this, for some sign, some small ray of hope that the revisionists and Trotskyites were being defeated, that once again the great man's work would go on," hissed the man sitting across from Nurich. "You don't know, you can't realize how horrifying these last few years have been. And now, all this talk of d6tentel What are, we coming to? Tell me, what?"

Nurich interrupted the man on the pretense of answering his question. He actually wanted to calm the man down and get him to lower his voice so that they could accomplish the necessary business as quickly as possible. "Yes, yes, I can understand your worries. But everything is all right now. That's why I'm here. As you can see, your faith was justified."

The small man leaned back against the booth. His fit of excitement seemed to have passed.

Nurich made his
Chicago
contact the same day Sheila and Malcolm moved to
Shelby
. As in the other cities, the Russian did not know who his contact would be until the rendezvous. He had known the circumstances explaining why the trucker Pulaski was willing to help him, but his English and
New York
associates had been faceless names until he met them. He expected as much, for he was working for a new apparatus. Until he came to
Chicago
he had been neither impressed nor disappointed with the agent he had met. Their time together had been too brief to allow him to form a professional opinion. But his
Chicago
contact.

The
Chicago
contact was Charles Woodward, a self-recruited agent who had never worked on any previous Soviet missions. Woodward was thirty-four but he looked twice that. Short, emaciated, and constantly fidgeting, he fit both the physical and psychiatric stereotype of a neurotic paranoid.

Woodward had forced his way into Soviet intelligence after forming a fanatical attachment to Stalin and Stalin's concepts while growing up in
Chicago
. Because he was not a resourceful or vocal man, it had taken him until 1961 to find a way to serve his idol. Of course, by then Stalin was long dead so -that Woodward was, even in his own mind, serving the legend.

In 1961 he spent three weeks of his sick leave and vacation watching a visiting Soviet trade show., During that time, after uncovering the FBI's surveillance of the show members, he decided which Soviet official he would go to for recruitment. He picked on a minor secretary who received only cursory scrutiny. One day Woodward accosted his choice in Marshall Field, searing the poor Russian half to death as he stood examining a rack of shirts. The Russian was so startled he accepted the packet Woodward thrust on him. The acceptance of the packet was an incredible breach of security: It could have been damaging material designed to trap the secretary. Woodward's fanatical insistence forestalled the Russian's long-range concerns by making him fearful of the consequences of refusing the crazy-acting American.

The secretary's superiors were not pleased by his actions, but they only mildly reprimanded him. They did note in his dossier that he was very slow to react correctly under pressure. After pouring over Woodward's material-mostly long, rambling philosophical discussions of Stalin's greatness-the Midwestern ranking resident KGB officer decided to send the material up the chain of command for further evaluation. His
Moscow
superiors decided that a bird in the hand, even an erratic bird, might be more useful than wishing for two in the bush. They used what resources they had to investigate Woodward for possible counterintelligence links, then decided to give him a try with some test tasks which could not compromise any of their real operations. Woodward responded successfully, although his fanatical zeal worried his control. The KGB correctly reasoned that Woodward -could prove very dangerous. At the same time, they hated to waste such an eager possibility. The KGB put Woodward in a very carefully constructed limbo designed to protect both him and them until and if they ever found substantial use for him. KGB Division Commander Ryzhov allowed his underling Serov to resurrect Woodward from that limbo in the saving of Gamayun.

And now Woodward sat across from Nurich, his first real contact with a true agent of the Soviets. They met in
Chicago
's Lincoln Park Zoo at the lion house, then strolled to the concession building. They ordered chili dogs and sat in a booth. Recalcitrant winter had snapped back the
Midwest
's early spring, and except for the small area near the stove, the drafty restaurant was barely above freezing. Nurich and Woodward had to sit in the booth farthest away from the stove in order to be as far as possible from the concession stand's few other customers, Nurich did not appear awkward when he did not remove his gloves.

For over half an hour Nurich listened to Woodward's increasingly staccato ramblings on Stalin, revisionists and the horrible trend of the Revolution. At first Nurich was only impatient, but now he was angry, angry and nervously frightened. He wanted to end the interview as quickly as possible.

"Do you have the supplies and the machine?" he asked.

"Of course, of course! Well, almost all of them. I pick up the car tomorrow at a drop zone my control will tell me about in the morning. He calls me at different phone booths. I've never met him. You're the first comrade they've let me meet."

Nurich did not need to think twice about the reasons for Woodward's isolation. He pressed his query. "Are you sure you have everything?"

"Yes, I told you, except for the car, everything. I've given you the duplicate keys they mailed me. The machine is stored at my employer's warehouse. He knows nothing. I'll lock it in the trunk of the car. I got the other equipment and the cash the day before yesterday. The maps and all the other directions will be in the car when you pick it up. Since you have the keys, we won't have to meet again. That is unfortunate."

"Yes, it is," replied Nurich, convincingly hiding his relief. He relaxed enough to take a bite of his lunch. Just as he put the fork in his mouth, Woodward spoke.

"Why did they give you an American gun?"

Nurich almost choked on his food. Slowly, very slowly, he chewed the tepid beans. "You looked at my supplies? Handled them?"

"Just the gun, Comrade. I'm curious about them. Why an American .45? Why not a good Russian gun, like the kind I carry?"

This time Nurich choked. He couldn't help himself.

"You're carrying a gun? You have one?"

"Of course. I bought a Russian Tokarev in a pawnshop. I had to bribe the pawnbroker not to report it. I carry it all the time."

Nurich closed his eyes, restraining a shudder. He opened. them again and gently said, "Comrade, isn't that a little risky? Suppose you are picked up with it? They could send you to prison for that alone."

"But I need it!" said Woodward.

Nurich let the subject fade. He began to eat as quickly as he could.

"And another thing, just what is his machine? I know you're taking it out West, but how does that fit into the Revolution? What good is it? Why, if they let me, I could build them hundreds of machines to blow up this city, to bring the capitalists to their knees!"

Nurich quickly drained his coffee cup. The liquid was actually too warm to drink, and he burned his tongue, but he wanted to finish so he could leave as quickly as possible. He also knew he had to reestablish control over Woodward, or the questions might lead to bigger, more dangerous outbursts. He looked at the little man with as stern a countenance as he could muster.

"Comrade Woodward, the Revolution and the party move in complicated and difficult ways. We are all tools in the movement, and we must not question our roles. A true communist does not ask why, but rather, how can I do better that which is assigned me. As the great Stalin would have said, I suggest you do the same."

Woodward stiffened at the rebuff, but Nurich saw it was with respect and almost masochistic glee. The small man's clipped reply carried a satisfied ring as he said, "Yes, Comrade!"

"Very good. Tomorrow I will call you after ten A.M. at that phone-booth number. You know the recognition signals. We can use the second phone-booth number as a fallback for one hour later if you miss the first call. We will use the same procedure when I check in from the field. Tomorrow I will tell you where to meet me with the car. Be sure to bring everything."

"Yes, Comrade!"

"Good. Now wait here for at least ten minutes after I leave. I suggest you have another cup of coffee to make it look natural." Nurich quickly stood and strode from the concessions building. He left behind, a very excited, very pleased man.

Nurich changed taxis three times on the way back to his hotel. As another routine precaution he had the last one drop him eight blocks away. Now he sat in his dingy room on the ripped pink easy chair next to the tiny bed. The cold lake wind rattled the glass in the room's one window, forcing in chilly drafts carrying diesel exhaust. Nurich stared at the door, sweating.

He didn't like it. Not at all. Ever since he had been given the assignment by Serov he hadn't liked it. Something smelled in the whole elaborate scheme. He had discussed the situation with his "true" superior in the GRU, and they both had agreed something was wrong. However, they recognized Nurich had no choice but to go along with the mission, at least for the time being. During the journey from
Russia
to Chicago Nurich tried to convince himself the vague uneasiness w ' as unfounded. He hadn't been successful, but at least he repressed the feelings enough to avoid anxiety. Even through the uncomfortable trip with the truck driver everything had seemed manageable. Peculiar, but manageable.

But now, he thought, on the last leg of the inward run I find myself in
Chicago
working with a gun-toting Stalinist madman who is liable to go crazy and start throwing bombs any minute. On this madman, thought Nurich uncomfortably, my life might well depend.

The GRU had given Nurich a panic number to call if he got in trouble in
America
and did not trust his KGB employers. Nurich knew the number's area code placed the GRU contact in
San Diego
, too far away to be of any use to him in
Chicago
. In any event, he thought, what would I say? The KGB employs a madman? What else is new? The mission stinks? What else is new? He might possibly convince the GRU contact to let him break out of the mission immediately, but if he did that, the KGB would have to be informed he was working for the GRU. They wouldn't like that, but at least they wouldn't try as hard to kill him if they knew the truth as they would if he broke out and no one told them. If he suddenly dropped out of their business, he would be presumed a traitor. Nurich had no desire to Join the KGB's hunted list.

I have no choice, he thought. I must continue with the mission and hope somehow I can at least pull myself out of whatever fire I'm headed toward. He shook his head in resignation, then tried to force his memory to better days and nights in
Moscow
.

….

"It's cold in Chicago, sir," Kevin said into the telephone. He never liked to make small talk, although making small talk with the old man was not difficult. But the old man didn't seem disposed to move directly into business, so Kevin kept up the prattle, all the while hoping the line was as secure as the Chicago branch claimed and that the old man would want to move on to business soon.

"That is a shame," replied the old man, his crisp voice carrying clearly over the long-distance line. "It's really quite beautiful here in
Washington
. Carl and I went for a lovely walk along the Mall this morning. The tourists are already flocking in, but even they couldn't spoil the flowers, the grass just turning green, the cherry trees beginning to bloom. Quite lovely."

"I'm sure it was, sir."

"Yes, well, enough of pleasure. I understand from your -report that Rose made another contact. Any line on him yet?"

"Yes, sir, although he seems a little unusual. His name is Woodward, Charles Woodward. He lives alone in
Cicero
in a cheap apartment, works for a franchised retail electronics outlet downtown and keeps pretty much to himself. He's single, has no close friends that we've been able to turn up. But of course, we're keeping our interest very, very quiet. He seems to be a typical urban hermit.

"No one has anything on him, FBI, IRS, Secret Service,
Chicago
police, nobody. He's got a genuine background, no record of foreign travel, no large sums of money in the bank or signs of income beyond his means. He's such a clean citizen he's almost invisible."

The line was silent for several moments while the old man thought. Finally he said, "Interesting, Kevin, very interesting. We're sure this Woodward and Rose made contact?"

"Yes, sir. We couldn't get too close to them because they mostly stayed in open areas, just open enough to see what went on around them but close enough to crowds so they could blend in and out. We were using an older woman in one of the surveillance teams. She managed to spend some time in the concession stand where they ate lunch. She carried a purse with a small movie camera built in, so we have ,some excellent films of them talking together. I've sent them on to
Langley
for the lip-readers to watch, but I don't think they'll get anything out of them. I wish she had carried a scope mike too, but we were afraid it might not work out.