The big man stirred in his chair. “Mitchell,” he said, “if it’s all right with you, I think I’ll stay around and give you a hand. After all, I am head of Department 17.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mitchell replied, “I’ll be glad of any help you can give us.”
The big man grunted and settled down to wait.
If you had been walking down Southeast A just behind the Library of Congress at 1:09 on that cloudy Thursday afternoon, you would have been startled by a sudden flurry of activity. Half a dozen men sprang out of nowhere and converged on a three-story white building. Just before they reached the door, two cars, one on each side of the road, double-parked almost in front of the building. A man sat in the back seat of each car, peering intently at the building and cradling something in his arms. The six men on foot went through the gate together, but only one climbed the steps. He fiddled with a large ring of keys and the lock. When the door clicked, he nodded to the others. After throwing the door wide open and hesitating for an instant, the six men poured inside, slamming the door behind them. A man got out of each car. They slowly began to pace up and down in front of the building. As the cars pulled away to park, the drivers both nodded at men standing on the corners.
Three minutes later the door opened. A man left the building and walked slowly toward the closest parked car. Once inside, he picked up a phone. Within seconds he was talking to Mitchell.
“They were hit all right, hard.” The man speaking was Allan Newberry. He had seen combat in Vietnam, at the Bay of Pigs, in the mountains of Turkey, dozens of alleys, dark buildings, and basements all over the world, yet Mitchell could feel uneasy sickness in the clipped voice.
“How and how bad?” Mitchell was just beginning to believe.
“Probably a two- to five-man team, no sign of forcible entry. They must have used silenced machine guns of some sort or the whole town would have heard. Six dead in the building, four men, two women. Most of them probably didn’t know what hit them. No signs of an extensive search, security camera and film destroyed. Phones are dead, probably cut somewhere. A couple of bodies will have to be worked on before identity can be definitely established. Neat, clean, and quick. They knew what they were doing down to the last detail, and they knew how to do it.”
Mitchell waited until he was sure Newberry had finished. “OK. This is beyond me. I’m going to hold definite action until somebody upstairs orders it. Meantime you and your men sit tight. Nothing is to be moved. I want that place frozen and sealed but good. Use whatever means you must.”
Mitchell paused, both to emphasize his meaning and to hope he wasn’t making a mistake. He had just authorized Newberry’s team to do anything, including premeditated, nondefensive kills, Stateside action without prior clearance. Murder by whim, if they thought the whim might mean something. The consequences of such a rare order could be very grave for all concerned. Mitchell continued. “I’m sending out more men to cover the neighborhood as additional security. I’ll also send out a crime lab team, but they can only do things that won’t disturb the scene. They’ll bring a communications setup, too. Understand?”
“I understand. Oh, there’s something a little peculiar we’ve found.”
Mitchell said, “Yes?”
“Our radio briefing said there was only one door. We found two. Make any sense to you?”
“None,” said Mitchell, “but nothing about this whole thing makes sense. Is there anything else?”
“Just one thing.” The voice grew colder. “Some son of a bitch butchered a little girl on the third floor. He didn’t hit her, he butchered her.” Newberry signed off.
“What now?” asked the big man.
“We wait,” said Mitchell, leaning back in his wheelchair. “We sit and wait for Condor to call.”
At 1:40 Malcolm found a phone booth in the Capitol. With change acquired from a bubbly teen-age girl he dialed the panic number. It didn’t even finish one complete ring.
“493–7282.” The voice on the phone was tense.
“This is Condor, Section 9, Department 17. I’m in a public phone booth, I don’t think I was followed, and I’m pretty sure I can’t be heard.”
“You’ve been confirmed. We’ve got to get you to Langley, but we’re afraid to let you come in solo. Do you know the Circus 3 theaters in the Georgetown district?”
“Yes.”
“Could you be there in an hour?”
“Yes.”
“OK. Now, who do you know at least by sight who’s stationed at Langley?”
Malcolm thought for a moment. “I had an instructor code-named Sparrow IV.”
“Hold on.” Through priority use of the computer and communications facilities, Mitchell verified Sparrow IV’s existence and determined that he was in the building. Two minutes later he said, “OK, this is what is going to happen. Half an hour from now Sparrow IV and one other man will park in a small alley behind the theaters. They’ll wait exactly one hour. That gives you thirty minutes leeway either direction. There are three entrances to the alley you can take on foot. All three allow you to see anybody in front of you before they see you. When you’re sure you’re clean, go down the alley. If you see anything or anybody suspicious, if Sparrow IV and his partner aren’t there or somebody is with them, if a God damn pigeon is at their feet, get your ass out of there, find someplace safe, and call in. Do the same if you can’t make it. OK?”
“OKahahaachoo!”
Mitchell almost shot out of his wheelchair. “What the hell was that? Are you OK?”
Malcolm wiped the phone off. “Yes, sir, I’m fine. Sorry, I have a cold. I know what to do.”
“For the love of Christ.” Mitchell hung up. He leaned back in his chair. Before he could say anything, the big man spoke.
“Look here, Mitchell. If you have no objection, I’ll accompany Sparrow IV. The Department is my responsibility, and there’s no young tough around here who can carry off what might be a tricky situation any better, tired old man as I may be.”
Mitchell looked at the big, confident man across from him, then smiled. “OK. Pick up Sparrow IV at the gate. Use your car. Have you ever met Condor?”
The big man shook his head. “No, but I think I’ve seen him. Can you supply a photo?”
Mitchell nodded and said, “Sparrow IV has one. Ordnance will give you anything you want, though I suggest a hand gun. Any preference?”
The big man walked toward the door. “Yes,” he said, looking back, “a .38 Special with silencer just in case we have to move quietly.”
“It’ll be waiting in the car, complete with ammo. Oh,” said Mitchell, stopping the big man as he was halfway out the door, “thanks again, Colonel Weatherby.”
The big man turned and smiled. “Think nothing of it, Mitchell. After all, it’s my job.” He closed the door behind him and walked toward his car. After a few steps he began to wheeze very softly.
Chapter 3
“Faulty execution of a winning combination has lost many a game on the very brink of victory. In such cases a player sees the winning idea, plays the winning sacrifice and then inverts the order of his follow-up moves or misses the really clinching point of his combination.”
Malcolm had little trouble finding a taxi, considering the weather. Twenty minutes later he paid the driver two blocks from the Circus theaters. Again he knew it was all-important that he stay out of sight. A few minutes later he sat at a table in the darkest corner of a bar crowded with men. The bar Malcolm chose is the most active male homosexual hangout in Washington. Starting with the early lunch hour at eleven and running until well after midnight, men of all ages, usually middle to upper middle class, fill the bar to find a small degree of relaxation among their own kind. It’s a happy as well as a “gay” bar. Rock music blares, laughter drifts into the street. The levity is strained, heavy with irony, but it’s there.