A Rebel In Time Page 2

  Kelly took the folder of military records and added it to the file on the desk before him, tapping the edges until all the papers were neatly in line. He looked at the sergeant as he did this, noting what he saw. Late twenties, good service record, he could read that from the ribbons without looking at the file. Not too tall, but solidly built. Jaw like a rock, face expressionless. Eyes black and unreadable. Sergeant Troy Harmon was obviously a professional soldier and a man very much in charge of himself.

  “You’ve been sent over here on temporary assignment from G2, because of your specialized knowledge,” Kelly said.

  “Just what would that be, sir? I fired sharpshooter on the M16.”

  “Nothing quite that deadly,” Kelly said, smiling for the first time. “We understand that you know a great deal about gold. Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. That particular knowledge will be most helpful to us since we are predominantly headquarters staff here at QCIC. We depend on the other security services for field personnel.” He glanced at his Rolex. “You’ll be seeing Admiral Colonne in a few minutes and he will explain the operation in detail. The admiral is the man who directs this agency. Now—do you have any questions?”

  “No, sir. I don’t know enough about what is happening here to think of a question. I was given this address and told to bring my records to you. You just mentioned that this department is QCIC. I don’t even know what those initials stand for.”

  “The admiral will explain all that to you as well. My role is strictly liaison. You’ll file all reports with me.” He wrote quickly on a piece of paper and passed it over. “This is my twenty-four hour phone number. Keep track of expenses and let me have the slips once a week. Also contact me for any equipment or specialized assistance that you might need. The admiral will brief you on this operation, which is code-named Subject George.”

  Kelly hesitated, tapping his fingers on the edge of the desk, before he spoke again. “The admiral is old Navy, Annapolis, been around a long time. You know what that means?”

  “No.”

  “I think that you do, sergeant. When he was on active duty during the Second World War, Blacks were called Negroes and they weren’t allowed in the Navy. Other than as mess attendants.”

  “Say mess boys, Mr. Kelly, that was the term. And my father was in the Army then, fighting to make the world safe for democracy. Only the Army was segregated and, since the Blacks couldn’t be trusted to carry guns, they drove trucks and dug ditches. But that was a long time ago.”

  “For us, maybe. Let’s hope it is for the admiral too. But this is a hundred percent WASP outfit. It couldn’t have got that way by accident … hell, sergeant, maybe I’m talking too much.”

  Troy smiled. “I appreciate the thought, Mr. Kelly. I’m a firm believer in field intelligence. I’m not too worried about the admiral.”

  “You shouldn’t be. He’s a good man. And this is a damned important job.” Kelly picked up the file as he stood up. “We’ll go see him now.”

  The roar of the traffic outside on Massachusetts Avenue was muted to a distant hum in the large conference room. Heavy drapes covered the windows; floor to ceiling bookshelves lined the walls. The admiral sat behind the long mahogany table, carefully loading tobacco into an ancient briar pipe. He was suntanned, and almost completely bald; his blue uniform smooth and unwrinkled, the rows of ribbons on it impressive. He waved Troy to a chair opposite, nodded at the file that Kelly placed before him, then struck a wooden kitchen match and puffed the pipe to life. He did not speak until Kelly had gone out and closed the door.

  “You’ve been seconded to us by military intelligence, because of your specialized knowledge, sergeant. I want you to tell me about gold.”

  “It’s a metal, admiral, very heavy and people set great store by it.”

  “That’s all?” Admiral Colonne scowled from behind a cloud of blue smoke. “Are you being facetious, Harmon?”

  “No, sir, I’m telling you the truth. Gold is an important industrial metal, but that is not what most people care about. They buy it and steal it and hide it, because other people prize it highly. In the west we treat it as a commodity—but the rest of the world sees it as a safer investment than banks or bonds. Gold purchased legally here is worth twice as much after it has been smuggled into another country, say India. That’s how I got involved with it. The US Army has men stationed right around the world. The temptation to turn an easy buck by selling gold is something a number of grunts just have not been able to resist.”

  The admiral nodded. “All right, that’s one aspect of gold. What about the industrial use you mentioned? Other than jewelry—what is it good for?”

  “Electronics. It’s malleable, does not rust or tarnish—and is a good conductor. All of the contacts in computers are plated with it. You’ll also find that it is used in windows to cut down on the amount of sunlight that is allowed to pass through …”

  “None of this has any goddamned relevancy to the case we have here!” The admiral slammed the file on the table before him. “What we are interested in are the reasons why a certain Army colonel is buying a lot of gold. I know that it is all perfectly legal, but I still want to know why.”

  “May I ask what ‘a lot’ is, sir?”

  “A little over a hundred thousand dollars worth, as of yesterday. Do you know what the initials QCIC stand for?”

  Troy accepted the abrupt change of topic without comment. “No, sir, I don’t. Mr. Kelly said that you would explain.”

  “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes. Do you know what that means?”

  “I should. After two years of Latin in college. A literal translation would be—who shall keep watch over the guardians?”

  “Right. Who shall watch the watchers? That little problem has been around for a very long time—or it wouldn’t have a Latin tagline attached to it. Policemen who take bribes are bad enough. But what about the people who are entrusted with the security of our nation? Someone has to keep an eye on them. Well—we’re the people who have to do just that. That’s what this agency is here for. You must realize that what we do here is vital to the security of this country. Without any conceit, this is undoubtedly the most important security operation in the land. We cannot afford to make mistakes. As the old saying goes, the buck stops here. We have the ultimate responsibility in assuring this nation’s security because we must watch all of the other security operatives. That is the reason why I approved your assignment to us. There are three things in your record that I like. First, you know all about gold. Second, your security clearance is Top Secret. Can you imagine what the third reason is?”

  Troy nodded slowly. “I think I can. Is it the fact that I blew the whistle on my CO when I caught him on the take?”

  “It is. A lot of soldiers would have looked the other way. Did you expect some special reward for doing what you did?”

  “No, admiral, I did not.” Troy held his temper under careful control. “If anything I expected the direct opposite. I am pretty sure that the Army doesn’t like enlisted men taking potshots at the officers. But this was special. If he had been pocketing officers’ club funds or something like that, well maybe I might have thought twice. But this was in an MP outfit where we were working full time trying to keep drugs out of the barracks. Our problems were not just with grass or uppers and downers, but the hard stuff, H, and it was getting in. When I found out that my own commanding officer, the guy who was supposed to be stopping the stuff, that he was getting payola from the pushers, well that was just too goddamned much.” Troy smiled coldly. “The last I heard he was still in Leavenworth. I was pulled out of my outfit, I expected that, but I didn’t expect to be bumped two grades and transferred to G2.”

  “That was my doing. I overruled some of your officers who were thinking of doing just what you said they would. No one has ever lost money underestimating the reflex thinking of the military. I have been keeping a watchful eye on your career ever since. Because me
n like you are rare enough.” He caught Troy’s expression and smiled. “No, sergeant, that is not an attempt at flattery but the honest truth. When I say that I mean that I value most highly men who put their oath of loyalty before personal friendship or job security. We need you here. I hope that after this operation is completed, that at that time you will consider a permanent transfer. But that is still in the future. Right now I want you to turn your attention to this operation. It is code-named George.”

  He opened the file and took out a sheaf of papers, then leafed through them.

  “Operation George began as a routine check. This sort of thing takes place on a regular basis, all of the time, a routine surveillance of people with high security clearance. The subject of this particular investigation is an United States Army colonel named Wesley McCulloch. He has a fine military record and first class security clearance. Unmarried but, if you will pardon the expression, not unlaid. He keeps fit, skis in the winter, surfboards in the summer. Owns a small house in Alexandria and only has a few thousand more to go on his mortgage. All of this very dull and ordinary stuff …”

  “Except that the colonel has been buying a lot of gold.”

  “Correct. It started quite recently, just a little over six months ago. At that time he had some money invested in gilt-edge stock, plus a little more in a savings account. He cleared everything out and bought gold. Sold some bonds that he had inherited as well. Now we both know that all of this is completely legal. But I still want to know why.”

  “May I see the file, admiral?”

  Troy flipped through it quickly but methodically, then held it up. “There’s no mention in here of the colonel’s duties.”

  “There wouldn’t be. The FBI agents who make up these reports operate on a need-to-know basis. McCulloch is in charge of security at one of our most important and secret laboratory facilities. His work there cannot be faulted in any way—he’s doing an excellent job. That’s not what is bothering us. It’s the gold. It doesn’t, well …”

  “Smell right?”

  “Correct. Call it a hunch, call it anything. It is just too much out of the ordinary—the only unusual thing that McCulloch has done in his entire lifetime. That’s your assignment. Find out why he is buying the stuff.”

  “I’ll do that, admiral. I’m intrigued by it as well. I can’t think of any possible reason for a man in the colonel’s position to be doing this sort of thing. Legal reason, that is.”

  “You think that it could be illegal?”

  “At this point I think nothing, sir. I have an open mind. What we need are some hard facts before we can decide anything.”

  THREE

  The rain thundered down in a heavy tropical downpour. Although it was the end of October the air was muggy and stifling, one of the main reasons that Washington has the dismal nickname of Foggy Bottom. Troy Harmon sat behind the wheel of the Pontiac, slumped down in the seat with his hat tilted over his eyes. It was no accident that the hat, as well as the raincoat, closely resembled those worn by Colonel McCulloch when he had left his house about thirty minutes earlier. The colonel had also been driving a vintage Pontiac—the same color and year as this one. The sound of the rain hammering on the metal roof almost drowned out the sudden beeping of the radio. Troy lifted it to his ear and thumbed it to life.

  “George Baker here,” he said. The earphone rasped in reply.

  “George is parking in his usual place in the lot now.”

  “Thanks. Out.”

  Troy turned the ignition key and switched on the engine. It had taken four days to set everything up, working slowly and carefully so that there could be no mistakes. He did not believe in rushing into a case before he was completely prepared. But now, with the preparations completed, he was looking forward to the next part of the operation. All of the details concerning Colonel McCulloch’s daily and weekly routine had been in the FBI reports. Troy had studied them closely and made the most of the opportunity. The FBI had supplied him with a guest membership to the athletic club where the colonel played squash three times a week. He had made a single visit there—and it had taken him less than a minute to open McCulloch’s locker and make impressions of all of his keys. The duplicates were in his pocket now as he drove the old Pontiac slowly down the tree-lined street. It was hot and stuffy with the car windows closed—but he liked it that way. All of the glass was now completely steamed up. He had to lean over to wipe a clear patch on the windshield so he could see out.

  As he turned the car into the driveway of the colonel’s house Troy pressed the button on the radio-operated garage opener, now set to the same frequency as McCulloch’s. The door swung up and he rolled under it. Any casual observer would assume automatically that this was the colonel coming home. Since McCulloch had no friends or acquaintances in the neighborhood the chance of his finding out about this unscheduled visit were very slight. Troy waited until the door was completely shut behind him before he got out of the car. He left the raincoat and hat on the seat, clipped the radio to his belt then reached over for his attache case. Instead of turning on the garage lights he used the flashlight from his jacket pocket.

  The burglar alarm box was next to the door that led from the garage into the house. The QCIC technician had identified the key for him and told him just what to do. Insert, rotate one full turn clockwise, then remove. He reached up and did just that. The blue light on the front of the box went out. When he left the house he would have to reverse the procedure. He found the correct door key on his second try, unlocked it and was about to pull the door open when he stopped. It was too easy. If McCulloch had anything to hide—wouldn’t he take some more precautions than just the burglar alarm?

  Troy ran the flashlight along the top of the door, then down the sides. Nothing seemed to be protruding. But it was very easy to leave a small piece of paper jammed into the door, that would fall out when the door was opened. He bent over—and there it was!

  A burnt matchstick just under the hinge, its blackened head barely visible. When he opened the door it dropped onto the sill. Very good. He leaned close with the light and saw the tiny groove it had made. It would be going back into that groove when he left.

  Then he swung the door wide and let himself in. It was cool and quiet in the hallway. The door at the far end opened into the kitchen.

  Troy had all the time in the world.

  He was going to use it wisely, taking as long as he needed, rushing nothing. McCulloch would not be home for eight hours in the very least. He was being watched and there would be plenty of time to get out of the house should his routine be changed.

  “What I want to do with you colonel,” Troy said to himself, looking around the room, “is to find out just what makes you tick.”

  He took off his sports jacket and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair, then loosened his collar and tie. The breakfast bar was clean and polished. Troy spread his pocket handkerchief on it, then opened his attache case and took out the thermos of coffee. After pouring himself a cup he placed the thermos on the handkerchief. He sipped and looked around.

  Very GI. The place was clean as a BOQ. It should be, considering the fact that McCulloch had been in the military most of his life. From VMI he had gone right into the Army. A clean record, plenty of combat experience, a good soldier. Then OCS—and on to a lifetime career. It showed. Breakfast dishes rinsed and drying on the drainboard. Even the frying pan washed and put away. Eggs and bacon for breakfast, shells and wrapper in the otherwise empty garbage can. Milk, butter, more eggs, bread, an unopened sixpack in the refrigerator.

  Slowly and carefully, Troy went through the rest of the house. Room by room. There was a desk in the living room, but all of the drawers were locked. That would require special attention later. Some magazines in the rack next to the couch. Army and sports magazines, some well-thumbed copies of Newsweek and the Readers Digest. A few shelves of books. Old texts and military manuals from OCS. Some newer ones still in their dust-jackets. Popular
novels, engineering texts, some historical studies, a guide to western ski resorts. He wanted a record of the titles to look at later.

  One thing about QCIC, they had some interesting gadgets. The small Japanese camera was completely electronic. Instead of film it recorded pictures on an electronic card—up to ten exposures a second. It could also be adjusted to any range of visible or invisible light. He set it now to ultraviolet. The UV flashgun emitted only a weak blue glow that he could see. It was a brilliant flash to the camera. He photographed the spines of all of the books, then stowed the camera away again.

  It was in the main bedroom upstairs, under the rug beside the double bed, that he found the inset panel. The floor was made of polished oak boards and the wooden panel had been set into them, flush on all sides. There was a small indentation on one edge that his finger just fitted into. When he pulled, the panel opened like a door on its concealed hinges. Set into concrete beneath it was a combination safe.

  “Now isn’t that nice,” he said, rubbing his hands together in appreciation. “A really big one. Too big just for his medals and checkbooks. It would be very interesting to find out just what it does contain.”

  He used the phone beside the bed to dial Kelly’s number. It was picked up on the first ring.

  “Harmon here. I’ve found a floor safe, a large one. I wonder if you can help me.”

  “That’s very interesting. I’m sure that we can. Did you notice what make it is?”

  “Yes. An Atlas Executive. No keyholes. No hinges visible. A single dial with numbers running up to ninety-nine.”

  “Very good. We’ll have someone there in under an hour.”

  While he was waiting, Troy went back downstairs and looked into the desk; a picklock opened it quickly. There was some correspondence, the usual collection of bills and receipts, canceled checks and checkbook stubs. He made no attempt to examine the contents in detail, but photographed it instead. It was a quick job and he had put everything in order and locked the desk again when the well-worn truck pulled up less than forty-five minutes later. The sign on the side said ANDY THE PLUMBER—24 HOUR EMERGENCY SERVICE. Andy was dressed in workclothes and carried a large and battered toolbox. He locked the truck and strolled, whistling, up the walk. Troy opened the door, just before he pressed the bell, and let him in.