He handed him a uniform cap. The entwined golden oak leaves decorating its brim-universally called
"scrambled eggs"-identified the wearer as a general officer.
Pickering put it on and examined himself again.
The hat makes me look even more like a Brooks Brothers dummy.
"Looks fine, Sir," Sessions said.
"Looks fraudulent, Captain," Pickering said.
There was another knock at the door.
"Shall I get that, General?"
"Please," Pickering said. "Thank you."
He turned from the mirror and started gathering up the other uniforms on hangers and putting them into closets. Then he went back to the mirror and looked at himself again.
"Good afternoon, General," a strange voice said. "I'm Colonel Rickabee."
Pickering turned. A tall, thin, sharp-featured man was standing in the door to the bedroom. He was wearing a baggy, sweat-soaked seersucker suit and a battered straw snap-brim hat. In one hand he carried a well-stuffed briefcase identical to Sessions', and in the other he held a long, thin package wrapped in brown waterproof paper.
"I'm very happy to meet you, Colonel," Pickering said. "But I'm afraid I have to begin this conversation with the announcement that I feel like a fraud standing before you in a Marine general's uniform."
Rickabee met his eyes for a moment and then walked into the room. He put the briefcase on the floor and the long, thin package on the bed. He took a penknife from his pocket and slit the package open.
He pushed the paper away from a Springfield Model 1903.30-06 caliber rifle, picked it up, and handed it to Pickering.
"The General inadvertently left this behind when he checked out of the hospital, Sir. I took the liberty of having it sent here, Sir." Pickering took the rifle, and then (in Pavlovian fashion) worked the action to make sure it was unloaded. After that he raised his eyes to Rickabee.
"Thank you, Colonel," he said. "It means a good deal to me."
"I thought it would, General," Rickabee said. "That's almost certainly the only Springfield in the United States which has seen service on Guadalcanal." Pickering met his eyes again and after a moment said,
"General Vandergrift told me to take it with me. When they ordered me off the island."
"Yes, Sir. So I understand. May I say something, General?" Pickering nodded.
"If General Vandergrift and Major Jack Stecker both think of you as a pretty good Marine, Sir, I don't think you should question their judgment." It was a long time before Pickering spoke. Finally he said,
"Funny, Colonel, I have been led to believe-by the President, by the way-that you have an abrasive personality. That wasn't abrasive, that was more than gracious." Rickabee met his eyes for a moment and then changed the subject.
"I see the General has dealt with the uniform problem."
"Before I knew about the man at Quantico with the good prices. "
"Well, at least you're in the correct uniform for me to welcome you back into The Corps."
"Thank you," Pickering said. "I was just wondering what to do with my Navy uniforms. Send them home, I guess. Or find somebody who can use them."
"Thank you, Sir," Rickabee said. "We accept."
"You know someone who can use them?"
"Down the line, I'm sure, they can be put to good use," Rickabee said.
"I see," Pickering said, shaking his head. "OK. They're yours."
"Sessions has told the General, I hope, that we're setting up an office for him?" Pickering nodded.
"There has been a slight delay. The former occupant squealed like a stuck pig and complained to everybody he could think of," Rickabee said with obvious delight. "He lost his last appeal and has been ordered to clear out by noon tomorrow.
If the General has some reason to come into the office tomorrow, we will of course make room for him, but I would respectfully suggest that he wait one more day."
"Are you going to keep talking to me in the third person?"
"Not if the General does not wish me to."
"The General does not," Pickering said with a smile.
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"I thought that tomorrow I would go into Philadelphia to see Sergeant Moore. Is there any reason I can't do that?"
"You can go just about anywhere you want to, General," Rickabee said. He picked the briefcase up from the floor, unlocked it, opened it, and handed Pickering an envelope. "Your orders came in this morning, Sir."
Pickering opened the envelope.
The White House
Washington, D.C.
3 September 1942
Brigadier General Fleming W. Pickering, USMCR, Headquarters, USMC, will proceed by military and/or civilian rail, road, sea and air transportation (Priority AAAAA-1) to such points as he deems necessary in carrying out the mission assigned to him by the undersigned.
United States Armed Forces commands are directed to provide him with such support as he may request.
General Pickering is to be considered the personal representative of the undersigned.
General Pickering has unrestricted TOP SECRET security clearance. Any questions regarding his mission will be directed to the undersigned.
W. D. Leahy, Admiral, USN
Chief of Staff to the President
When Pickering finished reading the orders, Rickabee said, "They're much like your old orders, except that Leahy has signed these."
"It sounds as if we work for Leahy."
"Sometimes we do," Rickabee said matter-of-factly. "In any event, this should answer your question about whether or not you can go to Philadelphia."
"It's a personal thing. That boy worked for me. If I had done what I was supposed to do, he would never have been on Guadalcanal." Pickering saw in Rickabee's eyes a sign that he hadn't liked that statement.
"OK," he said. "Let's have it."
"Nothing, Sir."
"Rickabee, if we're going to work together, I'm going to have to know what you're thinking."
Rickabee paused long enough for Pickering to understand that he was debating answering the challenge.
"Would you mind changing the last part of what you said to read, `He would never have been on Guadalcanal, where he might have been captured and compromised MAGIC'?" Rickabee asked finally.
Pickering's face tightened. He was not used to having his mistakes pointed out to him. He felt Rickabee's eyes on him; they were wary and intent.
"Yes, I would," Pickering said, "but only because it reminds me of how incredibly stupid I can sometimes be. Still, consider it changed, Rickabee."
"I felt obliged to bring that up, Sir," Rickabee said. "And there is one other thing.
"Let's have it."
"Ed Banning tells me you have a somewhat cavalier attitude toward classified documents."
"He never said anything to me about that!" Pickering protested.
"He and Lieutenant Hon kept a close eye on you, Sir. And just to be doubly sure, he had your quarters kept under surveillance."
Jesus, he's not making this up.
"I didn't know that."
"He didn't want you to," Rickabee said. "But we're not going to be able to do that here."
"I'll be more careful."
"General, you are authorized an aide-de-camp and an orderly. With your permission I would like to charge them with the additional responsibility of making sure that nothing important gets misplaced."
"I feel like a backward child," Pickering said.
"I don't see Japanese lurking in the bushes," Rickabee said.
"Or, for that matter, Germans. J. Edgar Hoover is doing a good job with counter intelligence. But other agencies don't particularly like our little shop. They could do us a lot of damage, Sir, if they could show that our security isn't ironclad."
"Other agencies like who, for example?"
"All of them. Any of them. Maybe in particular the FBI, and Donovan's people, whatever they're calling themselves this week, and of course, ONI."-the Office o
f Naval Intelligence.
Ìn other words you're telling me the same thing is going on here that's going on in the Pacific? There are two wars? One against the Japanese and the other against ourselves?"
"Yes, Sir, I'm afraid it is."
Good Christ, I'm stupid. Why should I think things would be any different here? And he's right, of course. Bill Donovan would love nothing better than to run to Franklin Roosevelt with proof that I was endangering security, and/or behaving like a blathering idiot.
"If you feel it's necessary, Colonel, you can lock me in a sealed room at night."
"That won't be necessary, Sir. But I would like to be careful, by having your aide-"
"I don't suppose Lieutenant McCoy would be available for that, would he?"
"What I was thinking, Sir, was Sergeant Moore. We can commission him-he was in line for a commission before we sent him to Australia-and he's cleared for MAGIC."
"Yes, of course," Pickering said. "That's a good idea."
"And I'll work on the orderly/driver/clerk, whatever we finally call him. We've been recruiting people with the right backgrounds. There's three or four going through Parris Island right now, as a matter of fact."
"I leave myself in your hands, Rickabee," Pickering said.
"My orders to you are to tell me what I can do to make myself both useful and harmless." Rickabee looked into his eyes for a moment and then smiled.
"As far as useful, Sir-was that Feigenspan ale I saw in the cooler in the other room?"
(Three)
THE 21 CLUB
21 WEST 52ND STREET
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
5 SEPTEMBER 1942
Ernest J. Sage stepped out of a taxi and rather absently handed the driver a five-dollar bill.
"Keep it," he said.
Ernest Sage was forty-eight years old, superbly tailored, slightly built, and very intense. His hair was slicked back with Vitahair because he liked it that way, and not because it was the number-three product in gross sales of American Personal Pharmaceuticals, Inc., of which he was Chairman of the Board and President.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Sage," the 21 Club's doorman said.
After somewhat belatedly recognizing Sage, he rushed to the cab.
"Howareya?" Ernest Sage said, managing a two-second smile as he walked quickly across the sidewalk and down the shallow flight of stairs behind the wrought-iron grillwork.
Ernest Sage was late for an appointment. He disliked being late for any appointment.
The man inside the door was quicker to recognize him than the outside man had been. He had the door open and was smiling by the time Sage reached it.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Sage," he said, with what looked like a warm, welcoming smile.
Howareya?" Ernest Sage replied. "I'm late. Has anyone been asking for me?"
"No, Sir, Mr. Sage."
"I'll be in the bar."
"Yes, Sir, Mr. Sage. I'll take care of it." He made his way to the bar. At its far end was the man Ernest Sage was meeting. He was sitting on a barstool with his back against the wall... on a very special and particular barstool. This one was reserved by almost sacred custom for humorist Robert Benchley, or in his absence for another of a small group of 21 Club regulars-newspaper columnists, actors, producers, or a select few businessmen who'd earned the favor of the Kriendler family, the owners of 21.
The individual sitting there now was not famous or even well known. But he had obviously earned the approval of the Kriendler family. As evidence of that, a. smiling Al Kriendler was in the process of handing him a drink.
Sage remembered hearing that Bob Kriendler was about to go in The Marine Corps. Perhaps he was already in...
Does that explain why Al is personally handing him a drink? Or is he just showing his respect to a nice-looking kid in a Marine uniform?
The young man was wearing the summer uniform prescribed for first lieutenants of The United States Marine Corps-khaki shirt, trousers, and necktie with USMC tie clasp.
"Hello, Ken," Ernest Sage said, touching his back. "Sorry to I'm late.
The goddamned traffic is unbelievable."
"Hello, Mr. Sage," First Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, said. "No problem. I just got here."
"Oh, you know each other?" Al Kriendier said.
"For reasons that baffle me," Ernest said, "Ernie thinks the sun rises in the morning because Ken wants it to."
"Well, I would say Ernie has very good taste," Al Kriendler said.
The bartender, who was familiar with Ernest Sage's drinking habits, slid him a Manhattan with an extra shake of Angostura bitters.
Ernie Sage-properly Ernestine Sage-was Ernest Sage's only child, and Ernest Sage loved her very much.
At the same time he was aware of the facts of growth and maturity. And so he had pondered the inevitability of her one day transferring her affections to a young man.
Though he'd dwelt at length on every possible Worst Case, he'd never dreamed that the reality would be as bad as it turned out. It was not that he didn't like Ken McCoy. Ken McCoy was beyond question a really fine young man.
Ernest Sage would have been happier, of course, if there had been some family in McCoy's background-some money, frankly-and if he had a little better education than Norristown, Pennsylvania's, high school offered. But such things weren't insurmountable, in his view. In fact, under other circumstances, he could have resigned himself to Ken McCoy.
Ernie could have done a hell of a lot worse.
But the circumstances were that the war was not even a year old, that he saw no end to it, that Ken McCoy was already wearing three Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star for valor in combat, and that his nickname in the Marines was "Killer." Purple Hearts and Bronze Stars and nicknames weren't in themselves hugely significant. But in Ernest Sage's mind, they added up to a significant conclusion: The chances of Ken coming through the war alive and intact ranged from slim to none.
In Worst Possible Case Number Sixty-six, for instance, Ken came home missing a leg, or blind. And Ernie was condemned to a life of caring for a cripple.
If that makes me a heartless prick, so what? I'm worried about the life my daughter will have. What's wrong with that?
The funny thing was that Ken McCoy not only understood Sage's concerns but agreed with them. And yet Sage almost had a harder time dealing with that than if Ken had run off with her to a justice of the peace the day after he met her.
"I'm not going to marry her, Mr. Sage," Ken had told him.
Not while the war is on. I don't want to leave her a widow." It was another reason he genuinely liked Ken McCoy.
The real problem, in fact, wasn't McCoy, it was Ernie. She had reduced the situation to basics. She was a woman in love.
What women in love do is stick to their man and have babies.
She didn't even much give a damn whether she was married to Ken or not-she wanted his baby.
"Look, Daddy," she had told him over lunch in the Executive Dining Room of the American Personal Pharmaceuticals Building. "If Ken does get killed, I would at least have our baby.... And it's not as if the baby and I would wind up on charity." Ernest Sage had clear and definite ideas about moral values and a good moral upbringing. He had, for example, taught Sunday School classes for six goddamned years in order to set a proper example for his daughter. So it wasn't at all easy for him to go to her lover to discuss her intention to become pregnant by him. But Ernest Sage did that. He had to.
And again Ken McCoy surprised him... and made him uneasy-not because Ken was going to do his daughter wrong (he wasn't), but because he kept acting just exactly the way Ernest Sage himself would have acted if he had been in the boy's shoes.
"Yeah, I know she wants a kid," Ken said. "But no way.
That'd be a rotten thing to do to her."
That was why Ernest Sage couldn't help liking and admiring Ken McCoy. Ken was very much like himself-a decent man with enough intelligence to see things the way they were, not through rose-col
ored glasses.
Goddamn this war, anyway!
"Miss Sage is here, Mr. Sage," one of the headwaiters said softly in his ear. "Your regular table be all right, Sir?" Women were not welcome at the bar. Since they weren't actually prohibited, however, Ernie felt free to sit there, to hell with what people think. But whenever he could, her father tried to make her sit at a table.
"Yeah, fine," Sage said, looking toward the entrance for his daughter.
She was tall and healthy looking, slender but not
thin; her black hair was cut in a pageboy. She wore a simple skirt and blouse, with a strand of pearls that had belonged to her maternal grandmother.
He waved. She returned it, but there was a look of annoyance on her face when she saw the headwaiter rushing to show her to a table.
He noticed, too, that male eyes throughout the room followed her.
She stood by the table until they joined her.
"Hi, baby," Ken McCoy said.
"Is that the best you can do?" Ernie Sage asked.
"What?"
She grabbed his neatly tied necktie, pulled him to her, and kissed him on the mouth.
"Jesus Christ," he said, actually blushing when he finally got free..
"Hi, Daddy," Ernie said, smiling at him and sitting down.
When she smiled at him, he could not be angry with her.
"What may I get you, Miss Sage?" a waiter asked.
"What's good enough for The Marine Corps is good enough for me."
"Bring us all one," Ernest Sage said.
"Thank you for asking how my day was," Ernie said. "My day was fine. I was told my copy for Toothhold was "really sexy." I wonder what that man does behind his bedroom door if he thinks adhesive for false teeth is sexy?"
"My God, kitten!" Ernest Sage said.
Ken McCoy laughed. "Don't knock it until you try it."
"OK, darling, I'll bring some home. There's a case of it on my filing cabinet." Ernie McCoy was a senior copywriter at the J. Walter Thompson advertising agency. Ernest Sage took a great deal of pride in knowing that she had the job on her own merits and not because American Personal Pharmaceuticals billed an annual $12.1 million at JWT.
"I learned something interesting today," Ernest Sage said, which I saved until we could all be together."
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