Three Days of the Condor (3 page)

"Look, Rich," he said, "I know this mess causes problems for you, but I'm afraid I can't help you out. Maybe one of the other analysts knows something I don't, but I doubt it. If you want my advice, you'll forget the whole thing and cover it up. In case you haven't guessed, that's what your predecessor Johnson always did. If you want to press things, I suggest you don't go to Dr. Lappe. He'll get upset, muddy the whole mess beyond belief, blow it out of proportion, and everybody will be unhappy."

Malcolm stood up and walked to the door. Looking back, he saw a small, trembling man sitting behind an open ledger and a draftsman's light.

Malcolm walked as far as Mrs. Russell's desk before he let out his sigh of relief. He threw what was left of the cold coffee down the sink, and went upstairs to his room, sat down, put his feet up on his desk, farted, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them a minute later he was staring at his Picasso print of Don Quixote. The print appropriately hung on his half-painted red wall. Don Quixote was responsible for Ronald Leonard Malcolm's exciting position as a Central Intelligence agent. Two years.

In September of 1970, Malcolm took his long delayed Master's written examination. Everything went beautifully for the first two hours: he wrote a stirring explanation of Plato's allegory of the cave, analyzed the condition of two of the travelers in Chaucer's
Canterbury Tales
, discussed the significance of rats in Camus's
The Plague,
and faked his way through Holden Caulfield's struggle against homosexuality in
Catcher in the Rye.
Then he turned to the last page and ran into a brick wall that demanded, "Discuss in depth at least three significant incidents in Cervantes'
Don Quixote,
including in the discussion the symbolic meaning of each incident, its relation to the other two incidents and the plot as a whole, and show how Cervantes used these incidents to characterize Don Quixote and Sancho Panza."

Malcolm had never read
Don Quixote
. For five precious minutes he stared at the test. Then, very carefully, he opened a fresh examination book and began to write:

"I have never read
Don Quixote
, but I think he was defeated by a windmill. I am not sure what happened to Sancho Panza.

"The adventures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, a team generally regarded as seeking justice, can be compared to the adventures of Rex Stout's two most famous characters, Nero Wolfe and Archie Goodwin. For example, in the classic Wolfe adventure
The Black Mountain
…"

After finishing a lengthy discussion of Nero Wolfe, using
The Black Mountain
as a focal point, Malcolm turned in his completed examination, went home to his apartment, and contemplated his bare feet.

Two days later he was called to the office of the professor of Spanish Literature. To his surprise, Malcolm was not chastised for his examination answer. Instead, the professor asked Malcolm if he was interested in "murder mysteries." Startled, Malcolm told the truth: reading such books helped him maintain some semblance of sanity in college. Smiling, the professor asked if he would like to "so maintain your sanity for money?" Naturally, Malcolm said, he would. The professor made a phone call, and that day Malcolm lunched with his first CIA agent.

It is not unusual for college professors, deans, and other academic personnel to act as CIA recruiters. In the early 1950s a Yale coach recruited a student who was later caught infiltrating Red China.

Two months later Malcolm was finally "cleared for limited employment," as are 17 percent of all CIA applicants. After a special, cursory training period, Malcolm walked up the short flight of iron stairs of the American Literary Historical Society to Mrs. Russell, Dr. Lappe, and his first day as a full-fledged intelligence agent.

Malcolm sighed at the wall, his calculated victory over Dr. Lappe. His third day at work, Malcolm quit wearing a suit and tie. One week of gentle hints passed before Dr. Lappe called him in for a little chat about etiquette. While the good Doctor agreed that bureaucracies tended to be a little stifling, he implied that one really should find a method other than "unconventional" dress for letting in the sun. Malcolm said nothing, but the next day he showed up for work early, properly dressed in suit and tie and carrying a large box. By the time Walter reported to Dr. Lappe at ten, Malcolm had almost finished painting one of his walls fire-engine red. Dr. Lappe sat in stunned silence while Malcolm innocently explained his newest method for letting in the sun. When two other analysts began to pop into the office to exclaim their approval, the good Doctor quietly stated that perhaps Malcolm had been right to brighten the individual rather than the institution. Malcolm sincerely and quickly agreed. The red paint and painting equipment moved to the third-floor storage room. Malcolm's suit and tie once more vanished. Dr. Lappe chose individual rebellion rather than inspired collective revolution against government property.

Malcolm sighed to nostalgia before he resumed describing a classic John Dickson Carr method for creating "locked-door" situations.

Meanwhile Heidegger had been busy. He took Malcolm's advice concerning Dr. Lappe, but he was too frightened to try and hide a mistake from the Company. If they could catch you in the bathroom, no place was safe. He also knew that if he could pull a coup, rectify a malfunctioning situation, or at least show he could responsibly recognize problems, his chances of being reinstated in grace would greatly increase. So through ambition and paranoia (always a bad combination) Richard Heidegger made his fatal mistake.

He wrote a short memo to the chief of mother Department 17. In carefully chosen, obscure, but leading terms, he described what he had told Malcolm. All memos were usually cleared through Dr. Lappe, but exceptions were not unknown. Had Heidegger followed the normal course of procedure, everything would have been fine, for Dr. Lappe knew better than to let a memo critical of his section move up the chain of command. Heidegger guessed this, so he personally put the envelope in the delivery bag.

* * *

Twice a day, once in the morning and once in the evening, two cars of heavily armed men pick up and deliver intra-agency communications from all CIA substations in the Washington area. The communications are driven the eight miles to Langley, where they are sorted for distribution. Rich's memo went out in the afternoon pickup.

A strange and unorthodox thing happened to Rich's memo. Like all communications to and from the Society, the memo disappeared from the delivery room before the sorting officially began. The memo appeared on the desk of a wheezing man in a spacious east-wing office. The man read it twice, once quickly, then again, very, very slowly. He left the room and arranged for all files pertaining to the Society to disappear and reappear at a Washington location. He then came back and telephoned to arrange a date at a current art exhibit. Next he reported in sick and caught a bus for the city. Within an hour he was engaged in earnest conversation with a distinguished-looking gentleman who might have been a banker. They talked as they strolled up Pennsylvania Avenue.

That night the distinguished-looking gentleman met yet another man, this time in Clyde's, a noisy, crowded Georgetown bar frequented by the Capitol Hill crowd. They too took a walk, stopping occasionally to gaze at reflections in the numerous shopwindows. The second man was also distinguished-looking. Striking is a more correct adjective. Something about his eyes told you he definitely was not a banker. He listened while the first man talked.

"I am afraid we have a slight problem."

"Really?"

"Yes. Weatherby intercepted this today." He handed the second man Heidegger's memo.

The second man had to read it only once. "I see what you mean."

"I knew you would. We really must take care of this, now."

"I will see to it."

"Of course."

"You realize that there may be other complications besides this," the second man said as he gestured with Heidegger's memo, "which may have to be taken care of."

"Yes. Well, that is regrettable, but unavoidable." The second man nodded and waited for the first man to continue. "We must be very sure, completely sure about those complications." Again the second man nodded, waiting. "And there is one other element. Speed. Time is of the absolute essence. Do what you must to follow that assumption."

The second man thought for a moment and then said, "Maximum speed may necessitate… cumbersome and sloppy activity."

The first man handed him a portfolio containing all the "disappeared" files and said, "Do what you must."

The two men parted after a brief nod of farewell. The first man walked four blocks and turned the corner before he caught a taxi.

He was glad the meeting was over. The second man watched him go, waited a few minutes scanning the passing crowds, then headed for a bar and a telephone.

That morning at 3:15 Heidegger unlocked his door to the knock of police officers. When he opened the door he found two men in ordinary clothes smiling at him. One was very tall and painfully thin. The other was quite distinguished, but if you looked in his eyes you could tell he wasn't a banker.

The two men shut the door behind them.

These activities have their own rules and methods of concealment which seek to mislead and obscure.

—President Dwight D. Eisenhower, 1960

Chapter 2

Thursday, Morning to Early Afternoon

The rain came back Thursday. Malcolm woke with the start of a cold— congested, tender throat and a slightly woozy feeling. In addition to waking up sick, he woke up late. He thought for several minutes before deciding to go to work. Why waste sick time on a cold? He cut himself shaving, couldn't make the hair over his ears stay down, had trouble putting in his right contact lens, and found that his raincoat had disappeared. As he ran the eight blocks to work it dawned on him that he might be too late to see The Girl.

When he hit Southeast A, he looked up the block just in time to see her disappear into the Library of Congress. He watched her so intently he didn't look where he was going and he stepped in a deep puddle. He was more embarrassed than angry, but the man he saw in the blue sedan parked just up from the Society didn't seem to notice the blunder. Mrs. Russell greeted Malcolm with a curt " 'Bout time." On the way to his room, he spilled his coffee and burned his hand. Some days you just can't win.

Shortly after ten there was a soft knock on his door, and Tamatha entered his room. She stared at him for a few seconds through her thick glasses, a timid smile on her lips. Her hair was so thin Malcolm thought he could see each individual strand.

"Ron," she whispered, "do you know if Rich is sick?"

"No!" Malcolm yelled, and then loudly blew his nose.

"Well, you don't need to bellow! I'm worried about him. He's not here and he hasn't called in."

"That's too fuckin' bad." Malcolm drew the words out, knowing that swearing made Tamatha nervous.

"What's eating
you
, for heaven's sake?" she said.

"I've got a cold."

"I'll get you an aspirin."

"Don't bother," he said ungraciously. "It wouldn't help."

"Oh, you're impossible! Goodbye!" She left, closing the door smartly behind her.

Sweet Jesus, Malcolm thought, then went back to Agatha Christie.

At 11:15 the phone rang. Malcolm picked it up and heard the cool voice of Dr. Lappe.

"Malcolm, I have an errand for you, and it's your turn to go for lunch. I assume everyone will wish to stay in the building." Malcolm looked out the window at the pouring rain and came to the same conclusion. Dr. Lappe continued. "Consequently, you might as well kill two birds with one stone and pick up lunch on the way back from the errand. Walter is already taking food orders. Since you have to drop a package at the Old Senate Office Building, I suggest you pick up the food at Hap's. You may leave now."

Five minutes later a sneezing Malcolm trudged through the basement to the coalbin exit at the rear of the building. No one had known the coalbin exit existed, as it hadn't been shown on the original building plans. It stayed hidden until Walter moved a chest of drawers while chasing a rat and found the small, dusty door that opened behind the lilac bushes. The door can't be seen from the outside, but there is enough room to squeeze between the bushes and the wall. The door only opens from the inside.

Malcolm muttered to himself all the way to the Old Senate Office Building. He sniffled between mutters. The rain continued. By the time he reached the building, the rain had changed his suède jacket from a light tan to a black brown. The blond receptionist in the Senator's office took pity on him and gave him a cup of coffee while he dried out. She said he was "officially" waiting for the Senator to confirm delivery of the package. She coincidentally finished counting the books just as Malcolm finished his coffee. The girl smiled nicely, and Malcolm decided delivering murder mysteries to a senator might not be a complete waste.

Normally, it's a five-minute walk from the Old Senate Office Building to Hap's, but the rain had become a torrent, so Malcolm made the trip in three minutes. Hap's is a favorite of Capitol Hill employees because it's quick, tasty, and has its own brand of class. It is a cross between a small Jewish delicatessen and a Montana bar. Malcolm gave his carry-out list to a waitress, ordered a meatball sandwich and milk for himself.

While Malcolm had been sipping coffee in the Senator's office, a gentleman in a raincoat with his hat hiding much of his face turned the corner from First Street and walked up Southeast A to the blue sedan. The custom-cut raincoat matched the man's striking appearance, but there was no one on the street to notice. He casually but completely scanned the street and buildings, then gracefully climbed in the front seat of the sedan. As he firmly shut the door, he looked at the driver and said, "Well?"

Without taking his eyes off the building, the driver wheezed, "All present or accounted for, sir."