While Malcolm and Wendy waited for the doctor, a large, competent-looking man sat in an outer office on Pennsylvania Avenue, waiting to answer a very special summons. His name was Kevin Powell. He waited patiently but eagerly: he did not receive such a summons every day. Finally a secretary beckoned, and he entered the inner office of a man who looked like a kindly, delicate old uncle. The old man motioned Powell to a chair.
“Ah, Kevin, how wonderful to see you.”
“Good to see you, sir. You’re looking fit.”
“As do you, my boy, as do you. Here.” The old man tossed Powell a file folder. “Read this.” As Powell read, the old man examined him closely. The plastic surgeons had done a marvelous job on his ear, and it took an experienced eye to detect the slight bulge close to his left armpit. When Powell raised his eyes, the old man said, “What do you think, my boy?”
Powell chose his words carefully. “Very strange, sir. I’m not sure what it means, though it must mean a great deal.”
“Exactly my thoughts, my boy, exactly mine. Both the Agency and the Bureau [FBI] have squads of men scouring the city, watching the airports, buses, trains, the usual routine, only expanded to quite a staggering level. As you know, it’s these routine operations that make or break most endeavors, and I must say they are doing fairly well. Or they were up until now.”
He paused for breath and an encouraging look of interest from Powell. “They’ve found a barber who remembers giving our boy a haircut — rather predictable yet commendable action on his part — sometime after Weatherby was shot. By the way, he is coming along splendidly. They hope to question him late this evening. Where was I… Oh, yes. They canvassed the area and found where he bought some clothes, but then they lost him. They have no idea where to look next. I have one or two ideas about that myself, but I’ll save them for later. There are some points I want you to check me on. See if you can answer them for me, or maybe find some questions I can’t find.
“Why? Why the whole thing? If it was Czechoslovakia, why that particular branch, a do-nothing bunch of analysts? If it wasn’t, we’re back to our original question.
“Look at the method. Why so blatant? Why was the man Heidegger hit the night before? What did he know that the others didn’t? If he was special, why kill the others too? If Malcolm works for them, they didn’t need to question Heidegger about much. Malcolm could have told them.
“Then we have our boy Malcolm, Malcolm with the many ‘why’s. If he is a double, why did he use the Panic procedure? If he is a double, why did he set up a meeting — to kill Sparrow IV, whom he could have picked off at his leisure had he worked at establishing the poor fellow’s identity? If he isn’t a double, why did he shoot the two men he called to take him to safety? Why did he go to Heidegger’s apartment after the shooting? And, of course, where, why, and how is he now?
“There are a lot of other questions that grow from these, but I think these are the main ones. Do you agree?”
Powell nodded and said, “I do. Where do I fit in?”
The old man smiled. “You, my dear boy, have the good fortune to be on loan to my section. As you know, we were created to sort out the mishmashes of bureaucracy. I imagine some of those paper pushers who shuffled my poor old soul here assumed I would be stuck processing paper until I died or retired. Neither of those alternatives appeal to me, so I have redefined liaison work to mean a minimum of paper and a maximum of action, pirated a very good set of operatives, and set up my own little shop, just like in the old days. With the official maze of the intelligence community, I have a good deal of confusion to play with. A dramatist I once knew said the best way to create chaos is to flood the scene with actors. I’ve managed to capitalize on the chaos of others.
“I think some of my efforts,” he added in a modest tone, “small though they may be, have been of some value to the country.
“Now we come to this little affair. It isn’t really much of my business, but the damn thing intrigues me. Besides, I think there is something wrong with the way the Agency and the Bureau are handling the whole thing. First of all, this is a very extraordinary situation, and they are using fairly ordinary means. Second, they’re tripping over each other, both hot to make the pinch, as they say. Then there’s the one thing I can’t really express. Something about this whole affair bothers me. It should never have happened. Both the idea behind the event and the way in which the event manifested itself are so… wrong, so out of place. I think it’s beyond the parameters of the Agency. Not that they’re incompetent — though I think they have missed one or two small points — but they’re just not viewing it from the right place. Do you understand, my boy?”
Powell nodded. “And you are in the right place, right?”
The old man smiled. “Well, let’s just say one foot is in the door. Now here’s what I want you to do. Did you notice our boy’s medical record? Don’t bother looking, I’ll tell you. He has many times the number of colds and respiratory problems he should. He often needs medical attention. Now, if you remember the transcript of the second panic call, he sneezed and said he had a cold. I’m playing a long shot that his cold is much worse, and that wherever he is, he’ll come out to get help. What do you think?”
Powell shrugged. “Might be worth a try.”
The old man was gleeful. “I think so, too. Neither the Agency nor the Bureau has tumbled to this yet, so we have a clear field. Now, I’ve arranged for you to head a special team of D.C. detectives — never mind how I managed it, I did. Start with the general practitioners in the metropolitan area. Find out if any of them have treated anyone like our boy — use his new description.If they haven’t, tell them to report to us if they do. Make up some plausible story so they’ll open up to you. One other thing. Don’t let the others find out we’re looking too. The last time they had a chance, two men got shot.”
Powell stood to go. “I’ll do what I can, sir.”
“Fine, fine, my boy. I knew I could count on you. I’m still thinking on this. If I come up with anything else, I’ll let you know. Good luck.”
Powell left the room. When the door was shut, the old man smiled.
While Kevin Powell began his painstakingly dull check of the Washington medical community, a very striking man with strange eyes climbed out of a taxi in front of Sunny’s Surplus. The man had spent the morning reading a Xeroxed file identical with the one Powell had just examined. He had received the file from a very distinguished-looking gentleman. The man with the strange eyes had a plan for finding Malcolm. He spent an hour driving around the neighborhood, and now he began to walk it. At bars, newspaper stands, public offices, private buildings, anywhere a man could stop for a few minutes, he would stop and show an artist’s projected sketch of Malcolm with short hair. When people seemed reluctant to talk to him, the man flashed one of five sets of credentials the distinguished man had obtained. By 3:30 that afternoon he was tired, but it didn’t show. He was more resolute than ever. He stopped at a Hot Shoppe for coffee. On the way out he flashed the picture and a badge at the cashier in a by now automatic manner. Almost anyone else would have registered the shock he felt when the clerk said she recognized the man.