that her best sources of information came from men who both lusted after her and were pissed off about something, who wanted to tell her something that she would write about, and put somebody else’s ass in a crack.
When she saw Major Lem T. Scott, Signal Corps, U.S. Army, smile at her as she walked into the press club bar, she knew that in addition to whatever lustful fantasies might be running through his head, he was really there to tell her something.
Major Scott was a tall, rather good-looking man in his early thirties. He was an Army aviator, which gained him sort of unofficial membership in the press club. No journalist was going to kick an Army aviator out of the press club. Sooner or later, every journalist had to beg a ride in one of the Army’s fleet of light aircraft. In the sure and certain knowledge that some journalist would stand drinks for them on the expense account, Army aviators often went to the press club bar.
It took Jeanette about thirty minutes to get from Major Scott what he had obviously come to the press club bar to tell her, “accidentally, in conversation.”
Major Scott was attached to the Flight Section, Headquarters, SCAP. Most of the light Army aircraft, and their pilots, had been sent to Korea by General Almond. General MacArthur’s personal light aircraft, a North American L-17 Navion, had not, and consequently neither had Major Scott, who was MacArthur’s Navion pilot.
Possibly, Jeanette thought somewhat unkindly, because he had not been there, Major Scott wanted to be in action in Korea. It wouldn’t be so bad, he said, if he was actually flying the Supreme Commander around, but he wasn’t even doing that. The Supreme Commander had loaned his Navion to the CIA, and he had absolutely nothing to do, except once in a while fly one of the two L-19s that were left at the SCAP flight section.
Jeanette had long ago learned that letting a source think you know more than you actually do was a way to put them at ease. All she knew about the CIA in Japan was that it was rumored that MacArthur’s economic advisor, Jonathan Loomis, was the CIA Tokyo station chief.
“What do you suppose Jonathan Loomis is doing with the general’s Navion?”
“It’s not Loomis,” Scott said. “It’s his boss, a Marine general named Pickering. He lives in the Imperial Hotel.”
This was the first Miss Priestly had heard that General Fleming Pickering had any connection with the CIA at all. He’d even denied being a general.
The sonofabitch!
“Well, what do you suppose that General Pickering’s doing with the Supreme Commander’s Navion?”
“I don’t know. He’s got some Marine major flying it. He brings it back to Haneda for service. I know he’s been in Korea. And all over Japan. I don’t know who, if anybody, he’s had with him. . . . The CIA doesn’t say much.”
“Huh,” Jeanette said, thoughtfully.
“Just before I came here this afternoon,” Scott added. “I found out this major is flying the Navion to Kobe first thing in the morning.”
That was interesting. Another source had told her that the aviation elements of the First Provisional Marine Brigade would arrive at Kobe two days from now. She had already made reservations to take the train to Kobe to meet them.
“Anyone going with him?”
“I don’t know, but if you’re thinking of trying to catch a ride with him, forget it. Whatever they’re doing, they don’t want anyone to know about it.”
In another five minutes, Jeanette was sure that she had extracted from Major Scott all that interested her, and, trying to sound as sincere as possible, told him she was really sorry she couldn’t have dinner with him. Another time.
It wasn’t a long walk from the press club to the Imperial Hotel, but it was hotter than she thought it was, and she arrived at the Imperial sweaty.
When she tried to call General Pickering on the house phone, the operator politely denied having a guest by that name. Jeanette took the elevator to the floor on which the Dewey Suite was located and started down the corridor.
She was stopped by a young American in civilian clothing who politely asked what she wanted. She took her press credentials from her purse, and while the young man—obviously a guard—was examining them, said that she was there to interview General Pickering.
“Ma’am, this is a restricted area. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”