That lady came next on the line, and asked Pickering if he could possibly call back later, as Mr. Sage was conducting a very important meeting and she hated to disturb him.
"I don't give a damn if he's conducting the New York Philharmonic," Pickering replied. "Get him on the phone now!"
Mr. Sage then came on the line.
"Is something wrong, Fleming?"
"Not at all. I just thought you would be interested in a report about your daughter."
"Flem, could I ask you to call Elaine?"
"And report to her, you mean?"
"Yeah. I'm really up to my ears in this meeting, Flem."
"Ernie, I will not call Elaine and tell her myself," Pickering said, "because I can tell you what I have to say in two seconds, and it would take twenty minutes to tell Elaine, and I don't have any more time to waste."
"Well, Jesus, Flem, don't take my head off."
"That's not what I would like to cut off, Ernie," Pickering said. "Now, listen carefully. Write this down. Ernie is fine. She sends her love. Got it?"
"You did try, right, Flem, to get her to come home?"
"Yes, I did. And she said no. I have to go, Ernie. Go back to your meeting."
Pickering hung up the telephone.
"You were a little rough on Sage, Flem," Fowler said.
"If I had a six-months-pregnant daughter halfway around the world and someone called me to report on her, any goddamned meeting I was having would have to wait." Fowler shrugged.
The service elevator door opened and two bellmen carrying freshly pressed uniforms came in.
"Finally," Pickering said.
He took the uniforms from them and walked out of the kitchen.
Senator Fowler waited until Pickering was out of earshot, then asked, "Is he all right, George?"
"He's fine, sir."
"How the hell can he be fine when no one knows where Pick is? Or even if he's alive."
"McCoy and Zimmerman think he's alive," Hart said. "On the run, but alive."
"So Banning told me," Fowler said. "What do you think his chances are?"
"If he's made it this far, pretty good. That war's just about over."
"I devoutly pray you're right, George."
The telephone on a side table in the living room rang several minutes later as two bellmen were laying out their lunch.
Fowler was closest to it, so he answered it.
"Just a moment, please," he said, and then, to Hart: "Go tell him he's got a phone call."
Pickering, now wearing trousers and a shirt, came into the living room.
"That goddamn well better not be Elaine Sage," he said, taking the telephone from Fowler.
"It's not," Fowler said.
"Pickering," he snarled into the telephone, then: "Yes, Brigadier General Pickering."
Then he said quietly in an aside to Hart and Fowler, "Jesus Christ, it's Truman."
Then he said into the phone, "Good afternoon, Mr. President. I'm very sorry, sir, about the delay in getting to the airport. I was just about to reschedule. We can be in the air in no more than two ..."
There was a short pause as Fleming listened to the President.
"It's not?"
A pause.
"The last sighting of the signs he's leaving was several days ago, Mr. President, so we know he was alive then. Major McCoy seems to feel there's a good chance of getting him back."
A very long pause, followed by a barely audible sigh from Fleming.
"That's very kind of you, Mr. President. I'm convinced that everything that can be done is being done. I'm deeply touched by your interest."
Brief pause.
"Yes, sir, Mr. President, I look forward to seeing you soon, too. Good afternoon, Mr. President."
He put the telephone in its cradle.
"I was rough on Ernie Sage, was I? That sonofabitch didn't even ask about Pick. The President of the United States just did."
Fowler looked at Pickering, then turned to Hart.
"George, unless I'm mistaken, there's a two-year supply of Famous Grouse in the last cabinet on the left of the sink. Why don't you make us all a little nip?"
"Aye, aye, sir," Hart said.
[FOUR]
Base Operations
Kimpo Airfield (K-16)
Seoul, South Korea
O4O5 4 October 195O
Lieutenant Colonel Allan C. Lowman, USAF, a tall, good-looking thirty-five-year-old, who would have much preferred to be flying Sabrejets but who the powers that be had decided could make a greater contribution to the Air Force and the war as Commander, K-16 USAF Base, had elected to set up his cot in an unused-at-the moment radio van mounted on a GMC 6x6 truck.
There were several advantages to this. The van had its own electrical generator, driven by a gasoline engine. The generator was primarily intended to power the radio equipment, but it also provided electric lights and the current necessary to operate his electric razor, an electric hot plate, and his Zenith Transoceanic portable radio, on which it was possible to listen—usually—to the Armed Forces Network Radio Station in Tokyo, and even—sometimes—civilian radio stations as far away as Hawaii and the West Coast.
When someone knocked at the rear door of the van, waking him, the luminescent hands of his Rolex—a gift from his wife—told him it was a little after 0400.
He had left orders with the duty NCO to wake him at 0500, so this was obviously a problem of some sort. The question was what kind of a problem.
Feeling a little foolish—it was probably the duty NCO bearing an early-morning teletype message that required his attention—he felt around on the floor until he found his .45, took it from the holster, pulled the slide back, chambered a cartridge, and only then got off the cot and walked barefoot in his underwear to the door.
"Who is it?"
"Sergeant Alvarez, Colonel."
Colonel Lowman put his right arm—and the .45—behind his back and then opened the door.
It was Sergeant Alvarez, all right, but with him were three officers, all majors. Two of them were Army—a plump, rumpled Army major and an Army aviator. The third was a Marine who had a Thompson submachine gun slung from his shoulder.
"These officers insisted on seeing you, Colonel," Sergeant Alvarez said.
"What can I do for you?" Colonel Lowman asked, aware that he felt a little foolish standing there in his underwear with his pistol hidden behind his back.
"May we come in, please, sir?" the Marine asked.
Colonel Lowman could not think of an excuse not to let them into the van. He backed up and gestured for them to climb up the short flight of stairs.
"Thank you, Sergeant," the Marine said.
"If you'll pull that door closed, we can turn the lights on," Lowman said.
The Marine pulled the door closed and latched it. Lowman switched the lights on.
The rumpled, stout major held out a small leather wallet to Lowman.
Lowman saw the credentials of a Special Agent of the United States Central Intelligence Agency. It was his first contact of any kind with the CIA.
"How can I help the CIA?" Lowman asked.
"In that hangar across the field, Colonel, as I'm sure you know, are two Sikorsky helicopters," the Marine said.
"Yeah, I know. This has to do with them?"
"What we want to do, in the next few minutes, is get them out of here with as few people as possible knowing about it," the Marine said.
"I'm not sure I understand," Lowman confessed.
"We don't want to talk to the tower, sir," the Army aviator said.
"Why not?"
"We have to presume the NKs have people monitoring your tower traffic," the rumpled major said.