“Yeah, I saw the son of a bitch. He threw his money at me he was in such a hurry to leave. Ripped a nylon crawling after a rolling nickel.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yeah, who would want to be with a creep like that?”
“Did you see which way he went?”
“Sure I saw. If I’d have had a gun I’d have shot him. He went that way.”
The man carefully paid his bill, leaving a dollar tip for the cashier. He walked in the direction she had pointed. Nothing, no reason to make a man looking for safety hurry that particular way. Then again… He turned into the parking lot and became a D.C. detective for the fat man in the felt hat.
“Sure, I seen him. He got into the car with the chick.”
The striking man’s eyes narrowed. “What chick?”
“The one that works for them lawyers. The firm rents space for all the people that work there. She ain’t so great to look at, but she’s got class, if you know what I mean.”
“I think so,” said the fake detective, “I think so. Who is she?”
“Just a minute.” The man in the hat waddled into a small shack. He returned carrying a ledger. “Let’s see, lot 63… lot 63. Yeah, here it is. Ross, Wendy Ross. This here is her Alexandria address.”
The narrow eyes glanced briefly at the offered book and recorded what they saw. They turned back to the man in the felt hat. “Thanks.” The striking man began to walk away.
“Don’t mention it. Say, what’s this guy done?”
The man stopped and turned back. “Nothing, really. We’re just looking for him. He… he’s been exposed to something — it couldn’t hurt you — and we just want to make sure he’s all right.”
Ten minutes later the striking man was in a phone booth. Across the city a distinguished-looking gentleman picked up a private phone that seldom rang. “Yes,” he said, then recognized the voice.
“I have a firm lead.”
“I knew you would. Have someone check it out, but don’t let him act on it unless absolutely unavoidable circumstances arise. I want you to handle it personally so there will be no more mistakes. Right now I have a more pressing matter for your expert attention.
“Our sick mutual friend?”
“Yes. I’m afraid he has to take a turn for the worse. Meet me at place four as soon as you can.” The line went dead.
The man stayed in the phone booth long enough to make another short call. Then he hailed a taxi and rode away into the fading light.
A small car parked across and up the street from Wendy’s apartment just as she brought a tray of stew to Malcolm. The driver could see Wendy’s door very clearly, even though he had to bend his tall, thin body into a very strange position. He watched the apartment, waiting.
Chapter 5
“Overconfidence breeds error when we take for granted that the game will continue on its normal course; when we fail to provide for an unusually powerful resource — a check, a sacrifice, a stalemate. Afterwards the victim may wail, ‘But who could have dreamt of such an idiotic-looking move?’”
“Are you feeling any better?”
Malcolm looked up at Wendy and had to admit that he was. The pain in his throat had subsided to a dull ache and almost twenty-four hours of sleep had restored a good deal of his strength. His nose still ran most of the time and talking brought pain, but even these discomforts were slowly fading.
As the discomforts of his body decreased, the discomforts of his mind increased. He knew it was Saturday, two days after his co-workers had been killed and he had shot a man. By now several very resourceful, very determined groups of people would be turning Washington upside down. At least one group wanted him dead. The others probably had little affection for him. In a dresser across the room lay $9,382 stolen from a dead man, or at least removed from his apartment. Here he was, lying sick in bed without the foggiest notion about what had happened or what he was to do. On top of all that, here on his bed sat a funny-looking girl wearing a T shirt and a smile.
“You know, I really don’t understand it,” he rasped. He didn’t. In all the hours he had devoted to the problem he could find only four tentative assumptions that held water: that the Agency had been penetrated by somebody; that somebody had hit his section; that somebody had tried to frame Heidegger as a double by leaving the “hidden” money; and that somebody wanted him dead.
“Do you know what you’re going to do yet?” Wendy used her forefinger to trace the outline of Malcolm’s thigh under the sheet.
“No.” He said exasperatedly, “I might try the panic number later tonight, if you’ll take me to a phone booth.”
She leaned forward and lightly kissed his forehead. “I’ll take you anywhere.” She smiled and lightly kissed him, his eyes, his cheek, down to his mouth, down to his neck. Flipping back the sheet, she kissed his chest, down to his stomach, down.
Afterwards they showered and he put in his contacts. He went back to bed. When Wendy came back into his room, she was fully dressed. She tossed him four paperbacks. “I didn’t know what you liked, but these should keep you busy while I’m gone.”
“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.