“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 beganto 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.
Chapter 2
“These activities have their own rules and methods of concealment which seek to mislead and obscure.”
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.