“Nothing, dear.”
They had to wait for a table at the Naples Restaurant. The Daniellis—Mr. and Mrs., and Maria and Beryl, Vinny’s little sisters, and Vinny—showed up just before they finally got one.
When they got inside, Dianne and Leonard were there, sitting at a table for two with a candle in a Chianti bottle. The table was over against the wall-sized mural of what was supposed to be, Steve guessed, Naples and some volcano with smoke coming out of it.
They were just finishing up their meal. Leonard hadn’t seen them, and Steve wasn’t sure whether Dianne had or not. She wasn’t looking in their direction, anyhow. And then she got up to go to the john.
She saw me. She pretended she didn’t see me. She must know what my mother thinks about her, so she wanted to avoid trouble. And she doesn’t really have to go to the toilet; she knows I’ll see her go in there and will meet her outside, in that little corridor or whatever the hell it is.
“Excuse me, please, I have to visit the little boys’ room.”
“Again?” his mother said. “You just went before we left the apartment!”
He prayed his mother had not seen Dianne.
He had to wait a long time in the little corridor between the door that said REST ROOMS and the doors to the men’s and ladies’ johns, but finally Dianne came out.
“Hi!”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
“You crazy, or what? Christ!”
Steve tried to kiss her. She averted her face. When he tried harder, and started putting his arms around her, she kneed him in the balls.
“Jesus Christ,” Dianne said, as he leaned against the wall, faint and in agony. “Can’t you take the hint? Stay the hell away from me. You come near me again, I’ll tell my father, and he’ll beat the shit out of you!”
VIII
(One)
The Foster Lafayette Hotel
Washington, D.C.
17 February 1942
Captain Fleming Pickering, USNR, got out from behind the wheel of the black Buick Roadmaster two-door sedan and tiptoed through the slush to the marquee. He had purchased the Buick, used, three days before, from a classified advertisement in the Washington Post.
“You should have slid out the driver’s side, Captain Pickering,” the doorman said, chuckling.
“But that would have been the intelligent thing to do,” Pickering said. “I won’t need it anymore today. But presuming you can make it run, can you have it out here at half past seven in the morning?”
“It’ll start. The garage told me all it needed was a battery.”
“We’ll see,” Pickering said. “I would be very surprised.”
“Senator Fowler came in a couple of minutes ago, Captain,” the doorman said. “Asked if I’d seen you.”
“As soon as I thaw my frozen feet, I’ll call him,” Pickering said. “Thank you.”
He checked at the desk for mail, but his slot was empty. Then he remembered that it would of course be empty. If they hadn’t sent it up with a bellboy, the ever-efficient Mrs. Ellen Feller would have picked it up when she came to the apartment.
Pickering and Mrs. Feller had been assigned office space in the Navy Department. He thought of it as “the closet,” but it was just outside Secretary Knox’s suite. Since there was really no reason for him to spend much time there, he had had Max Telford, the hotel manager, install a desk and a typewriter in his suite for Mrs. Feller. She brought whatever papers needed his attention to the hotel, and he went to his official office as seldom as possible.
Am I getting old? Or am I just tired?
The junior United States Senator from California, the Hon. Richardson S. Fowler, was in the sitting room of Pickering’s suite when Pickering let himself in.
“Senator, finding a politician sitting in my chair tossing down my booze is not an entirely unexpected cap to an all-around lousy day,” Pickering greeted him.
Fowler swung his feet off the footstool of a high-backed leather overstuffed chair, and started to get up.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, stay there. I was only kidding.”
“I never know with you.”
“Whenever I call you ‘Senator,’ I’m kidding,” Pickering said. “OK?”
He took off his uniform overcoat, tossed it on the back of one of the two couches facing a coffee table before the fireplace, laid his gold-encrusted uniform cap on top, sat down on the left couch, and started taking off his shoes and socks.
“My God,” Ellen Feller said, coming into the room from the small bedroom that was now more or less converted into an office for her, “you’re all wet!”
She wore a dark green silk dress with an unbuttoned cardigan over it. Her hair was combed upward from the base of her neck.
“I’ve noticed,” he said.
“You look frozen. Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asked. “Or a drink?”
“I don’t suppose that’s in your official job description, Ellen, but yes, thank you, both.”
“Sir?”
“Put a generous hooker of cognac in a cup of black coffee, please.”
“Where the hell have you been?” Senator Fowler asked.
“At Arlington. At a funeral. Standing in a snowdrift.”
“You’d better change your trousers, too,” Ellen said, as she poured coffee into a cup.
“A funeral? Anybody I know?” Senator Fowler asked.
“The last time I counted, I owned three pairs of trousers. I refuse to believe that the other two are already back from the cleaners.”
“Count again,” Ellen chuckled. “There was an enormous package from Brooks Brothers. I counted three blue jackets and six pairs of blue trousers when I hung it all up.”
“Thank God! Finally!” Pickering said, and picked up his shoes and socks and went into the master bedroom.
Senator Fowler went to Mrs. Feller, took the brandy-laced coffee from her with a smile, and carried it into the bedroom. Pickering was in his shorts, buttoning braces to a pair of uniform trousers.
He took the coffee, nodded his thanks, and took a sip.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Who were you burying?”
“A Marine lieutenant colonel. Fellow named Neville. His parachute didn’t open.”
“I saw that in the paper,” Fowler said. “You knew him?”
“I was there representing Frank Knox. Frank knew him. He said he would have preferred to go himself, but if he did, it would be setting a precedent; he would be expected to show up every time they buried a lieutenant colonel or a commander.”
“You didn’t seem grief-stricken,” Fowler said dryly.
“From what I hear, he did it to himself,” Pickering said.
“Suicide?”
“Jake Dillon told me ‘he got so carried away with his role that he got run over by the camera,’” Pickering said, chuckling.
“Jake Dillon? The press agent?”
“Yeah. He’s a major in the Corps.”
“I didn’t know, and I didn’t know you knew him.”
“Oh, sure. Jake shoots skeet with Bob Stack. That’s how I met him. Interesting man. He stayed at the house in ’39, he and the Stacks, when we had the state championships in San Francisco. Anyway, Jake was sort of running the burial ceremony. Newsreel cameras, three buglers, an honor guard of Marine parachutists, a firing squad, and a cast of thousands. Look for me at your local movie. I will be the handsome Naval person saluting solemnly as I stand there up to my ass in snow.”
“I thought you said this man committed suicide?”
“No. Not the way that sounded. What Jake said was that when he found out Life wasn’t going to take his picture, he flipped. He figured if he was the first man out of the airplane when they jumped, they’d have to take his picture. So he pushed the kid who was supposed to be first out of the way, and jumped himself. The wind, or the prop blast, caught him the wrong way and threw him into the horizontal sta
bilizer. The autopsy showed that hitting the horizontal stabilizer killed him. Not the sudden stop when he hit the ground.”
“You sound pretty goddamned coldblooded, Flem, do you realize that?” Senator Fowler said.
Pickering, who was pulling on his trousers, didn’t reply until he had the braces in place, the shirttail tucked in, and the zipper closed.
“Before I went out to Arlington,” he said in an even voice, “I was reading a pretty reliable report that the Japs just executed two-hundred-odd American civilians—the labor force we took out to Wake Island to fortify it and then permitted to get captured when we didn’t reinforce Wake. They shot them out of hand. I find it a trifle difficult to get worked up over a light colonel here who did it to himself.”
“Jesus Christ!” Fowler said, shocked.
“And an hour before that,” Pickering went on dryly, “I had a telephone call from my wife, who is finding it difficult to understand why I didn’t telephone her when I was on the West Coast. I was seen having lunch at the Coronado Beach Hotel, but I didn’t have time for her….”
“Tell me about the civilians on Wake.”
“No. I shouldn’t have said that much.”
“Why not?”
“Senator, you just don’t have the right to know,” Pickering said.
“The operative word in that sentence, Flem, is ‘Senator,’” Fowler said flatly.
Pickering looked at him with his eyebrows raised.
“As in ‘United States Senator, representing the people,’” Fowler went on. “If a United States Senator doesn’t have ‘the right to know,’ who does?”
“Interesting point,” Pickering said. “Fortunately, I am not at what is known as the policy-making level, and don’t have to make judgments like that. I just do what I’m told.”
“How much do you know that I don’t?” Fowler asked.
“Probably a hell of a lot,” Pickering said.
“I want to know about the civilians on Wake Island,” Fowler said. “I won’t let anyone know where I got it, if that’s bothering you.”
“About ten people, including the cryptographers, know about it. If Frank Knox finds out you know about it, he’ll know damned well where you got it.”
“You wouldn’t be a captain in the Navy, Flem, working for Knox, if I hadn’t brought him here,” Fowler said. “And it seems to me that the American people have a right to know if the Japanese are committing atrocities against civilian prisoners.”
“They do, but they can’t be told,” Pickering said.
“Why not?”
“Because…do you realize what a goddamned spot you’re putting me on, you sonofabitch?”
“Yes, I do,” Fowler said.
“Oh, goddamn it!”
“I am rapidly getting the idea that you don’t think I can be trusted with something like this,” Senator Fowler said. “I can tolerate your contempt for Congress, generally. But this is getting personal. I don’t think you question my patriotism, so it has to be my judgment you question.”
“Shit!” Pickering said in frustration. He picked up and drained the brandy-laced cup of coffee, then turned to face Fowler. “We have broken the Japanese naval code. The information about the Japs shooting the civilians came from what they call an ‘intercept.’ If the Japanese find out we know about them shooting the civilians, they’ll know we broke their code. And I can’t tell you how valuable reading their radio traffic is to us.”
“Thank you,” Fowler said, seriously. “That will, of course, go no further than these walls.”
Pickering nodded.
“Unless, of course, Mrs. Feller, in her role as oh-so-efficient secretary, has been eavesdropping at the door,” Fowler added.
“I don’t think she has,” Pickering said. “But she knows.”
“They really shot two hundred civilians?”
“Made them dig their graves, twenty at a time, and then shot them. Too much trouble to feed, you understand.”
“Goddamn them!”
“I wonder what Frank’ll do with me now?” Pickering said, as he pulled fresh stockings on his feet. “Let me out of the Navy, in which case I could go back to running Pacific & Far East, or send me to Iceland, someplace like that, as an example?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Obviously, I’m going to have to tell Knox that I told you about what happened on Wake. And about our having broken the Japanese code.”
“Why?” Fowler asked.
“I realize the concept is seldom mentioned around Washington, but, ethically, I have to. He made me privy to this—”
“Flem,” Fowler interrupted him. “Christ, you’re naïve!”
“I haven’t been accused of that in a long time.”
“I know Frank Knox pretty well, too, you know,” Fowler said. “Much better than you do, as a matter of fact. And he knows that we’re very good friends. It hasn’t occurred to you that he told you about Wake, and probably about some other things, pretty sure that you would tell me? Hoping you would?”
Pickering raised his eyes to Fowler. After a moment he said, “I am having trouble following that convoluted line of reasoning.”
“I think Frank Knox wants me to know about Wake Island. And about a lot of other things the Secretary of the Navy cannot conveniently—or maybe even legally—tell the Junior Senator from California. And now I do, and Frank can lay his hand on a Bible and swear he didn’t tell me.”
“You really believe that?” Pickering asked doubtfully.
“Yeah, Flem, I do. And if you rush over there crying, ‘Father, I cannot tell a lie. I chopped down the cherry tree,’ you’ll put the system out of kilter. It would not, Flem, be in the best interests of the country.”
“My God!”
“Welcome to the real world, Captain Fleming,” Fowler said dryly.
“You’re suggesting that’s the reason he got me this commission,” Pickering said.
“It’s certainly one of them. I’m on his side, Flem. He knows that. I really should know what the hell is really going on.”
“Then why doesn’t he just call you in and tell you? Brief you, as they say?”
“The Senate is full of monstrous egos. If he briefed me, he would have to brief a dozen other people. Two dozen. Some of whom, I’m sorry to say, should not be trusted with this kind of information.”
“You’re right, I’m naïve. Until just now, I thought what I was doing was lending my shipping expertise.”
“That too,” Fowler said. “But think about it. What does this Wake Island atrocity have to do with that? You don’t really have that ‘need to know’ you threw in my face.”
Pickering put on a fresh pair of shoes, tied them, and stood up, holding the wet pair in his hand.
“I think I’m going to have a stiff drink,” he said. “Interested?”
“Fascinated,” Fowler said, touching his arm. “But one final comment, Flem. Knox has paid you one hell of a compliment. Since he can’t tell anyone what material should be passed to me, he had to have someone in whose intelligence and judgment he felt safe. He picked you.”
“You didn’t get into that?”
“No. For obvious reasons.”
“I feel like Alice must have felt when she walked through the looking glass,” Pickering said.
He went back into the sitting room, opened the door to the corridor, and put the wet shoes outside. Then he went to the bar and poured an inch of Scotch into a large-mouthed glass.
“I would have made that for you,” Ellen Feller said.
“Ellen, would you get Secretary Knox on the phone for me?” Pickering said.
“What are you doing, Flem?” Fowler asked, concern in his voice.
“Why don’t you just listen? And see if everybody has guessed right about my judgment and intelligence?”
He walked to where Ellen was dialing a telephone on a small, narrow table against the wall.
“Captain Pickering for Secretary Knox,” she
said when someone answered the phone. Pickering wondered how she knew where Knox would be at this time of day.
Knox came on the line. “Yes, Pickering?”
“I thought I had best report on the funeral of Colonel Neville, Sir.”
“Well, thank you. But it wasn’t really necessary. I trust you.”
“It went well, Sir.”
“Good.”
“If you have nothing more for me tonight, Sir, I think I’m going to just get in bed. I got chilled out at Arlington.”
“Well, we can’t have you coming down with a cold. I need you. But why don’t you put off actually going to bed for a while? I ran into Senator Fowler, and he said he was going to drop in on you for a drink. We can’t afford to disappoint him. We have very few Republican friends on the Hill, you know.”
“I understand, Sir.”
“Yes,” Knox said. “Good night, Captain.”
Pickering hung the telephone up and turned to look at Fowler, who met his eyes.
“Ellen,” Pickering said, “you might as well run along. Senator Fowler and I are going to sit here and communicate with John Barleycorn. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“There are some things in here you should read, Captain,” she said.
“Leave them. I’ll read them when I get up in the morning.”
“There’s a couple of ‘eyes only’ in there,” she said, nodding toward a leather briefcase, “which should go back in the vault. I could either wait, or arrange for a courier.”
“I’ll call for a courier when I’m through with them,” Pickering said. “Thank you, Ellen.”
“Yes, Sir.”
When she had gone, Fowler said, “Very nice. Speaking of naïve, does Patricia know about her?”
“What the hell do you mean by that?”
“Now I know that Patricia has the understanding of a saint, but there are some women whose active imaginations would jump into high gear if they learned their husbands were spending a lot of time in a hotel suite with an attractive—very attractive—female like that.”
“Dick…Jesus! A, I don’t run around on Patricia, never have, and you know it. B, she’s some kind of a missionary.”
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