“The key to this whole problem is Malcolm. He might be able to pinpoint the leak for us, or at least steer us in a particular direction. If he does, or if we turn up any links between Maronick’s operation and someone in the intelligence community, we will, of course, latch on to the suspect. But until we have a firm link, such an operation would be sloppy, hit-and-miss work. I don’t like that kind of job. It’s inefficient and usually not productive.”
Powell covered his embarrassment with a formal tone. “Sorry, sir. I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
The old man shook his head. “On the contrary, my boy,” he exclaimed, “you were thinking, and that’s very good. It’s the one thing we’ve never been able to train our people to do, and it’s one thing these massive organizations tend to discourage. It’s far better to have you thinking and proposing schemes which, shall we say, are hastily considered and poorly conceived, here in the office, than it is for you to be a robot in the street reacting blindly. That gets everyone into trouble, and it’s a good way to wind up dead. Keep thinking, Kevin, but be a little more thorough.”
“So the plan is still to find Malcolm and bring him home safe, right?”
The old man smiled. “Not exactly. I’ve done a lot of thinking about our boy Malcolm. He is our key. They, whoever they are, want our boy dead, and want him dead badly. If we can keep him alive, and if we can make him troublesome enough to them so that they center their activities on his demise, then we have turned Condor into a key. Maronick and company, by concentrating on Malcolm, make themselves into their own lock. If we are careful and just a shade lucky, we can use the key to open the lock. Oh, we still have to find our Condor, and quickly, before anyone else does. I’m making some additional arrangements to aid us along that line too. But when we find him, we prime him.
“After you’ve had some rest, my assistant will bring you instructions and any further information we receive.”
As Powell got up to go, he said, “Can you give me anything on Maronick?”
The old man said, “I’m having a friend in the French secret service send over a copy of their file on the flight from Paris. It won’t arrive until tomorrow. I could have had it quicker, but I didn’t want to alert the opposition. Outside of what you already know, I can only tell you that physically Maronick is reportedly a very striking man.”
Malcolm began to wake just as Powell left the old man’s office. For a few seconds he lay still, remembering all that had happened. Then a soft voice whispered in his ear, “Are you awake?”
Malcolm rolled over. Wendy rested on one elbow, shyly looking at him. His throat felt better and he sounded almost normal when he said, “Good morning.”
Wendy blushed. “I’m… I’m sorry about yesterday, I mean how mean I was. I just… I just have never seen or done anything like that and the shock…”
Malcolm shut her up with a kiss. “It’s OK. It was pretty horrible.”
“What are we going to do now?” she asked.
“I don’t know for sure. I think we should hole up here for at least a day or two.” He looked around the sparsely furnished room. “It may be a little dull.”
Wendy looked up at him and grinned. “Well, not too dull.” She kissed him lightly, then again. She pulled his mouth down to her small breast.
Half an hour later they still hadn’t decided anything.
“We can’t do that all the time,” Malcolm said at last.
Wendy made a sour face and said, “Why not?” But she sighed acceptance. “I know what we can do!” She leaned half out of the bed and groped on the floor. Malcolm grabbed her arm to keep her from falling.
“What the hell are you doing?” he said.
“I’m looking for my purse. I brought some books we can read out loud. You said you liked Yeats.” She rummaged under the bed. “Malcolm, I can’t find them, they aren’t here. Everything else is in my purse, but the books are missing. I must have… Owww!” Wendy jerked back on the bed and pried herself loose from Malcolm’s suddenly tightened grip. “Malcolm, what are you doing? That hurt…”
“The books. The missing books.” Malcolm turned and looked at her. “There is something about those missing books that’s important! That has to be the reason!”
Wendy was puzzled. “But they’re only poetry books. You can get them almost anywhere. I probably just forgot to bring them.”
“Not those books, the Society’s books, the ones Heidegger found missing!” He told her the story.
Malcolm felt the excitement growing. “If I can tell them about the missing books, it’ll give them something to start on. The reason my section was hit must have been the books. They found out Heidegger was digging up old records. They had to hit everybody in case someone else knew. If I can give the Agency those pieces, maybe they can put the puzzle together. At least I’ll have something more to give them than my story about how people get shot wherever I go. They frown on that.”
“But how will you tell the Agency? Remember what happened the last time you called them?”
Malcolm frowned. “Yes, I see what you mean. But the last time they set up a meeting. Even if the opposition has penetrated the Agency, even if they know what goes over the Panic Line, I still think we’re OK. With all that has gone on, I imagine dozens of people must be involved. At least some of them will be clean. They’ll pass on what I phone in. It should ring some right bells somewhere.” He paused for a moment. “Come on, we have to go back to Washington.”
“Hey, wait a minute!” Wendy’s outstretched hand missed its grasp on Malcolm’s arm as he bounded out of bed and into the bathroom. “Why are we going back there?”
The shower turned on. “Have to. A long-distance phone call can be traced in seconds, a local one takes longer.” The tempo of falling water on metal walls increased.
“But we might get killed!”
“What?”
Wendy yelled, but she tried to be as quiet as possible. “I said we might be killed.”
“Might get killed here too. You scrub my back and I’ll scrub yours.”
“I’m very disappointed, Maronick.” The sharp words cut through the strained air between the two men. The distinguished-looking speaker knew he had made a mistake when he saw the look in his companion’s eyes.
“My name is Levine. You will remember that. I suggest you do not make a slip like that again.” The striking man’s crisp words undercut the other man’s confidence, but the distinguished-looking gentleman tried to hide his discomposure.
“My slip is minor compared to the others that have been happening,” he said.
The man who wished to be called Levine showed no emotion to the average eye. An acute observer who had known him for some time might have detected the slight flush of frustrated anger and embarrassment.