Obviously they’ve gone, he thought, or I’d be dead now. Who “they” were never entered his mind. He suddenly realized his vulnerability. My God, he thought, I have no gun, I couldn’t even fight them if they came back. Malcolm looked at Walter’s body and the heavy automatic strapped to the dead man’s belt. Blood covered the gun. Malcolm couldn’t bring himself to touch it. He ran to Walter’s desk. Walter kept a very special weapon clipped in the leg space of his desk, a sawed-off 20-gauge shotgun. The weapon held only one shell, but Walter often bragged how it saved his life at Chosen Reservoir. Malcolm grabbed it by its pistol-like butt. He kept it pointed at the closed door as he slowly sidestepped toward Mrs. Russell’s desk. Walter kept a revolver in her drawer, “just in case.” Mrs. Russell, a widow, had called it her “rape gun.” “Not to fight them off,” she would say, “but to encourage them.” Malcolm stuck the gun in his belt, then picked up the phone.
Dead. He punched all the lines. Nothing.
I have to leave, he thought, I have to get help. He tried to shove the shotgun under his jacket. Even sawed off, the gun was too long: the barrel stuck out through the collar and bumped his throat. Reluctantly, he put the shotgun back under Walter’s desk, thinking he should try to leave everything as he found it. After a hard swallow, he went to the door and looked out the wide-angled peephole. The street was empty. The rain had stopped. Slowly, standing well behind the wall, he opened the door. Nothing happened. He stepped out on the stoop. Silence. With a bang he closed the door, quickly walked through the gate and down the street, his eyes darting, hunting for anything unusual. Nothing.
Malcolm headed straight for the corner phone. Each of the four divisions of the CIA has an unlisted “panic number,” a phone number to be used only in the event of a major catastrophe, only if all other channels of communication are unavailable. Penalty for misuse of the number can be as stiff as expulsion from the service with loss of pay. Their panic number is the one top secret every CIA employee from the highest cleared director to the lowest cleared janitor knows and remembers.
The Panic Line is always manned by highly experienced agents. They have to be sharp even though they seldom do anything. When a panic call comes through, decisions must be made, quickly and correctly.
Stephen Mitchell was officer of the day manning ID’s Panic phone when Malcolm’s call came through. Mitchell had been one of the best traveling (as opposed to resident) agents in the CIA. For thirteen years he moved from trouble spot to trouble spot, mainly in South America. Then in 1967 a double agent in Buenos Aires planted a plastic bomb under the driver’s seat in Mitchell’s Simca. The double agent made an error: the explosion only blew off Mitchell’s legs. The error caught the double agent in the form of a wire loop tightened in Rio. The Agency, not wanting to waste a good man, shifted Mitchell to the Panic Section.
Mitchell answered the phone after the first ring. When he picked up the receiver a tape recorder came on and a trace automatically began.
“493–7282.” All CIA telephones are answered by their numbers.
“This is…” For a horrible second Malcolm forgot his code name. He knew he had to give his department and section number (to distinguish himself from other agents who might have the same code name), but he couldn’t remember his code name. He knew better than to use his real name. Then he remembered. “This is Condor, Section 9, Department 17. We’ve been hit.”
“Are you on an Agency line?”
“I’m calling from an open phone booth a little ways from… base. Our phones aren’t working.”
Shit, thought Mitchell, we have to use double talk. With his free hand he punched the Alert button. At five different locations, three in Washington, two in Langley, heavily armed men scurried to cars, turned on their engines, and waited for instructions. “How bad?”
“Maximum, total. I’m the only one who…”
Mitchell cut him off. “Right. Do any civilians in the area know?”
“I don’t think so. Somehow it was done quietly.”
“Are you damaged?”
“No.”
“Are you armed?”
“Yes.”
“Are there any hostiles in the area?”
Malcolm looked around. He remembered how ordinary the morning had seemed. “I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure.”
“Listen very closely. Leave the area, slowly, but get your ass away from there, someplace safe. Wait an hour. After you’re sure you’re clean, call again. That will be at 1:45. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“OK, hang up now, and remember, don’t lose your head.”
Mitchell broke the connection before Malcolm had taken the phone from his ear.
After Malcolm hung up, he stood on the corner for a few seconds, trying to formulate a plan. He knew he had to find someplace safe where he could hide unnoticed for an hour, someplace close. Slowly, very slowly, he turned and walked up the street. Fifteen minutes later he joined the Iowa City Jaycees on their tour of the nation’s Capitol building.
Even as Malcolm spoke to Mitchell, one of the largest and most intricate government machines in the world began to grind. Assistants monitoring Malcolm’s call dispatched four cars from Washington security posts and one car from Langley with a mobile medical team, all bound for Section 9, Department 17. The squad leaders were briefed and established procedure via radio as they homed in on the target. The proper Washington police precinct was alerted to the possibility of an assistance request by “federal enforcement officials.” By the time Malcolm hung up, all D.C. area CIA bases had received a hostile-action report. They activated special security plans. Within three minutes of the call all deputy directors were notified, and within six minutes the director, who had been in conference with the Vice-President, was personally briefed over a scrambled phone by Mitchell. Within eight minutes all the other main organs of America’s intelligence community received news of a possible hostile action.
In the meantime Mitchell ordered all files pertaining to the Society sent to his office. During a panic situation, the Panic officer of the day automatically assumes awesome power. He virtually runs much of the entire Agency until personally relieved by a deputy director. Only seconds after Mitchell ordered the files, Records called him back.
“Sir, the computer check shows all primary files on Section 9, Department 17, are missing.”
“They’re what?”
“Missing, sir.”
“Then send me the secondary set, and God damn it, send it under guard!” Mitchell slammed the phone down before the startled clerk could reply. Mitchell grabbed another phone and connected immediately. “Freeze the base,” he ordered. Within seconds all exits from the compound were sealed. Anyone attempting to leave or enter the area would have been shot. Red lights flashed throughout the buildings. Special security teams began clearing the corridors, ordering all those not engaged in Panic or Red priority business to return to their base offices. Reluctance or even hesitance to comply with the order meant a gun barrel in the stomach and handcuffs on the wrists.
The door to the Panic Room opened just after Mitchell froze the base. A large man strode firmly past the security guard without bothering to return the cursory salute. Mitchell was still on the phone, so the man settled down in a chair next to the second in command.
“What the hell is going on?” The man would normally have been answered without question, but right now Mitchell was God. The second looked at his chief. Mitchell, though still barking orders into the phone, heard the demand. He nodded to his second, who in turn gave the big man a complete synopsis of what had happened and what had been done. By the time the second had finished, Mitchell was off the phone, using a soiled handkerchief to wipe his brow.