The Buck Passes Flynn

by Gregory Mcdonald

  Flynn turned to Cecil Hill. “History in depth, is it? Is that what you’re writing?”

  “I don’t write it. I only print it.”

  Flynn handed him back the galley. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

  28

  “WELL, I’ll be a monkey’s psychiatrist,” Flynn said.

  He climbed the restaurant stairs to the sidewalk. It was still snowing but still no snow had accumulated.

  It was two-thirty in the morning.

  “I suppose this is what they call a nice night in Solensk.”

  2842 and citizens of Solensk, including the cop, were leaving the restaurant with him, arms around each other, slapping backs, saying goodnight. Having had nothing better to do, Flynn had returned to the restaurant with the cop after seeing Cecil Hill at the printing plant. He had been playing chess ever since. Other citizens of Solensk had come in to watch them play. Even Cecil Hill had appeared during some part of the evening and silently watched awhile. Although Flynn had kept himself to potato soup, cucumber soup, Russian onion soup, black bread, and tea, substantial quantities of vodka had gone down other throats, especially that of 2842, who had had a long and nervous day. Toward midnight he had begun chirping, in English, “I’m a spy, I’m a spy!” before falling asleep. During the afternoon and evening Flynn had become fond of the citizens of Solensk, especially the restaurant’s large woman proprietor-cook, who apparently refused to believe anyone who could consume as much soup as Flynn did not speak Russian; the jolly bear of a cop, whose mood shifted manic-depressively depending upon the success of his chess moves; and a man who had entered the restaurant sometime during the early evening, sat in a corner, and played the clarinet beautifully.

  “Well,” Flynn said, stuffing 2842 into the three-wheeled car and waving good-bye to his friends, “this is not a bad old place at all.”

  Flynn drove. Beside him, chin on chest, 2842 slept.

  It took Flynn more than an hour of driving around to find the right place to wait for the helicopter. That morning he had taken a casual fix on two distinctive peaks against the dark sky so he could find the place again in the dark, without 2842, if he needed to. He needed to. 2842 was dead to the world. To make absolutely certain he was in the right place, Flynn left the car and, after much searching in the dark, found the place he’d buried his parachute.

  Then he sat in the cold car again. 2842 slept beside him. The wind whipped around them, snow blowing all sides.

  All afternoon and evening, playing chess, Flynn had had the growing feeling that he knew something, was pretty sure of something, had heard something or, over time, had heard some things that fitted together somehow into a logic. A logic true to itself, but based on an insane or, at least, incorrect axiom. Cecil Hill, George Udine. Paul Sankey. Jimmy Silverstein, the Las Vegas comic. Marge Fraiman. Something Elsbeth had said…

  Flynn poked 2842.

  “I’m a spy,” 2842 said, “I’m a spy.”

  “Talk to me,” said Flynn.

  “Where are we?”

  “Waiting for the chopper.”

  “How did we get here?”

  “By the seat of my pants. Thank you.”

  “It’s still dark.”

  “It is that.”

  “Why did you wake me up? I want to sleep. I’m a spy.”

  “I have to make sure you’re well enough to drive yourself home after I leave you. If the local authorities see the chopper coming in this morning they might come to believe I was serious. It wouldn’t do at all for them to find you sleeping peacefully next to the pasture where the helicopter landed and took off, would it?”

  “Not at all.” 2842 sat up in his seat.

  “Where is your home, anyway?” Flynn asked.

  “Finland. I’m Finnish.”

  “You’re a long way from Finland. You’ll never make it in this car.”

  “No. I’ve been stationed the last six years over on the coast. At the campus.”

  “The campus of what?”

  2842 looked across at Flynn in the dark. “K. campus.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m a… uh… I’m a spy.”

  “You’re almost awake,” Flynn said. “Sure, we’ll have you drivin’ a straight line in no time.”

  “I’m a janitor,” 2842 said, “on K. campus.”

  “Is it difficult?”

  “Not very dangerous. No, I have plenty of time … to do what I have to do. The faculty is fairly stable. Not too many people outside the faculty are brought in to lecture.”

  “I’m sure of that.”

  “The student population is not very large—about four hundred at any one time—and I have plenty of time to get into their files, get good pictures of them—I mean, the students—even get to know many of them personally, observe their special abilities and characteristics beyond what might appear in their files. It’s not hard work.”

  “How do they route your material out of the country?”

  2842 hesitated. “Would you believe through Hanoi?”

  “That is odd.”

  “Things get pretty well garbled in Hanoi, I guess. So much traffic through there no one notices. Then back to Australia.”

  “So you have personal knowledge of all the graduates of K. campus for the last six years?”

  “Yes. I could say that.”

  “That will make you very valuable to N.N.”

  “I don’t know. I would think so. Mostly I think they forget about me. You guys forget about me. I’ve never met anyone as high-ranked as 13 before. This is the first assignment they’ve given me off-campus in four years.”

  “You’re in a sensitive spot,” said Flynn. “You shouldn’t be risked.”

  “I guess this assignment is pretty important” It was a question.

  Flynn said, “It’s not a counterfeit case.”

  “I was wondering.”

  Light was just beginning to come into the sky. The helicopter was late.

  “Are there any particularly remarkable recent graduates of K. campus?” Flynn asked.

  “They’re all remarkable. And they’re getting more remarkable every year. Brighter. Younger. Healthier. More perfectly psychotic. Frightening.”

  “I guess. There is a natural genius for creating dissension.”

  “Nice little bullets, now mostly aimed at the Third World.”

  “Tell me about some of them.”

  “Last year’s most remarkable graduate was a boy, about five feet ten inches, one hundred and fifty pounds, brown hair—so perfectly average in appearance you literally wouldn’t notice him if you found yourself in a telephone booth with him.”

  “What’s his specialty?”

  “Disguise. Especially without the use of any makeup or props. He can change into something—I mean, someone—else right in front of your eyes. He can become a woman. An old man. An old woman. A child. While you watch. And completely convince you. He does it with his mind. Empathically, I guess. He thinks himself into becoming an old woman, and he does. With makeup and prop clothes he’s impossible to detect.”

  “Languages?”

  “Seven. Perfect.”

  “What’s his designation?”

  “Ground lion.”

  “You mean, like lion hamburger?”

  “Lion on the ground.”

  “Lyin’ on the ground?”

  “I think you understand. Sir.”

  “Just makin’ sure you’re awake. I look forward to meeting Mister Ground Lion.”

  “You probably have. And after you have, you won’t know it. I promise you.”

  “What I’d like to see is that damned helicopter. There’s such a thing as carryin’ innocence too far.”

  “And a girl who graduated four years ago. Frightening. The only one ever to achieve perfect scores at everything: academics, physical training, personality. Brilliant. And gorgeous. Her you would notice across the Sahara Desert with the naked eye.”

  “Specialty?”

&n
bsp; “Brilliance. Beauty. Craftiness. Uncanny ability to manipulate people. In eleven languages, each spoken perfectly. Demolition ability, of course. Also heavy knowledge of fashion, design, art, and literature.”

  “Sounds fascinatin’. Were you in love with her?”

  “Does the sun come up in the morning?”

  “A little too quickly, some mornings.”

  “To see her is to love her. To know about her is to have your spine frozen right up to and including your back teeth.”

  “I think you’re being overcome by sobriety,” Flynn said.

  “I never drink that way. Sir.”

  “I’m sure you don’t Do you remember that young lady’s designation?”

  “Who?”

  “The young lady at whom you were just castin’ a bafflin’ array of praise and damnation.”

  “Deuce-Ace.”

  “Don’t get you.”

  “Deuce-Ace. You know, you throw dice. One shows one spot; the other, two.”

  “But why? Why that?”

  “That’s the way she looks. I mean, when you look at her. She has one brown eye and one blue eye.”

  Flynn said, “I see.”

  “Usually K. does not choose people that distinctive-looking to train. But, as I said, she’s brilliant.”

  “I see,” said Flynn. “And beautiful.”

  “There’s a brilliant black man, orginally from Ghana—”

  Flynn heard the helicopter.

  “There’s my taxi. And barely in time to get me back for breakfast.”

  They both got out of the car.

  2842 asked, “13, how do you get away with this kind of thing?”

  “What kind of thing?”

  The helicopter was in the eastern sky as visible and as noisy as a flying elephant.

  “Marching into a Russian town, jabbering English, making friends with the local policeman, saying you’re a spy, getting him to escort you around?”

  “Local police are always very helpful,” Flynn said.“If you give ’em half a chance. It’s in their nature.”

  The helicopter was kicking up more wind.

  “But, saying you’re a spy, 13! You got me damned drunk.”

  “Sure,” said Flynn, turning toward the helicopter, “there’s nothin’ to spyin’ these days, it’s gained that much social acceptance, it has.”

  29

  THE admiral’s aide was waiting on the flight deck for Flynn.

  “Good morning, Mister Flynn. Nice flight?”

  “Your pilot’s sense of humor needs repressin’,” Flynn said. “Please ask the man not to practice stalls in his flyin’ machine when I’m aboard, especially before breakfast.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “He also dropped me off yesterday in a way that did my dignity little good and my trousers less. My trousers are important. The blasted cur. Lucky it is I’m alive, in one piece, and was able to do what I set out to do.”

  “A line is being held open for you.”

  “A line of what?”

  “Well, I mean, a communication channel. To the States. Someone, your superior, I think, is very eager to speak with you, sir.”

  “Probably that blasted robot again,” said Flynn. “Wants to tell me he’s discovered a new motor oil for the relief of rheumatism, no doubt.”

  “What?”

  The aircraft carrier had nosed out of the wind and was gathering speed.

  “If you’ll come this way, sir?”

  “I’ll have my breakfast, first,” Flynn said. “That’s the first order of the day—any day. Then, if you don’t mind my twisting your communication channel a bit northward for the moment, I need to speak to my wife.”

  “Your wife, sir? Before your superior?”

  “I never said my wife isn’t my superior,” Flynn said.

  “Oh, is this the man calling about the roof again?” Jenny said into the phone in Winthrop.

  She knew she was never to ask her father where he was.

  “How did the concert go Saturday?” Flynn asked.

  “Da, this is Saturday.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, wish all and sundry luck. Remind them Handel was composed, and so should they be.”

  “Handel was a composer.”

  “He was a composed composer, right up until he died. Then he began to decompose. He never became a decomposer, however. A compressor, yes, but never a decomposer. Try that out on Winny and see if he doesn’t choose to starve to death in Las Vegas. Is your mother among the walking and talking?”

  “I’ll get her. Home soon?”

  “Very soon, I think.”

  In the radio room of the British aircraft carrier, Flynn was carefully steering his breakfast—kippered herring, toast, jam, and tea—around the mouthpiece of his headset.

  “Frannie?”

  “Good day, old thing.”

  “You all right?”

  “Like a bull who’s never heard of a picador.”

  “Frannie, Jenny said she told you the roof needs repair. It really does. You know, winter—”

  “I’ll be home in less time than it takes a pig to burp, I think. I need you to thimblize something for me.”

  Elizabeth listened.

  “Last time I was home, the kids got talking about inflation at dinner.”

  “Yes.”

  “You said something that interests me. When there is too much money around, where does it come from?”

  “The government.”

  “Always the government?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you, old thing.”

  “Is that all?”

  “How much more can you get into a thimble?”

  Flynn drained his tea mug and signaled the radio operator he was ready to talk to N.N. Guided by sound dials only (he was not wearing earphones), the operator switched Flynn to Frequency Red.

  “13,” Flynn said.

  “That you, Frank?”

  “It’s yourself, is it?” It was N.N. Zero—John Roy Priddy. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Thought it would just be the gingery robot questionin’ my expense sheet.”

  “You in one piece?”

  “Hale and hearty, thank you.”

  “How was Russia?”

  “I found this place—you might say a little, out-of-the-way place—that serves this fantastic soup. Three Or four varieties of potato soup, of course, but each one of them excellent, a nice cucumber soup, and, frankly, sir, the best Russian onion soup I’ve ever had in my life. I would have brought you back some, especially some of the onion, but I was afraid it wouldn’t survive the trip, you see, what with all the swoopin’ up and down in the helicopter.”

  “Thanks for the thought. What else did you do in Russia?”

  “Learned my manners at chess, I did. Brought back one or two perfectly rotten, devious gambits to try on old Cocky. That will surprise him well enough. Not that I lost all my games, mind you. There was a moment there, albeit short, that I was the disputed chess champion of Solensk.”

  “You found your counterfeiter, Cecil Hill?”

  “I did.”

  “And…?”

  “This is not a counterfeit case. United States currency is in trouble.”

  “You learned nothing.”

  “I had a good think.”

  “Cecil Hill is not manufacturing United States currency for the U.S.S.R.?”

  “He is not. He is coining history.”

  “Well, history is moving damned fast on this one, Frank.”

  “Oh?”

  “There have been two more incidents of people being assaulted with money.”

  “Oh.”

  “One was an insurance company in Utah. Apparently everyone who works for the insurance company found an envelope on his or her desk Monday morning with one hundred thousand dollars cash in it. Usual results.”

  “Silent whoopees followed by instant devastation?”

  “Thursday, literally thousands of envelopes, one hundred thousand do
llars cash in each, were found in Denver, Colorado. Not even delivered to people. Just left in the streets. On buses. Lunch counters. In cars that had been left open.”

  “And the grand total is?”

  “Incalculable.”

  “Ginger the Robot can’t count that high, even if he takes off his shoes?”

  “The point is that now it’s out in the open. The Denver largesse was so loose, so uncontrolled, everyone in town knew about it. The Denver Post ran a very good story about it this morning. The wire services have picked it up.”

  “That is the point.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Rising expectations.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I think I better talk to the President of the United States.”

  “Serious?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes, please.”

  N.N. Zero paused for a moment. “Hang on, Frank.”

  “Thank you.”

  In the radio room of the British aircraft carrier, Francis Xavier Flynn, N.N. 13, poured himself a fresh mug of tea and waited. The tea was as hot and strong as he needed it.

  Halfway down the mug of tea, Flynn heard N.N. Zero say, “Okay, Frank. I’m listening.”

  “Hello,” Flynn said.

  “What the hell are you guys doing?” asked the President of the United States. “United Press International is running this story out of Denver. Associated Press is running a follow about some similar incident in Utah I never heard of. Some damn-fool, disgruntled, retired Pentagon colonel is taping an interview at CBS.”

  Flynn said, “Hello, Mister President. This is Francis Xavier Flynn. How are you this day?”

  “Hello, Mister Flynn. My favorite assassin.”

  “How are you sleeping, sir?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  N.N. Zero said, “Frank, you don’t have to begin every conversation at the beginning.”

  The President said, “Do we have an emergency?”