Rebel in Time

'No, please! That's not what I am suggesting. Please don't misunderstand me. You have my co-operation, of course. I was just saying that information about our clients is always confidential — in the normal course of events. But in a matter of national security, very different, naturally. How can I be of aid?'

Bryce was talking rapidly, unaware when he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket to pat his suddenly moist forehead. The agent nodded, unsmiling.

'I appreciate that, Mr Bryce. I hope you understand that your voluntary co-operation makes you liable to prosecution for violation of national security should you mention this to anyone else?'

'Does it? I don't know — but of course, I'll speak to no one.'

'Very good. A few minutes ago a man left this bank after transacting some business. His name is Wesley McCulloch and he is a colonel in the United States Army. No, don't write that down. You won't have any difficulty in memorizing this information. You will find the bank employee he dealt with and bring back the record of any transaction or transactions the colonel may have made. You will tell no one the reason for your interest.'

'Of course not!'

'We appreciate that, Mr. Bryce. If you don't mind I will wait here until you return.'

'Yes, please, make yourself comfortable. This should not take a very long time.'

The manager returned in less than five minutes with a file folder in his hand. He carefully closed and locked the door, then opened the folder before him on the desk.

'Colonel McCulloch made a purchase…'

'Did he pay by cheque or with cash?'

'Cash. Large denomination bills. He purchased gold and paid for it in cash. Eight thousand, five hundred and thirty-two dollars. He took the gold away with him. Is that the information you wanted, Mr Ripley?'

The agent nodded and smiled, ever so slightly.

'Yes, Mr Bryce. That is exactly what I wanted to find out.'

Chapter 2

Sergeant Troy Harmon rode the Metro in from the Pentagon, wondering just what the hell this assignment was all about. It was so hush-hush that he had been told nothing, absolutely nothing about it. Other than to get over soonest to this address on Massachusetts just up from Union Station. Transportation was not provided. He rode the Metro, looking down at the thick, sealed envelope he was carrying. His own records, the history of his nine years in the Army. Decorations, promotions, goof-ups, Fitzsimmons Hospital records when they dug the shrapnel out of his back. Two years in Vietnam without a scratch — then a short round from his own supporting battery. A Purple Heart from a chunk of Detroit steel. Then a transfer to the MPs, then G2, military intelligence. The records were all here. It would be interesting to look at them. And military suicide if he were to open the envelope.

And what organization was he going to on Massachusetts Avenue? He knew most of the spook outfits, starting with the CIA out in Langley right on down. But he had never even heard of this one. Report to Mr Kelly. And who the hell was Kelly? Enough. He'd find out soon enough. He looked up to check the station, McPherson Square, then looked back down just in time to catch the eye of the girl sitting across from him. She looked away quickly. A very foxy girl, what they used to call a high-yellow when he was a boy. She glanced back again and he gave her his toothpaste commercial smile; lips pulled back so his white teeth showed in nice contrast to his dark-brown skin. This time she raised her nose slightly and sniffed as she turned away.

Rebuffed! He had to smile. Didn't she see what she was missing? Five feet ten of handsome, cleancut soldier.

The train slowed as it entered Metro Center. Troy was the first one off and he stayed ahead of the pack as they rushed for the escalator to the Red Line. He rode up into the indirectly lit cavern, more like a futuristic spaceship hangar than a subway. It made the old Independent in New York look like the filthy hole that it really was.

There was a cool, autumn bite to the air as he walked down Massachusetts checking the numbers. There it was, a tall, brownstone house, just across New Jersey. No name, no identifying plate, nothing. He climbed the steps and pressed the polished brass button, well aware of the fisheye of the micro TV camera above it. The door buzzed and he went through into an airlock arrangement, with another door ahead of him that did not open until the outer one had closed. Very neat. And another TV pick-up here as well. Inside was a marble-floored lobby with a desk at the far end. His heels clacked as he walked the length of it. The receptionist, a very cool redhead in a very tight sweater looked up at him and smiled.

'May I help you?'

'Sergeant Harmon. Mr Kelly is expecting me.'

'Thank you, Sergeant Harmon. If you will take a seat I'll let him know that you are here.'