Rickabee saw the confusion on McCoy's face.
"Question, McCoy?"
"Am I going to Pearl Harbor, sir?"
"And Cavite," Rickabee said. "More important, I think you will be coming back from Pearl and Cavite."
"And you can get away with giving me one of these cards?"
"For the time being," Rickabee said. "When they catch us, I'm sure Major Almond will think of something else clever."
"Let me make it clear, Lieutenant McCoy," Major Almond said, "that the identification, and the authority that goes with it, is perfectly legitimate. The personnel engaged in counterespionage activity who are issued such credentials are under this office."
"Major Almond pointed out to me, McCoy, that I had the discretionary authority to issue as many of them as I saw fit."
"Yes, sir."
"We don't wish to call attention to the fact that people like you will have them," Rickabee said. "For obvious reasons. You will travel in uniform on regular travel orders, and you will not show the identification unless you have to. You understand that?"
"Yes, sir."
"I don't know how long we'll have to keep you doing this, McCoy," Colonel Rickabee said. "We have a certain priority for personnel, but so do other people. And that FBI background check takes time. And the FBI is overloaded with them. You'll just have to take my word for it that as soon as I can get you off messenger-boy duty and put you to work doing something useful to us, I will."
"Yes, sir."
"What's his schedule, Jake?" Rickabee asked.
"Well, today of course there are administrative things to do. Get him a pistol, get his orders cut. That may run into tomorrow morning. He'll need some time to get his personal affairs in order. But there's no reason he can't leave here on Wednesday night, Thursday morning at the latest. Presuming there's not fifty people ahead of him in San Francisco also with AAA priority, that should put him in Pearl no later than Monday, December eighth, and into Manila on the tenth."
"Is that cutting it too close for you, McCoy?" Colonel Rickabee asked.
"No, sir," McCoy said, immediately.
Rickabee nodded.
"Take him to lunch at the Army-Navy Club, Jake," Colonel Rickabee ordered. "Sign my name to the chit."
"Aye, aye, sir," Major Almond said.
"I like to do that myself," Rickabee said, turning to McCoy. "We don't have time for many customs of the service around here; but when I can, I like to have a newly reported-aboard officer to dinner. Or at least take him to lunch. But I just don't have the time today. Won't have it before you go to Pearl. I'm really sorry."
Then he stood up and offered his hand.
"Welcome aboard, McCoy," he said. "I'm sorry your first assignment is such a lousy one. But it happens sometimes that way in the Corps."
He headed out of his office, and then stopped at the door.
"Get him out of the BOQ before he goes," he said. "If there's no time to find a place for him, have his gear brought here, and we'll stow it while he's gone, until we can find something."
"He's got a room in the Lafayette, sir."
"I'll be damned," Colonel Rickabee said. "But then Ed Banning did say I would find you extraordinary."
For some reason, McCoy thought, it was no longer hard to think of F.L. Rickabee as a lieutenant colonel of Marines.
(Three)
Second Lieutenant Malcolm Pickering, USMCR, was sitting in the maid's room's sole armchair, his feet up on the cot. When Second Lieutenant Kenneth J. McCoy, USMCR, carrying a briefcase, entered the room, Pickering was in the act of replacing a bottle of ale in an ice-filled silver wine-cooler he had borrowed from the bridal suite.
"What the hell are you doing with a briefcase?" Pick asked.
"That's not all," McCoy said. "Wait till I tell-"
Pickering shut him off by holding up his hand.
"Wait a minute," he said. "I've got if not bad then discomfitting news."
"Discomfit me, then," McCoy mocked him. "Fuck up what otherwise has been a glorious day."
"My general thinks you should move into the BOQ," Pickering said.
"Oh, shit!" McCoy said. "What the fuck business is it of his, anyway?"
"He's a nice guy," Pickering said. "He and my father were corporals together, and he stayed in the Corps. He's trying to be nice."
"Sure," McCoy said. "Just a friendly word of advice, my boy. An officer is judged by the company he keeps. Disassociate yourself from that former enlisted man."
"Jesus Christ," Pick said without thinking. "You do have a runaway social inferiority complex, don't you?"
"Fuck you," McCoy said.
"It's not like that at all, goddamn your thick head. What he's worried about is getting you in trouble with Intelligence."
"What?" McCoy asked.
"I don't know if you know this or not," Pickering said. "But the Corps has intelligence agents, counterintelligence agents. What they do is look for security risks."
"No shit?" McCoy asked.
"Listen to me, goddamn you!" Pickering said. "What these guys do is look for something unusual. Like second lieutenants living in hotels like the Lafayette. Expensive hotels. They would start asking where you got the money to pay for the bill."
"Special agents of the Deputy Chief of Staff for Intelligence, USMC, you mean?" McCoy asked, smiling broadly.
"You know about them, then? Goddamn it, Ken, it's not funny."
"It's the funniest thing I heard of all day," McCoy said. He took off his jacket, and then opened the briefcase.
"What the hell are you doing?" Pickering asked.
McCoy took a leather-and-rubber strap arrangement that only after a moment Pickering recognized as a shoulder holster. He slipped his arms in it, and then took a Colt 1911A1 from the briefcase and put it in the holster. Then he put his tunic back on.
"Goddamn you, you haven't listened to a word I've said," Pickering said.
"Well, I may be dumb," McCoy said. "But you're a Japanese spy if I ever saw one. Come with me, young man. If you cooperate, it will go easier on you."
It was some kind of joke, obviously, but Pickering didn't have any idea where the humor lay.
McCoy took a small leather folder from his hip pocket, opened it, and shoved it in Pickering's face.
"Special Agent McCoy," he announced triumphantly. "You're a dead man, you filthy Jap spy!"
"What the hell is that?" Pickering asked, snatching it out of his hand, and then looking at it carefully. "Is this for real? What is it?"
"It's for real," McCoy said. "And it's my ticket to sunny Hawaii and other spots in the romantic Orient." "It's for real?" Pickering repeated, in disbelief. "Well, not really real," McCoy said. "I mean it's genuine, but I'm not in counterintelligence. I'm an officer courier. They gave me that so no one will fuck with me on the swift completion of my appointed rounds."
Pickering demanded a more detailed explanation of what had gone on.
"But how did you get involved in intelligence in the first place?"
"That's what I did in China," McCoy said. It was the first time he had ever told anyone that. He remembered just before he'd boarded the Charles E. Whaley, Captain Banning ordering him not to tell anyone in or out of the Corps about it. But that order had been superceded by his most recent order, from Major J.J. Almond:
"You'll have to tell your roommate something, McCoy. You can say where you work, advising him that it is classified information. And what you do, because that in itself is not classified."