Powell leaned forward tensely and asked the hopeless and all-important question. “Do you have any idea why your group was hit?”
“Yes.” Powell’s sweaty hand tightened on the receiver as Malcolm quickly told of the missing books and financial discrepancies Heidegger had discovered.
When Malcolm paused, Powell asked in a puzzled voice, “But you have no idea what it all means?”
“None. Now, what are you going to do about getting us to safety?”
Powell took the plunge. “Well, that’s going to be a little problem. Not just because we don’t want you set up and hit, but because you’re not talking to the Agency.”
Five miles away, in a phone booth at a Holiday Inn, Malcolm’s stomach began to churn. Before he could say anything, Powell spoke again.
“I can’t go into the details. You will simply have to trust us. Because of the penetration of the Agency at what is probably a very high level, we’ve taken over. We plugged into the Panic Line and intercepted your call. Please don’t hang up. We’ve got to blow the double in the Agency and find out what this was all about. You’re our only way, and we want you to help us. You have no choice.”
“Bullshit, man! You might be another security agency, and then again you might not. Even if you are OK, why the hell should I help you? This isn’t my kind of work! I read about this stuff, not do it.”
“Consider the alternatives.” Powell’s voice was cold. “Your luck can’t hold forever, and some very determined and competent people besides us are looking for you. As you said, this isn’t your line of work. Someone will find you. Without us, all you can do is hope that the right someone does find you. If we’re the right someone, then everything is already OK. If we’re not, then at least you know what we want you to do. It’s better than running blind. Any time you don’t like our instructions, don’t follow them. There’s one final clincher. We control your communication link with the Agency. We even have a man on the listed line.” (This was a lie.) “The only other way you can go home is to show up at Langley in person. Do you like the idea of going in there cold?”
Powell paused and got no answer. “I thought not. It won’t be too dangerous. All we basically want is for you to stay hidden and keep rattling the opposition’s cage. Now, here’s what we know so far.” Powell gave Malcolm a concise rundown of all the information he had. Just as he finished, his man in charge of tracing the call came to him and shrugged his shoulders. Puzzled, Powell continued. “Now, there’s another way we can communicate with you. Do you know how to work a book code?”
“Well… You better go over it again.”
“OK. First of all pick up a paperback copy of The Feminine Mystique. There is only one edition. Got that? OK. Now, whenever we want to communicate with you, we will run an ad in the Post. It will appear in the first section, and the heading will read, ‘Today’s Lucky Sweepstakes Winning Numbers Are:’ followed by a series of hyphenated numbers. The first number of each series is the page number, the second is the line number, and the third is the word number. When we can’t find a corresponding word in the book, we’ll use a simple number-alphabet code. A is number one, B is number two, and so on. When we code such a word, the first number will be thirteen. The Post will forward any communication you want to send us if you address it to yourself, care of Lucky Sweepstakes, Box 1, Washington Post. Got it?”
“Fine. Can we still use the Panic Line?”
“We’d rather not. It’s very chancy.”
Powell could see the trace man across the room whispering furiously into another phone. Powell said, “Do you need anything?”
“No. Now, what is it you want me to do?”
“Can you call the Agency back on your phone?”
“For a conversation as long as this?”
“Definitely not. It should only take a minute or so.”
“I can, but I’ll want to shift to another phone. Not for at least half an hour.”
“OK. Call back and we will let the call go through. Now, here’s what we want you to say.” Powell told him the plan. When both men were satisfied, Powell said, “One more thing. Pick a neighborhood you won’t have to be in.”
Malcolm thought for a moment. “Chevy Chase.”
“OK,” Kevin said. “You will be reported in the Chevy Chase area in exactly one hour. Thirty minutes later a Chevy Chase cop will be wounded while chasing a man and a woman answering your descriptions. That should make everyone concentrate their forces in Chevy Chase, giving you room to move. Is that enough time?”
“Make it an hour later, OK?”
“OK.”
“One more thing. Who am I talking to, I mean personally?”
“Call me Rogers, Malcolm.” The connection went dead. No sooner had Powell placed the phone in the cradle than his trace man ran to him.
“Do you know what that little son of a bitch did? Do you know what he did?” Powell could only shake his head. “I’ll tell you what he did, that little son of a bitch. He drove all over town and wired pay phones together, then called and hooked them all up so they transmitted one call through the lines, but each phone routed the call back through the terminal. We traced the first one in a little over a minute. Our surveillance team got there right away. They found an empty phone booth with homemade Out of Order signs and his wiring job. They had to call back for a trace on the other phone. We’ve gone through three traces already and there are probably more hookups to go, that son of a bitch!”
Powell leaned back and laughed for the first time in days. When he found the part in Malcolm’s dossier that mentioned his summer employment with the telephone company, he laughed again.
Malcolm left the phone booth and walked to the parking lot. In a rented U-Haul pickup with Florida plates a chesty blonde wearing sunglasses sat chewing gum. Malcolm stood in the shade for a few moments while he checked the lot. Then he walked over and climbed in the truck. He gave Wendy the thumbs-up sign, then began to chuckle.
“Hey,” she said, “what is it? What’s so funny?”
“You are, you dummy.”
“Well, the wig and the falsies were your idea! I can’t help it if…” His protesting hand cut her short.
“That’s only part of it,” he said, still laughing. “If you could only see yourself.”
“Well, I can’t help it if I’m good.” She slumped in the seat. “What did they say?”
As they drove to another phone booth, Malcolm told her.
Mitchell had been manning the Panic phone since the first call. His cot lay a few feet from his desk. He hadn’t seen the sun since Thursday. He hadn’t showered. When he went to the bathroom the phone followed. The head of the Panic Section was debating whether to give him pep shots. The Deputy Director had decided to keep Mitchell on the phone, as he stood a better chance than a new man of recognizing Malcolm should he call again. Mitchell was tired, but he was still a tough man. Right now he was a tough determined man. He was raising his ten-o’clock coffee to his lips when the phone rang. He spilled the coffee as he grabbed the receiver.
“493–7282.”
“This is Condor.”
“Where the hell…”
“Shut up. I know you’re tracing this call, so there isn’t much time. I would stay on your line, but the Agency has been penetrated.”
“What!”
“Somebody out there is a double. The man in the alley”—Malcolm almost slipped and said “Weatherby”—“shot at me first. I recognized him from when he was parked in front of the Society Thursday morning. The other man in the alley must have told you that, though, so…” Malcolm slowed, anticipating interruption. He got it.