Under Fire - By W.E.B. Griffin Page 0,10

in touch?”

“Yes, sir,” the colonel said. “General, I think that the Supreme Commander had cocktails and dinner tonight in mind, sir.”

“How do you know that?” Pickering asked, as if the question amused him.

“Colonel Huff mentioned it, sir.”

“Good ol’ Sid,” Pickering replied, his tone suggesting that he didn’t think of Huff that way at all. There was immediate confirmation of this: “He’s still El Supremo’s head dog robber, I gather?”

Colonel Stanley’s face—just for a moment—showed that the question both surprised him and was one he would rather not answer directly. He took a notebook from his tunic pocket, wrote a number on it, and handed it to Pickering.

“That’s Colonel Huff’s private number, sir. Perhaps you could call him?”

“I didn’t mean to put you on a spot, Colonel,” Pickering said. “I go a long way back with Colonel Huff.”

“I understand, sir,” Stanley said.

He took a token sip from his drink and set it down.

“With your permission, General?” he asked.

“You don’t need my permission to do anything, Colonel. It’s been a long time since I was a general. And I understand you must have a busy schedule.”

Stanley offered his hand to Pick.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” he said. “And congratulations on the speed record.”

“The thing to keep in mind, Colonel,” Pick said, smiling, “is that my dad’s bite is worse than his bark.”

Stanley smiled, offered Pickering his hand, and left the suite.

Father and son exchanged glances.

“Something amuses you, Captain?” Pickering asked.

“Something awes me,” Pick said. “I just realized I’m in the presence of the only man in Japan who would dare to tell Douglas MacArthur’s aide that he’ll see if he can fit the general into his schedule.”

“I like Douglas MacArthur,” Pickering said. “And Jean. And I’ll see them while I’m here, but I came here to see Ernie and Ken. Now, how do we do that?”

“Something wrong with the limo? Mom set that up, too. I’m reliably informed it’s one of the two 1941 Cadillac limousines in Japan. And at this moment it’s parked outside waiting to take you to Ken’s house.”

“You’re not going with me?”

“Charley Ansley wants me to come to the Hotel Hokkaido—that’s where the conference is—to make sure all the Ts are crossed and the Is dotted on the certification. Before we rub our new speed record in Trans-Pacific’s face. He said something about a press conference. I’ll come out to Ken’s place as soon as that’s over.” He paused. “Unless you want to go to the Hokkaido with me?”

Pickering considered that a moment.

“I’m not going to show up at the Killer’s door in a chauffeur-driven limousine. If you’ve got his address, I’ll take a cab.”

“Great. I’ll take the limo to the Hokkaido. I laid on a Ford sedan for me. You can use that.”

Pickering considered that a moment, then nodded.

He had a fresh thought.

“I didn’t think about bringing anything for them.”

“There’s a case of Famous Grouse in the trunk of the limo. You want me to have it moved to the Ford, or should I bring it when I come?”

“Put it in the Ford.”

“You’re going out there right now?”

“Just as soon as I shower and change my clothes.”

“Pop, remember not to call him ‘Killer.’ ”

“He doesn’t mind. I’m one of the privileged few.”

“Ernie minds.”

“I stand corrected. And you remember to try to look humble at the press conference.”

“You know what Frank Lloyd Wright said about that: ‘It’s hard to be humble when you’re great.’ ”

“He is great. What you are is an aerial bus driver who caught a tailwind.”

Pick smiled at his father.

“Wright designed this place, didn’t he?” he asked, gesturing around the suite.

“Yes, he did.”

[FOUR]

NO. 7 SAKU-TUN DENENCHOFU, TOKYO, JAPAN 1705 1 JUNE 1950

When the 1946 Ford Fordor pulled to the curb of a narrow, cobblestoned street before a stone wall bearing a wooden sign—“Captain K. R. McCoy USMC”—the driver practically leapt from behind the wheel, dashed around the front of the car, pulled Pickering’s door open, and, smiling broadly, bowed to his passenger.

Pickering smiled at him, then went to the trunk to get the case of Famous Grouse. The driver wrestled it away from him after a thirty-second tug-of-war, and Pickering went to the steel door in the fence, where he finally found a wire loop that might be a doorbell.

When he pulled on it, there was a muted jangling. Sixty seconds later, a middle-aged Japanese woman in a black kimono opened the steel door and, first bowing, looked at him curiously.

“I’d like to see either Captain or Mrs. McCoy,” Pickering said.

It was obvious that

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