Shadow of the Condor (23 page)

Malcolm and Sheila rode back to the motel in silence. The dinner with county extension agent Stuart and his family had gone well. Stuart and his wife accepted Malcolm's "assistant" with a minimum of outward skepticism. The few knowing smiles they gave Malcolm bore no malice. Indeed, when Emma dragged Sheila downstairs to show her the new sewing machine, her husband slowly winked with benevolent lechery at Malcolm and said, "That's some fine assistant you got there, Malcolm, some fine assistant. I wouldn't let her get away from me if I were you."

Malcolm blushed naturally and replied, "I don't intend to.’’

Much to Malcolm's surprise and relief, the whole day had flowed easily. He woke at six, just after the toilet flushed. With a minimum of conversation, Sheila informed him of the day's plan. She insisted he leave the bathroom door open when he urinated, and Malcolm, with defiant haughtiness, stood as far as possible from the toilet so he could return her scrutiny as she sat on the bed watching the bathroom door. She told Malcolm not to put his contacts in until she was ready. He knew she knew how nearsighted he was without his contacts or glasses. Sheila insisted they shower together. He had wondered how she would always keep him under her scrutiny, and remain clean at the same time.

The shower was cramped. Both Sheila and Malcolm avoided touching each other and looked at each other's nakedness with an enforced neutrality. Malcolm tried to make a joke about her scrubbing his back, but it left a sour taste in his mouth even before he saw the cold, hostile look cross her face.

Sheila insisted on going to "her room' and mussing it so that it would look deliberately disturbed. The one suitcase she had left there contained nothing of value but spare clothes she didn't plan on using. Ideally she should have planted some documents building her cover, but they had none.

They accidentally met Stuart at the truckstop. Normally he breakfasted at home, but his wife had been delayed after early mass and he hated to cook for himself. Malcolm would have preferred to premiere Sheila's cover on a less critical and important audience, but she carried off her role excellently. Malcolm's assistant obviously pleased Stuart within minutes of their meeting, and the dinner invitation flowed from their conversation. Sheila gracefully accepted.

Malcolm renewed the survey in the quadrant north and east of Whitlash. They hit four farms before they stopped for lunch. Malcolm noticed that he was always the one to suggest moving on, to play the role of superior insisting on working. Sheila slipped into her character of a gregarious, open, American girl not too discreetly traveling with her lover-boss with an ease Malcolm found enviable and somewhat disturbing. He, on the other hand, was brusque, abrupt and even outwardly nervous. After their second stop he commented to her on the ease of her role playing. She told him not to worry, that his nervousness actually was the right thing to display.

"It will make them go for the obvious secret," she said.

"You do this as if you've had a lot of practice," Malcolm replied, trying hard to keep the curiosity from his voice.

Sheila turned to him with a cold stare. Her warmth and enthusiasm always ended as soon as they were alone in the jeep. Very calmly she said, "I have. You've heard Chou needle me about the Air Force security guard we've compromised. I'm part of the compromise. He thinks I'm madly in love with him, pining for him, enslaved by his love and his caresses. I do everything and anything I can to reinforce that impression. Everything. The more he believes it, the more I bind him to us."

Malcolm drove silently for over a mile before he said, "Do you . . . enjoy that?"

Sheila's reproachful tones cut through his awkwardness. "You mean do I like going to bed with him? It's required. He's not completely repulsive, although his exaggerated opinion of himself makes him somewhat annoying. I neither like nor dislike it, it's part of my work. Just as chaperoning you is part of my work."

"I understand that," Malcolm replied softly, "intellectually, logically, I understand that. But I I just can't feel it. I just can't."

"What is there to feel besides satisfaction when the job is done? Don't tell me I'm going to hear a pubescent lecture on love and romance, not from you."

Malcolm sighed. "No, no lecture on love from me. I couldn't describe how I feel to you or logically defend it. But I just think that there should be something. Even if it's purely physical."

"Why? Sex is a need, more mild than hunger, but a need. As such, it can be exploited, used, satisfied or frustrated. It is a tool of our business. In
America
it seems to be a tool of everybody's business. Don't feel any sorrow for me, Malcolm. You're feeling sorrow for yourself."

Malcolm made no reply. Except for their survey stops, they spoke very little the rest of the day. ~ i

Malcolm parked the jeep in the motel lot. When they got out, Sheila walked over and put her arm around him. "lust be calm," she whispered, "it's part of our cover. We're going to the top of the hill."

In reply, Malcolm gingerly put his arm around her and they strolled to the top of the hill. She said nothing, but stood next to him silently watching the deep reds and pinks of the sunset. Finally Malcolm spoke.

"It's beautiful. The days are getting longer."

"Yes. And we've been here long enough to be seen. As we walk back to the motel, you should lean over and whisper to me."

Malcolm complied.

Malcolm lay on the bed, watching Sheila make her nightly preparations through his thick-lensed glasses. She opened the small vanity case which went with them everywhere. Be sides Malcolm's gun and her medical kit, the case contained a small but powerful radio. She had called Chou four times during the day at no int * erval Malcolm could determine. They stayed on the air only a few seconds, long enough to exchange obscure code references. She quietly raised Chou again and once more went through - the coded exchange. Malcolm knew that if she missed a checkin, Chou would assume Malcolm had double-crossed them. Malcolm grew angrier each time Sheila checked in. She listened in on his checkin conversations too, but, unlike him, she knew the coded references. Her drug examinations had seen to that.

Sheila seemed pleased after she signed off. She locked the case, then fastidiously placed it next to the chair after removing Malcolm's casually discarded boots and knapsack. She gave him a warm but mildly reproachful glance before she neatly set his gear by the closet. Her coolness returned as she undressed for the night.

She had seemed pleased ever since they left the Stuarts. Malcolm thought she had been a little more than gracious. He watched her carefully as she prepared the chair for the night. He finally decided the worst she could do was say no, so he said, "I'll share the bed with you or take turns on sleeping in the chair."

Sheila stopped unfolding the sheet then turned to him with a questioning look.

"Listen, no big deal," Malcolm quickly explained. "I saw how stiff you were today. A couple more nights of that chair and you'll be a cripple. Then what about our cover and mission? I don't care if you cripple yourself, honestly, I don't. But I don't want to blow this, so I'll switch or share, either one. I promise not to suffocate you with the pillow or whatever. Hell," he lied, "I've passed by several easy chances to get you already. Why should I bother with Jt tonight?"

Sheila thought for several seconds, then neatly refolded the sheet and returned it to the closet. She unlocked the vanity case, removed something, then closed the case again. Without a word she turned and walked to the bathroom.

Well, so much for that, thought Malcolm. Don't show your curiosity and press her for a reply. Make her tell you. To show his disdain, he took off his glasses and settled under the sheets, closed his eyes and pretended to be trying to sleep. He heard her running water in the bathroom, but she still said nothing. Finally, seconds before his curiosity would have defeated him, she spoke.

"Here, take this."

Malcolm sat up and opened his eyes. She stood in front of him, holding a pill in her right hand and a glass of water in her left. She had exchanged her sleeping shirt for a T-shirt. Malcolm was sure she didn't wear her'gun under the white cotton garment. "What is it?" he asked.

"A mild sleeping pill, not enough to really knock you out, but as deeply as you sleep, it should keep you under unless someone or something works hard at waking you. With this as a safety edge, I won't need to worry about sleeping with you."

"Oh, for Christ's sake! I suppose we're sleeping with the gun too? Damn thing will probably go off!"

She smiled at him tolerantly. "I locked it-in the case. Now if someone comes for us, we'll just have to depend on our good looks to keep us alive. Take the pill, it's late and Six A.M. comes early."

Malcolm grudgingly took the pill. Ten minutes later, despite his-determination to stay awake, he felt himself drifting off. Sheila lay beside him, breathing deeply, but not, he thought, sleeping. She whispered just as his thought processes began to fuzz.

"Malcolm, are you awake?"

"Mmm? Yeah. If this is a mild pill, I'd hate to have any of your strong ones."

She ignored his comment possibly, he later thought, wanting to make sure she would finish her questions before he fell asleep, catching him in the vulnerable stage of drugged semi-consciousness. He also thought she waited until then partly so she could plausibly deny any embarrassing inference he might have drawn from the conversation. At least, in later reflections, he liked to think that.

'Those people tonight," she said, "the Stuarts. They're happy, aren't they?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"You think they're happy, yet you sort of feel sorry for them ... no, that's not right. You don't feel sorry for them, you think they are wrong, mistaken, happy when they should be ... pessimistic. You think that, don't you?" Jesus, thought Malcolm, philosophy when I'm stoned. "Oh, I guess so, something like that."

"Don't you see they're not really happy? Why, they can never be

"Hey, missionary," Malcolm interrupted, fighting to keep awake, "it's late, you've doped me up. Don't try to convince me. Maybe they. are stupid to be happy in face of all the shit but they are. If I think anything . - . anything bad about them, it's envy. -1 guess"-Malcolm yawned-----~'l guess maybe I envy their blissful happiness."

"You don't think you'll find it?"

The thoughts came harder. Malcolm forced the words out. "Can't we ... no, maybe I ... I don't know. Tomorrow maybe. We'll talk about it. Let's just, say I'm, not sure I'll ever find their happiness."

"But you don't believe in the system they see, do you?" Sheila persisted.

"Listen," Malcolm said angrily, his fury setting off a burst of adrenalin to fight the sedative. He turned to face her and propped himself up on one elbow. He forced his eyes to stay open and his mind to stay clear. "I don't believe in their system, I don't believe in yours. I feel a damn sight more comfortable and ... optimistic about what I see around me than where you're trying to lead me. Let's leave it at that. I'm not going to convert you or even try to. You won't convert me. Like you said, this is a professional relationship, so let's cut the crap."

He rolled over, angry with himself, not liking what he said or what he heard. Tomorrow, he thought, I'll be able to explain better tomorrow.

"I feel sorry for you," Sheila whispered at last.

Malcolm hadn't relaxed-yet. "Why?" he snapped back, wanting to finish the battle before he fell asleep.

"Because you have nothing to believe in."

"I feel sorry for you," he replied after a moment's thought.

‘’Why?’’

"Because you have something to believe in."

They said nothing else the rest of the night.

And then (as
Alice
afterwards described it) all sorts of things happened in a moment.

"What the hell is he doing?" asked Kevin's assistant for the hundredth time. "It doesn't make any sense."

Kevin, sitting in the front seat, made no reply. He had none to make.

It was Wednesday, two days after Rose picked up the car in
Chicago
. That Monday he had driven all day and most of the night, stopping only for meals and gas. In the early-morning hours of Tuesday he checked into a
Jamestown
,
North Dakota
, motel, earning the begrudging gratitude of Kevin and the exhausted members of the surveillance team. Kevin and his team took refuge -at another motel, temporarily turning over their baby-sitting job to a group of local FBI agents. Kevin left three of the most alert members of his team to coordinate the locals, phoned a terse progress report to
Washington
, then joined his colleagues in a deep sleep.

Nurich didn't dawdle in
Jamestown
. He was up and breakfasting before nine Tuesday morning. Because they had little advance warning and no way of knowing their quarry's itinerary, the surveillance team had to skip the luxury of breakfast in a restaurant. The local police managed 'to deliver hamburgers from an all-night processed quick-food chain to the surveillance teams as they satin their cars. Two of the local FBI agents ate in the restaurant with Rose. They reported nothing unusual,

After breakfast Nurich headed west on U.S. 94, a modern, four-lane interstate highway running straight across
North Dakota
's broad, empty flatlands. The green was just beginning to color the brown plains. There were almost no hills. Visibility extended for miles. The surveillance teams had to stay well ahead and well behind their quarry to avoid being seen.

Everything went fine until they were less than an hour from
Bismarck
and the state's center. Then, for no apparent reason, Rose began to vary his speed, first slowing to as low as 35 mph, then speeding to 70 and 75. The first time he slowed his speed, the lead car following him drew too close and had to pass. Kevin ordered the car to continue to
Bismarck
, assuming Rose would remember it if he saw it again. That memory might blow the whole surveillance. No sooner had Kevin radioed his other teams and readjusted the box than Rose shot ahead at 75 mph. He passed the tail car of the front-end surveillance team and almost came in sight of the point car. Kevin immediately ordered the blown lead car to drop back, radioed the remaining lead car and ordered it to take up the point position well in advance of Rose. Kevin also began to sweat.

It was then that his assistant said for the first time, "What the hell is he doing? It can't be car trouble."

"I don't think so either," replied Kevin' "and I wish it were." He looked across the broad plains. He could see for miles. "If Rose continues this frog hopping, he'll eventually blow all of us."

"You think he knows we're here?"

"No," replied Kevin thoughtfully, "no, that doesn't seem right. I don't think he knows we're here, I think he's worried that we might be. It's kind of funny. He's supposed to be the one in the bind, and now he's turned the tables. We can't let him know we're watching him and yet we also can't lose him. We can't follow closely or he'll spot us. If we drop too far away, he'll lose us.'

"Why the hell did he wait until now to play cat and mouse?"

Kevin smiled. "Oh, he's been playing all along. Remember the bus? How careful he was in
Chicago
and
New York
? He's been playing but he saved his big moves for here. Look," Kevin said, pointing out the car windows, "can you think of a harder place to keep a man in your sight inconspicuously.

His assistant slowly turned his head, gazing across the broad Dakota prairies. He shuddered. "Give me'the
Bronx
and its parking problems anytime. You can at least blend, into the crowd. So what do we do now? Eventually he'll catch us short of cars, the box will break and he'll be gone. Even if we could get a helicopter, it would stick out more than a fleet of us cruising behind him."

Kevin didn't reply. They rode in silence until they reached
Bismarck
.

His assistant broke the stillness. "What the hell is he doing now? This isn't the right way!"

Rose's Logical route to
Montana
continued west on U.S. 94. Rose defied the logical route. He drove through the business section of
Bismarck
, then cut north from U.S. 94 on a secondary highway. The lead surveillance car was barely able to cut across
Bismarck
using another route and get in front of Rose before he left the urban area.

Kevin looked at his assistant and driver. Both were nervously sweating too.

"Sir," said the driver, "he does many more changes like that and we'll lose him for sure. The lead teams will go first, then with his change-up speeds he'll pick us trail cars off one by one."

"I know," replied Kevin, "I know." He thought for a moment, then smiled. "There's a chance. A small one, but it's better than nothing. Hand me the radio."

It took Kevin almost thirty minutes to confirm that his plan was possible. He had to call the old man, and the old man had to go through the Attorney General's office to get the necessary clout. A number of political favors were traded to get Kevin what he wanted. As Rose pulled into Underwood, North Dakota, halfway between Minot and Bismarck; Carl radioed back the affirmation. The logistics were tight, but Kevin knew he had no choice.

He dropped out of the surveillance box, calling his reserve unit to take up the slack. He ordered every unmarked law-enforcement car he could commandeer-FBI, state, highway patrol, local sheriff, Treasury Department and even military police-into the central North Dakota area. Then he turned back to
Bismarck
. Sirens blaring, he made the return journey in almost half the time.

Kevin based his plan on experience and logic. Rose could and probably would break up the surveillance box much as the driver had described. In the flatlands of
North Dakota
the surveillance team stood almost no chance of maintaining a surreptitious watch on their quarry. Clearly, something had to give.

Virtually every state highway patrol or state police force uses a simplified radar device to trap speeders. The device is portable and can be fitted in any normal car with little difficulty. The radar readings are not overly sophisticated, and the range is considerably limited. The
North Dakota
highway patrol has radar units capable of tracking speeders up to eight miles away, providing no major hills interfere; In North Dakota major hills prove no obstacle.

Kevin ordered three of his surveillance cars fitted with radar units transferred from
North Dakota
highway patrol cars. He also borrowed four trained police operators. The head of the
North Dakota
highway patrol was only too happy to oblige the Justice Department, especially after learning his unit would receive "special consideration" when the Law Enforcement Assistance Administration reviewed grant applications the next year.

It took three sets of technicians twenty minutes to install the radar sets in Kevin's cars. While he waited, Kevin kept in constant communication with the units watching Rose. Then, with a state police escort and sirens screaming, Kevin and his men raced north across secondary highways in time to intercept Rose, who had cut east just after Kevin left the box, then doubled back northwest on another highway.

Kevin reestablished the box. He stationed one of the radar cars in front of Rose while another radar car followed. Kevin brought up the rear in another radar car. He also called off the auxiliary help he had requisitioned: That represented no loss. Rose had blown six of the cars. Kevin assigned two of his own backup units to the lead radar car and kept the remaining two for his posterior team.

"We have to assume," Kevin explained to his assistant, the driver and the young, eager, purloined highway patrolman, "that Rose will take some quick turns and shake the lead tail. When that happens, we'll have to play along behind him until the lead car catches up, passes us and Rose, and reestablishes the box. The second time Rose shakes the lead one of the rear radar cars will have to pass him because be will have seen the original lead car. The original lead car will then be the tail-end backup. Rose can make six changes before he'll see the same radar car twice. If we're lucky, the box will hold together."

"You realize, sir," the patrolman offered nervously, "the radar is no good in heavy traffic or in a town. It's too hard to distinguish between blips."

"With the backup units we should be able to keep track of him through major cities. As for heavy traffic-, well, out here that isn't a factor. That's what got us into this bind in the first place. I know it has problems, but it's the only solution we've got."

Rose continued north, varying his, speed from time to time. He often pulled into rest stops and service stations. All the time Kevin and his teams kept as far out of sight as the radar allowed them. Each time Rose passed through a populated area the non-radar cars closed the gap enough to keep him under visual surveillance. By nightfall they had driven a full circle and were back in
Jamestown
. Rose stayed at a different motel. His watchers delighted their previous motel host by booking his place full for a second night. Business was slow that time of year. A large party of government employees was always a welcome bonus.

"So you don't think he's uncovered the surveillance yet?" the old man asked Kevin over the phone that night.

"No, sir. I still think he's fishing. We've been very, very lucky. He's also not working at it as hard as he could. That may be because he hasn't seen us and in his normal routine he doesn't want to use all his tricks unless he has to. If he has seen us, he may be deliberately stringing us along."

"It's all very confusing," sighed the old man. "The CIA informs me that the secretary to the Soviet UN mission they've been wooing lo these many months has passed on some information which might help us. A
Chicago
resident agent made a pickup of some machine from a trade mission on the weekend. He also received unspecified funds and some miscellaneous equipment, including a handgun. The secretary says the items were for delivery to an agent passing through
Chicago
. The secretary thinks the resident agent would use a local recruit or a cutout system. He also thinks the material is connected with the case he told the CIA about before."

"How genuine is this secretary?"

"Well, the CIA thinks he's honest. They are very satisfied with his background. They've started feeding him money, honor, the usual routine. It is now official that as soon as they pump him fairly dry, they plan on turning the tables and sending him back."

"Have they pushed-for any more information that we could use?"

"They aren't to the pushing stage yet. I feel fortunate that we've been able to get them to cooperate as much as we have. Have any of Rose's old contacts been active?"

"No," replied Kevin, "the Brooks woman in
New York
and the truck driver Pulaski have been quiet. The agents following Woodward report erratic behavior by him, but I thinks that's more a function of the man than his mission."

"No doubt."

"I'm hoping for a hunch to pan out. We've been pretty sure that Rose checks back with his previous contact just before each phase ends. We connected phone calls between phone booths that the contacts and Rose used at about the same time. If Rose sticks to that pattern, he's due to check in with Woodward soon." '),

"What good does that do us? We can't cover all the pay phones in
Chicago
, let alone get taps on them."

"We don't have too," Kevin explained eagerly. "The surveillance team covering Woodward reported he got a phone call at a pay phone on the North Side at the same time Rose was making a call. Shortly after that Woodward dropped the car off and Rose picked it up. I'm assuming that particular pay phone is the link between Rose and Woodward. If Rose follows the pattern, he'll call Woodward on that phone at an arranged time. Just in case we're right, I've got a twenty-four-hour tap on it. They'll probably talk code, but we might pick something out of it, and if we lose Rose before he calls, we might trace him through the phone call."

"Kevin, my boy," the old man said admiringly, "that's brilliant, absolutely brilliant. I'm ashamed, very ashamed that I didn't think of that. Very ashamed."

Kevin ignored the compliment. Praise made him nervous. Besides, he thought the old man sounded peculiar, almost as though he might be slightly annoyed that he had not come up with the plan. Kevin didn't want to prod whatever emotion came through the old man's words. He -shifted topics. "Do you think we should alert Condor?"

"No, not yet. I'm still hoping he'll turn up something on his own. If we tell him everything that has happened, he might get overly anxious and blow whatever chances he has. For now, we'll give him routine reports letting him know where Rose is, but not that he is getting fancy. Don’t lose Rose now, Kevin," commanded the old man, "he's getting close, very, very close.".

"He should be very close by now, sir," Serov told his superior. "He has left
Chicago
and should be in
North Dakota
. Not all that far from the missile. He is supposed to check in with Woodward in less than fifteen hours."

"Good," replied Ryzhov, "very good. And after that he makes the run and if everything goes according to plan, we hear no more from our GRU Comrade Nurich."