Banning told me,” Fowler said. “What do you think his chances are?”
“If he’s made it this far, pretty good. That war’s just about over.”
“I devoutly pray you’re right, George.”
The telephone on a side table in the living room rang several minutes later as two bellmen were laying out their lunch.
Fowler was closest to it, so he answered it.
“Just a moment, please,” he said, and then, to Hart: “Go tell him he’s got a phone call.”
Pickering, now wearing trousers and a shirt, came into the living room.
“That goddamn well better not be Elaine Sage,” he said, taking the telephone from Fowler.
“It’s not,” Fowler said.
“Pickering,” he snarled into the telephone, then: “Yes, Brigadier General Pickering.”
Then he said quietly in an aside to Hart and Fowler, “Jesus Christ, it’s Truman.”
Then he said into the phone, “Good afternoon, Mr. President. I’m very sorry, sir, about the delay in getting to the airport. I was just about to reschedule. We can be in the air in no more than two . . .”
There was a short pause as Fleming listened to the President.
“It’s not?”
A pause.
“The last sighting of the signs he’s leaving was several days ago, Mr. President, so we know he was alive then. Major McCoy seems to feel there’s a good chance of getting him back.”
A very long pause, followed by a barely audible sigh from Fleming.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. President. I’m convinced that everything that can be done is being done. I’m deeply touched by your interest.”
Brief pause.
“Yes, sir, Mr. President, I look forward to seeing you soon, too. Good afternoon, Mr. President.”
He put the telephone in its cradle.
“I was rough on Ernie Sage, was I? That sonofabitch didn’t even ask about Pick. The President of the United States just did.”
Fowler looked at Pickering, then turned to Hart.
“George, unless I’m mistaken, there’s a two-year supply of Famous Grouse in the last cabinet on the left of the sink. Why don’t you make us all a little nip?”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Hart said.
[FOUR]
BASE OPERATIONS KIMPO AIRFIELD (K-14) SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA 0405 4 OCTOBER 1950
Lieutenant Colonel Allan C. Lowman, USAF, a tall, good-looking thirty-five-year-old, who would have much preferred to be flying Sabrejets but who the powers that be had decided could make a greater contribution to the Air Force and the war as Commander, K-14 USAF Base, had elected to set up his cot in an unused-at-the-moment radio van mounted on a GMC 6 × 6 truck.
There were several advantages to this. The van had its own electrical generator, driven by a gasoline engine. The generator was primarily intended to power the radio equipment, but it also provided electric lights and the current necessary to operate his electric razor, an electric hot plate, and his Zenith Transoceanic portable radio, on which it was possible to listen—usually—to the Armed Forces Network Radio Station in Tokyo, and even—sometimes— civilian radio stations as far away as Hawaii and the West Coast.
When someone knocked at the rear door of the van, waking him, the luminescent hands of his Rolex—a gift from his wife—told him it was a little after 0400.
He had left orders with the duty NCO to wake him at 0500, so this was obviously a problem of some sort. The question was what kind of a problem.
Feeling a little foolish—it was probably the duty NCO bearing an early-morning teletype message that required his attention—he felt around on the floor until he found his .45, took it from the holster, pulled the slide back, chambered a cartridge, and only then got off the cot and walked barefoot in his underwear to the door.
"Who is it?”
“Sergeant Alvarez, Colonel.”
Colonel Lowman put his right arm—and the .45—behind his back and then opened the door.
It was Sergeant Alvarez, all right, but with him were three officers, all majors. Two of them were Army—a plump, rumpled Army major and an Army aviator. The third was a Marine who had a Thompson submachine gun slung from his shoulder.
“These officers insisted on seeing you, Colonel,” Sergeant Alvarez said.
“What can I do for you?” Colonel Lowman asked, aware that he felt a little foolish standing there in his underwear with his pistol hidden behind his back.
“May we come in, please, sir?” the Marine asked.
Colonel Lowman could not think of an excuse not to let them into the van. He backed up and gestured for them to climb up the short flight of stairs.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” the Marine said.
“If you’ll pull that door closed, we can turn the lights on,” Lowman said.