Three Days of the Condor (7 page)

The sign in the barbershop said "No Waiting," and for once advertising accurately reflected its product. Malcolm took off his jacket facing the wall. He slipped the gun inside the bundle before he sat down. His eyes never left the jacket during the whole haircut.

"What do you want, young fellow?" The graying barber snipped his scissors gleefully.

Malcolm felt no regrets. He knew how much the haircut might mean. "A short butch, just a little longer than a crew cut, long enough so it will lay down."

"Say, that'll be quite a change." The barber plugged in an electric clipper.

"Yeah."

"Say, young man, are you interested in baseball? I sure am. I read an article in the
Post
today about the Orioles and spring training, and the way this fellow figures it…"

After the haircut Malcolm looked in the mirror. He hadn't seen that person for five years.

His next stop was Sunny's Surplus. Malcolm knew a good disguise starts with the right attitude, but he also knew good props were invaluable. He searched through the entire stock until he found a used field jacket with the patches intact that fitted reasonably well. The name patch above the left pocket read "Evans." On the left shoulder was a tricolored eagle patch with the word "Airborne" in gold letters on a black background. Malcolm knew he had just become a veteran of the 101st Airborne Division. He bought and changed into a pair of blue stretch jeans and an outrageously priced set of used jump boots ("$15, guaranteed to have seen action in Vietnam"). He also bought underwear, a cheap pullover, black driving gloves, socks, a safety razor, and a toothbrush. When he left the store with his bundle under his arm, he pretended he had a spike rammed up his ass. His steps were firm and well measured. He looked cockily at every girl he passed. After five blocks he needed a rest, so he entered one of Washington's countless Hot Shoppe restaurants.

"Can Ah have a cup of caufee?" The waitress didn't bat an eye at Malcolm's newly acquired southern accent. She brought him his coffee. Malcolm tried to relax and think.

Two girls were in the booth behind Malcolm. A life-time habit made him listen to their conversation.

"So you're not going anywhere for your vacation?"

"No, I'm just going to stay home. For two weeks I'll shut the world out."

"You'll go crazy."

"Maybe, but don't try calling me for a progress report, because I probably won't even answer the phone."

The other girl laughed. "What if it's a hunk of man who's just pining for companionship?"

The other girl snorted. "Then he'll just have to wait for two weeks. I'm going to relax."

"Well, it's your life. Sure you won't have dinner tonight?"

"No, really, thanks, Anne. I'm just going to finish my coffee and then drive home, and starting right now I won't have to hurry for another two weeks."

"Well, Wendy, have fun." Thighs squeaked across plastic. The girl called Anne walked toward the door, right past Malcolm. He caught a glimpse of a tremendous pair of legs, blond hair, and a firm profile vanishing in the crowd. He sat very still, sniffling occasionally, nervous as hell, for he had found the answer to his shelter problem.

It took the girl called Wendy five minutes to finish her coffee. When she left she didn't even look at the man sitting behind her. She couldn't have seen much anyway, as his face was hidden behind a menu. Malcolm followed her as soon as she paid and started out the door. He threw his money on the counter as he left.

All he could tell from behind was that she was tall, thin but not painfully skinny like Tamatha, had short black hair, and only medium legs. Christ, he thought, why couldn't she have been the blond? Malcolm's luck held, for the girl's car was in the back section of a crowded parking lot. He casually followed her past the fat attendant leering from behind a battered felt hat. Just as the girl unlocked the door of a battered Corvair, Malcolm yelled, "Wendy! My God, what are you doing here?"

Startled, but not alarmed, the girl looked up at the smiling figure in the army jacket walking toward her.

"Are you talking to me?" She had narrow-set brown eyes, a wide mouth, a little nose, and high cheekbones. A perfectly ordinary face. She wore little or no makeup.

"I shore am. Don't you remember me, Wendy?" He was only three steps from her now.

"I… I don't think so." She noticed that his one hand held a package and his other was inside his jacket.

Malcolm stood beside her now. He set the package on the roof of her car and casually placed his left hand behind her head. He tightly grabbed her neck, bending her head down until she saw the gun in his other hand.

"Don't scream or make any quick moves or I'll splatter you all over the street. Understand?" Malcolm felt the girl shiver, but she nodded quickly. "Now get in the car and unlock the other door. This thing shoots through windows and I won't even hesitate." The girl quickly climbed into the driver's seat, leaned over, and unlocked the other door. Malcolm slammed her door shut, picked up his package, slowly walked around the car, and got in.

"Please don't hurt me." Her voice was much softer than in the restaurant.

"Look at me." Malcolm had to clear his throat. "I'm not going to hurt you, not if you do exactly as I say, I don't want your money, I don't want to rape you. But you must do exactly as I say. Where do you live?"

"In Alexandria."

"We're going to your apartment. You'll drive. If you have any ideas about signaling for help, forget them. If you try, I'll shoot. I might get hurt, but you'll be dead. It's not worth it. OK?" The girl nodded. "Let's go."

The drive to Virginia was tense. Malcolm never took his eyes off the girl. She never took her eyes off the road. Just after the Alexandria exit she pulled into a small courtyard surrounded by apartment units.

"Which one is yours?"

"The first one. I have the top two floors. A man lives in the basement."

"You're doing just fine. Now, when we go up the walk, just pretend you're taking a friend to your place. Remember, I'm right behind you."

They got out and walked the few steps to the building. The girl shook and had trouble unlocking the door, but she finally made it. Malcolm followed her in, gently closing the door behind him.

I have treated this game in great detail because I think it is important for the student to see what he's up against, and how he ought to go about solving the problems of practical play. You may not be able to play the defense and counterattack this well, but the game sets a worthwhile goal for you to achieve: how to fight back in a position where your opponent has greater mobility and better prospects.

—Fred Reinfeld, The Complete Chess Course

Chapter 4

Thursday Evening-Friday Morning

"I don't believe you." The girl sat on the couch, her eyes glued to Malcolm. She was not as frightened as she had been, but her heart felt as if it was breaking ribs.

Malcolm sighed. He had been sitting across from the girl for an hour. From what he found in her purse, he knew she was Wendy Ross, twenty-seven years old, had lived and driven in Carbondale, Illinois, distributed 135 pounds on her five-foot-ten frame (he was sure that was an overestimated lie), regularly gave Type O Positive blood to the Red Cross, was a card-carrying user of the Alexandria Public Library and a member of the University of Southern Illinois Alumni Association, and was certified to receive and deliver summonses for her employers, Bechtel, Barber, Sievers, Holloron, and Muckleston. From what he read on her face, he knew she was frightened and telling the truth when she said she didn't believe him. Malcolm didn't blame her, as he really didn't believe his story either, and he knew it was true.

"Look," he said, "if what I said wasn't true, why would I try to convince you it was?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, Jesus!" Malcolm paced the room. He could tie her up and still use her place, but that was risky. Besides, she could be invaluable. He had an inspiration in the middle of a sneeze.

"Look," he said, wiping his upper lip, "suppose I could at least prove to you I was with the CIA. Then would you believe me?"

"I might." A new look crossed the girl's face.

"OK, look at this." Malcolm sat down beside her. He felt her body tense, but she took the mutilated piece of paper.

"What's this?"

"It's my CIA identification card. See, that's me with long hair."

Her voice was cold. "It says Tentrex Industries, not CIA. I can read, you know." He could see she regretted her inflection after she said it, but she didn't apologize.

"I know what it says!" Malcolm grew more impatient and nervous. His plan might not work. "Do you have a D.C. phone book?"

The girl nodded toward an end table. Malcolm crossed the room, picked up the huge book, and flung it at the girl. Her reactions were so keyed she caught it without any trouble. Malcolm shouted at her, "Look in there for Tentrex Industries. Anywhere! White pages, yellow pages, anywhere. The card gives a phone number and an address on Wisconsin Avenue, so it should be in the book. Look!"

The girl looked, then she looked again. She closed the book and stared at Malcolm. "So you've got an ID card for a place that doesn't exist. What does that prove?"

"Right!" Malcolm crossed the room excitedly, bringing the phone with him. The cord barely reached. "Now," he said, very secretively, "look up the Washington number for the Central Intelligence Agency. The numbers are the same."

The girl opened the book again and turned the pages. For a long time she sat puzzled, then with a new look and a questioning voice she said, "Maybe you checked this out before you made the card, just for times like this."

Shit, thought Malcolm. He let all the air out of his lungs, took a deep breath, and started again. "OK, maybe I did, but there's one way to find out. Call that number."

"It's after five," said the girl. "If no one answers am I supposed to believe you until morning?"

Patiently, calmly, Malcolm explained to her. "You're right. If Tentrex is a real company, it's closed for the day. But CIA doesn't close. Call that number and ask for Tentrex." He handed her the phone. "One thing. I'll be listening, so don't do anything wrong. Hang up when I tell you."

The girl nodded and made the call. Three rings.

"WE4-3926."

"May I have Tentrex Industries, please?" The girl's voice was very dry.

"I'm sorry," said a soft voice. A faint click came over the line. "Everyone at Tentrex has gone for the day. They'll be back in the morning. May I ask who is calling and what the nature of your business…"

Malcolm broke the connection before the trace had a chance to even get a general fix. The girl slowly replaced the receiver. For the first time she looked directly at Malcolm. "I don't know if I believe everything you say," she said, "but I think I believe some of it."

"One final piece of proof." Malcolm took the gun out of his pants and laid it carefully in her lap. He walked across the room and sat in the beanbag chair. His palms were damp, but it was better to take the risk now than later. "You've got the gun. You could shoot me at least once before I got to you. There's the phone. I believe in you enough to think you believe me. Call anybody you want. Police, CIA, FBI, I don't care. Tell them you've got me. But I want you to know what might happen if you do. The wrong people might get the call. They might get here first. If they do, we're both dead."

For a long time the girl sat still, looking at the heavy gun in her lap. Then, in a soft voice Malcolm had to strain to hear, she said, "I believe you."

She suddenly burst into activity. She stood up, laid the gun on the table and paced the room. "I… don't know what I can do to help you, but I'll try. You can stay here in the extra bedroom. Umm." She looked toward the small kitchen and meekly said, "I could make something to eat."

Malcolm grinned, a genuine smile he thought he had lost. "That would be wonderful. Could you do one thing for me?"

"Anything, anything, I'll do anything." Wendy's nerves unwound as she realized she might live.

"Could I use your shower? The hair down my back is killing me."

She grinned at him and they both laughed. She showed him the bathroom upstairs and provided him with soap, shampoo, and towels. She didn't say a word when he took the gun with him. As soon as she left him he tiptoed to the top of the stairs. No sound of a door opening, no telephone dialing. When he heard drawers opening and closing, silverware rattling, he went back to the bathroom, undressed, and climbed into the shower.

Malcolm stayed in the shower for thirty minutes, letting the soft pellets of water drive freshness through his body. The steam cleared his sinuses, and by the time he shut off the water he felt almost human. He changed into his new pullover and fresh underwear. He automatically looked in the mirror to straighten his hair. It was so short he did it with two strokes of his hand.

The stereo was playing as he came down the stairs. He recognized the album as Vince Guaraldi's score for
Black Orpheus
. The song was "Cast Your Fate to the Wind." He had the album too, and told her so as they sat down to eat.

During green salad she told Malcolm about small-town life in Illinois. Between bites of frozen German beans he heard about life at Southern Illinois University. Mashed potatoes were mixed with a story concerning an almost fiancé. Between chunks of the jiffy-cooked Swiss steak he learned how drab it is to be a legal secretary for a stodgy corporate law firm in Washington. There was a lull for Sara Lee cherry covered cheesecake. As she poured coffee she summed it all up with, "It's really been pretty dull. Up till now, of course."

During dishes he told her why he hated his first name. She promised never to use it. She threw a handful of suds at him, but quickly wiped them off.

After dishes he said good night and trudged up the stairs to the bathroom. He put his contact lenses in his portable carrying case (what I wouldn't give for my glasses and soaking case, he thought). He brushed his teeth, crossed the hall to a freshly made bed, stuck a precautionary handkerchief under his pillow, laid the gun on the night stand, and went to sleep.