Shadow of the Condor (25 page)

‘’Why?"

"Your hunch about the phone booth paid off. Unfortunately, Woodward used two phones, one as a contact with his control and one for Rose to call in to. He told Rose that the FBI might be onto both of them and gave him some code signals. No chance of breaking them. Evidently Woodward's paranoia got the best of him and he just started blasting."

"What do we do now?"

"I'm not sure. A lot depends on Rose, it's his move. What and how is he doing?"

"He made the call from a caf6 in Minot, finished his breakfast, then went north on fifty-two, following the MO he has been using the last couple days: changing speeds, stopping at every rest stop for varying lengths of time. He cut east on a country road and picked up eighty-three going south. Doubling back again. If he's planning something different, he certainly doesn't show it."

"He may be assuming that we could be watching him, but unless you're wrong, he can't know that for sure. The Woodward warning was too indefinite. I hope the code contained nothing more certain.

"I'm assuming he'll continue with the mission, but he'll be twice as cautious and twice as careful."

"Do you think he'll go for outside help? Call up any agents they might have in the area?"

The old man had considered this ' point at great length. "No.. Something tells me he's pretty much on his own. I doubt he will try to contact Woodward again. Not only is the man erratic, he is by his own admission possibly contaminated. No, I think Rose will go his merry way. Watch him, Kevin, watch him closely."

"Yes, sir. Are you taking any other precautions?"

"Well, since Woodward is down, there is no sense leaving the rest of Rose's chain complete. Besides, we may be able to sweat something out of them. I hate to do it, but we're having all his contacts picked up.

"Naturally, I think we should put the whole chain out of operation and I hope we can learn something from them. But we have to use the FBI. For one thing, they've been clamoring for the chance to make some big arrests ever since this little mission got under way. The Forty Committee simply wouldn't allow me to jump over the bureau's prerogatives. Damn unfortunate too. Why, if we had those contacts for twenty-four hours without all the arrest formalities, there's no telling what we might come up with. I had to fight to get the bureau to keep, their arrest as quiet as possible. No sense letting our Rose pick up a newspaper and find out his worst suspicions are true."

"How long do you think you can keep the lid on?"

"Possibly a couple of days. I'm having them charged with mail fraud rather than espionage. Of course, there win never be any evidence to show mail fraud, but at least we can hold them for twenty-four hours without a lot of publicity. If they can't go bail, perhaps we can hold them longer. We may even be able to convince them to cooperate and not have to worry about when we file formal espionage charges. We've at least convinced the
Chicago
police to treat Woodward's death as a foiled holdup at tempt. That should keep it off the national news. Oh, it's a fine mess back here, Kevin. Carl and I are fairly hopping. I wish I were out in the field with you and Condor."

"I'm sure you do, sir. But what you're doing back there is just as important."

The sigh carried clearly over the airwaves. "I suppose so, Kevin, I suppose so. But whatever you do, don't lose sight of our Rose. Be careful, be very careful. If it comes to a choice of losing him or, bringing him in, bring him in. Unfortunately, he'll go to the bureau, but at least we stopped his mission. I hope it doesn't come to that. I doubt he would voluntarily tell us anything, and then we'd never know, we'd never know."

Nurich continued south on U.S. 83, using the same erratic driving techniques. The surveillance teams were forced to stay well away from him, watching the tiny blip on the radar screen, catching actual sight of his car only on rare occasions.

Three miles north of Underwood, a major highway intersection, 'the surveillance teams watched the blip take a slight detour, then stop. The surveillance teams pulled off the road, an uncomfortable position, given that U.S. 83 is only a two-lane highway.

"It's another rest stop, sir," the patrolman said to Kevin. "Actually it's not even much of one. Just a picnic table and some trash cans."

"It looks like there's another blip on the screen."

"Probably another parked car," replied the patrolman. "Remember the ones we saw the other day? Look, it's pulling away. Our boy is still waiting, watching for us to come down on him."

Kevin picked up the mike, "All units, maintain your position."

Twenty minutes later Rose still had not moved. Kevin picked up the mike-again and ordered one of the non-radar equipped units to cruise past the rest stop.

Barely two minutes passed before an ~excited voice came over Kevin's radio. "Central! Centrall This is McClatchy. We cruised by the' area. His car is there, but it looks deserted. We can't see a soul around and there's no place he could be hiding!"

"Central to all units, we're heading in. McClatchy, wait until one of us arrives, then hit it too. Units two and lead radar, stay in your position. You each block one end of the highway. Now gol"

Four cars slid to a grinding halt on the gravel-covered ground at the rest stop. Kevin and his fellow agents jumped from, their cars with drawn guns. Rose's car was empty.

"Okay," commanded Kevin tersely "you three spread out across the fields, check for any signs he went on foot. The rest of you stay put, and don't touch the car any more than necessary."

Kevin ran back to his car. "This is Central to radar one, do you read me?"

Five miles down the road the lead radar car commander picked up his mike and nervously replied, "I'm here, sir."

"Rose has flown. By any chance, you didn't happen to see him pass you driving or as a passenger in any car, did you?’’

"Negative, but then we were concentrating on the blip. Easily a dozen cars have passed us. We're parked by a gravel pile and dirt-road intersection. We didn't note any of the cars that passed us."

Kevin limply cradled the mike in his hand while he stared at the ground and silently cursed. His head throbbed. Finally he raised the mike and began to transmit on the extended range frequency. "This is Central One to Base. Come in, Base, Alpha One." Kevin used the highest-priority message he could send.

"This is Base, Central One, standing by for Alpha-One."

"Well, you got it. Rose has gone underground and we've lost him."

One of the jurors had a pencil that squeaked. This, of course, Alice could not stand, and she went round the court and got behind him, and very soon found an opportunity of taking it away. She did it so quickly that the poor little juror (it was Bill, the Lizard) could not make out at all what had become of it; so, after hunting all about for it, he was obliged to write with one finger)for the rest of the day; and this was of very little use, as it left no mark on the slate.

The wind drove the raindrops against the windows with wavelike intensity. The panes steamed up slightly, the interaction of the warm humid air inside with the cool rain falling outside. Malcolm reached behind the dainty curtains to draw a circle on the fogged window. The glass squeaked slightly, but the noise wasn't audible above the boisterous conversations and the clatter of crockery inside the truck stop. The rain began shortly before lunch. The clouds had been there since the night before, but the weatherman cautious from years of forecasting the erratic and usually unpredictable Great Plains, offered only 50:50 odds, so Malcolm doubted he could justify not going out on the survey that day. In fact, strictly speaking, a rainy day in which the farmers would be forced inside was the best time to take the survey.

But Malcolm wasn't concerned about the survey. He was more worried about his cover. He and Sheila had finished the third quadrant. Malcolm knew he could prolong his stay by "tabulating" the results of the survey, but his cover would wear thinner each day he spent not visibly working."

The rain caught Malcolm and Sheila seventeen miles from
Shelby
at nine fifteen, just after their first stop of the day. At first it looked like a brief shower, barely enough to settle the dust on the dirt and gravel road. But thick dark clouds from the north followed, and by nine thirty Malcolm was having difficulty driving through the road's low spots. He-knew he could use the jeep's four-wheel drive to pull out of any mud he would encounter, and he knew that the road's quality improved a few miles farther away. But he also knew he couldn't afford to waste a good excuse, so he and Sheila headed back to
Shelby
, the survey called off for the day because of inclement weather and poor roads.

Sheila suggested stopping at the truck stop for coffee before returning to the motel. Malcolm thought she made the suggestion to avoid being alone with him. Malcolm welcomed her idea. He felt uncomfortable alone with her too.

They still shared the bed. On one level, tensions between them had eased considerably. The humor and ease of conversation they feigned in public began to carry over in private. Malcolm noticed she even laughed more when they were alone than she had before. Sheila found Malcolm more relaxed, less anxious to put on his false flippant front. These changes were apparent to both of them and just as apparently made both of them nervous on a newer, deeper level. As they lowered their personal guards, they became more and more careful about their professional relationship. Malcolm carefully explained exactly what he was doing and why. Sheila issued her orders even more formally than before.

And, Malcolm noted ruefully, she still carried the gun with her wherever they went.

She had it now, under her nylon windbreaker, tucked high under her left armpit in a shoulder holster. The rig allowed her to wear the jacket almost open. Malcolm professionally noticed that whenever men looked at her upper body they stared at the thrust of her high breasts, not at her armpits or waist, where she mighty carry a gun. Male attention was especially apparent today when she wore a thin, dark blouse. Her bra, highly visible, seemed barely able to contain her breasts, a fascinating effect, for she was not large-busted, even for her size. Malcolm found himself more and more frequently watching her breasts rise and fall under the flimsy material. Every time he caught himself staring, he deliberately shifted his gaze to her armpit where he knew the gun waited.

By this time they were familiar sights at the truck stop. A few faces they recognized nodded a polite greeting when they entered. All the tables were full. It was ten o'clock, the traditional morning break time. A rainy day filled the restaurant with men no longer able to work outdoors. The city maintenance crew occupied the two big tables, and .the maintenance crew from the local gas cooperative filled most of the others. Carpenters, handymen, plumbers lined the counter. Two weary tourists, a married couple returning to
Pennsylvania
from
Oregon
, glumly sat in the corner, hoping the rain wouldn't slow them down anymore, but it was largely a boisterous local crowd. The rain was good for the wheat crop, and since agriculture dictated much of the town's economy, a good crop meant a good year for the town.

At first Malcolm thought they 'wouldn't find a place to sit, but a large hand shot up from a group huddled around a table on the -far side of the room to motion them over. It was Stuart. He introduced them to three happy farmers who stood by him, whereupon the farmers left, headed for home before the rains soaked their roads.

Sheila seemed to catch the crowd's boisterous mood. She and Stuart exchanged witticisms and light conversation. Malcolm watched them, feeling almost removed from the scene. Sheila sat across. from him. She would smile whenever he made eye contact with her, then quickly look back to Stuart.- Malcolm felt very old and very tired. He peered out the window at the rain and doodled on the fogged glass.

As Malcolm traced meaningless designs on the steamed window, an unmarked black car pulled up to a warehouse -loading dock in
Cicero
,
Illinois
. Three heavyset men, their overcoats unbuttoned against the morning chill, walked confidently to where Fritz Pulaski stood reading directions to his men from a clipboard. The trio waited until the drivers turned to their trucks. Pulaski looked up. A smile tried to twitch across his face, but quickly failed. He. hung his head so no one would see him cry. The three mien silently, easily led him to the car and drove away. Their partners had already taken Pulaski's wife from their home.

"But it has been very interesting and fun," Malcolm heard Sheila say. "I haven't been bored out here at all. Neither of us has, meeting so many interesting people. And it's such a change -from
Washington
. Don't you agree, Malcolm?"

Her comment pulled Malcolm back from his dreams.

Time to contribute, he thought. "Yes, I do. Why, where else would we get the chance to meet people like'~--Malcolm groped for a good story opener, something he could say which would start Stuart on a long, rambling tale, relieving Malcolm of the obligation to carry on a conversation like the Robinsons. Those must have been quite some days when they homesteaded out here."

Instead of launching into a story about the early days, Stuart gave Malcolm a puzzled look. "Me Robinsons? What Robinsons?"

Stuart's reaction caught Malcolm, unprepared, and he stammered, "Why, ah, the Whitlash Robinsons. You know, Neil, and ._. . and his wife, .,or at least their parents like Grandmother Stowe and Neil's folks."

"They told you about homesteading?" Stuart's voice was incredulous.

"Well, not exactly, but Neil did mention that their family had been here since the homesteading days."

"You sure we're talking about the same ones? The Robinsons in Whitlash?"

Malcolm nodded.

"Hmm..That don't seem right." Stuart frowned for a moment. "As near as I remember . . . ... He leaned back in his chair and yelled to the city maintenance crew table, "Hey, McLaughlin!"

A short stocky man with a salt-and-pepper steel-wool crew cut leaned back in his chair to stare at Stuart in mock reprobation. "And what do you want, old man?"

"Not much from you. When did ol' Neil Robinson and his folks come out here?"

"You mean the Whitlash ones? Hell, must have been oh, somewhere around fifty-two or fifty-three. I know it was after
Korea
, but before my youngest kid was born, so that puts it right in there somewhere. Why?"

"No reason, just refreshing my memory. Thanks."

"I don't understand," Malcolm said when Stuart shifted his gaze back to him. "He couldn't have had any homesteaders in his family if they came here in the fifties, could he?"

Stuart grinned. "No, he sure couldn't. That used to be the
Florence
place. Them and the McKees built all them houses back in the Depression. Both the, Robinsons and the Kincaids came long after that, mid-fifties for sure. No homesteading done by them.. Hell, Old Man Gorton is the only one who's been out there as far back a& World War Two. At the rate he's dying, he'll probably still be there when the Robinsons' and Kincaids ~are long gone, although why anyone would want to live in Whitlash is beyond me."

"Why would they lie to me?" Malcolm asked quietly.

"Well, I figure they thought they might pull a little fun on an Easterner, pump him full of stupid stories about the Wild West. That happens a lot out here."

"I suppose it does," said Sheila. She didn't understand the conversation, but she recognized Malcolm's interesti

"How big is the Robinson farm?" asked Malcolm.

"Hard to say right off the top of my head. Not big, though. Just as well, they don't work it much harder than they have W. They do okay. Listen, you want to hear about some real homesteading, none of that crap you see on TV or got from the Whitlash folks, wait till you meet the Boyles. Old man Boyle one day told me about the time. . . ."

Anna Brooks emerged from the subway in downtown
Manhattan
just as Stuart began his mostly true story of the homesteading days. She took three steps before she noticed the man behind her was walking so close he almost trod on her heels. An experienced New Yorker, she ignored him and quickened her pace. Her first thought was that he might be a mugger. She turned the corner onto
Fifth Avenue
. The man was still there. Three steps down
Fifth Avenue
two large men in overcoats blocked her path, forcing her to stop in front of them. As she pulled up short, the man behind her firmly grasped her right elbow. Before she could turn to face him, one of the men in front of her held a set of credentials for her to read. She stared at them blankly for a moment, then flashed her eyes to the holder. He returned her gaze coldly. The man behind her twisted her arm, steering her into the backseat of a black sedan which had pulled up at the curb. The men climbed in the car too, then the vehicle sped away. None of the bustling commuters and shoppers noticed.

Stuart's story lasted well over three minutes. By then Malcolm and Sheila had finished their coffee, and Malcolm thought it would be safe to depart without showing undue urgency. Outside, the rain still beat down mercilessly.

Sheila said nothing as they dashed for the jeep, but as soon as they were inside and the doors were shut, she turned to him and asked, "What's wrong? You acted awfully funny in there when you were talking about the Robinsons.

Why?"

Malcolm looked at her briefly as he concentrated on starting the jeep's damp motor. Rain had soaked part of her blouse, making it even more transparent. He ignored the dark shine of her breasts and said, "They lied to me, the Robinsons lied. And when I talked to the Kincaids, they gave the same general impression that their family had been there since the pioneer days."

"Perhaps Stuart is right. These people like to kid."

"Maybe," said Malcolm. The engine caught. He turned on the wipers, slipped the jeep into reverse and backed out of his parking spot. As the jeep lurched forward into the rain, he said, "But this is the first thing I've come across that doesn't click right. And I think I know how I can check."

Twentieth-century man fuels his civilization with paper. Paper records his society's structure, man's progress through life, his culture and his knowledge. Men build themselves many lives: as others see them, as they see themselves, as they wish themselves. Men also build a paper life, a record of their comings and goings through the civilization's checkpoints. Marriages, births, deaths, illnesses, employment taxes, schooling, property holdings, Social Security, credit ratings, census and other paper recollections build and shape a man's life. To really know a man, you must examine as many of his lives as you can. To know a great deal about him, you often need examine only his paper life.

It took Malcolm and Sheila three hours to find what they were looking for. Malcolm even insisted on bringing their hamburgers back to the courthouse with them as they searched through the dusty county records of land transactions. They amazed the county clerk with their diligence. She watched them with a growing respect for federal employees. If they would take their lunch hour to check over old land records to complete their survey on time,
America
couldn't be in as bad shape as she thought.

Sheila found it. She barely contained her excitement as she carried the dusty ledger to Malcolm at the next table.

"Look," he whispered to her, carefully controlling his voice even though no one else was in the attic with them, "the transaction from John Florence to Neil Robinson, effective date, February third, 1952. And look at this. On most of the other transactions we've seen through this period, the clerk noted what institution the farmer financed the transaction through. But not here. The sale isn't dated complete for ten years. Probably some payments made each year. But it doesn't show where the money came from."

"And you think that's fishy."

"Yes," replied Malcolm, "I do. Or at least very strange."

They found the records on the Kincaid sale half an hour later. The Kincaids initiated the sale in 1955 and, like the Robinsons, finished paying for their land in ten years.

"So what have we got?" asked Sheila as they walked from the courthouse. The rain had stopped momentarily, but more clouds were moving in from the north. Sheila and Malcolm walked downhill. The courthouse was a block from their motel. Malcolm turned her toward the public library directly across from the motel.