Praise for Richard Condon and one of the
most electrifying novels of international
espionage and treachery ever written…
THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE
“SHOCKING, TENSE…. A HIGH-GRADE ADVENTURE-SUSPENSE.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“APOCALYPTIC…CONDON IS WICKEDLY SKILLFUL.”
—Time
“ORIGINAL…A BREATHLESSLY UP-TO-DATE THRILLER.”
—The New York Times
“SAVAGE…. FRIGHTENING…. EXTRAORDINARY.”
—Kirkus Reviews
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
A Pocket Star Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
Copyright © 1959 by Richard Condon
Copyright renewed © 1987 by Richard Condon
Cover art copyright © 2004 Paramount Pictures. All rights reserved.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN-13: 978-0-7434-9274-4
ISBN-10: 0-7434-9274-9
POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
To MAX YOUNGSTEIN,
and not only for reasons
of affection and admiration,
this book is warmly dedicated.
The order of Assassins was founded in Persia at the end of the 11th century. They were committed to anyone willing to pay for the service. Assassins were skeptical of the existence of God and believed that the world of the mind came into existence first, then, finally, the rest of creation.
—Standard Dictionary of
Folklore, Mythology and Legend
I am you and you are me and what have we done to each other?
—The Keener’s Manual
One
IT WAS SUNNY IN SAN FRANCISCO; A FABULOUS condition. Raymond Shaw was not unaware of the beauty outside the hotel window, across from a mansion on the top of a hill, but he clutched the telephone like an osculatorium and did not allow himself to think about what lay beyond that instant: in a saloon someplace, in a different bed, or anywhere.
His lumpy sergeant’s uniform was heaped on a chair. He stretched out on the rented bed, wearing a new one-hundred-and-twenty-dollar dark blue dressing gown, and waited for the telephone operator to complete the chain of calls to locate Ed Mavole’s father, somewhere in St. Louis.
He knew he was doing the wrong thing. Two years of Korean duty were three days behind him and, at the very least, he should be spending his money on a taxicab to go up and down those hills in the sunshine, but he decided his mind must be bent or that he was drunk with compassion, or something else improbable like that. Of all of the fathers of all of the fallen whom he had to call, owing to his endemic mopery, this one had to work nights, because, by now, it must be dark in St. Louis.
He listened to the operator get through to the switchboard at the Post-Dispatch. He heard the switchboard tell her that Mavole’s father worked in the composing room. A man talked to a woman; there was silence. Raymond stared at his own large toe.
“Hello?” A very high voice.
“Mr. Arthur Mavole, please. Long distance calling.” The steady rumble of working presses filled the background.
“This is him.”
“Mr. Arthur Mavole?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Go ahead, please.”
“Uh—hello? Mr. Mavole? This is Sergeant Shaw. I’m calling from San Francisco. I—uh—I was in Eddie’s outfit, Mr. Mavole.”
“My Ed’s outfit?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ray Shaw?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The Ray Shaw? Who won the Medal of—”
“Yes, sir.” Raymond cut him off in a louder voice. He felt like dropping the phone, the call, and the whole soggy, masochistic, suicidal thing in the wastebasket. Better yet, he should whack himself over the head with the goddam phone. “You see, uh, Mr. Mavole, I have to, uh, go to Washington, and I—”
“We know. We read all about it and let me say with all my heart I got left that I am as proud of you, even though I never met you, as if it were Eddie, my own kid. My son.”
“Mr. Mavole,” Raymond said rapidly, “I thought that if it was O.K. with you maybe I could stop over in St. Louis on my way to Washington, you know? I thought, I mean it occurred to me that you and Mrs. Mavole might get some kind of peace out of it, some kind of relief, if we talked a little bit. About Eddie. You know? I mean I thought that was the least I could do.”
There was a silence. Then Mr. Mavole began to make a lot of slobbering sounds so Raymond said roughly that he would wire when he knew what flight he would be on and he hung up the phone and felt like an idiot. Like an angry man with a cane who pokes a hole through the floor of heaven and is scalded by the joy that pours down upon him, Raymond had a capacity for using satisfactions against himself.
When he got off the plane at St. Louis airport he felt like running. He decided Mavole’s father must be that midget with the eyeglasses like milk-bottle bottoms who was enjoying sweating so much. The man would be all over him like a charging elk in a minute. “Hold it! Hold it!” the pimply press photographer said loudly.
“Put it down,” Raymond snarled in a voice which was even more unpleasant than his normal voice. All at once the photographer was less sure of himself. “Whassa matter?” he asked in bewilderment—because he lived at a time when only sex criminals and dope peddlers tried to refuse to have their pictures taken by the press.
“I flew all the way in here to see Ed Mavole’s father,” Raymond said, despising himself for throwing up such corn. “You want a picture, go find him, because you ain’t gonna take one of me without he’s in it.”
Listen to that genuine, bluff sergeant version of police verso, Raymond cried out to himself. I am playing the authentic war buddy so deeply that I will have to mail in a royalty check for the stock rights. Look at that clown of a photographer trying to cope with phenomena. Any minute now he will realize that he is standing right beside Mavole’s father.
“Oh, Sergeant!” the girl said, so then he knew who she was. She wasn’t red-eyed and runny-nosed with grief for the dead hero, so she had to be the cub reporter who had been assigned to write the big local angle on the White House and the Hero, and he had probably written the lead for her with that sappy grandstand play.
“I’m Ed’s father,” the sweat manufacturer said. It was December, fuh gossake, what’s with all the dew? “I’m Arthur Mavole. I’m sorry about this. I just happened to mention at the paper that you had called all the way from San Francisco and that you had offered to stop over and see Eddie’s mother on the way to the White House, and the word somehow got upstairs to the city desk and well—that’s the newspaper business, I guess.”
Raymond took three steps forward, grasped Mr. Mavole’s hand, gripped his right forearm with his own left hand, transmitted the steely glance and the iron stare and the frozen fix. He felt like Captain Idiot in one of those space comic books, and the photographer got the picture and lost all interest in them.
“May I ask how old you are, Sergeant Shaw?” the young chick said, notebook ready, pencil poised as though she and Mavole were about to give him a fitting, and he figured refle
xively that this could be the first assignment she had ever gotten after years of journalism school and months of social notes from all over. He remembered his first assignment and how he had feared the waffle-faced movie actor who had opened the door of the hotel suite wearing only pajama bottoms, with corny tattoos like So Long, Mabel on each shoulder. Inside the suite Raymond had managed to convey that he would just as soon have hit the man as talk to him and he had said, “Gimme the handout and we can save some time.” The traveling press agent with the actor, a plump, bloodshot type whose glasses kept sliding down his nose, had said, “What handout?” He had snarled that maybe they would prefer it if he started out by asking what was the great man’s hobby and what astrology sign he had been born under. It was hard to believe but that man’s face had been as pocked and welted as a waffle, yet he was one of the biggest names in the business, which gives an idea what those swine will do to kid the jerky public. The actor had said, “Are you scared, kid?” Then, after that, everything seemed to go O.K. They got along like a bucket of chums. The point was, everybody had to start someplace.
Although he felt like a slob himself for doing it, he asked Mr. Mavole and the girl if they would have time to have a cup of coffee at the airport restaurant because he was a newspaperman himself and he knew that the little lady had a story to get. The little lady? That was overdoing it. He’d have to find a mirror and see if he had a wing collar on.
“You were?” the girl said. “Oh, Sergeant!” Mr. Mavole said a cup of coffee would be fine with him, so they went inside.
They sat down at a table in the coffee shop. The windows were steamy. Business was very quiet and unfortunately the waitress seemed to have nothing but time. They all ordered coffee and Raymond thought he’d like to have a piece of pie but he could not bring himself to decide what kind of pie. Did everybody have to look at him as though he were sick because he couldn’t set his taste buds in advance to be able to figure which flavor he would favor before he tasted it? Did the waitress just have to start out to recite “We have peach pie, and pumpk—” and they’d just yell out Peach, peach, peach? What was the sense of eating in a place where they gabbled the menu at you, anyway? If a man were intelligent and he sorted through the memories of past tastes he not only could get exactly what he wanted sensually and with a flavor sensation, but he would probably be choosing something so chemically exact that it would benefit his entire body. But how could anyone achieve such a considerate deliberate result as that unless one were permitted to pore over a written menu?
“The prune pie is very good, sir,” the waitress said. He told her he’d take the prune pie and he hated her in a hot, resentful flash because he did not want prune pie. He hated prune pie and he had been maneuvered into ordering prune pie by a rube waitress who would probably slobber all over his shoes for a quarter tip.
“I wanted to tell you how we felt about Ed, Mr. Mavole,” Raymond said. “I want to tell you that of all the guys I ever met, there was never a happier, sweeter, or more solid guy than your son Ed.”
The little man’s eyes filled. He suddenly choked on a sob so loud that people at the counter, which was quite a distance away, turned around. Raymond spoke to the girl quickly to cover up. “I’m twenty-four years old. My astrological sign is Pisces. A very fine lady reporter on a Detroit paper once told me always to ask for their astrology sign because people love to read about astrology if they don’t have to ask for it directly.”
“I’m Taurus,” the girl said.
“We’d be very good,” Raymond said. She let him see just a little bit behind her expression. “I know,” she said.
Mr. Mavole spoke in a soft voice. “Sergeant—you see—well, when Eddie got killed his mother had a heart attack and I wonder if you could spare maybe a half an hour out and back. We don’t live all the way into the city, and—”
O Jesus! Raymond saw himself donning the bedside manner. A bloody cardiac. The slightest touchy thing he said to her could knock the old cat over sideways with an off-key moan. But what could he do? He had elected himself Head Chump when he had stepped down from Valhalla and telephoned this sweaty little advantage-taker.
“Mr. Mavole,” he said, slowly and softly, “I don’t have to be in Washington until the day after tomorrow, but I figured I would allow a day and a half in case of bad weather, you know? On account of the White House? I can even get to Washington by train from here overnight, the Spirit of St. Louis, the same name as that plane with that fella, so please don’t think I would even think of leaving town without talking to Mrs. Mavole—Eddie’s mother.” He looked up and he saw how the girl was looking at him. She was a very pretty girl; a sweet-looking, nice, blond girl. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Mardell,” she said.
“Do you think I’ll be able to get a hotel here tonight?”
“I’m absolutely sure of it.”
“I’ll take care of that, Sergeant,” Mr. Mavole said hurriedly. “In fact, the paper will take care of everything. You would certainly be welcome to stay at our place, but we just had the painters. Smells so sharp your eyes water.”
Raymond called for the check. They drove to the Mavoles’. Mardell said she’d wait in the car and just to forget about her. Raymond told her to get on in to the paper and file her story, then drive back out to pick him up. She stared at him as if he had invented balkline billiards. He patted her cheek, then went into the house. She put her hand on her stomach and took three or four very deep breaths. Then she started the car and went into town.
The session with Mrs. Mavole was awful and Raymond vowed that he would never take an intelligence test because they might lock him up as a result of what would be shown. Any cretin could have looked ahead and seen what a mess this was going to be. They all cried. People can certainly carry on, he thought, holding her fat hand because she had asked him to, and feeling sure she was going to drop dead any minute. These were the people who let a war start, then they act surprised when their own son is killed. Mavole was a good enough kid. He certainly was a funny kid and with a sensational disposition but, what the hell, twenty thousand were dead out there so far on the American panel, plus the U.N. guys, and maybe sixty, eighty thousand more all shot up, and this fat broad seemed to think that Mavole was the only one who got it.
Could my mother take it this big if I got it? Would anyone living or anyone running a legitimate séance which picked up guaranteed answers from Out Yonder ever be able to find out whether she could feel anything at all about anything or anybody? Let her liddul Raymond pull up dead and he knew the answer from his liddul mommy. If the folks would pay one or more votes for a sandwich she would be happy to send for her liddul boy’s body and barbecue him.
“I can tell you that it was a very clear action for a night action, Mrs. Mavole,” Raymond said. Mr. Mavole sat on the other side of the bed and stared at the floor, his eyes feverish captives in black circles, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his hands clasped in prayer as he hoped he would not begin to cry again and start her crying. “You see, Captain Marco had sent up some low flares because we had to know where the enemy was. They knew where we were. Eddie, well—” He paused, only infinitesimally, to try not to weep at the thought of how bitter, bitter, bitter it was to have to lie at a time like this, but she had sold the boy to the recruiters for this moment, so he would have to throw the truth away and pay her off. They never told The Folks Back Home about the filthy deaths—the grotesque, debasing deaths which were almost all the deaths in war. Dirty deaths were the commonplace clowns smoking idle cigarettes backstage at a circus filled with clowns. Ah, no. No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Only a clutch of martial airs played on an electric guitar and sung through the gaudy jukebox called Our Nation’s History. He didn’t know exactly how Mavole caught it, but he could figure it close. He’d probably gotten about sixteen inches of bayonet in the rectum as he turned to get away and his screaming had scared the other man so much that he had fought to get his weapon out and run away,
twisting Mavole on it until the point came out under Mavole’s ribs where the diaphragm was and the man had had to put his foot on the back of Mavole’s neck, breaking his nose and cheekbone, to get the sticker out, while he whimpered in Chinese and wanted to lie down somewhere, where it was quiet. All the other people knew about how undignified it was to lose a head or some legs or a body in a mass attack, except his people: the innocents hiding in the jam jar. Women like this one might have had that li’l cardiac murmur stilled if her city had been bombed and she had seen her Eddie with no lower face and she had to protect and cherish the rest, the ones who were left. “—well, there was this very young lad in our outfit, Mrs. Mavole. He was maybe seventeen years old, but I doubt it. I think sixteen. Eddie had decided a long time ago to help the kid and look out for him because that was the kind of man your son was.” Mr. Mavole was sobbing very softly on the other side of the bed. “Well, the boy, little Bobby Lembeck, got separated from the rest of us. Not by far; Ed went out to cover him. The boy was hit just before Eddie could make it to him and, well, he just couldn’t leave him there. You know? That’s the kind of a man, I mean; that was Ed. You know? He couldn’t. He tried to bring the youngster back and by that time the enemy had a fix on them and they dropped a mortar shell on them from away up high and it was all over and all done, Mrs. Mavole, before those two boys felt a single thing. That’s how quick it was, Mrs. Mavole. Yes, ma’am. That quick.”
“I’m glad,” Mrs. Mavole said. Then suddenly and loudly she said, “O my God, how can I say I’m glad? I’m not. I’m not. We’re all a long time dead. He was such a happy little boy and he’ll be a long time dead.” She was propped up among the pillows of the bed and her body moved back and forth with her keening.
What the hell did he expect? He came here of his own free will. What did he expect? Two choruses of something mellow, progressive, and fine? O man, O man, Oman! A fat old broad in a nine-by-nine box with a sweat-maker who can’t get with it. How can I continue to live, he shouted at high scream under the nave of his encompassing skull, if people are going to continue to carry bundles of pain on top of their heads like Haitian laundresses, then fling the bundles at random into the face of any bright stroller who happened to be passing by? All right. He had helped this fat broad to find herself some ghoulish kicks. What else did they want from him?