In Danger's Path

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Who told this General Dempsey?” Pickering asked, then warmed to his anger. “And where did he get the idea he has the authority to tell my people what to do? And what the hell is this ‘OSS station Chungking’? What OSS station Chungking?”

  “The MAGIC compromise, possible compromise, is more important than the Gobi Desert operation,” Rickabee said. “This came in two hours ago. To confirm what I suspect, this is the first you’ve seen of it?”

  “Yeah,” Pickering said. “Damn!” He looked at Rickabee.

  If it came in two hours ago, there was plenty of time to send it over here from the OSS.

  “Where did you get it, Fritz?” Pickering asked evenly.

  “One of my people was in the crypto room at Navy when it came in,” Rickabee said. “A pal of Rutterman’s, and an admirer of Banning and McCoy. He thought I would be interested in it, and defying just about every regulation in the book, he brought it to me. I don’t know whether I should court-martial the sonofabitch or promote him for his initiative.”

  “This is the original?” Pickering asked, confused.

  “No. That’s the JCS file copy. You’re supposed to have the original.”

  “And I damned sure don’t!”

  “Is Donovan going to be at lunch?” Rickabee asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Marshall, Leahy, Donovan, me, and, of course Frank Knox and the President.”

  “You’re in a minefield here, I guess you understand,” Rickabee said. “We’re in a minefield.”

  “You don’t think Donovan is going to blame me for the compromise of MAGIC?”

  “I don’t know,” Rickabee said. “I’m paid to look for the worst that can happen.”

  “General,” Lieutenant Hart said, “the car is supposed to be downstairs right now.”

  “Okay,” Pickering said as he rose to his feet and walked toward Hart, who was holding Pickering’s tunic out to him. Pickering put it on and buttoned it, then, examining himself in the mirror, tugged at its skirt. Satisfied, he looked at Rickabee.

  “He said his door would always be open to me. Let’s see if that was just another campaign promise.”

  “Keep me posted,” Rickabee said.

  “Posted hell, General, you’re going with me,” Pickering said.

  Neither the driver of the White House Packard limousine nor the Secret Service agent in the front seat raised any objection when Rickabee climbed into the car with Pickering and Hart. But when they drove across Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House, they were stopped by a determined guard at the gate. He was unimpressed with Rickabee’s credentials as a Special Agent of Naval Intelligence, and immune to Pickering’s announcement, “He’s with me.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, the gentleman is not on my list, and I can’t pass him.”

  “Get on the phone to either Admiral Leahy or General Marshall and tell him that General Pickering is here with General Rickabee and we have to see either of them immediately,” Pickering ordered. Then he had another thought: “Tell them I am not coming in without General Rickabee.”

  The guard went into the guardhouse and returned two minutes later.

  “Drive to the side entrance, please,” he said. “Someone will meet you.”

  When they were met by an Army colonel wearing the insignia of an aide-de-camp to a four-star general, Pickering concluded that the guard had spoken with either General George C. Marshall or someone empowered to act for him.

  The colonel led them into an elevator, and they rode to the corridor outside the presidential apartments.

  “I don’t suppose any of you gentlemen are armed?” a Secret Service agent standing there asked politely.

  “I am,” Rickabee and Hart said, almost in unison. Rickabee took his .45 pistol from his shoulder holster and handed it to the Secret Service agent. Hart retrieved a snub-nosed .38 revolver from under his tunic and handed it over.

  “I’ll have to see what’s in the briefcase,” the Secret Service agent said.

  “Not on your life,” Rickabee said.

  General George C. Marshall and Admiral William Leahy, trailed by Colonel William J. Donovan, came into the corridor. Donovan was in uniform—surprising Pickering. The top ribbon on his impressive row of brightly colored pieces of cloth was that representing the Medal of Honor he had won in France in the First World War.

  “General,” Leahy said.

  “Admiral,” Pickering said, “there’s something I think I should bring to your immediate attention.”

  “A Special Channel from Chungking?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pickering said.

  “May I ask what your aide is doing here, General?” Leahy said. “Before we get into this matter?”

  “I asked the President if I might bring him to lunch,” Pickering said. “And the President said, ‘Absolutely.’”

  “My God!” Donovan said in disbelief.

  “Lieutenant Hart is cleared for MAGIC, Admiral, and knows all about Operation Gobi.”

  Leahy looked as if he was about to say something, but General Marshall, perhaps innocently, perhaps intentionally, shut him off before he could speak. “Colonel Donovan was just about to give us his thoughts on the Special Channel when you called from the gate,” Marshall said. “You apparently have seen it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Pickering said, meeting Donovan’s eyes. “The Special Channel I’m referring to was addressed to me.”

  “So I noticed,” Marshall said. “I also noticed it was a Duplication Forbidden message.”

  “What General Pickering has seen, General,” Rickabee said, “is the Joint Chiefs’ file copy.”

  Marshall looked at Rickabee closely, even coldly. “Which presumably you have in there?” he asked, indicating Rickabee’s briefcase.

  “Yes, sir,” Rickabee said.

  “General Marshall and I,” Admiral Leahy said, “are agreed that despite the seriousness of the matter, it is still a matter that can be dealt with administratively. In other words, we shouldn’t waste the President’s time with it at our luncheon. Does that pose a problem,” he asked, looking first at Pickering and then at Donovan, “for either of you?”

  “No, sir,” Donovan said.

  “Sir, I’m scheduled to depart from Anacostia at half past four,” Pickering said. “Should I reschedule?”

  “Why would you want to do that?” Donovan asked.

  “I don’t want to leave before this problem is dealt with,” Pickering replied, but he looked at Leahy rather than at Donovan as he spoke.

  “Once we decide who’s responsible for this situation,” Admiral Leahy said, “dealing with it won’t take long. But to cover all the bases, while we’re lunching with the President, General Rickabee, I don’t think there will be any trouble setting another place for you at lunch.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Rickabee said.

  “And now, gentlemen,” General Marshall said. “I suggest we join the President.”

  The President was in his wheelchair, sitting at the head of a table set for lunch. Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox was sitting beside him, his chair pulled close. Before them on the table was a stack of eight-by-ten-inch photographs that Roosevelt was examining carefully.

  “What they have been doing, Frank,” Roosevelt said, without taking his cigarette holder from his mouth, “is gathering their courage to face the lion in his den.”

  “Nothing like that at all, Mr. President,” General Marshall said. “An administrative matter.”

  “I wonder why I have trouble believing that,” Roosevelt said, smiling broadly.

  “‘Administrative’ can cover a lot of territory, Mr. President,” Secretary Knox said.

  “Good to see you, Fleming,” the President said. “You’re all prepared, I gather, for your trip to the mysterious East?”

  “And all points in between, sir,” Pickering said.

  “General Rickabee I know,” the President said. “It’s good to see you, Fritz.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. President.”

&nb
sp; “But I don’t know this young fellow,” Roosevelt went on.

  “Mr. President, may I present Lieutenant George F. Hart?” Pickering said. “He’s both my aide-de-camp and my friend.”

  Roosevelt offered his hand.

  “I recognize the name,” the President said. “You must be an unusual young man, Lieutenant, if all these old fogies are agreed you can be entrusted to hold a MAGIC clearance.”

  Hart actually blushed. Leahy and Pickering exchanged looks.

  “I’m honored, Mr. President,” Hart said.

  A white-jacketed steward passed a tray of drinks, indicating with his head which glass the men were to take. Pickering sipped his and recognized the taste. It was Famous Grouse. He wondered if there was a card file kept somewhere with drink preferences listed on it.

  “When we’re finished,” Roosevelt said to the steward, “ask the photographer to take a picture of me with Lieutenant Hart. Perhaps his parents would like to have one.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. President,” Hart said.

  “I have a soft spot for young Marine officers,” Roosevelt said. “Very possibly because my son Jimmy is one of you.”

  “Yes, sir, I know,” Hart said.

  “Let me propose a toast,” the President said. “To the success of General Pickering’s mission.”

  The others raised their glasses and there were murmured “Hear, hears.”

  “I feel a good deal better about this,” the President said mischievously, “now that Bill and Fleming have kissed and made up.”

  “I’ll agree with the ‘made up’ part, Franklin,” Donovan said, “but I want to go on record as saying we have never kissed.”

  Pickering laughed politely. None of the others did.

  Roosevelt picked up on this and correctly guessed the reason.

  “Bill, when you’re wearing your uniform, you’re supposed to call me ‘Sir,’ and ‘Mr. President,’ and bow three times before backing out of my presence.”

  “No disrespect was intended, sir, if I have to say that.”

  “What I think it is, Bill, is that you’re nervous as the second junior officer present with all these admirals and generals.”

  “That may be it, sir.”

  “We’re going to have to see if we can’t get you a star, Bill, so that you’ll feel at home.”

  There was dutiful laughter.

  “Speaking of generals,” Frank Knox said, “is someone going to volunteer to tell me why General Rickabee is joining us?”

  “An administrative matter, Mr. Secretary,” Admiral Leahy said. “We were a little pressed for time. The General met us here, and we’ll deal with the matter after lunch.”

  “What sort of an administrative matter? Important enough to have Pickering bring Fritz here? And look uncomfortable when I asked why?”

  “There was a radio from Chungking,” Admiral Leahy said. “Something we all felt should be dealt with before General Pickering left for Hawaii.”

  “Now my curiosity is aroused,” the President said. “I always get very curious when people are reluctant to talk about anything.”

  Everyone looked at Admiral Leahy, who took a long moment to collect his thoughts before beginning:

  “Mr. President, you are aware that at your direction, and against my recommendation and that of General Marshall, we sent a MAGIC device, together with the personnel to op—”

  “Hold it a second, Admiral,” the President interrupted. “I just had another one of my inspirations. Correct me if I’m wrong, Frank, but didn’t you have Fleming commissioned because you knew he would report back to you what you should know, rather than what people wanted you to hear?”

  “That’s correct, Mr. President,” the Secretary of the Navy said.

  “You have the floor, General Pickering,” the President said, tempering the order with one of his famous smiles. “Proceed.”

  “What we know for sure, Mr. President,” Pickering began, “is that someone ran off at the mouth about the MAGIC machine going to Chungking.”

  “Has MAGIC been compromised?” Roosevelt asked, now deadly serious. “Is this what everyone has been working up the courage to tell me?”

  “We don’t believe, based on the facts available—” Admiral Leahy said.

  “Admiral,” the President interrupted impatiently, “General Pickering has the floor.”

  “Sorry, sir,” Leahy said, flushing.

  “What we do know for sure, Mr. President, is that when Colonel Banning got to Chungking, they knew he was coming and why.”

  “Banning took a MAGIC machine to Chungking?”

  “Two machines, sir.”

  “Who is ‘they’ as in ‘they knew he was coming’?”

  “The signal officer and his deputy, sir.”

  “And they don’t have MAGIC clearances? Then how in the hell did they find out?”

  “We don’t know that yet, sir.”

  “How many people knew what was happening?”

  “It’s a very short list, sir,” Pickering said. “Aside from the people in this room, only those people in JCS who were involved.”

  “Your people were involved, Fleming,” Donovan said.

  “Plus, of course, two people at OSS, besides Colonel Donovan and me,” Pickering said icily. “And I don’t think any of my people even know anyone in Chungking—certainly not these signal officers.”

  “What about the cryptographers in Chungking?” Donovan asked.

  “So far as I know, they know no one in Chungking,” Pickering said.

  “Okay,” Donovan said. “That narrows it down to people in my shop and people at the JCS.”

  “Admiral, we can’t have things like this,” the President said. “It has to be nipped in the bud.”

  “I agree, sir,” Admiral Leahy said.

  “I’ll leave getting to the bottom of this to you. As well as ensuring that it—or the circumstances that permitted it—never happens again.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Admiral Leahy said.

  “And I want Bill Donovan and Fleming Pickering involved. Fleming, you might not be able to get away today. I want you here until this is resolved.”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” Pickering said.

  “I think General Rickabee should be involved, too,” Navy Secretary Knox said. “He’s very good about finding snakes under rocks.”

  It was obvious that neither Admiral Leahy nor General Marshall liked the suggestion. Neither protested, but both looked at the President for his decision.

  “That might prove very useful,” the President said.

  “What about Operation Gobi?” Knox asked. “Is that compromised, too?”

  “This signal officer—his name is Dempsey—asked Colonel Banning what McCoy and Zimmerman—”

  “McCoy?” Roosevelt interrupted again. “The young chap who was with Jimmy at Makin Island? Who briefed us on General Fertig?”

  “Yes, sir. He’s going into the Gobi Desert to try to establish contact with the Americans there.”

  “What’s this signal corps officer got to do with that? I thought it was agreed that you and Bill—the OSS—were going to undertake that mission.”

  “Apparently, Mr. President, this fellow wanted to know what Captain McCoy’s special mission was. On the JCS orders on which Banning and the devices went to Chungking, it was referred to, vaguely, as a JCS mission. When Banning refused to tell him—”

  “As well he should have,” the President interrupted.

  “—this General ordered Banning to have McCoy report to the OSS Station Chief in Chungking,” Pickering went on.

  “I don’t understand,” the President said.

  “Until I got Colonel Banning’s Special Channel, Mr. President, I didn’t know there was an OSS station in Chungking.”

  “You didn’t know about an OSS station in Chungking?” the President asked.

  “No, sir, I did not,” Pickering said, looking at Colonel Donovan.

  “That’s odd, isn’t
it, Bill?” the President said to Donovan. “The signal officer in Chungking knows about an OSS station there, and the OSS Deputy Director for Pacific Operations doesn’t?”

  “Mr. President—” Donovan began.

  The President held up his hand to shut him off. Then he kept him waiting while he fished a cigarette from a silver box, stuffed it into his holder, and waited for the steward to produce a light for it. Then he went on, calmly, not smiling: “Do what you have to do, Admiral,” the President said, “to straighten out this ‘administrative matter.’ Just as soon as we finish our lunch.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  [THREE]

  The White Room

  The Office of Strategic Services

  The National Institutes of Health Building

  Washington, D.C.

  1405 28 March 1943

  Immediately after lunch, in the corridor outside the presidential apartment, Colonel Donovan suggested that the most suitable place to conduct their business would be at the OSS. “It would attract attention if Pickering, Rickabee, or I appear at the Joint Chiefs of Staff,” he argued. “The White Room will provide a secure space, and it’s equipped with microphones, in case Admiral Leahy would like a written record of what was said.”

  Admiral Leahy nodded his agreement.

  When Admiral Leahy’s Cadillac limousine, the White House Packard limousine that had carried Pickering, Hart, and Rickabee to the White House, and Donovan’s Buick Roadmaster rolled up outside the White House, Donovan made a “follow me” gesture to the Buick’s driver and climbed into Leahy’s Cadillac.

  Once they were in the White House Packard, Rickabee gave voice to what Pickering was thinking: “I wonder what that sonofabitch is saying to Leahy?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough, I suppose,” Pickering replied.

  As soon as the small convoy arrived at the National Institutes of Health Building, Leahy and Donovan got out and waited for the others to join them. “Colonel Donovan,” Leahy began, “has pointed out to me that he is an attorney and has experienced distasteful interrogations. Would either of you object to his conducting the interrogations? We will be able to listen on earphones, he tells me.”

  “Sir, what if we have questions Colonel Donovan didn’t think to ask?” Rickabee asked.