Malcolm drove around Alexandria until he found a small, dumpy used-car lot. He parked two blocks away and sent Wendy to make the purchase. Ten minutes later, after having sworn she was Mrs. A. Edgerton for the purpose of registration and paid an extra hundred dollars cash, she drove off in a slightly used Dodge. Malcolm followed her to a park. They transferred the luggage and removed the license plates from the Corvair. Then they loaded the Dodge and slowly drove away.
Malcolm drove for five hours. Wendy never spoke during the whole trip. When they stopped at the Paris-burg, Virginia, motel, Malcolm registered as Mr. and Mrs. Evans. He parked the car behind the motel “so it won’t get dirty from the traffic passing by.” The old lady running the motel merely shrugged and went back to her TV. She had seen it before.
Wendy lay very still on the bed. Malcolm slowly undressed. He took his medicine and removed his contacts before he sat down next to her.
“Why don’t you undress and get some sleep, honey?”
She turned and looked at him slowly. “It’s real, isn’t it.” Her voice was softly matter-of-fact. “The whole thing is real. And you killed that man. In my apartment, you killed a man.”
“It was either him or us. You know that. You tried, too.”
She turned away. “I know.” She got up and slowly undressed. She turned off the light and climbed into bed. Unlike before, she didn’t snuggle close. When Malcolm went to sleep an hour later, he was sure she was still awake.
Chapter 6
“Where there is much light there is also much shadow.”
“Ah, Kevin, we seem to be making progress.”
The old man’s crisp, bright words did little to ease the numbness gripping Powell’s mind. His body ached, but the discomfort was minimal. He had been conditioned for much more severe strains than one missed rest period. But during three months of rest and recuperation, Powell had become accustomed to sleeping late on Sunday mornings. Additionally, the frustration of his present assignment irritated him. So far his involvement had been post facto. His two years of training and ten years’ experience were being used to run errands and gather information. Any cop could do that, and many cops were. Powell didn’t share the old man’s optimism.
“How, sir?” Frustrated as he was, Powell spoke respectfully. “Some trace of Condor and the girl?”
“No, not yet.” Despite a very long night, the old man sparkled. “There’s still a chance she bought that car, but it hasn’t been seen. No, our progress is from another angle. We’ve identified the dead man.”
Powell’s mind cleared. The old man continued.
“Our friend was once Calvin Lloyd, sergeant, United States Marine Corps. In 1959 he left that group rather suddenly while stationed in Korea as an adviser to a South Korean Marine unit. There is a good chance he was mixed up in the murder of a Seoul madam and one of her girls. The Navy could never find any direct evidence, but they think the madam and he were running a base commuter service and had a falling out over rebates. Shortly after the bodies were found, Lloyd went AWOL. The Marines didn’t look for him very hard. In 1961 Navy Intelligence received a report indicating he had died rather suddenly in Tokyo. Then in 1963 he was identified as one of several arms dealers in Laos. Evidently his job was technical advice. At the time, he was linked to a man called Vincent Dale Maronick. More on Maronick later. Lloyd dropped out of sight in 1965, and until yesterday he was again believed dead.”
The old man paused. Powell cleared his throat, signaling that he wanted to speak. After receiving a courteous nod, Powell said, “Well, at least we know that much. Besides telling us a small who, how does it help?”
The old man held up his left forefinger. “Be patient, my boy, be patient. Let’s take our steps slowly and see what paths cross where.
“The autopsy on Weatherby yielded only a probability, but based on what has happened, I’m inclined to rate it very high. There is a chance his death may be due to an air bubble in the blood, but the pathologists won’t swear to it. His doctors insist the cause must be external — and therefore not their fault. I’m inclined to agree with them. It’s a pity for us Weatherby isn’t around for questioning, but for someone it’s a very lucky break. Far too lucky, if you ask me.
“I’m convinced Weatherby was a double agent, though for whom I have no idea. The files that keep turning up missing, our friend with credentials covering the town just ahead of us, the setup of the hit on the Society. They all smell of inside information. With Weatherby eliminated, it follows he could have been the leak that became too dangerous for someone. Then there’s that whole shooting scene behind the theaters. We’ve been over that before, but something new occurred to me.
“I had both Sparrow IV’s and Weatherby’s bodies examined by our Ballistics man. Whoever shot Weatherby almost amputated his leg with the bullet. According to our man it was at least a .357 magnum with soft lead slugs. But Sparrow IV had only a neat round hole in his throat. Our Ballistics man doesn’t think they were shot with the same gun. That, plus the fact Weatherby wasn’t killed, makes the whole thing look fishy. I think our boy Malcolm, for some reason or other, shot Weatherby and then ran. Weatherby was hurt, but not hurt so bad he couldn’t eliminate witness Sparrow IV. But that’s not the interesting piece of news.
“From 1958 until late 1969, Weatherby was stationed in Asia, primarily out of Hong Kong, but with stints in Korea, Japan, Taiwan, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia, and Vietnam. He worked his way up the structure from special field agent to station head. You’ll note he was there during the same period as our dead mailman. Now for a slight but very interesting digression. What do you know about the man called Maronick?”
Powell furrowed his brow. “I think he was some sort of special agent. A freelancer, as I recall.”
The old man smiled, pleased. “Very good, though I’m not sure if I understand what you mean by ‘special.’ If you mean extremely competent, thorough, careful, and highly successful, then you’re correct. If you mean dedicated and loyal to one side, then you are very wrong. Vincent Maronick was — or is, if I’m not mistaken — the best freelance agent in years, maybe the best of this century for his specialty. For a short-term operation requiring cunning, ruthlessness, and a good deal of caution, he was the best money could buy. The man was tremendously skilled. We’re not sure where he received his training, though it’s clear he was American. His individual abilities were not so outstanding that they couldn’t be matched. There were and are better planners, better shots, better pilots, better saboteurs, better everything in particular. But the man had a persevering drive, a toughness that pushed his capabilities far beyond those of his competitors. He’s a very dangerous man, one of the men I could fear.
“In the early sixties he surfaced working for the French, mainly in Algeria, but, please note, also taking care of some of their remaining interests in Southeast Asia. Starting in 1963, he came to the attention of those in our business. At various times he worked for Britain, Communist China, Italy, South Africa, the Congo, Canada, and he even did two stints for the Agency. He also did a type of consulting service for the IRA and the OAS (against his former French employers). He always gave satisfaction, and there are no reports of any failures. He was very expensive. Rumor has it he was looking for a big score. Exactly why he was in the business isn’t clear, but my guess is it was the one field that allowed him to use his talents to the fullest and reap rewards quasi-legally. Now here’s the interesting part.