Rebel in Time

Chapter 3

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 colour 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 neighbourhood the chances 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 attaché 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 at 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 attaché 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 draining-board. 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, 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 Reader's Digest. A few shelves of books. Old texts and military manuals from OCS. Some newer ones still in their dustjackets. 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 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 cheque-books. 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, cancelled cheques and cheque-book 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 work-clothes and carried a large and battered toolbox. He locked the truck and strolled, whistling, up the drive. Troy opened the door, just before he pressed the bell, and let him in.

'I'm Andy, just like the truck says. I hear you got a problem with some financial plumbing.' He took the toothpick from his mouth and carefully put it into his pocket. 'Where's it at?'

'Upstairs. I'll show you.'

Andy knew his job well. The battered toolbox was pristine inside, with tools and equipment set into shaped niches in the velvet-lined trays. He knelt and admired the safe.

'Nice,' he said, rubbing his hands together. 'Very secure. Fireproof, good for a couple of thousand degrees for a couple of hours. Impossible to crack.'

'Then you can't open it?'

'Did I say that?' He took a metal box with a wire antenna from its niche and switched it on. 'I mean your run-of-the-mill safecracker couldn't do a thing with it. He would just walk away. I can open anything. But let's first see if there are any electronics or alarms wired to it. No, it's clean. Now let's listen to it sing. No tumblers, so you can't hear them fall. But there are ways.'

Troy didn't ask what they were. It wasn't his business. Andy was using supersonics, something, to probe the guts of the safe. A number of small battery powered devices were attached to the knob and the front plate. The largest of the gadgets had solid state circuitry and a digital read-out. It took Andy less than fifteen minutes to work his electronic magic. Then he whistled as he detached all of his machines and put them away.

'Aren't you going to open it?' Troy asked. Andy shook his head no.

'Not my job. I'm a technician, not a lawbreaker.' One of his compact instruments looked like a printing calculator. Andy tapped out a series of instructions; and it buzzed and ejected a slip of paper. He handed it to Troy. The paper had a short list of letters and numbers printed on it.

'R means right,' Andy said. 'And as you might have guessed L is left. Turn the knob a couple of times counterclockwise to clear it before you start, then just set the numbers in the order the way it reads. The door is spring loaded, it'll just pop open at the last number. After you close it again give it a couple of more spins, then set it to fifty-six which is what it was at when I came in. Someone might remember that number. Have a good day now.'

Troy watched him drive away, then went back to the bedroom. Andy's electronics had done their job well. When Troy had set the last number he felt the safe door push up against his hand. It opened about an inch, leaving more than enough room for him to get his fingers under the edge to open it all the way. He looked inside and saw that the safe contained only one thing.

Neatly stacked ingots of gold, gold sheets and gold wire.

It was very attractive indeed. The more he worked with gold the more he admired it. There really was nothing else like it in the world. Reaching down into the safe he lifted off the top ingot and weighed it in the palm of his hand. It was solid gold all right. Nothing else, not even lead, had that massive feel to it, the dense weight-to-size ratio. He started to put it back in its resting place — then stopped, his eyes narrowed in thought. Something here was just not right.

Troy placed the gold ingot onto the carpet, then bent over the safe, making a rough count of the rest of the ingots. He could not see them all, but he could make an estimate. A moment's work on the calculator verified his suspicion. But he had to be sure.

He opened his notebook beside the safe, then lay flat on his stomach. He wasn't much of an artist, but a rough sketch would be good enough. With careful strokes he drew the pile of ingots, then outlined the positions of the wire and sheets of gold. When this was done to his satisfaction he laid aside the notebook and carefully, piece by piece, removed the gold from the safe, piling it onto his closed attaché case. When almost a third of the gold had been stacked on the case he stood and went into the bathroom to get the spring scale he had noticed there earlier. It would be accurate enough for a rough count.

Troy stood on the scale. One seventy-five fully dressed; the thing was at least five pounds off. That wouldn't matter. He made a note of the weight in his notebook then stepped back onto the scale holding the attaché case with its burden of gold. He did this three times, making careful record of the total weight each time. When he was finished he replaced the gold exactly as he had found it.

The mathematics were simple indeed. His weight, along with that of the unburdened attaché case, was one hundred and eighty-three pounds. He multiplied that by three, then multiplied his fully laden weight by three, and subtracted the smaller number from the larger.

The result was just over thirty-nine pounds.

Thirty-nine pounds of gold.

That was an awful lot of gold. A moment's work with the calculator verified that. The last time he had looked gold was around four hundred and thirty-six dollars an ounce. But a Troy pound was only point eight-two-three of an Avoirdupois pound. He fed this correction in, then divided by twelve since there were only twelves ounces to the Troy pound.

Troy stared at the final figure and nodded his head. Yes indeed, yes indeed! This was something that the admiral would have to hear about at once.

It was a quick phone call. Kelly put him right through to the admiral when he said that he had urgent news.

'Admiral Colonne speaking. Is that you Sergeant Harmon?'

'Yes, sir. I've found the safe where the colonel keeps his gold. Before I closed the safe I weighed the gold, roughly, but accurate enough so that there is probably no more than a five per cent error either way. It appears that the colonel is a sharper operator than the FBI realized. He has more gold here than the hundred thousand that they reported.'

'More? How much more?'

'I would say that the colonel now has over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars' worth of gold in that safe, admiral. A quarter of a million dollars.'