"As I was saying," Roosevelt went on. "Donovan believes that the reason his people are being snubbed is that when Fleming Pickering was over there, he whispered unkind slanders in the porches of Douglas Mac Arthur's ear. And General Pickering does work for you."
"I don't believe that Pickering would do that kind of thing," Knox said, after a moment.
"I would rather not believe it myself," Roosevelt said. "But I thought you could tell me what the friction is between Donovan and Pickering."
Knox took another sip of his coffee before replying.
"I'm tempted to be flip and say it's simply a case of the irresistible force meeting the immovable object. There was some bad feeling between them before the war. Donovan represented Pickering's shipping company in a maritime case. Pickering thought Donovan's bill was out of line, and told him so in somewhat pungent terms."
"I hadn't heard that," Roosevelt said.
"And then Donovan tried to recruit Pickering for the Office of Information. Pickering assumed, and I think reasonably, that he was being asked to become one of the Twelve Disciples." When formed, the mission of the Office of Information was to analyze intelligence gathered by all U.S. intelligence agencies. Ultimately, data would be reviewed by a panel of twelve men, the Disciples, drawn from the upper echelons of American business, science, and academia, who would then recommend the use to be made of the intelligence gathered.
Knox looked at his coffee cup but decided not to take another sip. "When he got to Washington," he resumed, "Donovan kept Pickering cooling his heels waiting to see him for a couple of hours, and then informed him that he would be working under one of the Disciples. This man just happened to be a New York banker with whom Pickering had crossed swords in the past."
"So there's more than one monumental ego involved?"
"I rather sympathized with Pickering about that," Knox said. "Pickering himself is a remarkable man. I understand why he turned Donovan down. He believed he would be of greater value running his shipping company-Pacific and Far East Shipping is, as you know, enormous-than as a second-level bureaucrat here."
"And then you recruited him?"
"Yes. And as you know, he did one hell of a job for me."
"In the process enraging two of every three admirals in the Navy," Roosevelt said softly.
"I sent him to the Pacific to get information I was not getting via the Annapolis Protection Society," Knox said. "He did what I asked him to do. And he's doing a good job now."
"Donovan says that he cannot get the men he needs from The Marine Corps, because Pickering is the man who must approve the transfers."
"And Marine Corps personnel officers have complained to the Commandant that Pickering is sending to Donovan too many good officers that The Marine Corps needs," Knox replied.
"You don't think Pickering whispered slanders in MacArthur's ear when he was over there?"
"He doesn't whisper slanders," Knox said. "Flem Pickering doesn't stab you in the back, he stabs you in the front. The first time I met him, he told me I should have resigned after Pearl Harbor."
Roosevelt's eyebrows went up. But he seemed more amused than shocked or outraged.
"Was that before or after you recruited him?" he asked, with a smile.
"Before. But, to be as objective as I can, I think it is altogether possible that when he and MacArthur were together, Bill Donovan's name came up. If that happened, and if MacArthur asked about him, Pickering would surely have given his unvarnished opinion of Donovan; that opinion would not be very flattering."
"Donovan wants his head," Roosevelt said.
"I would protest that in the strongest possible terms, Mr. President. And I would further suggest, present personalities aside, that giving in to Donovan on something like this would set a very bad precedent."
"Frank, I like Fleming Pickering. We have something in common, you know. Both of us have sons over there, actually fighting this war. And I am aware that the Commander-in-Chief tells Bill Donovan what to do, not the reverse."
Knox looked at him. "But?"
"I would like to get Pickering out of sight for a few weeks. Is he up to travel?"
"If you asked him, he would gladly go. But he was badly wounded, and he had a bad bout with malaria. Where do you want me to send him?"
"Let's decide that after we decide what shape he's in. Are you free for lunch?"
"I'm at your call, Mr. President."
"You, Richardson Fowler, Admiral Leahy, and General Pickering. If nothing else, presuming he doesn't have a wiretap in this room, Bill Donovan could really presume we've called Pickering on the carpet, couldn't he?"
Knox didn't reply. He gestured to the steward for more coffee.
[THREE]
The Foster Lafayette Hotel
Washington, D.C.
1150 Hours 12 October 1942
It had suddenly begun to rain, hard, as the 1940 Buick Limited convertible sedan passed the Hotel Washington and continued down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House.
"This goddamn town has the worst weather in the world," the driver, alone in the car, observed aloud.
He was a tall, distinguished-looking man in his early forties, wearing a superbly tailored United States Marine Corps brigadier general's uniform.
He passed the White House, made a right turn, then a U-turn, and pulled up before the marquee of the Foster Lafayette Hotel, arguably the most luxurious hotel in the capital. Beyond question, it was the most expensive.
The ornately uniformed doorman pulled open the passenger-side door.
"Your choice," Brigadier General Fleming Pickering said, "you park this or loan me your umbrella."
"I think the Senator's going with you, General," the doorman said, with a smile.
At that moment, Senator Richardson K. Fowler (R., Cal.), a tall, silver-haired, regal-looking sixty-two-year-old, appeared at the car and slipped into the passenger seat. He had been waiting for the Buick to appear, standing just inside the lobby, looking out through the plate glass next to the bellboy-attended revolving door.
"You made good time, Flem," he said.
The doorman closed the door after him.
"Let's have it," Pickering replied curtly.
"Let's have what?"
"You said, quote, 'as soon as possible.' "
"We're having lunch with the President and Frank Knox," Fowler said. "And, I think, Admiral Leahy."
"That's all?" Pickering asked suspiciously.
"Most people in this town would be all aflutter at the prospect of a private luncheon with the President, his Chief of Staff, and the Secretary of the Navy," Fowler began, and then saw something in Pickering's eyes. "What did you think it was, Flem?"
"You know damned well what I thought it was," Pickering said.
"Pick's going to be all right, Flem," Fowler said gently. "He's a Pickering. Pickerings walk through raindrops."
The last time General Pickering heard, his only son, Second Lieutenant Malcolm S. "Pick" Pickering, USMCR, was flying an F4F4 Wildcat off Henderson Field on Guadalcanal.
"Get out," Pickering said. "Open the door."
"We're due at the White House in twenty minutes," Fowler said, looking at his watch.