The sign flashing across the street gave him the inspiration. With the materials he had at hand he began to write. Twenty minutes later he stuffed curt synopses of the last five days and a prognosis for the future into three small envelopes begged from the waitress. The napkins went to the FBI. The pieces of junk paper from his wallet filled the envelope addressed to the CIA. The map of D.C. he had picked up at the Gulf station went to the Post. These three envelopes went into a large manila envelope he bought at the drugstore. Malcolm stuck the big envelope in a mailbox. Pickup was scheduled for 2:00 P.M. The big envelope was addressed to Malcolm’s bank, which for some reason closed at 2:00 P.M. on Tuesdays. Malcolm reckoned it would take the bank until at least tomorrow to find and mail the letters. He had a minimum of twenty-four hours to operate in, and he had passed on what he knew. He considered himself free of obligations.
While Malcolm spent the rest of the day standing in the perpetually long line at the Washington Monument, security and law-enforcement agencies all over the city were quietly going bananas. Detectives and agents tripped over each other and false reports of Malcolm. Three separate carloads of officials from three separate agencies arrived simultaneously at the same boarding house to check out three separate leads, all of which were false. The proprietress of the boarding house still had no idea what happened after the officials angrily drove away. A congressional intern who vaguely resembled Malcolm’s description was picked up and detained by an FBI patrol. Thirty minutes after the intern was identified and released from federal custody, he was arrested by Washington police and again detained. Reporters harassed already nervous officials about the exciting Capitol Hill shootout. Congressmen, senators, and political hacks of every shade kept calling the agencies and each other, inquiring about the rumored security leak. Of course, everyone refused to discuss it over the phone, but the senator-congressman-department chief wanted to be personally briefed. Kevin Powell was trying once again to play Condor and retrace Malcolm. As he walked along East Capitol Street, puzzling, perturbing questions kept disturbing the lovely spring day. He received no answers from the trees and buildings, and at 11:00 he gave up the chase to meet the director of the hunt.
Powell was late, but when he walked quickly into the room he did not receive a reproachful glance from the old man. Indeed, the old man’s congeniality seemed at a new height. At first Powell thought the warmth was contrived for the benefit of the stranger who sat with them at the small table, but he gradually decided it was genuine.
The stranger was one of the biggest men Powell had ever seen. It was hard to judge his height while he sat, but Powell guessed he was at least six feet seven. The man had a massive frame, with at least three hundred pounds of flesh supplying extra padding beneath the expensively tailored suit. The thick black hair was neatly greased down. Powell noticed the man’s little piggy eyes quietly, carefully taking stock of him.
“Ah, Kevin,” said the old man, “how good of you to join us. I don’t believe you know Dr. Lofts.”
Powell didn’t know Dr. Lofts personally, but he knew the man’s work. Dr. Crawford Lofts was probably the foremost psychological diagnostician in the world, yet his reputation was known only in very tightly controlled circles. Dr. Lofts headed the Psychiatric Evaluation Team for the Agency. PET came into its own when its evaluation of the Soviet Premier convinced President Kennedy that he should go ahead with the Cuban blockade. Ever since then, PET had been given unlimited resources to compile its evaluation of major world leaders and selected individuals.
After ordering coffee for Powell, the old man turned and said, “Dr. Lofts has been working on our Condor. For the last few days he has talked to people, reviewed our boy’s work and dossiers, even lived in his apartment. Trying to build an action profile, I believe they call it. You can explain it better, Doctor.”
The softness of Loft’s voice surprised Powell. “I think you’ve about said it, old friend. Basically, I’m trying to find out what Malcolm would do, given the background he has. About all I can say is that he will improvise fantastically and ignore whatever you tell him unless it fits into what he wants.” Dr. Lofts did not babble about his work at every opportunity. This too surprised Powell, and he was unprepared when Lofts stopped talking.
“Uh, what are you doing about it?” Powell stammered, feeling very foolish when he heard his improvised thoughts expressed out loud.
The Doctor rose to go. At least six-seven. “I’ve got field workers scattered at points throughout the city where Malcolm might turn up. If you’ll excuse me, I want to get back to supervising them.” With a curt, polite nod to the old man and Powell, Dr. Lofts lumbered from the room.
Powell looked at the old man. “Do you think he has much of a chance?”
“No, no more than anyone else. That’s what he thinks, too. Too many variables for him to do much more than guess. The realization of that limitation is what makes him good.”
“Then why bring him in? We can get all the manpower we want without having to pull in PET.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled, but there was coldness in his voice. “Because, my dear boy, it never hurts to have a lot of hunters if the hunters are hunting in different ways. I want Malcolm very badly, and I don’t want to miss a trick. Now, how are you coming from your end.”
Powell told him, and the answer was the same as it had been from the beginning: no progress.
At 4:30 Malcolm decided it was time to steal a car. He had considered many other ways of obtaining transportation, but crossed them off his list as too risky. Providence combined with the American Legion and a Kentucky distillery to solve Malcolm’s problem.
If it hadn’t been for the American Legion and their National Conference on Youth and Drugs, Alvin Phillips would never have been in Washington, let alone at the Washington Monument. He was chosen by the Indiana state commander to attend the expense-paid national conference to learn all he could about the evils of drug abuse among the young. While at the conference, he had been given a pass which would enable him to avoid the lines at the Monument and go straight to the top. He lost this pass the night before, but he felt obligated to at least see the Monument for the folks back home.
If it hadn’t been for a certain Kentucky distillery, Alvin would not have been in his present state of intoxication. The distillery kindly provided all conference participants with a complimentary fifth of their best whiskey. Alvin had become so upset by the previous day’s film describing how drugs often led to illicit sex among nubile teen-age girls that the night before he drank the entire bottle by himself in his Holiday Inn room. He liked the whiskey so much that he bought another fifth to help him through the conference and “kill the dog that bit him.” He finished most of that fifth by the time the meetings broke up and he managed to navigate to the Monument.
Malcolm didn’t find Alvin, Alvin found the line. Once there, he made it plain to all who could hear that he was standing in this hot God damn sun out of patriotic duty. He didn’t have to be here, he could have gone right to the God damn top, except for that God damn hustling floozy who lifted his wallet and the God damn pass. He sure fooled her God damn ass with those traveler’s checks — best God damn things you could buy. She sure had God damn big jugs, though. God damn it, all he wanted to do was take her for a ride in his new car.
When Malcolm heard the word “car,” he immediately developed a dislike for cheap God damn floozies and a strong affection for the American Legion, Indiana, Kentucky whiskey, and Alvin’s brand-new Chrysler. After a few short introductory comments, he let Alvin know he was talking to a fellow veteran of American wars, one whose hobby just happened to be automobiles. Have another drink, Alvin, old buddy.