"Oh, Christ," Pickering said, shaking his head.
"We'll still be pretty much sitting in each other's laps, Sir, but at least there will be nobody in the building but us from now on."
"Well, that's something, I suppose."
"Sir, Colonel Rickabee suggested that we drive down to Quantico this afternoon if you feel up to it."
"Oh? Why?"
"Uniforms, Sir. Colonel Rickabee said to tell you that the concessionaire there, a fellow named A. M. Bolognese, not has very good prices, but is an old friend of his. He could probably turn out some uniforms for you in a couple of days." Pickering gestured toward the bedroom.
"They just arrived. I called Brooks Brothers and they sent a man down on the train with them." Sessions laughed. "Major Banning said that was the way you were, Sir. By the time he thought of something, you'd done it."
"I wish I'd known about this man with the good prices. I hate to think of the bill I'm going to get from Brooks Brothers."
"What exactly did you order, Sir?"
"I told them to send me whatever I would need."
"General, while you're signing all this stuff, why don't I take a look at it?"
"Somebody who knows what he's doing should," Pickering said. "Thank you."
"You'll find a little red pencil check mark every place you're to sign your name, General," Sessions said, going to a desk and unloading the briefcase. "Everything is in at least four copies, all of which have to be signed."
"What if I had broken my right arm?"
"Then you would make a mark, Sir, and I would sign everything, swearing that was your mark." Pickering laughed.
"OK, Captain," he said and walked to the table and sat down.
Sessions uncapped a fountain pen and handed it to him. "If you run out of ink, Sir, there's a spare pen."
"You think two is going to be enough?"
"With a little luck, Sir." By the time he'd taken the documents from one stack, signed his name in the places marked, and put them on a second stack, Pickering had concluded that Sessions was not exaggerating about how many there were. His fingers were stiff from holding the pen.
He got up and walked into the bedroom. The cardboard boxes had been opened, emptied, and piled by the door. An incredible amount of clothing was now spread out on the bed.
And still more clothing was hanging from doorknobs and the drawer pulls of the two chests of drawers.
Sessions, who was bent over the bed, pinning insignia to an elastique tunic, looked over his shoulder at Pickering.
"They took you at your word, Sir. There's everything here but mess dress."
"Is mess dress expensive?"
"Yes, Sir. Very expensive."
"Then it was a simple oversight which Brooks Brothers will remedy as soon as humanly possible.
The only thing we don't know is whether or not it will fit you, Sir."
"It should. I've been buying clothing there since I was in college."
Sessions handed him a shirt.
"There's only one way to know for sure, General."
Three minutes later, Flem Pickering was examining Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door.
I feel like one of the dummies in the Brooks Brothers windows.
I may be wearing this thing, but I am not, and there is no way I could be, a Marine general.
That Navy captain business was bad enough, but at least I have the right to wear those four gold stripes. I am an any-ocean, any-tonnage master mariner, entitled to wear the four stripes of a captain.
This is different.
"That fits perfectly," Sessions said. "Let's see about the cover.
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 u
p 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 of Naval Intelligence.
`In 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 th
e sun rises in the morning because Ken wants it to."
"Well, I would say Ernie has very good taste," Al Kriendler said.
W E B Griffin - Corp 05 - Line of Fire Page 15