“We cannot complain to anybody,” Hon said.
“Why not?”
“We cannot complain to anybody,” Hon repeated. “And stop that line of inquiry.”
“We have their goddamn messages,” Moore plunged on. “Why the hell not?”
Hon held up both hands, palms out, to shut Moore up.
“In about ten seconds, that will occur to you. And in ten seconds, Major Banning’s warning to you will move from the realm of the hypothetical to cold, cruel reality.”
Moore looked at him, confusion all over his face. And then, in five seconds, not ten, he understood.
“We’ve broken their code, haven’t we? That was a coded message, and we intercepted it and decoded it, right?”
“Since I didn’t hear the question, Sergeant Moore—If I had, I would have to inform Major Banning—I obviously can’t answer it.”
“Jesus!” Moore exhaled.
“Apropos of nothing whatever, the correct phraseology is ‘encrypted’ and ‘decrypted,’ ” Hon said. “The root word is ‘crypt,’ variously defined as ‘burial’; ‘catacomb’; ‘sepulcher’; ‘tomb’; and ‘vault.’ ”
“And they don’t know we can do that, do they?” Moore asked, more rhetorically than anything else.
“I hope you’re about to get your mouth under control, Sergeant Moore,” Hon said, “because I feel my memory is returning.”
Moore exhaled audibly.
“Jesus Christ!” he said.
“Yeah,” Hon said. “OK, Sergeant, we will now proceed to Lesson Two in Pluto Hon’s Berlitz in the Basement School of Languages. Just one more thing, apropos again of nothing whatever. There is a security classification called Top SECRET-MAGIC. There are four people in this headquarters with access to Top SECRET-MAGIC material: General MacArthur, his G-2, Colonel Charles A. Willoughby, Captain Fleming Pickering, and me. You will not, repeat, not have access to Top SECRET-MAGIC. I mention it only because if anyone other than the people I just mentioned ever even mentions MAGIC to you, you will instantly tell me or Captain Pickering. Clear?”
What I just read is MAGIC. There’s no question about that.
“Yes, Sir.”
Hon met his eyes for a moment, and then nodded.
“Lesson Two deals with administrative procedures,” Hon said. “If you look under the table, you will find a wastebasket. In the wastebasket is a paper bag. The bag is stamped Top SECRET-BURN in large letters. It is intended for Top SECRET material that is to be burned. Top SECRET material includes this lined pad you have been writing on. Not just the pages you wrote on, but the whole pad, because your pencil made impressions on pages underneath the top one. Clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“I’m about to give you a key to the dungeon and the combination to one of the file drawers. You will memorize the combination. When you come to work here—which will be at any hour something comes in—if I’m not here, you will find that material in your drawer. You will make your translation—one copy only—and when you leave, you will put that in your drawer with the original material and make sure it is locked. Then you will take your notes, if you made any, or if you have written on a pad, anything at all, put them in the burn bag, and, accompanied by one of the guards, take it to an incinerator and burn it. You’ll find a supply of burn bags in your drawer. Clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You will not, repeat not, burn anything that I give you.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You will not take anything from this room, except burn bag material in a burn bag, unless specifically directed to do so by either Captain Pickering or myself.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“The people around here have been told that you are a cryptographic clerk-typist. If anyone, anyone, ever asks you what you’re really doing in here, you will tell me instantly. If I’m not available, find Captain Pickering and tell him.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“To my considerable surprise, when I went to scrounge a typewriter, I managed to get two. I carried one down here. When you are doing MAGIC ... Shit!” Hon stopped abruptly, and then continued, “When you use the typewriter to do translations for me, you will use a ribbon reserved for that purpose and kept in your file drawer. When that wears out, you will dispose of it via the burn bag. But you will not leave the ribbon in the typewriter when you leave the room ... even to take a leak. Clear?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Lieutenant Hon handed him a large key.
“Wear this on your dog tag chain,” he said. “And for Christ’s sake, don’t lose it.”
“No, Sir.”
“OK. Go get the typewriter outside, and the box of ribbons, and bring them in here. Then we’ll show you the incinerator, and the procedure to burn things. And finally, we’ll get the other typewriter, before the supply officer changes his mind, and lock it in the car.”
The phone was ringing.
Moore left his—mostly failed—love letter and walked across the library to the telephone.
“Sergeant Moore, Sir.”
“Major Banning, Sergeant. I understand you have the car out there?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Is there any reason you could not drive to the airport and pick up some people, and then run past the Menzies and pick me up?”
“No, Sir.”
“There’ll be two Marine officers waiting for you. A Colonel Goettge and a Major Dillon. Can you leave right now?”
“As soon as I hang up, Sir.”
“I’ll be waiting in front,” Banning said and hung up.
Moore went back to the typewriter, pulled his letter to his beloved from it, read it with very little satisfaction, and started to tear it up. Then he changed his mind.
He laid the letter on the table, took a pen, and wrote, “Duty calls. I have to run. I love you more than life itself.”
He addressed an envelope, wrote “free” where a stamp would normally be placed, stuffed the letter in it, and put it in his pocket. There was an Army Post Office Box at the airfield. He would mail the letter to Barbara first and then go pick up the officers.
As he drove the Studebaker to the airport, he thought that “I love you more than life itself” was a pretty well-turned phrase and was sort of pleased that Major Banning’s call had rescued him from more time at the typewriter.
(Two)
SUPREME HEADQUARTERS, SOUTHWEST PACIFIC
HOTEL MENZIES
MELBOURNE, VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA
1600 HOURS 1 JULY 1942
When Lieutenant Pluto Hon heard the key turning in the steel door, he quickly covered what he was working on with its Top SECRET cover sheet and stood up. There were only three people with a key to the room, and he had told Sergeant John Marston Moore to stay at The Elms until he sent for him. Ergo, whoever was unlocking the door had to be Captain Fleming Pickering, USNR.
“How are you, Pluto?” Pickering greeted him with a smile. “What can I do for you?”
“Sir, I just asked your clerk to let me know when you had a free minute. You didn’t have to come down here.”
“So she said,” Pickering said. “What’s up?”
“Well, first, did Major Banning get to you?”
“About tonight?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Yes, he did. And you’re invited, too, of course. Is that what you wanted to ask?”
“No, Sir,” Hon said, and then with obvious reluctance he plunged ahead: “Sir, I’m sorry I let my mouth run away from me and asked you for Sergeant Moore.”
“Oh? How come?”
“Sir, and it’s obviously my fault, it’s already gotten out of hand.”
“How?” Pickering asked evenly. Hon felt the normal warmth leave Pickering’s eyes.
“Sir, he’s already guessed that what I gave him to analyze was an intercept.”
“Guessed?”
“I suppose ‘deduced’ would be a better word.”
“How was his analysis?” Pickering
asked.
Hon hesitated.
“Well?” Pickering asked, impatiently.
“Sir, what popped into my mind sounds flippant. And I realize this is not the place to sound flippant.”
“What popped into your mind?”
“ ‘The true test of a man’s intelligence is how much he agrees with you,’” Pluto quoted. “I gave him the MAGIC intercept from Homma to IJAGS, and the reply about prisoner rations in the Philippines.”
“Refresh my mind?”
“The one Pearl Harbor thought was a reprimand to Homma, and wondered what about.”
“And the one you thought meant, ‘prisoners have no right to eat’?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And he agreed with you?”
“Yes, Sir. I had to prompt him a little. But just a little. I didn’t give him any ...”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Pickering said. “And he went from that to figure out where it came from?”
“Yes, Sir. I probably handled that badly. I’m very sorry, Sir. I decided I had better tell you.”
“Yeah, sure,” Pickering said. He reached inside his uniform jacket and came out with a cigar case. He took a long time removing a narrow, black cigar; he then carefully trimmed it with a pocket knife and lit it with a wooden match.
Finally, he exhaled through pursed lips, examined the coal at the end, and said, “We both—me especially—should have seen that coming. Now that I really think about it, it was inevitable. OK. So where does that leave us? Worst possible scenario: What’s the greatest damage?”
Pickering paused, not long enough for Pluto to respond, and then answered his own question. “We have added one more man to the loop. I mean the cryptographers at Pearl and here. They know about the existence of MAGIC. So now Moore does too. The only difference between him and them is that he is now analyzing instead of decrypting. They don’t have to know that. We won’t tell Pearl Harbor ... we won’t volunteer the information, in other words. If we did they would shit a brick. If they find out, I’ll take the heat. I’ll tell them I ordered you to bring him in on this. I’ll say I did so because it occurred to me that if you were unavailable, broke your leg or something, I would need an analyst. That’s true, come to think about it.”
“Yes, Sir,” Pluto said uneasily.
“In for a penny, Pluto, in for a pound,” Pickering said. “I’ll tell Banning what I’ve done, and tell him to bring Moore in on anything he thinks Moore should know. As far as Moore is concerned, just let things go as they are. As far as you’re concerned,” he paused and smiled, “since we now have proof positive that he’s highly intelligent, just put him to work. To coin a phrase, two minds are better than one.”
“Yes, Sir,” Hon said.
(Three)
THE ELMS
DANDENONG, VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA
1805 HOURS 1 JULY 1942
Sergeant John Marston Moore helped Mr. Cavendish carry Colonel Goettge’s and Major Dillon’s luggage to their rooms, and then went to his. Obviously, a sergeant was out of place with visiting brass hats, even under the strange circumstances he was now in.
When I get hungry, he decided, I’ll go down the back stairs and see what there is to eat in the refrigerator.
He had just taken his shoes off and settled himself on the bed when there was a knock at the door.
They probably want me to drive somebody somewhere—maybe go get Captain Pickering or Lieutenant Hon—or maybe serve drinks.
It was Major Banning.
“Yes, Sir?”
“Come with me,” Banning said. “I want to show you something. Save your questions until I tell you.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. Give me a moment to get my shoes on.”
He followed Banning down the back stairs to the kitchen, and then to a small room off the kitchen he had not known existed.
It was not much larger than a closet, and it held a small table with a lamp on it and a simple cushioned chair. Banning put his finger over his lips, ordering silence, and then pointed to foot-square ducts in the walls. Moore realized first that the other end of one of the ducts opened into the library, and then he remembered seeing it when he had been browsing among the books. It had been hardly visible among the books. He remembered that there was another duct in the dining room.
Banning touched his ear and pointed toward the duct opening on the library. Moore realized that he could hear, faintly, but clearly, Major Dillon talking to Colonel Goettge about Captain Pickering’s estate in San Francisco. Obviously, anything said in the library and dining room could be heard in the small room.
Banning signaled that they should leave the room, and when they had done so, he closed the door after them. He went to a coffee pot, helped himself, and then leaned against a work table under a large rack of pots and pans.
“I think that’s where the butler sat,” Banning said. “So he could hear when the lord of the manor needed more ice or when it was time to serve dessert.”
“Interesting,” Moore said.
“When you sit in there and listen, you’re probably going to hear all sorts of interesting things.”
The notion of eavesdropping on people, especially on Captain Pickering, made Moore uncomfortable.
“Sir?”
“I want you—as a matter-of-fact, Captain Pickering wants you—to sit in there and listen.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Put your trench coat away,” Banning said, laughing. “This is not high level espionage. You made quite an impression on Pluto—Lieutenant Hon. He told Captain Pickering he thought you have a good analytical mind and that with your knowledge of how the Japanese think and behave, you were probably going to be damned useful. Obviously, the more you know, the more useful you will be. There will be things discussed in there tonight that you should know, and which would not be discussed if you were in there, even serving drinks, which was my original idea. Understand? Or would you rather pass canapes?”
“No, Sir,” Moore said with a chuckle.
“There are certain things you should keep in mind,” Banning said. “Priorities, primarily. And something you should always have in the back of your mind when you’re involved with intelligence: Who knows what, and who isn’t supposed to know what. You work for Captain Pickering. Or you work for P1—Lieutenant Hon, which is saying the same thing. Captain Pickering’s interests are therefore your highest priority. Captain Pickering is here as the Secretary of the Navy’s personal representative. That means he is authorized access to any information the Navy has. He has also become quite close to General MacArthur, who has given him access to everything in Supreme Headquarters. If you think that through, you’ll understand that there’s damned little he does not know.
“I don’t know—it’s none of my business—what information he’s been getting from the Secretary of the Navy, or how much of that, if any, he is authorized to pass on to General MacArthur. Or—frankly—since he has apparently decided MacArthur is right and Admiral King is wrong, how much he has passed on to MacArthur without being specifically authorized to do so.
“Colonel Willoughby, who is MacArthur’s intelligence officer, will be here in a little while. He is not authorized to know what Pickering may or may not have told MacArthur, but what MacArthur has decided to tell him anyway will be interesting.
“And finally, Colonel Goettge: He is obviously not privy to what either Pickering knows or what MacArthur knows. He has no Need to Know, for one thing, and for another, in a sense, at least as far as MacArthur and Willoughby are concerned, he’s the enemy. The First Marine Division is under COMSOPAC ...”
“Excuse me?”
“COMSOPAC. Commander, Southern Pacific—Admiral Ghormley. And Admiral Ghormley is under Admiral Nimitz. Admiral Nimitz is the senior Naval officer in the Pacific and is thus MacArthur’s opposite number. There are two wars out here: between us and the Japanese, and between the Army and the Navy to see who fights the war, and where it is fought, and how.”
&n
bsp; Banning could see in Moore’s face that the kid was both a little stunned by what he’d just been told and was suppressing only with an effort the urge to ask questions.
“And there is one more thing,” Banning said, somewhat reluctantly. He was a good officer, and good officers do not criticize second lieutenants, much less lieutenant colonels, before enlisted men. But this was the inevitable exception that proved the rule. It had to be done.
“There are intelligence officers and intelligence officers,” Banning went on. “Colonel Goettge is very good at what he does—Division Intelligence Officer. What that means is that he advises the Division Commander of his assessment of enemy capabilities and intentions, based on what information he has been given, and what he’s been able to develop himself, say from prisoner interrogation, that sort of thing.
“But he has not been trained in, and has no experience with, the kind of—I guess the word is ‘strategic’—intelligence that we’re dealing with here ...”
He stopped when he saw confusion clouding Moore’s eyes. He realized that he’d been beating around the bush; this was not the place to be doing that.
“To put a point on it, Moore,” he said. “In my opinion, Colonel Goettge is not as good an intelligence officer as he thinks he is ... nor as knowledgeable, nor for that matter as bright. Keep that in mind.”
“Yes, Sir,” Moore said. Astonishment was all over his face. He never imagined he’d hear an officer say such a thing about another officer.
“Question?” Banning asked. “Questions?”
“Several hundred,” Moore said.
“But one in particular?”
“Why am I being told all this?” Moore asked, and then remembered to append, “Sir?”
“ ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ ” Banning quoted Pickering. “You’re now part of the team, Sergeant. In Captain Pickering’s judgment, since you have been made aware of the price of a loose mouth, it makes more sense to bring you in on anything and everything that will help you do your job—which you now know is analysis of intercepted enemy messages—than it would be to make a decision every time something came up whether or not you should be told about it.”
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