“Where are you?”
“At the Foster Lafayette.”
“Very nice!”
The Foster Lafayette was one of Washington’s most prestigious—and inarguably one of its most expensive—hotels.
“You know why I’m here, Carolyn,” he said.
Brigadier General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, was married to the only child of Andrew Foster, who owned the Foster Lafayette and forty-two other hotels. Foster had turned over to Pickering a Foster Lafayette suite for the duration; and Pickering had left standing orders that the suite be used by the officers on his staff when he wasn’t actually using it himself.
“He’s in the Pacific, isn’t he?” Carolyn asked innocently. “Is anyone else there with you?”
“Christ, Carolyn, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Banning said.
“If the bare-breasted girls in the grass skirts come back, tell them you’ve made other plans,” she said, and hung up.
Banning stared for a moment at the dead phone in his hand, and then put it in its cradle.
“Jesus Christ!” he said, smiling.
The telephone rang.
He grabbed it.
“Major Banning.”
“I forgot to tell you something,” Carolyn said. “Welcome home. And I love you.”
“You’re something,” he said, laughing.
“With just a little bit of luck, I can catch the one-oh-five milk train,” she said, and hung up again.
He put the phone back in its cradle again, swung his feet up on the bed, and lowered his head onto the pillow.
He was almost instantly asleep.
[FIVE]
The Foster Lafayette Hotel
Washington, D.C.
0805 Hours 17 October 1942
When the telephone rang, Carolyn Spencer Howell, a tall, willowy thirty-two-year-old who wore her shoulder-length hair parted in the middle, woke immediately.
She glanced at the man in bed beside her with a sudden tenderness that made her want to cry, and then smiled, anticipating the look on his face when the telephone’s ringing finally woke him up.
He slept on, oblivious to the sound.
Finally, she pushed him, at first gently and then quite hard. His only response was to grunt and roll over.
“I never really believed that cutting hair was what Delilah did to Samson,” she said aloud. And then made a final attempt to wake him. She held his nostrils shut.
His response was to swat at whatever had landed on his face with his hand. The force of the swat was frightening.
“That was not a good idea,” she said, then shrugged and reached for the telephone.
“Hello?”
She looked down at Ed’s wristwatch on the bedside table. It was five minutes past eight. She had been with him not quite four hours.
Should I be ashamed of myself for taking advantage of an exhausted man?
He didn’t seem to mind.
But neither was there any of that postcoital cuddling, of fame and legend. He was sound asleep while I was still quivering.
“Who is this?” a somewhat impatient male voice demanded.
“Who are you?” Carolyn responded.
“My name is Rickabee. I was trying to reach Major Edward Banning.”
“He’s in the shower, Colonel Rickabee. May I take a message?”
“I’d hoped to see him. I’m downstairs.”
“Why don’t you give him five minutes and then come up?”
“Thank you,” Rickabee said, and hung up.
She hung the telephone up, and then really tried to wake Ed. Tickling the inside of his feet—at some risk—finally worked. After thrashing his legs angrily, he suddenly sat up, fully awake.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Your Colonel Rickabee is on his way up,” Carolyn said.
“Christ! You talked to him?”
“You wouldn’t wake up,” she said.
“I wonder what the hell he wants?” Banning asked rhetorically, and stepped out of bed. He headed directly for the bathroom.
Carolyn picked up the telephone.
“Room Service, please,” she told the operator, and then ordered coffee and breakfast rolls for three.
Ed came out of the bedroom as she was fastening her brassiere.
“Jesus, you’re beautiful,” he said.
“I ordered coffee and rolls,” she said. “Would you like me to take a walk around the block, or what?”
“No,” he said. “Don’t be silly. You stay.”
“I’m not being silly. Is this going to be awkward for you?”
“Don’t be silly,” he repeated, making a joke of it. “I’m a Marine, aren’t I?”
In other words, yes, it is going to be embarrassing for you. But you are either the consummate gentleman, or you love me too much—maybe both—to consciously hurt my feelings. Whichever, Thank You, My Darling!
Almost precisely five minutes later, the door chimes of Suite 802 sounded.
Banning, by then dressed in a khaki shirt and green woolen uniform trousers, opened it to a tall, slight, pale-skinned, unhealthy-looking man in an ill-fitting suit.
He was not what Carolyn expected.
Ed was closemouthed about what he did in The Marine Corps. Even though she told herself she understood the necessity for tight lips, this frustrated Carolyn. But she knew that Ed was in “Intelligence,” even if she didn’t know precisely what that meant, and that his immediate superior was Colonel F. L. Rickabee, whom he had once described as “the best intelligence officer in the business.”
She had expected someone looking like Clark Gable in a Marine uniform. Or maybe an American version of David Niven in a splendidly tailored suit. Not this bland, pale man in a suit that looked like a gift from the Salvation Army.
“Good morning, Sir,” Banning said. “I was in the shower.”
“So I understand,” Rickabee said. He looked at Carolyn.
“Honey,” Banning said. “This is my boss, Colonel Rickabee. Colonel, my ... Mrs. Carolyn Howell.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Howell?”
“How do you do?” Carolyn replied, offering her hand.
Rickabee’s hand was as she thought it might be. Cold. Carolyn Spencer Howell was, in the flesh, very much as Rickabee thought she would be. He knew a good deal about her. He was a good intelligence officer.
When Banning first became involved with her, Rickabee asked the FBI for a report on her. And the FBI’s New York Field Office turned the investigation over to the Army’s Counterintelligence Corps, a move that annoyed Rickabee, although he could not fault the thorough, professional job the CIC did on her:
Carolyn Spencer Howell came from a respected upper-middle-class family. Shortly after graduating cum laude from Sarah Lawrence (where she was apolitical), she married James Stevens Howell, an investment banker ten years her senior. Mr. Howell’s interest in younger women apparently did not diminish with marriage; and after nearly a decade of marriage, Mrs. Howell caught her husband in bed with a lady not far over the age of legal consent.
As a result of encouragement by his employers to be generous in the divorce settlement—philandering vice presidents do not do much for the image of investment banking—Mrs. Howell became a rather wealthy woman. She took employment in the New York Public Library, more for something to do than the need of income, and there she met Major Ed Banning, and took him into her bed.
So far as the CIC was able to determine, Banning was the only man to ever spend the night in Mrs. Howell’s apartment. And Banning, meanwhile, was honest with her, telling her up front that there was a Mrs. Edward Banning, whom he had last seen standing on a quai in Shanghai, and whose present whereabouts were not known.
For Rickabee’s purposes, Mrs. Howell was ideal for Banning. So long as he was, in his way, faithful to her, which seemed to be the case, he was unlikely to go off the deep end with a dangerous floozy, or even, conceivably, with an enemy agent. There was talk around,
which Rickabee believed, that Ambassador Kennedy’s son, the second one, John, had been sent to the Pacific after becoming entirely too friendly with a redhead who had ties with the wrong governments.
“I’m really very sorry to intrude,” Rickabee said, meaning it. “And I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t necessary. But the thing is, Mrs. Howell, I need about thirty minutes of Ed’s time now, and about that much time at half past ten.”
“I was just telling Ed that I was going to take a walk around,” Carolyn said. “Have a look at the White House, maybe.”
“It’s raining,” Rickabee said. “Walking may not be such a good idea. But if you could read the newspaper over a cup of coffee in the lobby ...”
“My pleasure,” Carolyn said. She smiled and left.
Rickabee waited until the door closed after her.
“Haughton called,” he said. “There’s a special channel from Brisbane. He’s going to bring it by the office.”
Captain David Haughton, USN, was Administrative Assistant to Navy Secretary Frank Knox. A “special channel” was a message encrypted in a special code whose use was limited to the most senior members of the military and naval hierarchy—or more junior officers, for example Colonel Rickabee and Brigadier General Pickering, whose immediate superiors were at the top of the hierarchy. Since Pickering was in Brisbane, the special channel was almost certainly from him. The only other person authorized access to the special channel in Brisbane was General Douglas MacArthur, who was the Supreme Commander, South West Pacific Ocean Area. It was unlikely that MacArthur would be sending messages to a lowly Marine colonel.
“Yes, Sir.”
“I thought you had better be there, in case something needs clarification.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And it’s possible that Haughton may want to talk about the Mongolian Operation. If that’s the case, I thought it would be better if you were up to date on it, changes, et cetera, since you left.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“As soon as we’re finished with Haughton, you’re finished. Take the week I mentioned last night.”
“Aye, aye, Sir.”
“Do you think you could rustle up some coffee, Ed?”
The door chimes sounded.
Banning opened the door to admit the waiter with the coffee Carolyn had ordered from room service.
“Your wish, Sir,” Banning said, chuckling, "is my command. I trust the Colonel will pardon the delay?”
[SIX]
Temporary Building T-2032
The Mall, Washington, D.C.
1045 Hours 17 October 1942
Captain David W. Haughton, USNA ’22, a tall, slim, intelligent-looking Naval officer, had called for a Navy car to take him to The Mall, where a large collection of “temporary” frame buildings built to house the swollen Washington bureaucracy during World War I were now occupied by the swollen—and still swelling—bureaucracy considered necessary to wage World War II.
A 1941 Packard Clipper, painted Navy gray, with enlisted chauffeur, was immediately provided. This was not in deference to Captain Haughton’s rank—it was said there were enough captains and admirals in Washington to fully man all the enlisted billets provided for on a battleship—but to the rank of his boss.
Captain Haughton, who would have much preferred to be at sea as a lieutenant commander in command of a destroyer—as he had once been—was Administrative Assistant to the Secretary of the Navy, the Honorable Frank Knox.
There were, of course, official automobiles assigned to the Office of the Secretary of the Navy, including two limousines. One of these was at the moment in use by Secretary Knox, and the second was in the Cadillac dealership having a bad clutch repaired. There were also two 1942 Plymouth sedans painted Navy gray. Chief Petty Officer Stanley Hansen, USN, Haughton’s chief assistant, regarded one of these as his personal vehicle, and Haughton was reluctant to challenge the Chief’s perquisites. And he was reluctant to use the second Plymouth because he regarded it as a necessary spare. The Secretary’s limousine—or Chief Hansen’s Plymouth—might collapse somewhere.
And finally, he had requested a car from the motor pool for an admittedly petty, selfish reason. It had rained hard all day, and he thought it was unlikely to stop. He correctly suspected that the motor pool would dispatch a car much like the Packard that was in fact sent, a large car, reserved for admirals, and consequently equipped, fore and aft, with a holder for the starred plates admirals were entitled to affix to their automobiles. When an admiral was not actually in his car, the holder was covered.
The Shore Patrol, which patrolled the area of The Mall where Haughton was headed, would, he thought, be somewhat reluctant to challenge an illegally parked Packard with a flag officer’s plate holder on it—even if the admiral’s stars were covered. He could thus tell the driver to park right in front of Temporary Building T-2032, where he had business to transact with the Marine Corps Office of Management Analysis. This would spare him a long walk in the rain to and from the parking lot where lowly captains were supposed to park.
The Packard pulled to the curb before one of the many identical two-story frame buildings, and the driver started to get out to open Haughton’s door.
“Stay in the car, son,” Haughton ordered, opened the door himself, and, a heavy black Navy-issue briefcase in his left hand, ran through the rain down a short concrete path to the building and stepped inside into a vestibule.
There was a sign reading “ABSOLUTELY NO ADMITTANCE” on the door to the stairway of the two-floor frame building.
Haughton pushed it open and stepped inside. Inside, there was a wall of pierced-steel planking (interlocking sections of steel, perforated to permit the passage of water, designed for the hasty construction of temporary aircraft runways; it was quickly adopted for a host of other purposes). A door of the same material (closed) and a window (open) were cut into the wall. Through the window, Haughton could see a Marine sergeant armed with a Colt Model 1911A1 .45 ACP pistol, in a shoulder holster, sitting at a desk in his khaki shirt. His blouse hung from a hanger hooked into the pierced steel netting wall. Hanging beside his blouse was a Winchester Model 1897 12-gauge trench gun.
The pierced steel wall and the armed guard were necessary because the Marine Corps Office of Management Analysis had nothing whatever to do with either management or analysis. What the Office of Management Analysis did was clandestine intelligence, and special, clandestine, operations.
The sergeant saw him, recognized him, and stood up.
“Good morning, Sir,” he said. “I know the Colonel expects you.”
Haughton held out to him a photo identification card.
“Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir,” the sergeant said, and pushed a clipboard through the window opening in the pierced-steel planking.
Haughton wrote his name, the time, and “Colonel Rickabee” in the “To See” blank on the form on the clipboard and pushed it back. Colonel F. L. Rickabee was Deputy Chief of the Office of Management Analysis.
"Thank you, Sir,” the sergeant said, and then pressed a hidden button. When he heard the buzzing of a solenoid, Haughton pushed open the door in the metal wall.
He walked through a second interior door, which gave access to a stairway. He waited for a second buzz of a solenoid, then pushed the door open and started to climb the stairs. Behind him, he heard the sergeant, apparently on a telephone, say, “Colonel, Captain Haughton is on deck.”
Haughton went up the wooden stairs two at a time. Beyond a door at the top of the stairs was another pierced-steel wall. Beside it was a doorbell button. As Haughton reached to push the button, the door opened.
“Good morning, Sir,” Major Ed Banning said.
When he saw Banning, Haughton was always uncomfortably reminded of his own noncombatant role in the war. On Banning’s tunic were half a dozen ribbons, including one whose miniature oak-leaf cluster represented the second award of the Purple Heart, for wounds received in combat. The ribbon representing servi
ce in the Pacific Theater of Operations was further adorned with a small black star, indicating that the wearer had not only been in the Pacific but had participated in a battle.
In Banning’s case, this was the battle of the Philippines. Haughton had learned—not from Banning, but from Lieutenant Kenneth R. McCoy, who had been there—that Banning took shrapnel from Japanese artillery during the initial Japanese landings. Left behind when American forces retreated, and hiding out behind the enemy lines, he came under American artillery fire, whose concussion blinded him.
He was ultimately led through the enemy lines to a hospital, and finally to the hospital on Fortress Corregidor. From there he was evacuated, with other blinded men, by submarine. His sight inexplicably returned while he was on the sub.
“How are you, Banning?”
“Very well, thank you, Sir. I guess we heard from The Boss?”
Haughton held up the briefcase, which was attached to his wrist by a steel cable and half a handcuff. Then he walked through the pierced-steel planking door, and down a narrow corridor to the end, which held the offices of the Chief, USMC Office of Management Analysis, and his deputy.
The door was opened by Colonel Rickabee, who had changed into a uniform after his breakfast meeting with Banning at the Foster Lafayette. But even in uniform, with the silver eagles of a colonel pinned to his collar points, and even wearing a 1911A1 .45 automatic in a shoulder holster, Colonel F. L. Rickabee, USMC, did not look much like a professional warrior.
“Hello, David. How are you?” Rickabee said, offering his hand.
Haughton wondered if Rickabee really thought the .45 was necessary, or whether he was wearing it to set an example for the others. It seemed highly unlikely that anyone would launch an assault against the Office of Management Analysis—even with its bulging files of TOP SECRET material. And even if that happened, it seemed likely that the pierced-steel doors and the sergeants with their 12-gauge riot guns would at least slow them down enough so that reinforcements could be called up.
Behind the Lines Page 14