Maronick looked down at the figure by his feet. “Goodbye, Condor. One last word of advice. Stick to research. You’ve used up all your luck. When it comes right down to it, you’re not very good.” He vanished in the woods.
After a few minutes of silence, Malcolm heard a car start and drive away. He wormed his way toward the knife.
It took him half an hour. Twice he cut his wrists, but each time it was only minor and the bleeding stopped as soon as he quit using his hands.
He found the car. There was a note taped to the window. The body of the man called Cutler sprawled by the door. He had been shot in the back. The note had been written while the tall man carried Malcolm into the woods. It was short, to the point: “Your gun jammed with mud. Rifle in back has 10 rds. Hope you can use automatic.”
The rifle in back was an ordinary .22 varmint rifle. Cutler had used it for target practice. Maronick left it for Malcolm, as he figured any amateur could handle so light a weapon. He left the automatic pistol with silencer just in case. Malcolm ripped the note off and drove away.
By the time he coasted the car to a stop outside Atwood’s gate, Malcolm felt the drug taking effect. The pounding in the back of his neck and head, the little pains in his body, all had vanished. In their place was a surging, confident energy. He knew he would have to fight the overestimation and overconfidence the drug brought.
The oak tree proved simple to climb and the window was unlocked. Malcolm unslung the rifle. He worked the bolt to arm the weapon. Slowly, quietly, he tiptoed to the dark hall, down the carpeted hallway to the head of the stairs. He heard Tchaikovsky’s “1812” Overture booming from the room where he had been questioned. Every now and then a triumphant hum would come from a familiar voice. Slowly Malcolm went down the stairs.
Atwood had his back to the door when Malcolm entered the room. He was choosing another record from the rack in the wall. His hand paused on Beethoven’s Fifth.
Malcolm very calmly raised the rifle, clicked off the safety, took aim, and fired. Hours of practice on gophers, rabbits, and tin cans guided the bullet home. It shattered Atwood’s right knee, bringing him screaming to the floor.
Terror and pain filled the old man’s eyes. He rolled over in time to see Malcolm work the action again. He screamed as Malcolm’s second bullet shattered his other knee. His mouth framed the question, “Why?”
“Your question is futile. Let’s just say I didn’t want you going anywhere for a while.”
Malcolm moved in a frenzy of activity. He tied towels around the moaning man’s knees to slow the bleeding; then he tied his hands to an end table. He ran upstairs and aimlessly rifled rooms, burning up the energy coursing through his blood. He fought hard and was able to control his mind. Maronick chose his drugs well, he thought. Atwood the planner, the director, the thinker was downstairs, Malcolm thought, in pain and harmless. The secondary members of the cell were all dead. Maronick was the only one left, Maronick the enforcer, Maronick the killer. Malcolm thought briefly of the voices on the other end of the Panic Line, the professionals, professionals like Maronick. No, he thought, so far it has been me. Them against me. Maronick had made it even more personal when he killed Wendy. To the professionals it was just a job. They didn’t care. Hazy details of a plan formed around his ideas and wants. He ran to Atwood’s bedroom, where he exchanged his tattered clothes for one of several suits. Then he visited the kitchen and devoured some cold chicken and pie. He went back to the room where Atwood lay, took a quick look around, then dashed to his car for the long drive.
Atwood lay very still for some time after Malcolm had left. Slowly, weakly, he tried to pull himself and the table across the floor. He was too weak. All he succeeded in doing was knocking a picture off the table. It fell face up. The glass didn’t break into shreds he could use to cut his bonds. He resigned himself to his fate. He slumped prone, resting for whatever might lie ahead. He looked briefly at the picture and sighed. It was of him. In his uniform of a captain in the United States Navy.
Chapter 11
“Employees must wash their hands before leaving.”
Mitchell had reached what Agency psychiatrists call the Crisis Acclimatization Level, or Zombie Stage 4. For six days he had been stretched as tight as any spring could be stretched. He adjusted to this state and now accepted the hypertension and hyperactivity as normal. In this state he would be extremely competent and extremely effective as long as any challenge fell within the context of the conditions causing the state. Any foreign stimulus would shatter his tensed composure and tear him apart at the seams. One of the symptoms of this state is the ignorance of the subject. Mitchell merely felt a little nervous. His rational process told him he must have overcome the exhaustion and tension with a sort of second wind. That was why he was still awake at 4:20 in the morning. Disheveled and smelly from six days without bathing, he sat behind his desk going over reports for the hundredth time. He hummed softly. He had no idea that the two additional security men standing by the coffee urn were for him. One was his backup and the other was a psychiatrist protégé of Dr. Lofts. The psychiatrist was there to watch Mitchell as well as monitor any of Malcolm’s calls.
Brrring!
The call jerked all the men in the room out of relaxation. Mitchell calmly held up one hand to reassure them while he used the other hand to pick up the receiver. His easy movements had the quiet quickness of a natural athlete or a well-oiled machine.
“493–7282.”
“This is Condor. It’s almost over.”
“I see. Then why don’t you…”
“I said almost. Now listen, and get it right. Maronick, Weatherby, and their gang were working under a man called Atwood. They were trying to cover their tracks from a smuggling operation they pulled off in 1968. They used Agency facilities and Heidegger found out. The rest just sort of came naturally.
“I’ve got one chore left. If I don’t succeed, you’ll know about it. At any rate, I’ve mailed some stuff to my bank. You better pick it up. It will be there this morning.
“You better send a pretty good team to Atwood’s right away. He lives at 42 Elwood Lane, Chevy Chase.” (Mitchell’s second picked up a red phone and began to speak softly. In another part of the building men raced toward waiting cars. A second group raced toward a Cobra combat helicopter kept perpetually ready on the building roof.) “Send a doctor with them. Two of Maronick’s men are in the woods behind the house, but they’re dead. Wish me luck.”
The phone clicked before Mitchell could speak. He looked at his trace man and got a negative shake of the head.
The room burst into activity. Phones were lifted and all through Washington people woke to the shrill ring of a special bell. Typewriters clicked, messengers ran from the room. Those who could find nothing definite to do paced. The excitement around him did not touch Mitchell. He sat at his desk, calmly running through the developed procedure. His forehead and palms were dry, but deep in his eyes a curious light burned.