Rebel in Time

'Able One to Able Two. George is now leaving the lot and turning south on MacArthur. He's yours now. Over.'

'Will do. Out.'

The man replaced the microphone on the dash and got out of the car. He was lean and blond and unremarkably dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and dark tie. He entered the bank and crossed to the receptionist.

'My name is Ripley,' he said. 'I would like to see the manager. About some investments.'

'Of course, Mr Ripley.' She picked up the phone. 'I'll see if Mr Bryce is free.'

The manager stood up from behind the desk and shook his hand when he entered the office. 'Mr Ripley. Now just what can I do to help you?'

'This is a government matter, sir. Would you please look at my identification.'

He took a leather wallet from his breast pocket, opened it and passed it across the desk. Bryce looked at the gold badge and the accompanying card behind the plastic window and nodded. 'Well, Mr Ripley,' he said. 'How can I be of aid to the Federal Bureau of Investigation?' He started to hand back the ID but the agent stopped him.

'I would like you to authenticate the identification, sir. I believe that you were given an unlisted number for use if the occasion should arise?'

Bryce nodded and opened the top drawer of his desk. 'Yes, I've used it once before. Here it is. If you will excuse me.'

The bank manager dialled the number, then identified himself to the party at the other end. He read off the ID number from the wallet, then placed his hand over the receiver.

'They want to know the case reference.'

'Tell them investigation George.'

The bank manager repeated the words, then nodded and hung up. He passed the ID back to the FBI agent. 'I was instructed to co-operate with you and to give you any information that you might need about one of our clients. But I must say that this is not a normal practice…'

'I realize that, Mr Bryce. But you are now involved in a security investigation with a top priority. If you refuse to cooperate I must go to your superiors and—'

'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.'

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.'