The Manchurian Candidate

Hungarian Charlie, natch, was with it from the word go.

Marco played through one hundred and twenty-five solitaire layouts until the technicians were sure, time after time and averaging off, where Raymond had stopped his play in Hungarian Charlie’s saloon. They tested number systems as possible triggers, then they settled down to a symbol system and began to work with face cards because of the colors and their identification with human beings. They threw out the male face cards, kings and knaves, based on Raymond’s psychiatric pattern. They started Marco working with the four queens. He discarded the queens of spades and clubs, right off. They stacked decks with different red queens at the twenty-third position, which fell as the fifth card on the fifth stack, and Marco dealt out solitaire strips. He made it the queen of diamonds, for sure. They kept him at it, but he co

The FBI called Cinci

An hour after Chunjin had made his report to the Soviet security drop from the red telephone booth at the Fifty-ninth Street exit from Central Park, a meeting was called between Raymond’s American operator and a District of Columbia taxi driver who also served as chief of Soviet security for the region. As they drove around downtown Washington, with Raymond’s operator as passenger, the conversation seemed disputatious.

Raymond’s operator told the hackman emphatically that they would be foolish to panic because of what was obviously a ten thousand to one happenstance by which some idiot had unknowingly stumbled upon the right combination of words in Raymond’s presence.

“If you please.”

“What?”

“This is a professional thing on which I ca

“You people are really insecure. God knows I have always felt that the British overdo that paternal talk about this being a young country but, my God, you really are a young country. You just haven’t been at it long enough. Please understand that if our security people knew what Raymond had been designed to do they would not let you know they knew. Once they find out what Raymond is up to, which is virtually impossible, they’ll want to nail whoever is moving him. Me. Then, through me, you. Certainly you people do enough of this kind of thing in your own country, so why can’t you understand it here?”

“But why should such a conservative man jump in a lake?”

“Because the phrase ‘go jump in the lake’ is an ancient slang wheeze in this country and some boob happened on the digger accidentally, that’s how.”

“I am actually sick with anxiety.”

“So are they,” Raymond’s operator said blandly, enjoying the bustle of traffic all around them and thinking what a hick town this so-called world capital was.

“But how can you be so calm?”

“I took a tranquilizer.”

“A what?”

“A pill.”

“Oh. But how can you be so sure that is what happened?”

“Because I’m smart. I’m not a stupid Russian. Because Raymond is at large. They allow him to move about. Marco is tense and frightened. Read the Korean’s report, for Christ’s sake, and get a hold of yourself.”

“We have so little time and this is wholly my responsibility as far as my people are concerned.”

“Heller,” Raymond’s operator said, reading the name from the identification card which said that the driver’s name was Frank Heller, “suppose I prove to you that Raymond is ours, not theirs.”

“How?” The Soviet policeman had to swerve the cab to avoid a small foreign car that hurtled across from a side street at his left; he screamed out the window in richly accented, Ukrainian-kissed English. “Why dawn’t you loo quare you are gung, gew tsilly tson-of-a-bitch?”

“We certainly have a severe case of nerves today, don’t we?” Raymond’s operator murmured.

“Never mind my nerves. To be on the right of an approaching vehicle is to have the right of way! He broke the law! How can you prove Raymond is not theirs?”

“I’ll have him kill Marco.”

“Aaaaah.” It was a long, soft, satisfaction-stuffed expletive having a zibeline texture. It suggested the end of a perfect day, a case well served, a race well run.

“Marco is in charge of this particular element of counterespionage,” Raymond’s operator said. “Marco is Raymond’s only friend. So? Proof?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“When?”

“Tonight, I think. Let me off here.”

The cab stopped at the corner of Nineteenth and Y. Raymond’s operator got out and slammed the door—too quickly. It closed on flesh. The operator screamed like a lunch whistle. Zilkov stopped the cab. He leaped out, ran around behind it, and stood, wincing with sympathetic pains, while the operator held the mashed hand in the other hand and bent over double. “It’s terrible,” Zilkov said. “Terrible. Oh, my God! Get into the cab and I’ll get you to a hospital. Will you lose the nails? Oh, my God, what pain you must feel.”

Twenty

WHEN RAYMOND RETURNED HOME FROM THE Twenty-second Precinct House, wearing damp clothes and soggy shoes, it was late afternoon. He had to order Chunjin to the kitchen because the man persisted in asking ridiculous questions. They had a brisk exchange of shouts and sulks, then Raymond showered and took a two-hour dreamless nap.

He awoke thinking about Jocie. He decided that she should be clearing customs just about then. He could not think about his letter, whether she had read it or torn it up in distaste; he could not imagine what she felt or would feel. He dressed slowly and began to pack for the weekend. He removed the gaucho costume from its cardboard box and packed it carefully. He felt a flood of panic as he folded it in. Maybe this silly monkey suit would remind Jocie of her husband. Why in the name of sweet Jesus had he ordered such a costume? It couldn’t possibly resemble anything in real life, he decided. Cattle people didn’t wear silk bloomers. They were for Yul Bry