"I didn't say 'slum,' I said 'Beverly Hills,' " Pickering answered. "He always said he was going to retire here. But then he dropped dead."

The second black man appeared with two whiskey glasses on a silver tray.

Pickering picked his up and raised it.

"Welcome home, gentlemen," he said. "Welcome to Muku Muku."

"After all I've been through," Dillon said, "I frankly expected more than this fleabag."

"Oh, Jesus," McCoy groaned. Pickering laughed delightedly.

There was the sound of aircraft engines. They looked out to sea. A white four-engine seaplane came into view. It was making a slow, climbing turn to the left.

"There goes Banning," Pickering said. "That's the Pan American flight to San Francisco."

"I wondered where he was," Dillon said as he was being brushed off by Denny.

"He's going to brief Frank Knox on Guadalcanal," Pickering said. "That film your man made was valuable, Jake."

"I'm glad to hear that," Dillon said. "So what happens to us now, Flem?"

"You'll spend tomorrow here, and maybe the day after tomorrow. I fed the four of you into the regular air transport priority system. With an AAAA priority, they say it generally takes a day or two to find a seat."

"What I meant is what happens to me? Am I still working for you?"

McCoy took Dillon's place on the stool. Denny draped the cloth around him.

"Jake, I want you to understand that I appreciate the job you did for me, but..."

"No apologies required, Flem. I was out of my depth in that whole operation. McCoy ran it. I'm ready to go back to being a simple flack."

"Don't get too comfortable doing that," Pickering said. "We may call on you again."

"General," McCoy said. "I promised Colonel Stecker and Pick that I would see Stecker while I was here...."

"My plane leaves Pearl Harbor at eight in the morning," Pickering said. "I'd like to have you around until it leaves. Then you can go to the Naval Hospital. Be prepared for it; he's really in bad shape."

"Thank you, Sir."

"I sent a message to Colonel Rickabee, primarily to warn him that Banning will need a shave and a haircut and a decent uniform when he arrives... before he goes to see Frank Knox. But I also asked him to call Ernie Sage and tell her you're here, and on your way to the States."

Colonel F. L. Rickabee, a career Marine intelligence officer, was Pickering's deputy at the Office of Management Analysis in Washington. Ernestine "Ernie" Sage was McCoy's girlfriend, the daughter of the college roommate of Pickering's wife.

"Thank you, Sir," McCoy said.

"Tell me, McCoy," Pickering asked. "What do you think of George Hart? How is he under pressure?"

McCoy laughed.

"He was the maddest one sonofabitch I ever saw in my life on the beach at Buka," McCoy said. "First, the rubber boat got turned over and he had a hell of a hard time getting ashore. And then I told him he was going to have to wait there-alone, overnight at least-while the native radio operator and I went looking for Howard and Koffler."

"But he did what he was expected to?"

"Oh, yes, Sir. He's a good Marine, General."

"I thought he might turn out to be," Pickering said.

[SEVEN]

Marine Barracks

U.S. Naval Station

Pearl Harbor, T.H.

1715 Hours 15 October 1942

Sergeant George F. Hart, USMCR, and Corporal Robert F. Easter-brook, USMCR, came out of the basement of Headquarters Company unshaved, unwashed, and wearing the utilities they had put on at Guadalcanal. Each was carrying a large, stuffed-full seabag.

"What now, Sergeant?" Sergeant Hart asked the freshly shaved, freshly bathed, and impeccably shined and uniformed staff sergeant who was their escort since the plane from Espiritu Santo landed.

"I was told to get you issued a clothing issue," the staff sergeant replied. "I done that. You been issued. I guess you wait to see what happens next."

At that moment, a corporal, who was just as impeccably turned out as the staff sergeant, pushed open the door and marched down the highly polished linoleum toward them.

"I'm looking for a Sergeant Hart and a Corporal Eastersomething," he announced.

"You found them," the staff sergeant announced. "Ain't you the Colonel's driver?"

"Yeah. You want to come with me, you two?"

"Where are we going?" Sergeant Hart asked.

The corporal ignored the question, but did hold the door open for them as they staggered through it under the weight of their seabags. Corporal Easterbrook was carrying additionally a Thompson.45 ACP caliber submachine gun, an Eyemo 16mm motion picture camera, and a Leica 35mm still camera, plus a canvas musette bag.

Parked at the curb was a glistening 1941 Plymouth sedan, painted Marine green-including its chromium-plated bumpers, grille, and other shiny parts. The corporal opened the trunk and the seabags were dropped inside.

"You taking the Thompson with you?" the corporal asked.

"Yes, I am," Easterbrook replied.

"You're not supposed to take weapons off the base," the corporal said. "But I guess this is different."

" 'Off the base'?" Sergeant Hart asked. "Where are we going?"

The corporal did not reply until they were in the car. Once they were inside, he consulted a clipboard that was attached to the dashboard.

"Some place in the hills," he said. "Muku Muku. They gave me a map."

"What the hell is Muku Muku?" Sergeant Hart asked.

"Beats the shit out of me, Sergeant. It's where I was told to take you."

"There it is," the corporal said. "There's a sign."

Sergeant Hart looked where he pointed. A bronze sign reading "Muku Muku" was set into one of the brick pillars supporting a steel gate.

The corporal drove the Plymouth five or six hundred yards down a narrow macadam road lined with exotic vegetation. The road suddenly widened and became a paved area in front of a large, sprawling house.

That's a mansion, Sergeant George Hart thought, not a house. Must be Pickering's. There's no other logical explanation.