“The operation is not yet over. There have been setbacks, but there has been no failure. Had there been failure, neither of us would be here.” As if to emphasize his point, he gestured toward the crowds milling around them. Sunday is a busy day for tourists at the Capitol building.
The distinguished-looking man regained his confidence. In a firm whisper he said, “Nevertheless there have been setbacks. As you so astutely pointed out, the operation is not yet over. I need not remind you that it was scheduled for completion three days ago. Three days. A good deal can happen in three days. For all our bumbling we have been very lucky. The longer the operation continues, the greater the risk that certain things will come to the fore. We both know how disastrous that could be.”
“Everything possible is being done. We must wait for another chance.”
“And if we don’t get another chance? What then, my fine friend, what then?”
The man called Levine turned and looked at him. Once again the other man felt nervous. Levine said, “Then we make our chance.”
“Well, I certainly hope there will be no more… setbacks.”
“I anticipate none.”
“Good. I shall keep you informed of all the developments in the Agency. I expect you to do the same with me. I think there is nothing further to say.”
“There is one other thing,” Levine said calmly. “Operations such as this sometimes suffer certain kinds of internal setbacks. Usually these… setbacks happen to certain personnel. These setbacks are planned by operation directors, such as yourself, and they are meant to be permanent. The common term for such a setback is double cross. If I were my director, I would be most careful to avoid any such setback, don’t you agree?” The pallor crossing the other man’s face told Levine there was no disagreement. Levine smiled politely, nodded farewell, and walked away. The distinguished man watched him stalk down the marble corridors and out of sight. The gentleman shuddered slightly, then went home to Sunday brunch with his wife, son, and a fidgety new daughter-in-law.
While Malcolm and Wendy dressed and the two men left the Capitol grounds, a telephone truck pulled up to the outer gates at Langley. After the occupants and their mission were cleared, they proceeded to the communications center. The two telephone repairmen were accompanied by a special security officer on loan from another branch. Most of the Agency men were looking for a man called Condor. The security officer had papers identifying him as Major David Burros. His real name was Kevin Powell, and the two telephone repairmen, ostensibly there to check the telephone tracing device, were highly trained Air Force electronics experts flown in from Colorado less than four hours before. After their mission was completed, they would be quarantined for three weeks. In addition to checking the tracing device, they installed some new equipment and made some complicated adjustments in the wiring of the old. Both men tried to keep calm while they worked from wiring diagrams labeled Top Secret. Fifteen minutes after they began work, they electronically signaled a third man in a phone booth four miles away. He called a number, let it ring until he received another signal, then hung up and walked quickly away. One of the experts nodded at Powell. The three men gathered their tools and left as unobtrusively as they had come.
An hour later Powell sat in a small room in downtown Washington. Two plainclothes policemen sat outside the door. Three of his fellow agents lounged in chairs scattered around the room. There were two chairs at the desk where Powell sat, but one was unoccupied. Powell talked into one of the two telephones on the desk.
“We’re hooked up and ready to go, sir. We’ve tested the device twice. It checked out from our end and our man in the Panic Room said everything was clear there. From now on, all calls made to Condor’s panic number will ring here. If it’s our boy, we’ll have him. If it’s not… Well, let’s hope we can fake it. Of course, we can also nullify the bypass and just listen in.”
The old man’s voice told his delight. “Excellent, my boy, excellent. How’s everything else working out?”
“Marian says the arrangements with the Post should be complete within the hour. I hope you realize how much our ass is in the fire on this. Someday we’ll have to tell the Agency we tapped their Panic Line, and they won’t appreciate that at all.”
The old man chuckled. “Don’t worry about that, Kevin. It’s been in the fire before and it will be there again. Besides, theirs is roasting too, and I imagine they won’t feel too bad if we pull it out for them. Any reports from the field?”
“Negative. Nobody reports a sign of Malcolm or the girl. When our boy goes to ground, he goes to ground.”
“Yes, I was thinking much the same thing myself. I don’t think the opposition has got him. I’m rather proud of his efforts so far. Do you have my itinerary?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll call you if anything happens.” The old man hung up, and Powell settled down for what he hoped would be a short wait.
Wendy and Malcolm arrived in Washington just as the sun was setting. Malcolm drove to the center of the city. He parked the car at the Lincoln Memorial, removed their luggage, and locked the vehicle securely. They came into Washington via Bethesda, Maryland. In Bethesda they purchased some toiletries, clothes, a blond wig, and a large padded “visual disguise and diversionary” bra for Wendy, a roll of electrical tape, some tools, and a box of .357 magnum shells.
Malcolm took a carefully calculated risk. Using Poe’s “Purloined Letter” principle that the most obvious hiding place is often the safest, he and Wendy boarded a bus for Capitol Hill. They rented a tourist room on East Capitol Street less than a quarter of a mile from the Society. The proprietress of the dingy hostel welcomed the Ohio honeymooners. Most of her customers had checked out and headed home after a weekend of sightseeing. She didn’t even care if they had no rings and the girl had a black eye. In order to create a believable image of loving young marrieds (or so Malcolm whispered), the young couple retired early.
Chapter 7
“In war it is not men, but the man who counts.”
The shrill scream from the red phone jarred Powell from his fitful nap. He grabbed the receiver before a second ring. The other agents in the room began to trace and record the call. Concentrating on listening, Powell only half saw their scurrying figures in the morning light. He took a deep breath and said, “493–7282.”
The muffled voice on the other end seemed far away. “This is Condor.”
Powell began the carefully prepared dialogue. “I read you, Condor. Listen closely. The Agency has been penetrated. We’re not sure who, but we’re pretty sure it’s not you.” Powell cut the beginning of a protest short. “Don’t waste time protesting your innocence. We accept it as a working assumption. Now, why did you shoot Weatherby when they came to pick you up?”
The voice on the other end was incredulous. “Didn’t Sparrow IV tell you? That man — Weatherby? — shot at me! He was parked outside the Society Thursday morning. In the same car.”
“Sparrow IV is dead, shot in the alley.”
“I didn’t…”
“We know. We think Weatherby did. We know about you and the girl.” Powell paused to let this sink in. “We traced you to her apartment and found the corpse. Did you hit him?”
“Barely. He almost got us.”
“Are you injured?”
“No, just a little stiff and woozy.”
“Are you safe?”
“For the time being, fairly.”