"Just the drinks, please," Pickering ordered. When the waiter was gone he added, "I really hadn't planned to get plastered."
"There are those, you know, who would be reluctant to show up across the street reeking of booze."
"You don't say?"
"And, you know, most general officers ride in the backseat, beside their aides, while their sergeant drives."
"My aide and my sergeant have more important things to do," Pickering said, and then added, "Speaking of which..."
He took a thin sheet of paper from the left bellows pocket of his tunic and handed it to Fowler.
=SECRET=
NOT LOGGED
ONE COPY ONLY
DUPLICATION FORBIDDEN
FOLLOWING IS DECRYPTION OF MSG 234707 RECEIVED 091142 1105 GREENWICH
FROM SUPREME COMMANDER SWPOA
091142 1325 GREENWICH VIA PEARL HARBOR
FOR SECNAV WASHINGTON DC
EYES ONLY BRIG GEN FLEMING PICKERING USMCR
OFFICE MANAGEMENT ANALYSIS HQ USMC
GREYHOUND RETURNED SAFELY TO KENNEL XXX PUPS A LITTLE WORSE FOR WEAR BUT HEALTHY XXX
BEST PERSONAL REGARDS FROM ALL HANDS XXX SIGNATURE BANNING
=SECRET=
Senator Fowler read it and handed it back to Pickering.
"Aside from recognizing the somewhat grandiose title Douglas MacArthur has given himself, I haven't the foggiest idea what I just read," he said. "But are you supposed to carry something marked 'Secret' around in your pocket so casually?"
Pickering looked at him and smiled.
"Watch this," he said.
He crumpled the sheet of paper and put it in the ashtray. Then he took a gold Dunhill lighter from his pocket, got it working, and touched the flame to the crumpled paper. There was a flash of light, and the paper disappeared in a small cloud of white smoke.
"Christ!" Fowler said, surprised.
Heads elsewhere in the Oak Grill turned, startled by the light.
"They treat it chemically somehow," Pickering said, pleased. "The coal on a cigarette will set it off. You don't need a flame."
"How clever," Fowler said drolly as the waiter delivered the drinks. He picked up his and raised it. "To Pick, Flem. May God protect him."
Pickering met his eyes and then touched glasses.
"That came in a moment before you called," he said. "We put a couple of Marines-precisely, I put a couple of Marines-onto an island called Buka, not far from the Japanese base at Rabaul. The Australians left people behind when the Japanese occupied it-"
"You put somebody onto a Japanese-occupied island?" Fowler interrupted.
Pickering nodded. "They call these people Coastwatchers. They have radios, and provide our people with early warning of Japanese movement, air and ship. This fellow's radio went out, so we sent him a new one, a Hallicrafters-"
" 'You' or 'we,' which?" Fowler interrupted again.
"Me," Pickering said. "I asked a couple of Marines to volunteer to parachute onto Buka with a new radio. Then I found out that the Australians were infected with the British notion that no sacrifice is too great for King and Country..."
"Meaning what?"
"That they were going to leave my Marines there until they were either killed by the Japanese or died of disease or starvation. Goddamn them!"
"So you got them out? The greyhound and the pups? That's what they meant?"
Pickering nodded. "We replaced them. Took the first Marines out and sent some others in. I was worried about it; it was a hairy operation. And the moment after the courier handed me Banning's message and I could exhale, I got your 'come as soon as possible' message. I thought that Pick... I thought the other shoe had dropped. I stuffed that in my pocket without thinking."
"Pick, like his old man, will walk between raindrops," Fowler said. "To quote myself."
Pickering looked at him for a moment, then raised his glass.
"I could use another one of these."
"No," Fowler said, then repeated it. "No, Flem."
Pickering shrugged.
Fowler's 1941 Cadillac limousine was at the curb when they came out of the lobby.
"I gather it's beneath the dignity of a United States senator to arrive at the White House in anything less than a limousine?" Pickering asked as he started to get in.
"It is beneath this United States senator's dignity to call upon the President soaked to the skin," Fowler replied. "They would make you park your car yourself if you drove over there. And, you may have noticed, it's raining."
Pickering didn't reply.
"How are you, Fred?" he cheerfully asked Fowler's chauffeur.
"Just fine, General, thank you."
The limousine was stopped at the gate. Before passing them onto the White House grounds, a muscular man in a snap-brim hat and a rain-soaked trench coat scanned their personal identification, then checked their names against a list on a clipboard.
A Marine sergeant opened the limousine door when they stopped under the White House portico, then saluted when Pickering got out.
Pickering returned the salute. "How are you, Sergeant?" he asked.
The sergeant seemed surprised at being spoken to. "Just fine, Sir."
A White House butler opened the door as they approached it.
"Senator, General. If you'll follow me, please?"
He took them via an elevator to the second floor, where another muscular man in civilian clothing examined them carefully before stepping aside.
The butler knocked at a double door, then opened it without waiting for an order.
"Mr. President," he announced, "Senator Fowler and General Pickering."
Franklin Delano Roosevelt rolled his wheelchair toward the door.
"My two favorite members of the loyal opposition," he said, beaming. "Thank you for coming."
"Mr. President," Fowler and Pickering said, almost in unison.
"Fleming, how are you?" Roosevelt asked as he offered his hand.