While Raymond had been in Paris, in late June, a member of the French Chamber of Deputies who was co-leader of the political party having the record of greatest resistance to the government then in power, was assassinated in his hôtel particulier on Rue Louis David in the sixteenth arrondissement, baffling police and security agencies.
While Raymond was in London, on the evening before his mother’s famous debate with the British press, a peer who was greatly admired for having articulated a liberal, humanistic, and forward-looking life as publisher of a chain of national newspapers and periodicals, Lord Morris Croftnal, was murdered while he slept. There was not a clue as to the identity or motivation of his killer.
Seventeen
RAYMOND’S SHIP DOCKED IN NEW YORK ON A Wednesday in late August, 1959. He reported for work at The Daily Press early Thursday morning. Marco called him and made a date to meet him at four o’clock in Hungarian Charlie’s, the saloon across the street from the paper, saying he would be bringing two of his side-kicks with him if Raymond wouldn’t mind. Raymond didn’t mind.
The four men sat a table far in the rear of the saloon, which was a solid, practical saloon set up to sell a maximum amount of booze and, with careful attention to unsanitary-seeming décor—a little dirt here, a little grease there—a minimum amount of food, which, after all, has a tendency to spoil after a week or so and can be a loss. The air was nearly gelid from the huge air-conditioning unit that looked big enough to chill an automobile assembly plant. A giant juke box, manufactured by The Giant Juke Box Company of Arcana, Illinois, was belting everything living right over the head with a loudly lovable old standard out of Memphis, Tennessee, in which the rhyme of the proper name Betty Lou and the plural noun shoes were repeated, in a Kallikakian couplet, over and over again. A giant juke box is constructed to make a sound like two full-sized, decibel-pregnant juke boxes going at top volume at the same time, but two separate juke boxes each playing a different tune, each in a different tempo, and, if possible, in a different language. The joint was noisy from opening to closing because Hungarian Charlie liked noise and was, in every vocal manner, very much like a giant juke box himself.
After minimum hand-shaking and ordering a highball for Amjac and Lehner and beers for Raymond and himself, Marco went right to business by asking Raymond to tell his version of the battle action, which Raymond did forthwith and in detail, utilizing only the future tense in verb forms. Lehner carried the tape recorder in a shoulder sling.
“You sound as though you got those nightmares straightened out. In fact, you look it,” Raymond said warily, not sure whether it was proper to talk about such things in front of these house-detective types. Marco looked great. He had gained the weight back.
“All over.”
“Did you—was it—did that thing we were talking about help any?”
“The court-martial?”
“Yeah.”
“The way it worked out, it wasn’t necessary but I still have you and only you to thank for losing those nightmares. We got a different kind of an investigation started, just the way you said it had to be, and the nightmares were gone. Forever. I hope.”
“Did you investigate the medal?”
“Sure. What else?”
“Any progress?”
“Slow, but good.”
“Is it working out the way we thought?”
“Yeah. Right down the line.”
“The medal is a phony?”
“It certainly looks that way.”
“I knew it. I knew it. Raymond looked from Amjac to Lehner, shaking his head in awed disbelief. “How about that?” he asked with mystification. “Will you tell me why a lot of Communist brass would want to steal a Medal of Honor for a complete stranger?”
Amjac didn’t answer. He seemed embarrassed about something. Raymond became aware of his silence and stared at him coldly. “It was a rhetorical question,” he said haughtily.
Amjac coughed. He said, “It scares hell out of us, if you want the truth, Mr. Shaw. We have run out of ideas and we don’t know where else to look, if that gives you some idea.” Raymond swung his gaze to Lehner, who had a head like a gourd, a small mustache, and eyes like watermelon seeds, and Lehner stared him down.
“Have you talked to Al Melvin?” Raymond said. The voice of a sick child whined out of the giant juke box behind them as though trying to escape the hateful noises behind it. “You know, Ben, Al. In Alaska.”
“Yes, sir. We have,” Amjac said grimly.
Marco said, “Raymond, there is no known area of this case which we haven’t covered in many ways. We’ve talked to every member of the patrol. We’ve traveled maybe ninety-two hundred miles around the country. We’re sure Chunjin is here as an enemy agent, assigned to you as a body guard and assassin, if necessary. I have a unit in New York and Washington which does nothing but concentrate on this problem. There are seventeen of us, all told. Mr. Amjac is on loan from the FBI and Mr. Lehner is with us as an expert from Central Intelligence. Working on that riddle of why the enemy should go to enormous trouble to secure the Medal of Honor for you is all I do, day and night. It’s all Amjac and Lehner do. It’s all the seventeen of us do, and the White House wants to know what happened in a report every week and a copy of that report goes to the Joint Chiefs. And you want to hear something offbeat, Raymond? I mean something that will throw this out of context for a moment to let you see what a unique person you have become? A copy of the report goes to the Prime Ministers of Britain and Canada and to the President of Mexico.”
“But what the hell for?” Raymond seemed outraged at this invasion, as though he were being shared by four heads of government. “What the hell do the Mexicans and the bloody British, who tried to kill my mother, incidentally, have to do with that lousy medal?”
Lehner tapped Raymond on the forearm. Raymond looked at him, drawing his arm away. “Why don’t you listen?” Lehner said. “If you talk you can’t learn anything.”
“Don’t touch me again,” Raymond said. “If you want to remain here with us, doing your clerk’s tasks and waiting for your pension, do not touch me again.” He looked at Marco. “Continue, Ben,” he said equably.
“It is our considered opinion,” Marco said, “that we are moving into the area of action which will reveal why they wanted you to have the Medal of Honor. The patrol happened in 1951. Chunjin didn’t arrive to take up his duties until ’59. Eight years’ lapse. Whatever is going to happen is going to happen soon. You’re a marked man, Raymond. They’ve marked you and they guard you. We’ve marked you. Am I frightening you, Raymond?”
“Me?” Nothing frightened Raymond. A man needs to have something to lose to become frightened. Even only one thing that is his and that he values will make it possible for threat to scare a man, but Raymond had nothing.
“That’s what I explained to our unit. And that’s what our psychiatrists had projected on you, that attitude, that—that fearlessness, you know?—but I have to frighten you, Raymond, because we need you to think of yourself as some kind of time bomb with a fuse eight years long. You walk barefooted on the edge of a razor. Only you will know when the change comes, when the mission is divulged, when your move is to be made, and it can only end one way. Your country, my country, this country will have to be in danger from you and you will be expected to do exactly as you have been told or will be told. They got inside your mind. They did. I swear before God.”
“Aaaah!” Raymond disliked this kind of talk. It sickened him. What kind of a world of fondlers had this become? Why did Marco have to say that those thick-necked pigs were inside his mind?