Rebel in Time

The couch was too deep and soft to be comfortable, so he sat on its edge. There was a copy of Fortune and a copy of Jet on the low table in front of him. What was this — catering to his special needs? He tried to smile as he picked up Jet. Maybe they were trying to tell him something. If so he had got the message a long time ago. Pics of a big party at the Hotel Theresa, then babies with rat bites in the slums just a few blocks away. It was a different world to him. He had grown up in Queens, in South Jamaica, a nice, secure middle-class area of frame houses and green trees. He knew as much about Harlem as he did about the back of the Moon.

'Mr Kelly will see you now.'

He dropped the magazine, took up his envelope, and appreciatively followed the receptionist's sweetly rotating bottom into an adjoining office.

'Come in, Sergeant Harmon. Pleased to meet you,' Kelly said, coming from behind his desk to take Troy's hand. The way he pronounced Harmon was positive proof that he was from Boston. His elegantly tailored three-piece pinstripe suggested Back Bay and Harvard as well. 'I'll take that envelope, thank you.'

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 M-16.'

'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 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 one hundred per cent 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 curtains 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 was 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.'