Malcolm depressed the phone hook and inserted another dime. The buzzer only sounded twice.
The girl had been selected for her soft, cheery voice. “Good morning. TWA. May I help you?”
“Yes, my name is Henry Cooper. My brother is flying out today for an overdue vacation. Getting away from it all, you understand. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going for sure because he hadn’t made up his mind. What we want to do is give him a last-minute going-away present. He’s already left his apartment, but we think he’s on Flight 27, leaving at six. Could you tell me if he has a reservation?”
There was a slight pause, then, “Yes, Mr. Cooper, your brother has booked a reservation on that flight for… Chicago. He hasn’t picked up his ticket yet.”
“Fine, I really appreciate this. Could you do me another favor and not tell him we called? The surprise is named Wendy, and there’s a chance she’ll be either flying with him or taking the next plane.”
“Of course, Mr. Cooper. Shall I make a reservation for the lady?”
“No, thank you. I think we better wait and see how it works out at the airport. The plane leaves at six, right?”
“Right.”
“Fine, we’ll be there. Thank you.”
“Thank you, sir, for thinking of TWA.”
Malcolm stepped out of the phone booth. He brushed some lint off his sleeve. Atwood’s uniform fitted him fairly well, though it was somewhat bulky. The shoes were a loose fit and his feet tended to slip in them. The highly polished leather creaked as he walked from the parking lot into the main lobby of National Airport. He carried the raincoat draped over his arm and pulled the hat low over his forehead.
Malcolm dropped an unstamped envelope addressed to the CIA in a mailbox. The letter contained all he knew, including Maronick’s alias and flight number. The Condor hoped he wouldn’t have to rely on the U.S. postal system.
The terminal was beginning to fill with the bustling people who would pass through it during the day. A wheezing janitor swept cigarette butts off the red rug. A mother tried to coax a bored infant into submission. A nervous coed sat wondering if her roommate’s half-fare card would work. Three young Marines headed home to Michigan wondered if she would work. A retired wealthy executive and a penniless wino slept in adjoining chairs, both waiting for daughters to fly in from Detroit. A Fuller Brush executive sat perfectly still, bracing himself for the effects of a jet flight on a gin hangover. The programmer for the piped-in music had decided to jazz up the early-morning hours, and a nameless orchestra played watered-down Beatle music.
Malcolm strode to a set of chairs within hearing range of the TWA desk. He sat next to the three Marines, who respectfully ignored his existence. He held a magazine so it obscured most of his face. His eyes never left the TWA desk. His right hand slipped inside the Navy jacket to bring the silenced automatic out. He slipped his gun-heavy hand under the raincoat and settled back to wait.
At precisely 5:30 Maronick walked confidently through the main doors. The striking gentleman had developed a slight limp, the kind observers invariably try to avoid looking at and the kind they always watch. The limp dominates their impression and their mind blurs the other details their eyes record. A uniform often accomplishes the same thing.
Maronick had grown a mustache with the help of a theatrical-supply house, and when he stopped at the TWA desk Malcolm did not recognize him. But Maronick’s soft voice drew his attention, and he strained to hear the conversation.
“My name is James Cooper. I believe you have a reservation for me.”
The desk clerk flipped her head slightly to place the wandering auburn lock where it belonged. “Yes, Mr. Cooper, Flight 27 to Chicago. You have about fifteen minutes until boarding time.”
“Fine.” Maronick paid for his ticket, checked his one bag, and walked aimlessly away from the counter. Almost empty, he thought. Good. A few servicemen, everything normal; mother and baby, normal; old drunks, normal; college girl, normal. No large preponderance of men standing around busily doing nothing. No one scurrying to phones, including the girl behind the desk. Everything normal. He relaxed even more and began to stroll, checking the terminal and giving his legs the exercise they would miss on the long flight. He didn’t notice the Navy captain who slowly joined him at a distance of twenty paces.
Malcolm almost changed his mind when he saw Maronick looking so confident and capable. But it was too late for that. Help might not arrive in time and Maronick might get away. Besides, this was something Malcolm had to do himself. He fought down the drug-edged nervousness. He would get only one chance.
National Airport, while not breath-takingly beautiful, is attractive. Maronick allowed himself to admire the symmetry of the corridors he passed through. Fine colors, smooth lines.
Suddenly he stopped. Malcolm barely had time to dodge behind a rack of comic books. The proprietress gave him a withering glance but said nothing. Maronick checked his watch and held a quick debate with himself. He would just have time. He began to move again, substituting a brisk walk for his leisurely stroll. Malcolm followed his example, carefully avoiding loud footsteps on the marble stretches. Maronick took a sudden right and passed through a door, which swung shut behind him.
Malcolm trotted to the door. His hand holding the gun under the raincoat was sweating from the heat, the drug, and his nerves. He stopped outside the brown door. Gentlemen. He looked around him. No one. Now or never. Being careful to keep the gun between his body and the door, he pulled the weapon out from under the coat. He tossed the heavy raincoat to a nearby chair. Finally, his heart beating against his chest, he leaned on the door.
It opened easily and quietly. One inch. Malcolm could see the glistening white brightness of the room. Mirrors sparkled on the wall to his far left. He opened the door a foot. The wall with the door had a line of three shiny sinks. He could see four urinals on the opposite wall, and he could make out the corner of one stall. No one stood at the sinks or the urinals. Lemony disinfectant tingled his nose. He pushed the door open and stepped in. It closed behind him with a soft woosh and he leaned heavily against it.
The room was brighter than the spring day outside the building. The piped-in music found no material capable of absorbing its volume, so the sound echoed off the tile walls — cold, crisp, blaring notes. There were three stalls opposite Malcolm. In the one on the far left he could see shoes, toes pointed toward him. Their polish added to the brightness of the room. The flute in the little box on the ceiling posed a gay musical question and the piano answered. Malcolm slowly raised the gun. The sound of toilet paper turning a spindle cued the band. The flute piped a more melancholy note as it inquired once more. A tiny click from the gun’s safety preceded the sound of tearing paper and the piano’s soft reply.
The gun jumped in Malcolm’s hand. A hole tore through the thin metal stall door. Inside the stall the legs jerked, then pushed upward. Maronick, slightly wounded in the neck, desperately reached for the gun in his back pocket, but his pants were around his ankles. Maronick normally carried his gun holstered either at his belt or under his arm, but he had planned to ditch the weapon before passing through the security screening at the airport. There would probably be no need of a gun at this stage of the plan, especially at a large, crowded airport, but the cautious Maronick put his gun in his back pocket, unobtrusive but sometimes awkward to reach, just in case.
Malcolm fired again. Another bullet tore through screeching metal to bury itself in Maronick’s chest and fling his body against the wall. Malcolm fired again, and again and again and again. The gun spat the spent cartridge cases onto the tile floor. Bitter cordite mixed with the lemony smell. Malcolm’s third bullet ripped a hole through Maronick’s stomach. Maronick sobbed softly, and fell down along the right side of the metal cage. His weakening arm depressed the plunger. The woosh of water and waste momentarily drowned out his sobs and the coughs from the gun. As Malcolm fired the fourth time, a passing stewardess hearing the muffled cough remembered it was cold season. She vowed to buy some vitamins. That bullet missed Maronick’s sinking form. The lead shattered on the tile wall, sending little pieces of shrapnel into the metal walls and tile roof. A few hit Maronick’s back, but they made no difference. Malcolm’s fifth bullet buried itself in Maronick’s left hip, positioning the dying man on the stool.