«Why India?»
«My man said for me to find an American consulate, and give them our marriage paper, and the papers he has signed saying he is the father of our children. Maybe they will be able to help us. They would probably help you. You are the wife of an American Marine officer.»
Yes, I am
, Milla realized, somewhat surprised.
«But I only have enough money for us,» Mae Su said. «If you want to come with me, you will not only have to pay your own way, but, if necessary, to share what you have with me.»
«I have some money,» Milla said, thinking out loud. «All that my husband had here. And a little of my own. And the car, and the furniture in the apartments. I don't think any of that will bring very much.»
I sound as if I'm willing to go with this woman, by tractor-drawn cart, to some nameless village in the interior of China, and entrusting her with all I have in the world.
But she sounds so confident, and what other choice do I have, except to stay here and hope the Japanese officer who wants me for his woman will be kind to me? Or to end it all, once and for all?
«If you would like,» Mae Su said. «I could deal with the disposition of your property. I know some people. I might be able to get you more for it than you think.»
«All right,» Milla said. She knew a Chinese could strike a better deal than she could.
«I have two guns,» Mae Su went on. «A shotgun and a pistol. My man took them from the Marine armory.»
«My husband left a pistol with me.»
«And do you know how to use it? If necessary, could you use it?»
Milla nodded. «Yes,» she said. «I know how to use it.»
«That may be necessary,» Mae Su said. «Now, if you will stay here and watch the children, and give me the keys to your apartments, I will see about selling your things.»
«All right,» Milla said, and added: «Thank you, Mae Su.»
Mae Su, for the first time, smiled at her.
Milla wondered if she would ever see Banning again.
Chapter One
note 7
Apartment 4C
303 DuPont Circle
Washington, D.C.
0905 8 February
Fourteen months later, and half a world away, Major Ed Banning, USMC, opened his eyes, aware of the phone ringing. The next thing he noticed was that he was alone in bed.
As he swung his feet out of bed and reached for the telephone, he read his clock, remembering that Carolyn had told him she absolutely had to go to work, which meant catching the 6:05 Milk Train Special to New York. Which meant she had silently gotten out of bed at five, dressed without waking him, and gone and caught the goddamned train. The kindness was typical of her, and he was grateful for it, but he was sorry he missed her.
He was—especially when she showed him a kindness—shamed by their relationship. Even though she had known from the beginning about Milla, the truth was that Carolyn was getting the short end of the stick. They could be as «adult» and «sophisticated» as they pretended to be about their relationship, but the cold truth was Carolyn was doing all the giving, and he was doing all the taking, and Carolyn deserved better than that.
«Damn!» he said aloud, as he picked up the telephone. He had the day off— he had worked the Sunday 1600-2400 shift in the cryptographic room, and would not be expected at work again until 0800 tomorrov morning. It would have been nice to spend that time with Carolyn.
«Liberty Four Thirty-four Thirty-three,» he said into the telephone. It was standing operating procedure in the U.S. Marine Corps' Office of Management Analysis to answer telephones—in the office and in quarters—with the number, not the name. That way a dialer of a wrong number would learn only that he had the wrong number, not the identity of the person or office he had called by mistake.
«Sorry to do this to you, Ed,» his caller said, without wasting time on a greeting. He recognized the voice. It was his boss, Colonel F. L. «Fritz» Rickabee,
USMC, Deputy Director of the U.S. Marine Corps Office of Management Analysis. After Ed had been evacuated from the Philippines, just before they'd fallen to the Japanese, Banning had been assigned to the little-known unit.
Even its title was purposely obfuscatory—it had nothing to do with either management or analysis. It was a covert intelligence unit that took its orders from, and was answerable only to, Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox.
«Oh, no!» Banning said.
«One of the sailors apparently has a tummy ache,» Rickabee said.
«When?»
«Right now,» Colonel Rickabee said. «A car's on the way.»
«Oh shit!»
» 'Oh, shit'?»
«Aye, aye, sir,» Major Banning said.
There was a final grunt from Colonel Rickabee and the line went dead.
Banning marched naked to his bathroom and stepped under the shower. Five minutes later, he stepped out, having made use of time normally wasted standing under the shower by shaving there. He toweled himself quickly and then paused at the washbasin only long enough to splash aftershave cologne on his face. Then he went into his bedroom to dress.
He took a uniform from a closet still-in-its-fresh-from-the-dry-cleaners-paper-wrapping, ripped off the paper, and laid the uniform on the bed. With a skill born of long practice, he quickly affixed his insignia and ribbons to the tunic. His ribbons indicated, among other things, that he had seen Pacific service, during which he had twice suffered wounds entitling him to the Purple Heart Medal with one oak-leaf cluster.
Next he took a fresh, stiffly starched khaki shirt from a drawer and quickly pinned a gold major's oak leaf in the prescribed position on its collar points. He slipped on the shirt, buttoned it, tied a khaki field scarf in the prescribed manner and place, and put on the rest of his uniform. The last step before buttoning his tunic was to slip a Colt Model 1911 Al .45 ACP pistol into the waistband of his trousers at the small of his back.
The entire process, from the moment the telephone rang until he reached the apartment building's curb where a light green Plymouth sedan was waiting for him, had taken just over eleven minutes.
Though the car had civilian license plates, the driver, a wiry man in his thirties just then leaning on a fender, was a Marine technical sergeant. He was in uniform, which told Banning that when the call from the crypto room came in, no one around the office had been wearing civilian clothing—and there'd been no time to summon somebody in civvies. Standing operating procedure was that the unmarked cars were to be driven by personnel in civilian clothes. The sergeant straightened up, saluted, and then opened the door for him.
«Good morning, sir,» he said.
«That's a matter of opinion,» Banning said, smiling, as he returned the salute.
«The Colonel indicated you might be pissed, sir,» the sergeant said.
«I left that goddamn place nine hours ago,» Banning said. «And now another eight hours!»
«War is hell, isn't it, sir?»
«Oh, screw you, Rutterman,» Banning said.
Sergeant Rutterman drove Major Banning to the Navy Building, where Banning underwent four separate security screenings before reaching his destination. The first was the more or less
pro forma