“Under the circumstances, Mr. President, I told David that I had reason to question the most recent data I was getting, and wanted it thoroughly checked. I didn’t tell him why.”
“Don’t,” the President said.
He pushed a button on a pad on the conference table.
A white-jacketed Navy steward appeared.
“I’m about to have a drink,” the President said. “You?”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
[THREE]
THE PENTHOUSE THE FOSTER SAN FRANCISCAN HOTEL NOB HILL, SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA 1935 25 JUNE 1950
The chairman of the board of the Foster Hotel Corporation was about to dine with the chairman of the board of the Pacific & Far East Shipping Corporation in what was known as the Foster Hotel Corporation Executive Conference Center. When dealing with the Internal Revenue Service the center was treated as a reasonable and necessary business expense. It consisted of seven rooms atop the Foster San Franciscan, including a large conference room, three bedrooms, a lounge, a sauna, and a kitchen.
When the telephone rang, the chairman of the board of P&FE, attired in a bathrobe, swim trunks, and rubber sandals, was sitting on a stool in the kitchen, watching the chairman of the board of the Foster Hotel Corporation, who was attired in a swimsuit and sandals, and standing at the kitchen stove.
Both executives had just come from the hotel’s swimming pool, and on the elevator ride, the Foster Chairman had inquired of the P&FE Chairman what he wanted to do about dinner.
“You know what I really would like is a crab omelet,” he replied.
“Good idea. And I think there’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge.”
“May I interpret that to mean you would not be averse to a little fooling around?”
“Flem, you’re supposed to be too old for that sort of thing.”
“I’m not.”
“Thank God.”
A telephone call had quickly produced a one-pound tub of lump crabmeat and a loaf of freshly baked French bread from the hotel kitchen. By the time it arrived, the champagne had been opened, and the P&FE chairman—who really didn’t like champagne—had brought a bottle of Famous Grouse from the lounge to the kitchen.
When the telephone rang, the Foster chairman had inquired, “I wonder who the hell that is.”
Very few people had the number of the penthouse.
“If you picked it up, you could probably find out,” Fleming Pickering suggested.
Patricia Fleming turned from her skillet and looked at her husband with what could be described as wifely loving contempt/affection and reached for the wall-mounted phone.
“Hello,” she said, then: “Hold on a minute.”
She extended the phone, which had a long cord, to her husband.
“Who is it?”
“Another of your legion of pals with a sophomoric sense of humor,” Patricia said.
He walked across the kitchen, holding his whiskey glass, and took the telephone from his wife.
“Hello?”
“Brigadier General Fleming Pickering?” a female voice inquired.
“Who wants to know?”
“Brigadier General Fleming Pickering?” the woman asked again.
“This is Fleming Pickering.”
“Hold one, please, General, for the President.”
Fleming Pickering looked at his wife, who was shaking her head in disbelief at the childish humor of some of her husband’s cronies.
“Sure,” Pickering said, smiling as he wondered what was to come next.
“General Pickering?” a male voice inquired.
“You got him. Come to attention when you speak with me.”
“This is President Truman, General.”
I’ll be goddamned.
“Yes, sir?”
“General, at four in the morning yesterday, North Korea launched an invasion of South Korea.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir.”
Patricia Fleming’s facial expression changed to one of concern. She pushed the skillet off the fire and went to her husband, putting her head next to his so that she could hear the conversation. She heard:
“There are very few details at this time, but enough to know that it’s more than a border incident.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Admiral Hillenkoetter has told me of your visit to him,” Truman said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Who?” Patricia asked. “Admiral who? What visit?”
“I would very much like to see you and Senator Fowler as soon as possible,” Truman said. “Would you be willing to come to Washington?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Of course.”
“And Captain McCoy. No one seems to know where he is. Do you?”
Well, Christ, Hillenkoetter didn’t have to be a nuclear scientist to figure out the only place I could have gotten that assessment was from the Killer.
“To the best of my knowledge, Mr. President, he and his wife are driving from Charleston to Camp Pendleton, probably stopping off in St. Louis on the way.”
“You don’t know how to get in touch with him?”
“No, sir. I don’t. He’s due in Camp Pendleton on June twenty-ninth.”
“What about in St. Louis? Have you got a number there?”