“And that’s why you gave it to General Pickering? You saw that as your duty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And if he had not conveniently been in Tokyo, then what?”
“I would have given it to him in San Francisco, sir.”
“Two things,” the President said. “First—you’re getting this from the Commander-in-Chief—you did the right thing. Secondly, General Pickering is concerned that you’ll be in hot water if what you did ever gets out. I hope to ensure that it never gets out, but if it does, you will not be in any trouble. You understand that?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
The President extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Captain McCoy. I wouldn’t be surprised if we saw one another again.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
The President went to the door, opened it, and stepped through it.
“Take Captain McCoy wherever he wants to go,” McCoy heard the President order. “And take him out the front door.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” he heard the shorter Secret Service agent say.
By the time McCoy was led to the front door of Blair House and walked down the flight of stairs, the Chevrolet Suburban was at the curb.
He was again installed in the backseat and heard the door lock click.
“Where to, Captain?” the larger Secret Service agent asked.
McCoy fished in his short pocket and came with the three-by-five card General Dawkins had given him at Camp Pendleton.
“Twenty-four thirty E Street,” he read from it. “The East Building.”
“The CIA compound?”
“If that’s what’s there,” McCoy said.
They were now driving down Pennsylvania Avenue past the White House. McCoy had a change of heart.
“No,” he ordered. “Drop me at the Foster Lafayette.”
“You’re sure? That place is about as expensive as it gets.”
“I’m sure,” McCoy said.
He was a Marine. He had been a Marine since he was seventeen. Marines do not appear in public in mussed, sweaty uniforms, much less report for duty that way. The Foster Lafayette Hotel had a splendid—more important, very fast—valet service. And he thought he could avail himself of it.
The doorman of the Foster Lafayette was visibly surprised when a Chevrolet Suburban made an illegal U-turn in front of the marquee and a Marine captain in mussed and sweat-stained tropical worsteds got out.
“Thanks for the ride,” McCoy said, and walked past the doorman into the lobby of the hotel, and then across the lobby to the desk.
“Good afternoon, sir,” said the desk clerk, who was wearing a gray frock coat with a rose in the lapel, striped trousers, and a formal foulard.
“My name is McCoy,” he said.
“I thought you might be Captain McCoy, sir. We’ve been expecting you, sir.”
“You have?”
“We have a small problem, Captain. General Pickering left word that if he somehow missed you, we were to put you in the Pickering suite. And Mrs. McCoy called and said that when you arrived, you were to be put up in the American Personal Pharmaceuticals suite. Which would you prefer, sir?”
McCoy thought it over for a moment.
“In the final analysis, I suppose it’s safer to ignore a general than your wife,” he said. “And I’m going to need some instant valet service for this uniform.”
The desk clerk snapped his fingers. A bellman appeared. “Take Captain McCoy to the American Personal Pharmaceuticals suite,” he ordered. “And send the floor waiter to the suite.”
[THREE]
THE FOSTER LAFAYETTE HOTEL WASHINGTON, D.C. 1730 30 JUNE 1950
The door chimes sounded, and Captain Kenneth R. McCoy, attired in a T-shirt and shorts—from the Foster Lafayette’s Men’s Shop, and for which he had paid, he noticed, as he signed the bill, five times as much as he had paid for essentially identical items in the Tokyo PX—went to answer it, expecting to find the floor waiter with his freshly cleaned uniform.
He found, instead, General Fleming Pickering, USMCR, standing there in civilian clothing.
“The manager of the establishment tells me you ignored another order of mine, Captain, but if you will pour me a stiff drink, I’ll let it pass,” Pickering said, putting out his hand.
“Ernie called ahead,” McCoy said, “and told them to let me stay here. I don’t have any money, and I thought it would be better to charge things to my father-in-law, who doesn’t like me anyhow, than to you, sir.”
“You can put a hell of a lot in one sentence,” Pickering said, as he walked into