In Danger's Path Page 22

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Elizabeth-Sue said.

  “I mean I’ll give you five-to-one odds that I’m not the only female in this room sleeping with a Marine she’s not married to,” Ernie said.

  Elizabeth-Sue’s mouth dropped open and she looked at Ernie in utter disbelief.

  “Jesus H. Christ!” Pick said.

  “So why don’t we stop pretending,” Ernie went on, “and, for example, decide where we can all have a nice dinner where no one who knows you or Pick will see you? After you and I finish the champagne, I mean.”

  “I just can’t believe I’m hearing this!” Elizabeth-Sue said.

  “As a general rule of thumb, Elizabeth-Sue,” Pick said, “you can believe anything Ernie says.”

  “You can believe this, Elizabeth-Sue,” Ernie said. “Captain McCoy and I are just as concerned as you are about you and Pick not getting caught. Maybe more than you are.”

  “I never, in my entire life—”

  “Yes, or no, Elizabeth-Sue?” Pick interrupted her.

  Elizabeth-Sue looked at him for a long moment before replying, “Honey, I just can’t think of any place, except one across the river.”

  “We could eat here,” Ernie said. “It would be safer, and I really don’t feel like going out anywhere.”

  “Maybe that would be better,” Elizabeth-Sue said.

  She drained her glass and extended it to Ernie for a refill. “May I ask you a question?” she asked.

  “Ask away.”

  “What do you do?”

  “When I’m not in my camp follower role, you mean?”

  Elizabeth-Sue flinched a little at that, but nodded.

  “She’s the creative director, reporting directly to the account executive for the American Personal Pharmaceuticals account at BBD&O,” Pick announced, sounding very much like a prideful brother.

  Elizabeth-Sue confessed she really didn’t know what that meant.

  “It means she takes home probably twice as much money every month as Lady-killer McCoy and I do together.”

  “That’s enough about me, thank you very much,” Ernie said. “Get on the phone and order us some hors d’oeuvres.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Pick said, and went to the telephone.

  “How long are you going to be in Memphis?” Elizabeth-Sue asked.

  “Just as soon as Ken can get us a compartment on a train to Florida—and he’s very good at that sort of thing—we’re going to Palm Beach for a little sun. With a little bit of luck, maybe tomorrow.”

  [TWO]

  Temporary Building T-2032

  The Mall

  Washington, D.C.

  0805 3 March 1943

  A painfully sunburned Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, USMCR, walked down the sidewalk between the rows of temporary buildings until he came to T-2032, then approached the door and rang the bell. A face appeared at a small window in the door, and a moment later there was a buzzing noise as the solenoid-operated lock functioned. He pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  The “temporary” buildings on The Mall, built during World War I, had been designed to last no more than five years. Despite a quarter century’s painting and patching to keep them functional, they showed their age. Floors sagged, roofs leaked, and keeping windows and doors operational required a small army of maintenance people.

  The sign, painted Marine Corps Green, hung from a small pole on the tiny lawn before Temporary Building T-2032. It read, “USMC Office of Management Analysis.” From the street Temporary Building T-2032, a two-story frame building with a shingle roof, looked no different than Building T-2034, “USMC Office of Dependent Affairs,” to its right, or Building T-2030, “USMC Office of Procurement Contract Management,” to its left.

  Inside T-2032, there were considerable differences from the other buildings. Just beyond the ground-floor entrance was a counter behind which sat two Marine noncoms armed with pistols and World War I trench guns—Winchester Model 12 12—gauge pump-action shotguns, with six-round magazines and twenty-inch barrels with bayonet fixtures. They controlled access to the rest of the building. This was through a door covered (as was the wall itself) with pierced steel planking normally used to pave temporary aircraft runways.

  “You look like you been out in the sun, Captain McCoy,” Technical Sergeant Harry Rutterman said.

  “Oh, you are an observant sonofabitch, aren’t you, Harry?” McCoy said, and touched his shoulder in a gesture of affection between old friends.

  And then he reached for his ONI credentials. No one was passed through the steel planking until the security provisions had been complied with. There were no special credentials for personnel assigned to the Office of Management Analysis; if there were, McCoy knew, people would wonder exactly what Management Analysis did that required special identification. The less people wondered about Management Analysis, the better. ONI credentials served just fine; everybody knew about ONI; and no one asked questions of people with ONI credentials.

  Rutterman checked the credentials and handed them back with a smile.

  “And who is being honored with the pleasure of your visit?”

  “Got a little last night, Harry, did you? You’re in a very good mood.”

  Rutterman laughed.

  “Major Banning get in yet?” McCoy said.

  “He don’t work here no more,” Rutterman said. “Captain Sessions is here.”

  “Sessions, then,” McCoy said.

  Rutterman picked up a telephone and dialed two digits. “Captain McCoy to see you, sir,” he said, listened a moment, and then hung up. “Pass, friend,” he said to McCoy, indicating the door covered with pierced steel planking.

  As he reached it and tugged on it, there was another solenoid buzz, and the door opened. McCoy passed through it and then up a narrow flight of stairs. Captain Ed Sessions was waiting for him at the top.

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” he said. “You’ve been in Florida.”

  “It’s not funny,” McCoy said.

  “Come with me, Captain, the General wishes the pleasure of your company.”

  “He’s here?” McCoy asked, surprised. General Pickering normally spent very little time in Building T-2032.

  Sessions didn’t reply. He led McCoy three quarters of the way down a narrow corridor, then knocked at a door before opening it.

  “Captain McCoy to see you, General,” he said, and motioned McCoy through.

  “Christ,” Brigadier General F. L. Rickabee greeted him, “what did you do, fall asleep on Palm Beach?”

  “Yes, sir,” McCoy said. “Good morning, sir. Good morning, General.”

  “Ah, you noticed! I was hoping you might.”

  “Congratulations, Sir. Well deserved.”

  “I’m not sure about that. There has been a promotion frenzy around here. I got caught up in it.”

  “Sir?”

  “A silver leaf now adorns Ed Banning’s collar points, and sometime this week even Sessions is going to have go buy major’s leaves.”

  “That’s about time, too,” McCoy said to Sessions, then turned to General Rickabee. “Sergeant Rutterman said Major—Lieutenant Colonel—Banning doesn’t work here anymore?”

  “I would say Rutterman talks too much,” Rickabee said coldly.

  “Sir, he wasn’t running off at the mouth. I told him I wanted to see Major Banning, and he said, ‘Sorry, he doesn’t work here anymore.’”

  Rickabee seemed only partially satisfied.

  “Sir,” Captain Sessions said, “not only is he a good Marine, but Rutterman knows McCoy.”

  “I like that,” Rickabee said. “Loyalty is a desirable characteristic of a Marine officer. But—correct me if I’m wrong—what Rutterman was supposed to say was, ‘Sorry, sir. I don’t know the name.’”

  “Yes, sir,” Sessions said.

  “Let it pass, Ed,” Rickabee said. “Rutterman is a good man.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  “Well, now that security has
been breached, and the cat, so to speak, is out of the bag, I might as well confirm that Lieutenant Colonel Banning is now assigned to the OSS. And so, Captain McCoy, are you.”

  “Yes, sir. General Pickering told me that was going to happen.”

  “Your records have already been sent over there. You know where it is, the National Institutes of Health Building?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Maybe when this goddamn war is over I can get you back, McCoy. This is where you belong, and you’ve always done a good job for me.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Send him over there in a car, Ed,” Rickabee ordered. “Don’t let the doorknob hit you in the ass on your way out, McCoy.”

  “Sir, I’ve got the ONI credentials,” McCoy said. It was a question.

  Rickabee thought that over a moment.

  “Banning sold me on the idea of letting him keep his. Said we’ll be working together, and they might come in handy. Same logic applies to you. Keep them. I’ll deal with ONI if necessary.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Rickabee came from behind his desk and gave McCoy his hand.

  “Good luck, McCoy,” he said. “Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut.”

  [THREE]

  The Office of the Deputy Director

  (Administration)

  The Office of Strategic Services

  The National Institutes of Health Building

  Washington, D.C.

  0955 3 March 1943

  “The Deputy Director will see you now, Captain,” the DDA’s secretary said, and motioned him toward a closed door.

  McCoy, who had been cooling his heels for the better part of an hour, rose up from the couch and walked to the door. He hesitated, then knocked. There was no answer. McCoy looked over his shoulder at the secretary, who gestured for him to go in. He opened the door and stepped inside.

  The well-dressed man behind the desk did not look up from his papers on his desk. After a moment, McCoy closed the door behind him and then stood near it in a position very close to Parade Rest.

  Finally the man looked up at him, and after a moment McCoy understood he was expected to speak first. “Good morning, my name is McCoy,” he said.

  “Good morning. Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m the OSS Deputy Director for Administration,” the man said. “I’ve just been going over your records, Captain.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They’re a…bit unusual,” the DDA said. “If I’m reading them correctly, your formal education ended with high school, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And after service as an enlisted man—in China?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You went through the Marine Corps Officer Candidate School at Quantico, and were commissioned second lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I had been under the impression that a college degree was a prerequisite for going to Officer Candidate School.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”

  “You have to understand, Captain, that you don’t quite measure up to what we expect—in terms of education—of applicants for the OSS.”

  McCoy did not reply.

  “On the other hand, your records indicate that you speak Chinese. Does that mean you can only speak—carry on a conversation? Or does that mean you can read and write Chinese?”

  “I read and write Wu, Mandarin, and Cantonese,” McCoy said.

  “And Japanese?” the DDA asked dubiously after having another look at McCoy’s service record.

  “Not as well as I read and write the Chinese languages,” McCoy said.

  “And German and French?”

  “And a little Italian and Spanish,” McCoy said.

  “Well, I’m sure you do,” the DDA said, “but we’ll run you through our Languages Division to see just how well you speak so many languages. Perhaps what the Marine Corps considers fluency…You understand?”

  McCoy nodded.

  “Let me be very frank,” the DDA said. “We’re going to send you through our training program. It’s conducted at a base we operate in Virginia. And I’m frankly wondering if you might have some difficulty with the academic aspects of the course.”

  McCoy said nothing.

  “Well, I suppose the way to handle this is, as I said, to run you through our Languages Division, have you tested, and then send you to the base.”

  The door to the DDA’s office opened and the secretary walked in. “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” she said, “but I thought you should know Colonel Banning is outside.”

  “Tell the Colonel I’m tied up,” the DDA said, somewhat impatiently, “and that I will see him as soon as I can.”

  “Sir, I couldn’t help but overhear. Colonel Banning is telephoning a General Rickabee.”

  “And?” the DDA interrupted impatiently.

  “He’s trying to locate Captain McCoy.”

  The DDA thought that over a moment. “Ask Colonel Banning to step in, will you, please?”

  Banning came through the door a moment later. “What a pleasant surprise, Captain McCoy,” he said. “I was just asking General Rickabee when we might expect to see your smiling face. Also, if I may say so, really sunburned?”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “I’ll take the Captain off your hands, sir,” Banning said to the DDA.

  “I beg your pardon, Colonel?”

  “I said I’ll take Captain McCoy off your hands, sir.”

  “Colonel, Captain McCoy is about to go to the Languages Division to determine the exact level of his languages proficiency. That will probably take up most of the morning. After that, he will be transported to the training base.”

  “Sir, I don’t think that’s what General Pickering has in mind for Captain McCoy.”

  “Colonel, why don’t you ask General Pickering to discuss that with me?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll do that,” Banning said, and walked out of the office.

  “I gather you and Colonel Banning are acquainted?” the DDA asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Unfortunately, he hasn’t been here long enough to understand our system of operation.”

  McCoy didn’t reply.

  “Now, where were we?” the DDA said. “Oh, yes. I’ll telephone the Languages Division.” He reached for one of the telephones on his desk.

  His office door opened again.

  “I’ll take Captain McCoy off your hands, Charley,” the Deputy Director (Operations) said.

  “I just told Colonel Bann—”

  “I just saw him in the hall; he told me,” the DDO interrupted.

  “—that it was my intention to have Captain McCoy’s extraordinary facility with languages tested, and then to send him to the training base.”

  “Charley, you were there when General Pickering told Wild Bill that one of the officers he was bringing in with him had already done three successful behind-the-lines operations. He was speaking of Captain McCoy. And Pickering wasn’t counting what McCoy did for Banning in China before the war. I’ve just made the decision that it would be a waste of time and money either to test his language skills—I’ll take Colonel Banning’s word about that—or to send him to the Country Club. Do we understand each other?”

  “I’ll have to discuss the matter with Director Donovan.”

  “And at the same meeting, it was decided that all of General Pickering’s people will be issued barber’s pole badges. Why don’t we give McCoy’s to him while he’s here, and save him time?”

  The DDA looked at the DDO for fifteen seconds, then picked up his telephone. “Mrs. Rogers, would you please pull Captain McCoy’s Any Area Any Time identification badge from the safe and have him sign for it as he leaves? And then come in here, please. I need to dictate a memorandum for the record.”

  “You want to come with me, please, Captain?” the DDO asked.

  Mc
Coy followed him out of the office.

  The DDO watched as Mrs. Rogers made McCoy sign for the identification badge, politely told her, “Thank you very much, Mrs. Rogers,” and then led McCoy out of the outer officer into the corridor.

  Banning, who had been leaning against the corridor wall, stood erect.

  The DDO put his hand out to McCoy. “Welcome aboard, McCoy,” he said. “I’m out of time right now—Banning will explain—but we’ll find time for a chat as soon as possible. In the meantime, are you familiar with that great truth about any bureaucracy?”

  “Sir?”

  “‘In any bureaucracy, one may expect to find, near the top, a certain percentage of assholes,’” the DDO said. “You might want to write that down.” Then he turned to Lieutenant Colonel Banning: “He’s all yours, Ed.”

  He touched McCoy’s shoulder and walked away.

  “You owe him,” Banning said. “If I hadn’t bumped into him in the hall, you would have been doing push-ups and knee bends at the Country Club by the time I found General Pickering.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The number-two guy around here, the Deputy Director (Operations), he’s on our side. I’m not sure about the other clown. Come on. I’ll show you the White Room, and put you to work.”

  In order for McCoy to gain entrance to the White Room, it was necessary for one of the two armed guards on duty outside the unmarked door to compare his face with the photo on the identification badge, and then to check a typewritten list under a TOP SECRET cover sheet to make sure his name was on it. He then nodded to the other security officer, who unlocked the door to the room.

  The room was windowless, illuminated with concealed lighting. Thick carpets covered the floor and sound-absorbing material was on the walls. A lectern and a projection screen were at one end of the room, a motion picture and slide projector at the other. The large central conference table showed signs of use; it was littered with paper, some of it crumpled, dirty coffee cups, and empty Coke bottles.

  The door was closed, and immediately a whirring noise came from the film and slide projectors. The projectors were automatically shut off when the door was opened, McCoy realized. A moment later, a map flashed onto the screen.

  Shit, that’s the goddamned Gobi Desert! I thought that operation was canceled, or at least on hold!