They lay quietly together for half an hour, then they began again, slowly and more carefully, but with a greater intensity. Afterwards, as she lay cradled on his chest, she spoke. “You don’t have to love me. I don’t love you, I don’t think so anyway. But I want you, and I need you.”
Malcolm said nothing, but he drew her closer. They slept.
Other people didn’t get to bed that night. When Langley heard the reports of the Weatherby shooting, already frazzled nerves frazzled more. Crash cars full of very determined men beat the ambulance to the alley. Washington police complained to their superiors about “unidentified men claiming to be federal officers” questioning witnesses. A clash between two branches of government was averted by the entrance of a third. Three more official-looking cars pulled into the neighborhood. Two very serious men in pressed white shirts and dark suits pushed their way through the milling crowd to inform commanders of the other departments that the FBI was now officially in charge. The “unidentified federal officers” and the Washington police checked with their headquarters and both were told not to push the issue.
The FBI entered the case when the powers-that-were adopted a working assumption of espionage. The National Security Act of 1947 states, “The agency [CIA] shall have no police, subpoena, law-enforcement powers, or internal security functions.” The events of the day most definitely fell under the heading of internal subversive activities, activities that are the domain of the FBI. Mitchell held off informing the sister agency of details for as long as he dared, but eventually a deputy director yielded to pressure.
But the CIA would not be denied the right to investigate assaults on its agents, no matter where the assaults occurred. The Agency has a loophole through which many questionable activities funnel. The loophole, Section 5 of the Act, allows the Agency to perform “such other functions and duties related to intelligence affecting the national security as the National Security Council may from time to time direct.” The Act also grants the Agency the power to question people inside the country. The directors of the Agency concluded that the extreme nature of the situation warranted direct action by the Agency. This action could and would continue until halted by a direct order from the National Security Council. In a very polite but pointed note they so informed the FBI, thanking them, of course, for their cooperation and expressing gratitude for any future help.
The Washington police were left with one corpse and a gunshot victim who had disappeared to an undisclosed hospital in Virginia, condition serious, prognosis uncertain. They were not pleased or placated by assurances from various federal officers, but they were unable to pursue “their” case.
The jurisdictional mishmash tended to work itself out in the field, where departmental rivalry meant very little compared to dead men. The agents in charge of operations for each department agreed to coordinate their efforts. By evening one of the most extensive man hunts in Washington’s history began to unfold, with Malcolm as the object of activity. By morning the hunters had turned up a good deal, but they had no clues to Malcolm’s whereabouts.
This did little to brighten a bleak morning after for the men who sat around a table in a central Washington office. Most of them had been up until very late the night before, and most of them were far from happy. The liaison group included all of the CIA deputy directors and representatives from every intelligence group in the country. The man at the head of the table was the deputy director in charge of Intelligence Division. Since the crisis occurred in his division, he had been placed in charge of the investigation. He summed up the facts for the grim men he faced.
“Eight Agency people dead, one wounded, and one, a probable double, missing. Again, we have only a tentative — and I must say doubtful — explanation of why.”
“What makes you think the note the killers left is a fake?” The man who spoke wore the uniform of the United States Navy.
The Deputy Director sighed. The Captain always had to have things repeated. “We’re not saying it’s a fake, we only think so. We think it’s a ruse, an attempt to blame the Czechs for the killings. Sure, we hit one of their bases in Prague, but for tangible, valuable intelligence. We only killed one man. Now, they go in for many things, but melodramatic revenge isn’t one of them. Nor is leaving notes on the scene neatly explaining everything. Especially when it gains them nothing. Nothing.”
“Ah, may I ask a question or two, Deputy?”
The Deputy leaned forward, immediately intent. “Of course, sir.”
“Thank you.” The man who spoke was small and delicately old. To strangers he inevitably appeared to be a kindly old uncle with a twinkle in his eye. “Just to refresh my memory — stop me if I’m wrong — the one in the apartment, Heidegger, had sodium pentothal in his blood?”
“That’s correct, sir.” The Deputy strained, trying to remember if he had forgotten any detail in the briefing.
“Yet none of the others were ‘questioned,’ as far as we can tell. Very strange. They came for him in the night, before the others. Killed shortly before dawn. Yet your investigation puts our boy Malcolm at his apartment that afternoon after Weatherby was shot. You say there is nothing to indicate Heidegger was a double agent? No expenditures beyond his income, no signs of outside wealth, no reported tainted contacts, no blackmail vulnerability?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Any signs of mental instability?” CIA personnel are among the highest groups in the nation for incidence of mental illness.
“None, sir. Excepting his former alcoholism, he appeared to be normal, though somewhat reclusive.”
“Yes, so I read. Investigation of the others reveal anything out of the ordinary?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Would you do me a favor and read what Weatherby said to the doctors? By the way, how is he?”
“He’s doing better, sir. The doctors say he’ll live, but they are taking his leg off this morning.” The Deputy shuffled papers until he found the one he sought. “Here it is. Now, you must remember he has been unconscious most of the time, but once he woke up, looked at the doctors, and said, ‘Malcolm shot me. He shot both of us. Get him, hit him.’”
There was a stir at the end of the table and the Navy captain leaned forward in his chair. In his heavy, slurred voice he said, “I say we find that son of a bitch and blast him out of whatever rat hole he ran into!”
The old man chuckled. “Yes. Well, I quite agree we must find our wayward Condor. But I do think it would be a pity if we ‘blasted’ him before he told us why he shot poor Weatherby. Indeed, why anybody was shot. Do you have anything else for us, Deputy?”