Three Days of the Condor (10 page)

"Where are—" Malcolm had to pause and swallow. It still hurt. "Where are you going?"

She smiled. "Silly boy, I've got to shop. We're low on food and there are still some things you need. If you're very good— and you're not bad— I might bring you a surprise." She walked away but turned back at the door. "If the phone rings, don't answer unless it rings twice, stops, then rings again. That'll be me. Aren't I learning how to be a good spy? I'm not expecting anybody. If you're quiet, no one will know you're here." Her voice took on a more serious tone. "Now, don't worry, OK? You're perfectly safe here." She turned and left.

Malcolm had just picked up one book when her head popped around the doorjamb. "Hey," she said, "I just thought of something. If I get strep throat, will it classify as venereal disease?" Malcolm missed when he threw the book at her.

When Wendy opened her door and walked to her car, she didn't notice the man in the van parked across the street stirring out of lethargy. He was a plain-looking man. He wore a bulky raincoat even though spring sunshine ruled the morning. It was almost as if he knew the good weather couldn't last. The man watched Wendy pull out of the parking lot and drive away. He looked at his watch. He would wait three minutes.

Saturday is a day off for most government employees, but not for all. This particular Saturday saw a large number of civil servants from various government levels busily and glumly drawing overtime.

One of these was Kevin Powell. He and his men had talked to 216 doctors, receiving nurses, interns, and other assorted members of the medical profession. Over half the general practitioners and throat specialists in the Washington area had been questioned. It was now eleven o'clock on a fine Saturday morning. All Powell had to report to the old man behind the mahogany desk could be summed up in one word: nothing.

The old man's spirits weren't dimmed by the news. "Well, my boy, just keep on trying, that's all I can say, just keep on trying. If it's any consolation, let me say we're in the same position as the others, only they have run out of things to do except watch. But one thing has happened: Weatherby is dead."

Powell was puzzled. "I thought you said his condition was improving."

The old man spread his hands. "It was. They planned to question him late last night or early this morning. When the interrogation team arrived shortly after one a.m., they found him dead."

"How?" Powell's voice held more than a little suspicion.

"How indeed? The guard on the door swears only medical personnel went in and out. Since he was in the Langley hospital, I'm sure security must have been tight. His doctors say that, given the shock and the loss of blood, it is entirely possible he died from the wound. They were sure he was doing marvelously. Right now they're doing a complete autopsy."

"It's very strange."

"Yes, it is, isn't it? But because it's strange, it should have been almost predictable. The whole case is strange. Ah, well, we've been over this ground before. I have something new for you."

Powell leaned closer to the desk. He was tired. The old man continued, "I told you I wasn't satisfied with the way the Agency and the Bureau were handling the case. They've run into a blind wall. I'm sure part of the reason is that their method led them there. They've been looking for Malcolm the way a hunter looks for any game. While they're skilled hunters, they're missing a thing or two. I want you to start looking for him as though you were the prey. You've read all the information we have on him, you've been to his apartment. You must have some sense of the man. Put yourself in his shoes and see where you end up.

"I have a few helpful tidbits for you. We know he needed transportation to get wherever he is. If nothing else, a man on foot is visible, and our boy wants to avoid that. The Bureau is fairly certain he didn't take a cab. I see no reason to fault their investigation along those lines. I don't think he would ride a bus, not with the package the man at the store sold him. Besides, one never knows who one might meet on a bus.

"So there's your problem. Take a man or two, men who can put themselves in the right frame of mind. Start from where he was last seen. Then, my boy, get yourself hidden the way he has."

Just before Powell opened the door, he looked at the smiling old man and said, "There's one other thing that's strange about this whole business, sir. Malcolm was never trained as a field agent. He's a researcher, yet look how well he's made out."

"Yes, that is rather strange," answered the old man. He smiled and said, "You know, I'm getting rather keen to meet our boy Malcolm. Find him for me, Kevin, find him for me quickly."

Malcolm needed a cup of coffee. The hot liquid would make his throat feel better and the caffeine would pep him up. He grinned slowly, being careful not to stretch tender neck muscles. With Wendy, a man needed a lot of pep. He went downstairs to the kitchen. He had just put a pot on to boil when the doorbell rang.

Malcolm froze. The gun was upstairs, right next to his bed where he could reach it in a hurry, provided, of course, that he was in bed. Quietly, Malcolm tiptoed to the door. The bell rang again. He sighed with relief when he saw through the one-way glass peephole that it was only a bored-looking mailman, his bag slung over one shoulder, a package in one hand. Then he became annoyed. If he didn't answer the door, the mailman might keep coming back until he delivered his package. Malcolm looked down at his body. He only had on jockey shorts and a T shirt. Oh well, he thought, the mailman's probably seen it all before. He opened the door.

"Good morning, sir, how are you today?"

The mailman's cheer seemed to infect Malcolm. He smiled back, and said hoarsely, "Got a little cold. What can I do for you?"

"Got a package here for a Miss…" The mailman paused and slyly smiled at Malcolm. "A Miss Wendy Ross. Special delivery, return receipt requested."

"She's not here right now. Could you come back later?"

The mailman scractched his head. "Well, could, but it would sure be easier if you signed for it. Hell, government don't care who signs, long as it's signed."

"OK," said Malcolm. "Do you have a pen?"

The mailman slapped his pockets unsuccessfully.

"Come on in," Malcolm said. "I'll get one."

The mailman smiled as he entered the room. He closed the door behind him. "You're making my day a lot easier by going to all this trouble," he said.

Malcolm shrugged. "Think nothing of it." He turned and went into the kitchen to find a pen. As he walked through the door, his mind abstractedly noted that the mailman had put the package down and was unslinging his pouch.

The mailman was very happy. His orders had been to determine whether Malcolm was in the apartment, to reconnoiter the building, and to make a hit only if it could be done with absolute safety and certainty. He knew a bonus would follow his successful display of initiative in hitting Malcolm. The girl would come later. He pulled the silenced sten gun out of his pouch.

Just before Malcolm came around the corner from the kitchen he heard the click when the mailman armed the sten gun. Malcolm hadn't found a pen. In one hand he carried the coffeepot and in the other an empty cup. He thought the nice mailman might like some refreshment. That Malcolm didn't die then may be credited to the fact that when he turned the corner and saw the gun swinging toward him he didn't stop to think. He threw the pot of boiling coffee and the empty cup straight at the mailman.

The mailman hadn't heard Malcolm coming. His first thought centered on the objects flying toward his face. He threw up his arms, covering his head with the gun. The coffeepot bounced off the gun, but the lid flew off and hot coffee splashed down on bare arms and an upturned face.

Screaming, the mailman threw the gun away from him. It skidded across the floor, stopping under the table holding Wendy's stereo. Malcolm made a desperate dive for it, only to be tripped by a black loafer. He fell to his hands and staggered up. He quickly looked over his shoulder and ducked. The mailman flew over Malcolm's head. Had the flying side kick connected, the back of Malcolm's head would have shattered and in all probability his neck would have snapped.

Even though he hadn't practiced in a dojo for six months, the mailman executed the difficult landing perfectly. However, he landed on the scatter rug Wendy's grandmother had given her as a birthday present. The rug slid along the waxed floor and the mailman fell to his hands. He bounced up twice as fast as Malcolm.

The two men stared at each other. Malcolm had at least ten feet to travel before he could reach the gun on his right. He could probably beat the mailman to the table, but before he could pull the gun out the man would be all over his back. Malcolm was closest to the door, but it was closed. He knew he wouldn't have the precious seconds it would take to open it.

The mailman looked at Malcolm and smiled. With the toe of his shoe he tested the hardwood floor. Slick. With deft, practiced movements he slipped his feet out of the loafers. He wore slipperlike socks. These too came off when he rubbed his feet on the floor. The mailman came prepared to walk quietly, barefoot, and his preparations served him in an unexpected manner. His bare feet hugged the floor.

Malcolm looked at his smiling opponent and began to accept death. He had no way of knowing the man's brown belt proficiency, but he knew he didn't stand a chance. Malcolm's knowledge of martial arts was almost negligible. He had read fight scenes in numerous books and seen them in the movies. He had had two fights as a child, won one, lost one. His physical education instructor in college had spent three hours teaching the class some cute tricks he had learned in the Marines. Reason made Malcolm try to copy the man's stance, legs bent, fists clenched, left arm in front and bent perpendicular to the floor, right arm held close to the waist.

Very slowly the mailman began to shuffle across the fifteen feet that separated him from his prey. Malcolm began to circle toward his right, vaguely wondering why he bothered. When the mailman was six feet from Malcolm he made his move. He yelled and with his left arm feinted a backhand snap at Malcolm's face. As the mailman anticipated, Malcolm ducked quickly to his right side. When the mailman brought his left hand back, he dropped his left shoulder and whirled to his right on the ball of his left foot. At the end of the three-quarters circle his right leg shot to meet Malcolm's ducking head.

But six months is too long to be out of practice and expect perfect results, even when fighting an untrained amateur. The kick missed Malcolm's face, but thudded into his left shoulder. The blow knocked Malcolm into the wall. When he bounced off he barely dodged the swinging hand chop follow-through blow.

The mailman was very angry with himself. He had missed twice. True, his opponent was injured, but he should have been dead. The mailman knew he must get back into practice before he met an opponent who knew what to do.

A good karate instructor will emphasize that karate is three-quarters mental. The mailman knew this, so he devoted his entire mind to the death of his opponent. He concentrated so deeply he failed to hear Wendy as she opened and shut the door, quietly so as not to disturb Malcolm's sleeping. She had forgotten her checkbook.

Wendy was dreaming. It wasn't real, these two men standing in her living room. One her Malcolm, his left arm twitching to life at his side. The other a short, stocky stranger standing so strangely, his back toward her. Then she heard the stranger very softly say, "You've caused enough trouble!" and she knew it was all frighteningly real. As the stranger began to shuffle toward Malcolm, she carefully reached around the kitchen corner, and took a long carving knife from a sparkling set held on the wall by a magnet. She walked toward the stranger.

The mailman heard the click of heels on the hardwood floor. He quickly feinted toward Malcolm and whirled to face the new challenge. When he saw the frightened girl standing with a knife clutched awkwardly in her right hand, the worry that had been building in his brain ceased. He quickly shuffled toward her, dodging and dipping as she backed away trembling. He let her back up until she was about to run into the couch, then he made his move. His left foot snapped forward in a roundhouse kick and the knife flew from her numbed hand. His left knuckles split the skin just beneath her left cheekbone in a vicious backhand strike. Wendy sank, stunned, to the couch.

But the mailman had forgotten an important maxim of multiple-attackers situations. A man being attacked by two or more opponents must keep moving, delivering quick, alternate attacks to each of his opponents. If he stops to concentrate on one before all of his opponents have been neutralized, he leaves himself exposed. The mailman should have whirled to attack Malcolm immediately after the kick. Instead he went for the
coup de grâce
on Wendy.

By the time the mailman had delivered his backhand blow to Wendy, Malcolm had the sten gun in his hand. He could use his left arm only to prop the barrel up, but he lined the gun up just as the mailman raised his left hand for the final downward chop.

"Don't!"

The mailman whirled toward his other opponent just as Malcolm pulled the trigger. The coughing sounds hadn't stopped before the mailman's chest blossomed with a red, spurting row. The body flew over the couch and thudded on the floor.

Malcolm picked Wendy up. Her left eye began to puff shut and a trickle of blood ran down her cheek. She sobbed quietly, "My God, my God, my God."

It took Malcolm five minutes to calm her down. He peered cautiously through the blinds. No one was in sight. The yellow van across the street looked empty. He left Wendy downstairs with the machine gun huddled in her arms pointed at the door. He told her to shoot anything that came through. He quickly dressed, and packed his money, his clothes, and the items Wendy had bought him in one of her spare suitcases. When he came downstairs, she was more rational. He sent her upstairs to pack. While she was gone, he searched the corpse and found nothing. When she came down ten minutes later, her face had been washed and she carried a suitcase.