Read Online Shadow of the Condor by James Grady - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Grady
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cloud cover, and for several minutes his view had been wisps of thick whiteness. He hadn't opened his eyes until well after takeoff, so he missed a departing view of Washington 's monuments.
Flying frightened Malcolm at the same time that it excited him. The thrill and horror of imagining oneself exploding into mush, inexorably sentenced by the laws of gravity, inertia and mortality, made Malcolm tingle each time he boarded an airplane. In the minutes before takeoff the suspense and tension built until he couldn't think, although outwardly he appeared no more nervous than his fellow passengers. Once the plane took off, reached its flight altitude and established level cruising speed, a confident, relieved elation replaced Malcolm's apprehensions. At that point his fate was out of his hands. In a car, walking down the street, or even in a bus Malcolm felt some responsibility for his life. While he was driving or walking, his safety was definitely his responsibility. In a bus he might have a chance to dash to the front and take control after the driver had a heart attack. But here, in a plane cruising miles above the earth, there was absolutely nothing he could do in the event of trouble. He was helpless, powerless and free of all responsibility. It was too late for him to dash to the door and force the stewardess to let him disembark. The plane had been airborne for more than thirty minutes, so it wasn't the ride which kept him tense.
What in the hell are you doing, Ronald Malcolm, he asked himself silently. The whole thing, his decision to accompany Kevin back to Washington, his three days at the small farm, the idea of a "mission," all hadn't seemed real to him until that morning when, shortly before dawn, a quiet, strangely gentle McGiffert roused him from his exhausted sleep for an easy, one-mile job around the farm. They didn't speak as they ran. McGiffert's orders as he quickly, lightly took Malcolm through the major self-defense situations were easy, almost coaxing. It was as if the ex-drill sergeant were still in bed and his clergyman twin brother had taken his place. The old man and Carl had joined them for breakfast. - During the first part of the meal Carl coldly, quickly drilled Malcolm with questions about his cover, but by the time the cook poured the last cup of coffee the tone of the meal had shifted to light conversation, with the old man rambling off anecdotes about his garden, political life in Washington, World War R and other remote subjects.
"You'll do fine, my boy," the old man had said as he shook Malcolm's hand good-bye. "Just keep your head and everything will work out splendidly."
Malcolm nodded numbly. A man he had never seen before drove him to Washington 's National Airport . Neither he nor Malcolm spoke during the ride. At the airport Malcolm carefully avoided the men's room where over a year before he had ambushed and killed the agent Maronick. Malcolm's silent escort stayed until his charge boarded the plane. Malcolm turned at the bottom of the stairs and looked to where his escort stood. The sun was just coming up and the airport lights were still on. Few people moved through the terminal. For no reason, Malcolm waved good-bye to his escort. The escort didn't respond.
And now here I am, thought Malcolm, flying to Montana to play spy, a pistol packed in my bags, a cover story as a social data analyst for the Defense Mapping Agency, and no idea how to do whatever it is I am supposed to do besides be there.
Malcolm smiled. I'm there because I'm there to be there, he thought, and it's too late to change anything now. His smile stayed with him for several minutes while be thought of nothing in particular. Finally he raised his eyes and looked toward the serving galley. The same stewardess noticed his attention and returned his gaze questioningly. Some coffee might taste good, thought Malcolm, besides, I don't have to pay for it. He beckoned politely and the stewardess came to him.
While
Flying frightened Malcolm at the same time that it excited him. The thrill and horror of imagining oneself exploding into mush, inexorably sentenced by the laws of gravity, inertia and mortality, made Malcolm tingle each time he boarded an airplane. In the minutes before takeoff the suspense and tension built until he couldn't think, although outwardly he appeared no more nervous than his fellow passengers. Once the plane took off, reached its flight altitude and established level cruising speed, a confident, relieved elation replaced Malcolm's apprehensions. At that point his fate was out of his hands. In a car, walking down the street, or even in a bus Malcolm felt some responsibility for his life. While he was driving or walking, his safety was definitely his responsibility. In a bus he might have a chance to dash to the front and take control after the driver had a heart attack. But here, in a plane cruising miles above the earth, there was absolutely nothing he could do in the event of trouble. He was helpless, powerless and free of all responsibility. It was too late for him to dash to the door and force the stewardess to let him disembark. The plane had been airborne for more than thirty minutes, so it wasn't the ride which kept him tense.
What in the hell are you doing, Ronald Malcolm, he asked himself silently. The whole thing, his decision to accompany Kevin back to Washington, his three days at the small farm, the idea of a "mission," all hadn't seemed real to him until that morning when, shortly before dawn, a quiet, strangely gentle McGiffert roused him from his exhausted sleep for an easy, one-mile job around the farm. They didn't speak as they ran. McGiffert's orders as he quickly, lightly took Malcolm through the major self-defense situations were easy, almost coaxing. It was as if the ex-drill sergeant were still in bed and his clergyman twin brother had taken his place. The old man and Carl had joined them for breakfast. - During the first part of the meal Carl coldly, quickly drilled Malcolm with questions about his cover, but by the time the cook poured the last cup of coffee the tone of the meal had shifted to light conversation, with the old man rambling off anecdotes about his garden, political life in Washington, World War R and other remote subjects.
"You'll do fine, my boy," the old man had said as he shook Malcolm's hand good-bye. "Just keep your head and everything will work out splendidly."
Malcolm nodded numbly. A man he had never seen before drove him to Washington 's National Airport . Neither he nor Malcolm spoke during the ride. At the airport Malcolm carefully avoided the men's room where over a year before he had ambushed and killed the agent Maronick. Malcolm's silent escort stayed until his charge boarded the plane. Malcolm turned at the bottom of the stairs and looked to where his escort stood. The sun was just coming up and the airport lights were still on. Few people moved through the terminal. For no reason, Malcolm waved good-bye to his escort. The escort didn't respond.
And now here I am, thought Malcolm, flying to Montana to play spy, a pistol packed in my bags, a cover story as a social data analyst for the Defense Mapping Agency, and no idea how to do whatever it is I am supposed to do besides be there.
Malcolm smiled. I'm there because I'm there to be there, he thought, and it's too late to change anything now. His smile stayed with him for several minutes while be thought of nothing in particular. Finally he raised his eyes and looked toward the serving galley. The same stewardess noticed his attention and returned his gaze questioningly. Some coffee might taste good, thought Malcolm, besides, I don't have to pay for it. He beckoned politely and the stewardess came to him.
While
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