Shadow of the Condor (22 page)

"Besides," Kevin added ruefully, "the FBI boys here weren't so hot on that idea. But they like having the films in case they want to go to court with Woodward."

"Yes," replied the old man thoughtfully, "if we ever do go to court on this thing, films might come in handy. You know, Kevin, from your description of Woodward, I think we have one of two things. Either he is an incredible sleeper, a very good, very valuable plant that they've been saving for big things and protecting carefully, or he's someone minuscule they recruited to use for something more expendable than a cutout. If he was anything else, he wouldn't have the background he has and he wouldn't check out so clean."

"You could be right."

"Yes," continued the old man, "I could. It is important for us to know such things. In the old days, of course, before all the flap we went through over the Ellsberg and Stratshome affairs, the matter might have been settled quite simply. It still could, if we weren't working with so many other agencies that are intent on catching L and CIA slipping up. Why, another other time there could be a little well-covered surreptitious entry,' as they say in the manuals. Something done quickly, tightly, just a pop-in to look around Woodward's apartment and get a feel for the man, see if he left anything lying about. Then out again, no one, particularly Woodward, the wiser. Could be done in the daytime, while he was at work,

"But, of course, all that is absurd to even contemplate now. If we were caught, the other groups might make something of it, although I'm sure if it weren't for us, they would be pulling that same thing. What they would find might give them a jump on the opposition and everyone else. Ah, well, Kevin, we must be content with what we can do."

Kevin smiled. "Yes, sir, we must. Is there anything else?"

"No, my boy, I think not. Condor is back in the States. His little sojourn into
Canada
was as fruitless as I thought it would be, but he'll continue with his cover and the survey. I doubt he'll find much. He says he has no ideas about anything you’ve learned so far, but we will continue to keep him informed. Never know what his fertile little mind might come up with. After all, his untrained imaginative talent is his whole value. We mustn't let such a talent go to waste by not cultivating it. We may grow nothing, but then again, who knows?"

"Indeed not, sir," replied Kevin softly, "indeed not. If there's nothing else, I'll go take care of some routine chores. I will report to you again tomorrow."

"I'll be looking forward to that, Kevin," the old man said softly, "I'll be looking forward to that."

Carl hung up his receiver at the same time the old man lowered his. Carl respectfully waited until the old man looked at him for comment, then he said, "Do you think he understood, sir?"

"Of course, Carl, of course he understood. No doubt he will give very firm, explicit orders forestalling any of our colleagues from rash activity. I'm sure he will log those orders too. All in all," the old man said happily, "I think Kevin will continue to handle this little matter most correctly. Most correctly."

….

Time as such had lost all reference for Serov. The KGB bureau chief sat behind his desk in the bare, windowless
Moscow
office in numb concentration. Every so often, usually no more than once a month, the pressures of his work and the amount of paper shuffling he needed to complete reached flood-level proportions. He usually knew when such an occasion was imminent and some days he would, as a mere affectionate courtesy, tell his wife not to expect him until she saw him. Serov's wife didn't ask or expect to be told his schedule. Over the years she had grown accustomed to her husband's erratic life-style, but nothing ever eased the tension she felt when he did not arrive at his usual time. She dared not ask him about his work, nor did she really want to know. She even feared acknowledging his consideration with more than a quick smile when he told her of possible absences.

Serov had not seen his wife for several meals and sleep periods. When things became this pressing, what with the trouble in
Beirut
and the unexpected coronary of an old resident agent in
Paris
, to say nothing of Gamayun, Serov ate and slept in his office. He ignored his watch, relying on his underlings to keep him informed of relevant scheduled periods. The effort he expended in such prolonged work sessions exhausted him, but he actually minded the strains of crisis less than the strains of everyday existence. At least with a crisis, he knew it would in some fashion pass. Maybe good, maybe bad, maybe he would even die because of it, but at least there was that air of finality, of completion. Everyday existence and everyday life were not so kind, for he. never knew what they would bring, how or when they would end.

Serov was surprised but not alarmed when his superior, Ryzhov, strolled into the office. Serov thought he knew why Ryzhov was there.

"Things are going well with
Gamayun
?" inquired his superior.

"Things are going as expected," Serov replied carefully. "Nurich has contacted Woodward in
Chicago
. Woodward has not fallen apart. I have not been informed that Nurich has left
Chicago
, but I think that should happen soon. I can ring my aide and find out exactly when, if you like."

Ryzhov waved the offer aside and slowly walked around the room, his eyes casually scanning the bare walls. "That won't be necessary. I already read the projected schedule. Tell me, do you have any suggestions?"

Go easy, thought Serov, his paranoia not quite defeated by his fatigue. "Perhaps. I have given a good deal of thought to our earlier discussions. As you noted, Nurich is good. In all likelihood he will at least, get to the 'reconnaissance' site. Our agents have verified that he is under surveillance by the Americans. Evidently the Americans are expending a great deal of! Effort. Therefore, we can assume they have at least tentatively bought the story we built for them.

"However, I am worried that they may not buy the whole thing if we don't help them a little more. Undoubtedly the CIA will deal with Nurich before he is turned over to the FBI for trial. What the CIA learns from him may shake the story somewhat. I don't know how, but I think that this is a very real possibility.

"I also think we should give the Americans something more for their effort. After-all, they are expecting something big and flashy, so they should have it. I think we should, at the opportune moment, heat up the situation."

Ryzhov smiled at his underling. "Go on."

Quickly, clinically, Serov sketched his idea. Ryzhov smiled but made no comment until Serov had paused after explaining what he felt was the least feasible variation on his proposal.

"You know, Comrade Serov," Ryzhov said, "I think you are handling this very well. I am pleased. I am sure Krumin will be pleased also. This could be a very good thing for you.’’

Serov carefully replied, "I am only doing my duty, sir."

"Yes, well, you do it well."

Serov sat quietly after Ryzhov left the room, making no sound or motion until he was reasonably sure his commander was not immediately returning. Before he went back to work on the
Paris
problem, Serov sighed, then he banished his fears behind his concentration.

"What, do you call yourself?" the Fawn said at last. Such a soft sweet voice it had!

"I wish I knew!" thought poor
Alice
. She answered, rather sadly, "Nothing, just now."

"Think again," it said: "that won't do."

Alice thought, but nothing came of it. "Please, would you tell me what you call yourself?" she said timidly. "I think that might help a little."

"I'll tell you, if you'll come a little further on," the Fawn said, "I can't remember here."

The comprehensive burglar tools and keys made it a simple matter. Kevin found the correct pick for the heavy upper lock on his third attempt. The lock in the door handle was even easier. Kevin and his assistant quietly entered Woodward's apartment less than one minute after they reached his door.

They gained entrance to the apartment building through the relatively new technique of presenting a special gift award to one of the building's other tenants. The gift cost less than a bribe to the building superintendent and avoided the problem of the super regaining his conscience and reporting the bribe to the burgled tenant. All that was necessary was a letter delivered to a tenant in the building who would probably be home during the day. To provide a margin of safety, Kevin arranged for three of the building's tenants to "win" a nonexistent contest and receive notification through special messenger the evening before. The lucky winners eagerly answered -the buzz on their intercom system.

Before the security-conscious and sophisticated sixties and seventies a burglar usually could gain entrance to any large apartment building by pressing as many of the call buttons as he could. Someone inevitably let him in without taking the time to ascertain who wanted admittance, but those days are by and large gone. A burglar might spend all day pushing buttons outside an apartment building, and without a plausible excuse he would probably never get in the building.

Five men constituted the burglary team. Kevin and two assistants each went to a different apartment to deliver the "prize." This division of labor saved time and also gave the apartment dwellers three different men to describe, just in case anyone should ask. Kevin took one man with him to burglar Woodward's third-story apartment. He stationed another man to guard the head of the -stairs. Outside, a second lookout watched the alley and the rear fire escape while a fifth sat across from the front door in a parked car. All five carried small radios,, and all of Kevin's assistants were tested career CIA agents who knew their mission was a secret from everyone, including their colleagues. The prospect of doing something they alone knew about" gave them a sense of being one up on their colleagues.

Kevin and his assistant slipped into the apartment with drawn, silencer-equipped revolvers. All their surveillance led them to believe Woodward's apartment was empty, but it is best to err on the side of caution. They quickly checked the small efficiency's closets to be sure no one lurked inside.

They struck pay dirt almost immediately. "Kevin," whispered his assistant, "look at this?"

Woodward lived in a paranoid world in which his enemies spied on him everywhere, seeking to foil his and the great Stalin's efforts. He normally hid anything which might connect him with his idol. Three years before, he had sent an old photograph of Stalin to one of the numerous addresses listed in the back of many magazines where, for $1, your favorite photo would be blown up to poster proportions. As a rule, Woodward kept this glorious treasure carefully rolled and stashed under his bed, but to celebrate his revolutionary foray with Nurich, Woodward taped the poster to the inside of his closet door. Every night he came home, sat on his bed and gazed at the open closet door, basking in his idol's cold, merciless stare.

"Does that tell you anything?" said Kevin's companion.

Kevin smiled. "Yes, yes, that tells us a great deal. Leave it, search the rest of the place.'.'

The work went slowly. The average burglar has to worry about noise and destruction only to the point of not attracting attention. He doesn't have to concern himself with leaving things as he found them. In addition, Kevin and his assistant had to make sure Woodward had not rigged such elementary precautions as a feather wedged in a drawer or prepared any other little devices which a search must disturb. The feather-in-the-drawer trick is simple and effective. A feather (or any similar, light, small material such as a piece of toilet paper) is wedged tightly in the crack of a drawer. If the drawer is opened, the feather falls. A careless, inexperienced or hurried searcher will not notice the feather, but the person who planted it can tell, if it has been disturbed. Such simple tricks catch an amazing number of sloppy old hands and inexperienced neophytes.

Kevin and his assistant found no such devices in Woodward's apartment. They had no way of knowing that Woodward had given such things up several years before when his security systems reached a level of complexity he couldn't handle.

It didn't take them long to find Woodward's cache. The lock on the old trunk at the foot of the bed proved no challenge for Kevin's tools. Volume after volume of Stalinist and communist literature filled the lower portion of the trunk. Old clippings from the
Chicago
papers covering Trotskyite events took up part of the top drawer. They also found several notebooks filled with Woodward's painstaking, diminutive printing. Kevin's assistant wanted to photograph the notebooks, but Kevin shook his head. The photography would take an hour, and the analysts at
Langley
would need days to sift through the prose looking for useful tidbits. Besides, Kevin was sure the notebooks contained little worth the trouble. The Stalin poster plus the trunk's contents convinced him Woodward was the second of the options listed by the old man, an agent the Russians kept well insulated from their actual operations. No professional agent would have such material around. Kevin was glancing through the clippings when his assistant nudged him. "Look at this."

Kevin glanced at an unmarked brown box.

"Cartridges," said his assistant, "about two dozen rounds. We could pinch one in case we have to type it later."

Kevin shook his head. "No, Woodward probably counts and fondles them every night."

"Do you think this means he has a gun?"

'Kevin shrugged. "We haven't found one yet. He may carry it on him. If he does, he's as crazy as this stuff makes him look. And more dangerous than I like to think about."

Thirty minutes later they left the apartment exactly as they found it. They didn't find a gun.'

The public parking lot takes up a full quarter of the near North Side Chicago block. It is a busy neighborhood, with the intersection only three blocks from a main commercial street. The afternoon business usually fills the lot. That day was no exception.

Nurich stood in a laundromat across the street, gazing through the slightly steamed windows. The three shuffling ladies in the laundromat paid no attention to him. The only one who acknowledged his existence was a tiny girl of about four, sitting in the chair where her mother had placed her, picking her nose and staring at Nurich with big brown eyes. She didn't vary her gaze, regardless of whether Nurich watched her or the parking lot. He finally ignored her altogether.

Nurich's gaze wandered slowly over the cars in the lot, then toward the streets. Woodward had parked the car in the lot thirty minutes before. To Nurich's relief, his
Chicago
contact had done nothing unusual when leaving the lot. Woodward was also not followed, as far as the Soviet agent could tell. Normally Nurich would not have waited this long to collect the car and leave, but his misgivings about the mission held him back. Once he picked up the car with its machine, he would be definitely committed.

Perhaps it's just Woodward's craziness, Nurich argued to himself. If that is the case, I have plenty of reason to be worried, but not this nervous and upset. And not in this way.

He was basically through with Woodward. All that remained was a checkin call from the field to see if his superiors had sent any messages.

No, thought Nurich, the trouble goes deeper than Woodward: It's the whole crazy mess. But what choice do I have? What choice?

He sighed, took one last look at the enraptured brown-eyed ragamuffin in red pants and stained polo shirt, then left the laundromat for the parking lot. He paid the attendant, surreptitiously as possible checked the car (he made a detailed inspection of the car and its contents at a deserted rest stop forty miles from Chicago), consulted a city map and drove away. Despite his precautions, he failed to note the three cars which alternated in trailing and flanking his path.

The surveillance team established a flexible but firm box around Nurich less than fifteen miles after they left
Chicago
. They used the same basic pattern as they had on the bus: One car preceded Nurich, and the others followed. Since this time the surveillance teams did not know the probable itinerary, Kevin had four cars following the quarry. Just after they drove by
Rockford
, Kevin used the powerful radio in his car to call CIA headquarters in
Langley
,
Virginia
. The technicians there patched his radio can into the old man's office phone.

"He's left Chicago, sir, headed toward the Twin Cities," Kevin said. "It's a possible route to
Montana
. We don't think he's spotted us, although he certainly exercised a great deal of caution in
Chicago
. If we didn't hav6 all this manpower, he would have lost us a couple of times. I think we can handle things, but just to be sure, units all along the probable route have the car's ID. If we lose him, they might pick him up."

"Excellent, my boy, excellent." The old man's voice carried across the country with minimal distortion. "Carl tells me the Woodward team reports no change."

Kevin chose his next words carefully. The radio conversation was all too easy for someone to monitor. "Did you get the memo I sent you regarding Woodward?"

Three hours after the burglary one of Kevin's assistants boarded a commercial jet, ostensibly reassigned to
Washington
for light duty because of ill health. He officially carried what Kevin logged as "routine reports" to the old man. The courier also delivered Kevin's unlogged secret report on the burglary and a summation of his projections. Kevin wrote the old man that Woodward was probably a low-level Soviet agent, recruited for minor missions, who might be mentally unstable and armed. Since all of Kevin's assessments were the result of activity officially frowned on by the overseers of the American intelligence community, the assessments officially did not exist. The intelligence. community routinely deals with ' such nonexistent matters, but when, like Kevin's burglary operation, they are to be kept secret from members of the community itself, extra precaution is needed.

"Yes, yes, I did. While I think it suffered from necessary vagueness, I think it was quite perceptive, quite perceptive."

Kevin was pleased. "Thank you. I thought you would find it helpful."

"It makes things more of a puzzle, but Woodward, at least in some respects, fits the pattern of the other contacts. They all seem to be basically touchstones. Rose sees them, moves on and they return to their normal life. Then, a day or so later, he calls them from a phone booth to another phone booth. Clever system, that. We have taps on their private phones, but in their first contact they give him a payphone number and they set up a time for the call. We can't get a tap on the phone in time to eavesdrop. If it weren't for the way the phone company works long-distance calls from pay booths and we didn't have both of them under surveillance, we would never know they talked."

"Let's hope he uses the same system with Woodward."

"I think he will. After all, it has worked marvelously. Why change?"

"Anything else new? Condor turning up anything?"

"No, but perhaps that will change as Rose gets closer. I doubt it, but one never knows. I have come across one interesting item which may mean nothing, but then again.

For over six months the CIA has been working on an aide to the Soviet UN delegation in
New York
. They seem to think he is not overly happy with the prospect of returning to Mother Russia. They've convinced him he would like to defect and stay here. I'm betting that once they get a firm commitment from him they'll tell him the game has changed, blackmail him with exposure and make him return to
Russia
as a double. But that's only a guess.

"Anyway, the aide serves as an assistant to the UN delegation's KGB unit. He's not in the KGB, but they use him anyway. They have similar manpower shortages to the ones we face. He supposedly took the plunge to come over last month, just before Parkins died. The Company has been testing him, asking for bits and pieces of intelligence to prove his, commitment. Also, if my hypothesis is correct, to give them more blackmail material.

"Yesterday the man reported some concern in KGB circles over a mission currently under way in the
Midwest
. All he could find out was that the center of activity is now in the
Chicago
area, but will soon shift farther west. His Company contact is pushing for more, but we don't know how successful that will be."

"It could be Rose."

"Yes, it could."

"That's another little confirming piece showing us we've got a puzzler. I wish it would show us more of the puzzle."

The old man waited for a long time before he replied. "You know, Kevin, that's very interesting, very interesting."

Kevin thought he missed an implication, so he told the old man, "I don't follow you, sir." '

"Oh, it's probably nothing. Just a funny feeling I had about what you said. Just a feeling."